orn out with
countless battles, these men settled down with us in peace to till
the land they had helped to lay waste and win. Hard it was to see
the farms pass to alien owners at first, but I will not say that
England has altogether lost, for these Danes are surely becoming
English in all love of our land; and they have brought us new
strength, with the old freedom of our forefathers, which some of us
had nigh forgotten.

Now today I know that all the land is at peace, for Alfred is
victor, and Guthrum is Athelstan the Christian king of Eastern
England; and I for one will own him unasked, for he has governed
well, and English is our overlord.

But Hubba is dead in far-off Devon, slain as he landed as Halfden
had landed, to hem Wessex in between Guthrum and himself, and his
dream of taking the Wessex kingdom is over. And the Raven banner
that my Osritha made flaps its magic wings no more, for it hangs in
Alfred's peaceful hall, a trophy of Saxon valour.

Thormod, my comrade, lies in his mound in wild Strathclyde, slain
fighting beside Halfden my brother, the king of Northumbria. Him I
have seen once or twice, and ever does he look for peace that he
may sail to Reedham and bide with us for a while. Well loved is
Halfden, and he is English in every thought.

Many of our old viking crew are here with me, for they would fain
find land in our country, and I gave them the deserted coast lands
that lie to our northward, round the great broads. Good lands they
are, and in giving them I harmed none. Filby and Ormesby and
Rollesby they have called their new homesteads, giving them Danish
names.

Now as to our own folk. My mother is gone, but first she stood for
Osritha at the font, naming her again with the name by which I
learnt to love her, for I would not have it changed.

Gone also has good old Ingild; but before he went he and I were
able without fear of hindrance to build a little church of squared
oaken timbers at Hoxne, for the heathen worship died quickly from
among our Danes. On that church, Cyneward, who was Raud, and is our
well-loved steward, wrought lovingly with his own hands side by
side with the good monk who baptized him. And he has carved a
wondrous oaken shrine for the remains of our martyred king, whereon
lies the bracelet that Ingvar sent in token that Eadmund had
conquered him who was his slayer.

How fared Ingvar I know not, for soon the incoming tide of Danes
slackened, and I heard no news of h