So sing I will, of Gildas on this day,

And tell the zealot’s tale of he enthralled,

For few still know the lesson in that lay.

Now in our people’s past it is recalled,

Of heathen tribes in groaning forests sprawled,

Who worshipped not the gospel of our lord,

But wicked gods, and power they’d reward.

As Saxons spread far over reaches flung,

Among them were a company of knights,

Of great renown and highest praises sung;

By oath refused all earthly held delights,

And purged all trace of diabolic rites.

The Order of Saint Benedict, so named,

And Christ’s decree, to pagans they proclaimed.

A just campaign, so led by sword and staff,

Of Boniface, his deeds in no dispute,

Though humbly would admit to only half.

‘Tear out demonic covens at their root,’

For this was chosen by the Earl’s shire moot.

His brow was weathered like a frigate’s hull,

And dang’rous hunts left wounds upon his skull.

He rode to Selwood, witches here would dwell.

Along the woodland edge, all cloaked in mist,

With him was Gildas, whom you will know well;

A lionheart and strength entwined his wrist,

And golden haired, where doting sun had kissed.

Of cloth and steel they lived, enrobed in mail,

His cross took vigil, helm a winged veil.

They peered between the darkness in the trees,

With eyes sincere, the old man turned his head,

‘Thou knowest how the first witch came to be?

By laying with a demon, it is said,

And granted knowledge dark, by way of bed.

No fire of dragons, but occult deceit,

Enwebbing minds of men, before their feet’.

His faith was firm, ‘Such tales I do not fear.’

‘Am I a fisherman’s wife? Hark to me!

Strike fast without delay, let them not near,

With spear at hand, thou'lt pierce them to a tree!

Lest fey enchantment, I’m bereaved of thee.’

In venturing ahead, a light was seen,

And from the clearing came an eerie scene.

A ring of maidens dancing round a flame,

Their flesh beneath the moon in blossomed flush,

Abandoned wits without a trace of shame!

As Gildas lowered swift his eyes in blush,

They spied there hidden from the sylvan brush.

He made to charge, but bishop blocked his reach,

‘We will return with more and burn them each!’

In their retreat they still heard wanton shrieks,

Then came to stop, and pulling at his beard,

Old Boniface with kindness in his cheeks,

‘For noble deeds and rank, thou hast been reared,

To lead this hunt, thy fortune will be neared!’

Already Gildas had success and fame,

But now his chance for greatness rose to claim.

Then hooves in torrent, tearing through the night,

With torches raised and boiling blood to foam!

Pervasive limbs of eldritch trees gave fright;

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Though native born, these woods felt not of home,

For Gildas dreamt the cobbled streets of Rome.

Unnerved by black oaks, phantoms stood between,

That vanished there as soon as they were seen.

As open forest drew, they came to trot,

The covenstead was near, hence birdsong ceased.

Here Gildas turned, addressed the knightly lot,

‘No quarter held! Tonight we sing and feast!

Now trust in God! With me, in to the beast!’

And charging forth, they followed through the gloom,

Engulfed by darkness, hunger’d to consume.

From out the fog, did looming cairns appear,

Then stilted huts on ancient ruins built

And raised above the marsh; a silence drear.

‘Ablaze!’ They took to flame, as wattle wilt.

‘Lo, shades!’ And Gildas raised his lance to tilt,

A yell- where from the rear a soldier slain,

Then dragged from horse and into ill demesne!

A hundred cackles came, lashed out in whips,

Then figures, drab and draped in wisp emerged,

With malice dripping, leaden from their lips.

‘Attack! Fear not the demonspawn!’ he urged,

And led the charge as men-at-arms converged.

Abandon witches whirling fire in waves,

With dead reborn and rising from their graves!

A hag had Gildas sighted from the fray,

He lunged his lance to only pierce the air,

Tremendous speed in blasphemous display;

For focus found, he uttered soft a prayer,

And met his mark, impaled her heart just there.

She fell with terrible a scream, so shrill.

Cadavers marched! In serf to witches’ will.

But incantations of his own he wist,

And so he held his crucifix above,

A surge of light expelled them back to mist!

His men were captured, knowing not whereof,

He knocked aside his foes with heavy shove,

Then hurried down a passage, giving chase,

Ignored the fraught appeals of Boniface.

Swift hurried Gildas, headstrong in, he ran.

A labyrinth in murk and candle lit,

Aloft there hung the skulls of beast and man,

And underfoot forsaken bones submit.

Hysteric mocking drummed his ears to split,

The walls infernus, passed by time again,

With webs gargantuan, ‘A plague, this den!’

Before him terror stood, nocturnal storm!

A woman bare beneath her flowing gown,

That ravened tight around her siren form,

So black her hair, a moonlit sheen would drown.

With lance erect he made to strike her down,

But thrust delayed by quick a glance from her,

Soothing spells ensnared his mind to slumber.

Woken still in drowse, hands behind him bound,

With lulling words of the dark lady heard,

‘In vigour now, yet after philtre, sound!’

And pried his lips, ‘Drink, my pretty,’ she purred,

Elixir fed from Devil’s cauldron stirred,

Queer in taste; a faint memory he dreamed

Of autumn sun, that through a forest gleamed.