And those years, since Osritha and I were wedded at Reedham very soon after we came home, have flown very quickly.
Yet there came to us echoes of war from far-off Wessex, as man after man crept back to Anglia from the great host where Guthrum and Hubba warred with Alfred the king.

And tired and worn out with countless battles, these men settled down with us in peace to till the land they had helped to lay waste and win.

Hard it was to see the farms pass to alien owners at first, but I will not say that England has altogether lost, for these Danes are surely becoming English in all love of our land; and they have brought us new strength, with the old freedom of our forefathers, which some of us had nigh forgotten.
Now today I know that all the land is at peace, for Alfred is victor, and Guthrum is Athelstan the Christian king of Eastern England; and I for one will own him unasked, for he has governed well, and English is our overlord.
But Hubba is dead in far-off Devon, slain as he landed as Halfden had landed, to hem Wessex in between Guthrum and himself, and his dream of taking the Wessex kingdom is over.

And the Raven banner that my Osritha made flaps its magic wings no more, for it hangs in Alfred's peaceful hall, a trophy of Saxon valour.
Thormod, my comrade, lies in his mound in wild Strathclyde, slain fighting beside Halfden my brother, the king of Northumbria.

Him I have seen once or twice, and ever does he look for peace that he may sail to Reedham and bide with us for a while.