In the fjords south of Trondheim you live by your oar
In the wide fields of France you were born to the horse
But the Normans of Roger have learned to our dread
That on Sicily Isle, life hangs by a thread.
The axe of my foeman cleaves straight through my shield
He cuts for the throat where the iron rings yield
If it bites to the life’s blood my death he’d have crowed
But it halts on the gambeson my Lady sewed
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And the crash of her loom rose to heaven above
With a thread count so high that it baffles all steels
And it’s thanks to her labors that to me he kneels
In the mountains of gold my men flee from the fray
If they would but rally we’d yet win the day
I’ll not win the battle by trick of the blade
So I haul forth the banner that my Lady made
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And the reek of her dye vats rose to heaven above
But the colors she wove would make any hearts soar
My riders returned to the battle once more
In the fjords south of Trondheim you live by your oar
In the wide fields of France you were born to the horse
But the Normans of Roger have learned to our dread
That on Sicily Isle, life hangs by a thread.
A rival spreads poison in the Court of the Count
His family is mighty his malice is great
My riders are few and my family no shield
But he counts not the needle that my lady wields
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And the whisper of silk rose to heaven above
Five cloaks for the Admiral in his fort by the bay,
Brings friendship, a castle, and my rival’s dismay
My rival is thwarted by seeks his revenge
My blood on his spear and my name cast away
The riders I’ll need will not serve without pay
So I call on my lady to think of a way.
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And her calls to her ladies rose to heaven above
The fabric they wove paid for nearly five score,
My rival returned from my ambush no more.
In the fjords south of Trondheim you live by your oar
In the wide fields of France you were born to the horse
But the Normans of Roger have learned to our dread
That on Sicily Isle, life hangs by a thread.
On stools by their mother’s loom, psalters in hand
My daughters strive daily the words to command
My lady so serious in her teaching role,
But her songs teach my daughters to look after my soul
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And the songs of her lessons rose to heaven above
And slender silk ribbons the purest of blue,
Guide my daughters to prayers that their father is due.
And when I am gone and lay ‘neath the sod
My name will be read by the handmaids of God.
With a gift of fine linen to the nuns on the hill
She’s assured that my name will be spoken still
For the warp and the weft are her great mastery
And I swear that her fame will reach heaven on high
For I pledged them my sword to inscribe up above,
To give thanks to the Lord for the lady I love
In the fjords south of Trondheim you live by your oar
In the wide fields of France you were born to the horse
But the Normans of Roger have learned to our dread
That on Sicily Isle, life hangs by a thread.