Folklore & Fantasy

Poem 934 – Grace Overcomes (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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They set upon him fearlessly
Encircling our man,
With hungry blades and thirsting eyes,
They inwards stepped with violent cries,
And sought with force to take their prize,
With murder as their plan.

They did not care for chivalry,
Nor how he stood alone,
They only cared for their success,
With hatred rising in their chests,
And boiling blood, feelings intense,
And anger in their bones.

They went to take him where he stood,
To cleave him heart from soul,
But just as all was surely lost,
A number of them turned because,
Their conscience made them count the cost,
Of killing one so bold.

They faced their brothers of the sword
And ordered them away,
‘It is an act of cowardice,
To kill a man this way!’

Some ran at once their faces grim,
Whilst others did delay,
Until a comrade of the Wake
Did through their circle urgent break,
To leave them standing jaws agape,
As he spirited him away.

And so, escaped with heart and soul,
His saviours Hereward praised,
Both he who on his horse broke through,
And those who turned, the chivalrous few,
Who bought him time, despite the seven he slew,
To fight another day.

This bright report soon quickly spread
Across both camps with speed,
The honour of his tale’s account,
The generosity his foes espoused,
Compassion showed from grace’s fount,
To the man they once all feared.

And with same speed his fame soon spread,
And peace broke out with joy,
And gifts were poured on our great lord,
The best of gifts they could afford,
Sourced here at home and far abroad,
By former foes now joined.

I left Hereward in a precarious position a few days ago, a classic cliffhanger. Does he escape? And how?
(07.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Mikhail Mamaev on Unsplash

Poem 929 – Return to Flanders (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Now one year on it’s time to turn
To Flanders for his wife,
Who he’d left there with his nephews,
Siward the Red and White, these two
The noblest of his men both true
In caring for her life.

Returned but for a fortnight long,
When Baldwin the fine Knight,
Came calling for his help and arms,
Against the Viscount Pynkenni’s advance,
To stop his men from causing harm,
‘Will you take on the fight?’

‘Of course I will!’ he fast announced,
‘With Siwards Red and White,
The three of us would be so proud,
To ride with you tonight!’

Hereward keeps his promise to go back for his wife within the year.
(01.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 928 – The Club Convenes in Person

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Slowly we converge. Alert, we trace
each stranger’s face to ascertain their nature.
Do those features belong to one of us?
We hesitate, it’s better to be cautious
than run unnecessary risk. Be careful.
Watch and wait. Let someone else move first.
A stranger looks your way. Eyes briefly meet
then break away. An accidental action,
or look of recognition? Turn back and see.
They’re looking too, it’s time to make your move.

The first in person meeting for The Pendragon Club, an online community gathered around the imaginary worlds created by Julian Simpson. And what a brilliant evening it was!
(30.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 927 – Knighted (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Not unmindful of these fears our
Hereward amassed his men,
The biggest and the bold he called,
Some forty nine he sent abroad,
All dressed in armour fresh procured,
The bravest from the Fens.

Upon the Feast of Peter and Paul
He went to the Abbot of Burgh, (Peterborough)
A man called Brant of noble birth,
Requesting that around his girth,
He’d hang a belt and sword in mirth,
To make of him a Sir.

And in an act of further fury
He called upon his fighters,
To be likewise made knights like this,
Proclaimed as such by a solemn kiss ,
That English ways not French persist,
As by the clergy they’re knighted.

Back to the Ballad today and Hereward preparing for the King William’s revenge in response to his own (see Poem 920).
(29.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Jonathan Kemper on Unsplash

Poem 924 – The Lantern Men (Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Beware the marsh the black crow cries,
Beware the treacherous mire,
Beware deceptive flickering lights,
That tempt and tease us from our stride,
The cunning of these devious guides,
That wickedly conspire.

Beware the evil lantern men,
The haunters of the fen,
That flicker with the barking dog,
That howls within the cloaking fog,
The phantom hound, the grim Black Shuck,
Enticing us to our death.

A bit brain dulled by the heat and the days events, so here’s a couple of verses that may or may not feature in the Ballad of the Wake.
(26.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Fabio Verhorstert on Unsplash

Poem 920 – Revenge Revealed (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Next morning the new sun revealed,
A warning to such men,
For from his gate their heads were fanned,
To scare their fellows from this land,
Or else they’d suffer at his hands,
The fate of fallen friends!

