[12 mins reading time]

Mu Sho Jo [No Place to Live]

There was once a girl who had to flee the family sharks arranging marriage. She could fight and write, but now ran and rode and ran, crossed the sea without a tide, and came northwards to a forest Abbey on the Danish Isle of Sjælland.

Now she learned of song and chant, and before long had become an expert of the pen and story. Her name was Guðrun, and she soon would write a world-famed battle poem. This was nearly 52 generations ago, in the year 991 CE.

At that time, across the shallow northern sea, the scribes of Jarrow were writing in their monastery of stone. They were six hundred, they sat daily in the scriptorium, lit by panes of glass, they were the famed poets and the authors of the long-running Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.

The abbot said: we need field scalds and bards to gather news. One sailed to Esrum Abbey, he was the drafting scribe called Æescferth. He saw her verse craft, and said to Guðrun, would you come and join our abbot’s team. So she sailed again, across the sea.

The scribes had been taking extra care, under the lengthy rule of Æthelred. For there was fissure at the London palace by the river. How to stay the king, how to see off Norse and Dane. Pay the people’s silver counselled Sigeric, Archbishop of the land. We should fight said Byrhtnoð, head of all the monasteries. At the blood-stained end, pawns again would lie on fen and furrow.

The abbot sent ten scribes, weave your threads, go south and take a river each, watch for raiding fleets. This was how Guðrun would soon observe the grisly death of Byrhtnoð, the famed earl of the east, and watch the sun set on any hope for peace. It was to be another stage in the hell-descent of Æthelred.

So Guðrun sailed the sea roads south, moored by Cedd’s ancient chapel of St Peter-on-the-Wall. It was summer, and the time for the second harvest of the hay on those fertile acres, fifty leagues from London’s noisy streets.

The young of Bradwell village were busy with their wedding plans. Guðrun had cased in leather a stabbing sword, a hunting bow and quiver, she had checked them first for woodworm. She and fellow scribes waited, watching each and every tide. The sun shone on St Swithin’s Day, she was patient at the shore.

One breezy morn came shouts, the children she had set as spies were running back, along the village path. She saddled up her horse, and rode fast toward the river mouth.

A water fleet drew near, one hundred handsome sails on the inward tide. And stood alone in the leading ship, at its crimson prow, was a man born on Orkney’s isles, his helmet bright as glass. He was pointing out the water path, they were sailing for the royal mint.

Above were skeins of charcoal geese, migrants inward bound. Now would be composed, a salt-marsh play ten leagues inland.

By the wetted causeway, at the foot of the hillside town, up had sailed those wanderers, Olaf’s narrowed-eyes focused on the distant court. Facing him the grey-cloaked Byrhtnoð, white-haired now, six decades a keen survivor, patron of the monks at Ely fen.

Guðrun would now be scald, creator of the war-god wine. She would tell her fellow writers of the shuddered shield and spear-dew tide.

The moon ebbed and filled, twice over. A sixæreen with sail, fast flew the many leagues back north to the River Weir. It tied up, and Guðrun limped ashore. The scribes hurried to the hall, to hear her tale.

Guðrun stood by the hearth, leant on her hazel stick.

She began with sorrow.

“I can only tell you this, what I saw and what I know.

“On a shore of marsh and salting, at the eastern creekway, pushed up and back, were bodies washed by waves.

“These were not fishers, fouled by storm, nor fur-wrapped merchants, torn from prow. They had gathered, as the sky was lilac-blushed, they heard the clink of metal clasp, the scrape of leather plate. There had been coughs and cleared throats, breaths pluming in the marshy air.

“Many had been thinking, how had it come to this?

“We found the earl’s body, but not his head. In dead of night, we had searched with a minstrel’s son and a boy of the reeve, for they had been sent by Ely monks. They were called Torhthelm and Tídwald, we hefted Byrhtnoð’s body on a cart, hitched a donkey, they took him north to the abbey on the isle of eels.

“Olaf had begun at Gipeswyk, loosed a flitch of burning arrows on the thatch. Then the fleet went surging south, up the oyster estuary, the oars of flashing fleet were creaking, they put aground at Northey Isle, standing full in view of the town and mint of Mealdune.

“The swifts had flown, first acorns fallen to the ground. In the orchards on the slopes, were ripening pear and apple trees.

“Water slapped at clinker hulls, wind sighed through pines ashore. The isle had a link to the shore, the causeway dry at lowest tide.

“I saw Byrhtnoð walk around the flickering fires as his sombre men ate venison, pulled flesh from oily herring, splashed fragrant mead from jug to cup. A single monk sat away to side, he had been sent by Sigeric the Bishop. Byrhtnoð walked toward the wooden door, clapped Offa on his back, gripped flinching Godric, wrapped tall Wulfstan in a hug. He smiled at Leofsund and Dummer, young Ælfwin too.

