History

Poem 939 – Appeasing Mother Fen (The Ballad of the Wake cont.)

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Old Mother Fen this is your tale
And so we greet you first,
We toss a sword into the wet,
Acknowledging your primal threat,
A humble token of respect
With which to slake your thirst.

Our sword is new and freshly forged
And never drawn in anger,
It’s made for you at great expense,
A blade that’s offered like incense,
To calm your hunger, make you content,
Receive us in your land.

And now our duty is performed
Our narrative can start,
With introductions of our cast,
A look back to a violent past,
To welcome Hereward at last,
To the tale of which he’s part.

Thinking about the setting off this ballad, I found myself remembering Flag Fen in Peterborough and the sword found there which formed some sort of offering. That significantly predates our tale, but it somehow felt appropriate to appropriate it for the start of my ballad, a memory echoed in Arthurian Legend now applied to Hereward, another resistance fighter.
(12.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Maria Miguel Cardeiro on Unsplash

Poem 935 – The Wreck

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Now exposed to the elements,
your striped back bones are bleached
and fading fast. You tilt to dip
your toes into the welcome water
and, finding its embrace enticing,
you slowly slide under its sheets,
a cautious paddler, one inch at a time.

A boat has been abandoned in the river at the foot of our road. Whilst it’s an unsafe eyesore, it’s also fascinating to watch it gradually decay.
(08.07.26)

© Ben Quant 2026

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 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 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 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

Poem 916 – The Ballad of the Wake: Nighttime Gates

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In fury Hereward summoned his maid,
‘Let’s visit these foul folk!’
And took his breastplate and his helm
And trusty sword, that was sharpened well
And hid them under a blackened veil
Beneath her flowing cloak.

Approaching under the cover of night
They came upon the gates
And there they found a head impaled,
A head he sadly knew too well,
It was his brother brutally nailed,
In boast about his fate.

With sorrow he sighed and brought it down,
In quiet solemnity,
And kissed it in his loving care,
With tears he combed his tangled hair,
And lifted him to the Lord in prayer,
And cursed this devilry.

Hereward decides to visit those who killed his brother.
(18.06.26)

© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Quan Jing on Unsplash