And so they fled surrounding homes,
All fearful for their lives,
But whilst by foes he was afeared,
By friend and neighbour he was cheered,
Their former enemies they jeered,
In joy at this surprise.

But whilst they celebrated loud
They also gave him counsel
The King will hear, they warned him clear,
This wanton act could cost you dear,
Prepare your swords, your shields and spears,
In case you meet this scoundrel!

Next morning Hereward’s revenge is revealed to his neighbours.
(22.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Image sourced from the Public Domain Image Archive / Internet Archive / University of Toronto Libraries

Poem 919 – The Bat

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The size and shape of a teabag,
you raise your head towards me.
You seem to sniff and hunt;
your ancient face inquires,
tracking down your prey.
A primal connection is made.
I know you’re just a pup
but something older searches
through you. Something wise.
Unbidden memories of
childhood nightmares emerge,
of figures scaling walls,
bite marks, and syphoned life.
I tell myself you’re lost
and looking for your mum,
a cute and vulnerable child.
Subconsciously my fingers
search my open neck.

Late last night we discovered a bat pup clawing its way along our downstairs corridor. Somehow it’s made its way from the loft where we have discovered we have a maternity roost somewhere tucked out of sight. It was strangely cute and vulnerable, and yet at the same time… It’s now with a local bat volunteer as we weren’t able to locate its mum.
(21.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

Poem 918 – The Fen (Ballad of the Wake)

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Dense clouds of flighty midges muster,
Somewhere a hidden croak,
A swish of grass in gentle breeze,
The honking of the passing geese,
And weeping of the willow’s leaves,
A hint of distant smoke.

A heavy heat lies on the Fen,
A dark rich smell of earth,
Amongst the reeds the water flows,
In currents, eddies, that do not show,
Hidden by irises that golden grow,
She knows not fame or worth.

Old man heron might safely stand
The eel may safely swim
But a stranger standing unawares
Lost in thought or saying prayers
May swiftly sink with no fanfare
And be dragged deep within.

Once in her arms there’s no escape,
She is a jealous wife,
She’ll hold you close in her embrace,
And pull you down without a trace,
Eternally before her face,
A watery afterlife.

I thought I’d step aside from the main narrative today and try some stanzas describing the Fen scenery. If I can, I’d like the Fen to become almost a character in the ballad, something I haven’t developed at all yet.
(20.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.
Wicken Lode1.JPG. (2026, April 26). Wikimedia Commons.

Poem 917 – The Ballad of the Wake: Hereward Seeks Revenge

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Inside his blood began to boil,
The blinding weight of grief,
But with great effort he kept calm,
His certainty became a balm,
In the superiority of his arms,
A victory of belief.

Deeper into the building they crept
Until they found the fire,
Around it legless lords reclined,
On laps of ladies intertwined,
Watching a jester most unkind,
Provoking his hot ire.

Upon the lyre the jester played,
Singing a song most crude.
Before him danced another man,
In mockery of our green fair land,
He jerked and jumped and wildly span,
His imitation rude.

At last the jester did complete
His dire dirge and dance,
And boldly beckoned the grim chief man
Seeking a fee from his very hand,
A treasure, something precious, grand,
From the dead lord perchance.

At this one girl did shrilly cry,
‘You are a reckless fool!
If Hereward were to return,
Your act would be his fuel!’

‘His recklessness is world renown,
In strength he has no match,
I have no doubt he’d draw his sword,
And swiftly you dispatch!’

‘That man’s a scoundrel nothing more’,
The chief man did retort,
‘His wealth he stole, in fame a fraud,
In honour he falls short!’

His words had barely left his lips
When Hereward sprung forth,
No more could he hold back his hate,
At these harsh words his teeth did grate,
This bigoted fool he did berate,
His sword gave song to his complaint,
And struck the lord upon his pate,
And cleft him to the floor.

But not content at this outcome,
The rest he did dispatch,
These drunkards could not find their feet,
All fourteen did their fate there meet,
And so revenge was wrought complete,
In death they met their match.

Hereward enacts revenge upon his brother’s killers.
(19.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Rachel on Unsplash