“Each guessed what might be lost, as night gave way to dawn.

“It seemed to me Byrhtnoð knew, this should not be only sniping skirmish. Six weeks on from the solstice, the sunlight glinting on the salty tide, the winners were already cosy, safe at their distant courts. And so from the moorings on the isle, Olaf called across an offer. He would sail away for silver, if the money would be paid.

“Byrhtnoð held his peace, this man knew how to speak with kings and robbers, they would never stop the raiding. I heard him say, nor shall you softly carry off our riches.

“Yet in the evening gloom, I saw warriors stroll across the wet road, staring hollow-eyed. They sat to share a horn of ale. These were family and friends, paid to face the other side. Their homes were on the streets, at the deepest fjord, by handsome rivers clear, by plains of golden barley, near forest edge, inside the vaulted silence of the hills. Sharing words were men of the nearby marsh, the muddy river-hamlets, by their fields of oat and wheat and the wilder woodland-pasture.

“And so it looks to me, our leaders press for plain division. The split of only good and bad, for here before the fearsome fight, there was so much to share, meat crackling on the spit, mead passed by hand, warriors sat with those they soon would fight. They were sharing common hope, those on foot and those at oar.

“But still the ground was chosen for the clash. Cut from hedge were poles of hazel to ring the field. They say grim Guðr had come, with her sisters Hilðr and Hlǫlek, the riders of the Valkyries, they who obey commands of Oðinn, soon to slice the bonds to earth while battle ranged roundabout.

“Well I met in the feasting crowd, mortal women dressed as men, skilled fighters from the English flank, Lathgertha the Light-Footed, her sergeant Stikla, and from Olaf’s side, Sela and Rusila with locks tucked and lances ready.

“Those women warriors offered wise advice. Stand high as falcon, watch the battle from the hill.

“At dawn on the open mudflats, underneath the wheeze of lapwing, there was the sough of wind, and hearts were thumping loud.

“A son of carpenter, thrummed fingers on his arm. His eyes were wide, absorbing every piece of English sky.

“A woodman wondered on his baby girl, back at the green shore by the Baltic.

“All my children over yonder mound, blinked a muscled tanner.

“There was chainmail clinking, swords were hissing from their sheaths. The blood-red beaks of oyster-catchers were bright upon the marsh.

“One side moved with clamour, stamping feet with raucous cries. The other breathing silent valour, fearless with resolve. First upon the bridge was Wulfmeer, in step with cooper Maccus. They linked their arms with wainwright Alfere, who loudly called, you will not have heard of us, but we will be renowned. This path is narrow, you will never pass. They forced back the Vikings, who could not skirt the shining mud with heavy shield and greave.

“It seemed some ancient gods were stepping into fray, as arrows swerved to hit a buckle. Overhead were ravens wheeling. Then rose the tide, and soon were locked the ocean streams. I saw Wulfstan crawling, he tore off his mail, counted many arrow hits, some had gone through more than scratching skin. And now he strode away, as pilgrims do, paring off a staff of ash, and calling out the name of the very god who had protected him.

“Bowmen bent their backs, yet many hoarded arrows. Both armies shouted loud, across the lapping water. Byrhtnoð now let the Norsemen march ashore, yet this was no mistaken order. They had to push the raiders back against the rising tide. To trap them by the water’s edge, to end the hopes of Olaf. They stepped up one and all.

“Yet the Norse had by far the larger legion, three thousand warriors, they took an hour to cross, stray arrows fletching into wooden shields. Byrhtnoð had requested Æthelred, send the fyrd of Wessex, bring the Kentish host.

“But his message was ignored. From above a sea eagle viewed the battle lines, stretched deep and far, for soon the riot would be raised on stage.

“Byrhtnoð stepped forward, and some men on either side, leant on spears, set down their shields in stacks upon the soil.

“A thane raced out from his line, injured the earl but he was slain. White-haired Byrhtnoð grimaced, young Wulfmeer tugged out the spear. Another Viking went against the man, then two and three and four. His war-icicle soon was wet with blood. All his men were cheering, but then he could not grip his sword.

“And hewed at him, did those distant men.

“Hateful dark surrounded him, he fell with a great sigh. His armour rang on stone, Ælfnoth and Wulfmeer lay by his side.

“We had heard Olaf was tough to face, yet he stood afar in snowy chainmail, and men stepped forward to their death events. Each life was now too short for them to pay their parents for their loving care.

