~The Legend Of Coombs Rock~

Upon seven hills where brothers were slain
and laurel crown found new blood to adorn,
thoughts travelled north to consolidate reign
of kingdom so long bedraggled and torn.
Where warriors lead in open distain
of empires rule; coating pride with scorn
of legions who came to bridle the yoke
to Britain’s chiefs, so tight it would choke.

Proud of the land in which forefathers lay;
whose stories were fed to children at breast,
their spirits no chains would ever allay,
whilst ancestors hearts beat within their chests.
No eagles talons would posses a way
to rend this country from whom now possessed
the boon of the gods, worshipped for so long
with the blood of virgins and prayers in song.

Stolid stood Edas, haughty in his scorn
to Agricola’s surrender call,
brandished to the soil from whence they were born.
“no mere words would place them in Rome’s thrall,
like beads on string they would rather adorn
legionaries spears, than whimper and crawl,”
thus spoke the warrior, chief of the clans,
heroic audacity in his hands.

“Why battle with legions? Why fight with fate?
When as citizens of Rome you exist,
but resist, what then, only fury and hate,
delivered by a hand closed into fist?”
“Then we die with honour, not second rate,
wives remain ours not whores to be kissed.”
This slight Agricola could not ignore,
so talk, it was ended, there would be war.

Armies in motion traverse Coombs Valley,
like stone in a wall, barriers so strong,
while tribes of the North rose to the rally,
mustered together a defensive throng,
upon crag, awaiting the finale,
while bards bolstered spirits with heroes song
and red rivers were spawned from Druids knife,
placating the gods with innocence life.

Arwary arrived with lightness of deer,
as saffron sun kissed horizon goodnight,
with tidings of legions advancing near,
the birthing morning would herald the fight.
From the shadows Caledon did appear
bidding all to altar in moons first light,
for the sacrifice the gods did demand
was one Edas would ne’er understand.

In oaks audience, with Nesta the fair:
woman of Edas who the gods had willed
would become his wife, birth his son and heir.
He spoke of love while his kisses fulfilled
the hope in her heart and her silent prayer,
that he would return with his blood un-spilled,
but from the shadows a voice caused a chill
the gods wanted Nesta, her blood must spill.

Edas enraged, flung his arms round the maid,
“Druid, she is too young, too fair to die,
it will not be that death is from your blade.”
In anger Caledon spat his reply,
“are the daughters of the poor, who have paid?
Worth less than one of blood, mighty and high?
Should the gods ask before taking a bride?
Are they Edas, by you, to be denied?

I tell thee they demand her virgin life,
so this war can be won, Britain be free,
the choice is made never to be your wife,
you have no options left but to agree,
so end this dissent and bottle your strife
the decision is made this I decree”
and so Nesta turned a slave to this rite
a dying candle swallowed by the night.

In place of altar awe, where powers met,
wild warriors gathered in silent fear
as they recognised that pale silhouette,
naked between the stones as someone dear.
Caledon’s voice rose, all were beset
to halt their breathing in dreaded revere,
“To thee, dread all-giver of life and death,
we give our fairest, her blood, her breath,

for protection in this battle to come
against the bared talons of legions might,
so our women ne’er have to succumb
to the phallic staves of Romans blight”
and in air, so tight it appeared to hum
the golden blade appeared lithe in the night
as it pierced the heart deep within her chest,
starting her journey to the land of rest.

“Sons of Britain, go to gather your spears
for the air is heavy with heroes’ ghosts,
tonight they calm anxiety and fears,
tomorrow they watch you give your utmost,
and if you should perish saving your peers
know you will ride a member of their host,
and bards will sing of your glorious name
forever revered, not buried with shame.”

With feet bound heads, warriors retreated
to slumber to the strains of bards lament,
while Edas wept his courage depleted,
his mind in turmoil, his soul in torment,
for soon the moon, her cycle completed
would wither upon the mornings accent,
and he would defend his love of this land
without farewell touch of Nesta’s hand.

Upon birth of morrow the Britons massed
high upon the summit of crescent hill,
which Edas knew could never be surpassed
no matter the legionnaires battle skill,
but in his dismay the Romans marched past
their leader had his own plans to fulfil,
to gather his army on Ludworths height
and wait for the Britons to start the fight.

Charging warriors chanting battle song
broke like raging waves against granite shield,
but line was unbroken remaining strong
and Britons blood flooded across the field.
For freedom they battled, theirs for so long
and even as they fell they would not yield.
Edas, pierced by blades, stumbled to the ground
Laying like the dead scattered all around.

Then through the screams of warriors dying,
a voice was heard carried towards the sky,
“Nesta, my love, today I’m defying
the gods who demanded that you should die,
Aad soon we will be together lying
in my father’s house upon heavens high.”
Edas rose, charged again into the fray,
content to know this would be his last day.

So freedom was lost on the battle field
and army of Britain broken apart,
licking at wounds that can never be healed,
for the Romans had pierced their gallant heart,
and to the general it was revealed
how Nesta and Edas were torn apart,
so side by side he interred them to rest,
the fairest maiden and Britain’s best.

That night when bones went wearily to sleep,
a wailing was carried across the moor.
The lament of the bard through dreams did seep,
its sorrowful song so loud, crisp and pure,
words like morning mist, across land did creep
singing of heroes and all they endured.
“Beyond invisible veil to ghosts land,
the army of the dead, Edas commands,

glorious to look upon like dawns light
that shines onto stolid solitaire oak,
a beacon voice with power to incite,
the servants to shatter slaveries yoke,
And Nesta the maiden his bride by right,
when gods demanded their promise be broke.
So Nesta laid down her life for the Gods,
for to change their fortune, even the odds.

The men now sleep, beneath cairns heather strewn
but their watching spirits sail upon wind,
and by the half light of winters full moon
they will look for ways to influence mind,
so that if Britain needs heroes to be hewn
their strength lies here waiting for them to find.”
So sang the bard to the graves of the brave,
who fought to the end and their lives they gave.

-It is said in certain times of the year,
when the moonlight spreads upon the Coombs rock.
Ancient heroes marshal before the mere,
waving ghostly axes at Legions flock.
So they keep vigil over land so dear,
no matter how time revolves round the clock,
these old heroes who in death still defy;
listen carefully, you may hear them cry.-