To his Freya went a
humble knight,
Wounded sore from
honour’ble fight,
In his hand her
favour fierce he clasped.
Eleanor, my wife, my bride, my life, I am
here;
Naught can keep me from you! I am returned!
Her face agleam
with boreal light,
Her fingers, long,
held his face tight,
Her husband smiled
as he rasped.
Eleanor, my wife, my bride, my life, I am
here;
Naught can keep me from you! I am returned!
She guides him
home, her blue eyes bright,
To bind his wounds
and treat him dear,
She the only thing
in his mind’s sight.
Eleanor, my wife, my bride, my life, I am
here;
Naught can keep me from you!
By THLaird Colyne
Stewart, April AS 48, as a ransom paid to Sir Menken Brechen. Based on the 10th
century anonymous alba, phebi claro
nondum orto iubare.