“A carpenter who could turn his hand to any kind of resinous wood. A cooper who could fashion barrels gasped one final breath. A weaver and her fingers, should we mention her.

“We should call on each by name, it was all a grisly song. When the chief of Hel walks on the stage, all hope for good is gone.”

Guðrun took a breath and paused. Her tale was done.

The scribes in the monastery were silent, then all as one they broke into applause.

Æscferth stood, he asked about her limp. What happened to your leg?

“There was a break in Essex ranks, three men with spears raced up the hill.

“You know I fought beside my brothers, so I had a mail coat underneath my shift. I pulled out my sword, killed the stocky one.

“Yet I was speared against a fence, when shouting up the hill swiftly came Lathgertha and her crew, with their crescent shields. They hacked off the hand of one, the other cried and ran.

“We can say too, in house and home along the coast, there was a great lament, bitter was the taste of iron.”

Æscferth added, we now have heard that Bishop Sigeric urged Æthelred to pay, and Olaf stowed ten thousand pounds of silver, sailing east toward his home. It was true, the scribes would later hear from the men who pulled on oars of pine. Olaf split the northern realm, he bought the throne of Norway.

Yet the English crown, set on the narrow brow of Æthelred, had not grown heavy. He still was king of English ground. He was skilled in court and corridor, but had no ear for Hrothgar’s warning, on the pitfalls of all power, how the strength of each king fades.

So if anyone spoke ill of the cloistered king, and no one heard him, well and good. Otherwise the court would act with ruthless speed. They had wasted any chance of peace, had looted all reserves. The bells now tolled upon the empty treasury, and lean years lay ahead for all.

Ten years on, and cruel Æthelred finally turned upon his people. He said the settled Danes had sprung like weeds, as does the corncockle in golden wheat. He and Archbishop Wulfstan ordered a new and deadly carnage.

It happened on St Brice’s Day. The monks were preparing for the feast and celebration, for all good souls. Yet now came shouts, a mob was raging in the city streets. They saw brands flaming, felt deep the growl and clamour.

They heard thumping at the oaken door, a pause as the doorman shouted back.

The crowd demanded that the abbot point to any migrant Dane, for the fault was theirs alone. This was the truth, said the king’s decree.

This descent was dark, Æthelred had cast aside his soul. For this was genocide of family and friend. Danes were burned in church, killed in house and out in fields.

At the monastery, the scribes rushed to Guðrun.

They hid her in the vaults, behind the sacks of grain. She hunched with rats, while the mob raged on floors above.

Until then, Guðrun’s greatest fear had centred on the poem, how to shape a story from the melee by the mint, how to bring respect to customs dating back to Bede. She had spent a whole decade, composing verse on sheets of vellum.

Again she had to flee, carrying nothing but her clothes. The abbot sent his ship, the refugees escaped at dawn, they sailed out to sea in friendly mist, across the water once more to the abbey isle.

Æthelred ordered fast and prayer, his prescription for misfortune. Wulfstan joined again the fray. In his Sermon of the Wolf, he now condemned all the Anglo-Saxon people for their moral failure. This was not the fault of leaders, but the people themselves.

At the distant abbey, Guðrun tended the kitchen garden, raised many kinds of herb and medicine. She had again, a place to live.

Only the one copy of the epic script survived, though the author’s name was never found.

 

Jules Pretty

Mu Sho Jo

 

Commentary on Mu Sho Jo: No Place to Live

Mu Sho Jo says we might find we need no place to live. We could live in pure spirit, no attachments to things or places. No clinging to incidents or thoughts.

At the same time, physical places are where our lives happen. They provide connection, identity and hope for continuity. We might still appreciate beauty, but not desire to possess it. We have one-life one-moment.

In this story, Guðrun has to escape home to avoid an enforced marriage. She flees north by boat to Sjælland, and joins Esrum monastery. She becomes a skilled storyteller, and is recruited as one of the famed roving scalds of northern Europe in the 900s CE. She joins the great operation at Jarrow, the monks and nuns who gathered news and stories for the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. One year, in 991 CE, she is stationed at the mouth of the Blackwater Estuary in modern Essex, watching for Viking and Danish raiders. She comes to observe the Battle of Mealdune (today’s Maldon), and has to fight with women warriors. She returns injured to Jarrow to tell her tale, and write the story as an epic tale. Meanwhile the realm of Æthelred is in disarray, all reserves spent. He turns on his own people, and order the killing of all those with Danish roots.

Guðrun is saved, and flees again by boat, back to Esrum.

The epic poem is found hundreds of years later, but the final pages were burned in the Cotton Library fire of 1731. It is officially recorded as anonymous. The poem has no author, so the records say.