by C. R. May
“Thirty-four tough, battle proven Geat warriors and one Danish warloca,” he announced with a grin.“Enough to do honour to a Saxon ealdorling but not much of an invasion force Wilfrid!”
The Saxon laughed warmly.
“You must forgive me, lord. We all have our duties to perform.”
Wifrid paused, clearly in thought. Beowulf thought that he had gained a measure of the man's qualities during their brief conversation and waited to see what the reeve would say next. Finally he seemed to decide and leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I can see that your duty here is one of peace and can guess the cause of it. Can I ask you which nation your king is intending to attack, lord?”
It was Beowulf's turn to deliberate as he searched his conscience before answering. He was not in the habit of confiding in foreign reeves the detailed intentions of the Geat army but in truth he could see very little harm in this instance. The army had in all probability disembarked in Frisland by now so the secret was no longer. He glanced up at Wilfrid and recognised that the Saxon needed to feel that the exchange of information would be a two way affair before he would divulge any more and anything that he could tell the Geat could prove to be very useful.
“A Geat ship army under the command of the king, my kinsman Hygelac, should by now be well established on the shores of northern Frisland. They intend to attack the lands of the Hugas and then move south by land and sea. I have been asked to reassure the ealdorling of Saxland of our peaceful intentions towards their lands by my king. I have also been tasked by Woden, the Allfather, with escorting the warloca Unferth to the midsummer celebration at the Irminsul where he is to sacrifice the head of the monster Grendel to the furious one.”
Wilfrid's eyes widened in surprise.
“You have the head of the monster with you?”
Beowulf went to call across to Unferth but the Dane had anticipated the request and was already approaching the steering platform carrying the rune covered box which contained the grisly trophy. Wilfrid beckoned to the Saxon warriors further down the jetty and they hurried up in alarm but the reeve held up a hand to reassure them. As they came up to him he smiled and Beowulf heard his words to them as he beckoned towards the ship.
“We are about to see a thing of which we will tell our grandchildren one day. We are about to see the head of a hel fiend displayed by its vanquisher!”
As the Saxons craned their heads forward in anticipation Unferth arrived at the steering platform and flipped up the lid. Reaching inside Beowulf grasped the familiar egg shaped skull and raised it with a flourish. Beowulf chuckled and the guards' jaws dropped as one as Grendel's head came into view. As the Saxons looked on in wonder Beowulf studied the features of his one time adversary. Three winters had passed since that night at Heorot but the head had remained in remarkable condition nevertheless. The lips of the monster had drawn back in death into a hard puckered grin to reveal the line of long dagger-like teeth. Beowulf shuddered slightly as he remembered just how close those teeth had come to removing the right hand side of his face during their struggle. Between them the withered remains of the long serpent-like tongue lolled lazily from between the monster's short wolfish muzzle. The smattering of rough hair which had crowned the grotesque head had long since disappeared, he noted, but the waxy reptilian skin and long elfish ears of the troll if anything looked even more monstrous than they had in life.
Replacing the head in the box, Beowulf thanked Unferth and turned back to the Saxons who were now regarding him with a sense of awe.
“I am sure that you will agree that Grendel's head is an impressive sight, one which I am sure that the ealdorling would be disappointed to have missed.” He paused to let the remark sink in before continuing. “Perhaps you could direct me to the place where I can find him?”
Dayraven kicked the crewman in the guts and repeated the question.
“How many men are there in Dorestada?”
The Geat doubled up in pain and coughed a bloody gobbet of phlegm onto the sun bleached deck.
“Why don't you go and count them,” he gasped before flicking a look up at the Frisian's war helm. “Or you could ask your chicken to fly over and have a look for you.”
Dayraven removed his helm and stroked the raven wings which adorned its crest.
“Now you are a very funny man,” he smiled, menacingly. “Let's see if you can still find something to laugh about with Ran. I am sure that the sea goddess enjoys a good joke as well as any mortal.”
Dayraven indicated that his men toss the Geat over the side with a flick of his head. Two Frisian warriors stepped forward and, grinning, bundled the bound man overboard. The Geat floated just long enough to hurl a final insult at the Frisian leader before he sank to the bottom of the Aelmere, joining the rest of his crew.
“Bastard chicken head!”
Dayraven shrugged nonchalantly as the Fris warriors looked to gauge his reaction.
“Funny and brave. Ran will be pleased.”
6
Beowulf sat back and took another pull on the skin of ale which the Saxons had provided. Riversides had always been one of his favourite locations to spend a lazy day and this was even better than most. Below the terrace on which the Geat party had established themselves lay the great rope yards of the town of Honovere, a hive of activity like every place they had passed through on their journey inland. Yes, he reflected, there were few better ways to spend a day than drinking and eating in the sun as others worked and sweated below you.
Wave Dancer had arrived at the town the previous day and they had reported their presence to the reeve as was customary. Naturally the man had been expecting them and a guest hall had already been assigned for their use. There the hall steward, Godwin, had informed him that ealdorling Aldwulf had requested that they await his return from the holy wood which would be in two days time. Godwin had informed Beowulf that a special meeting of all the ealdorling had been convened to discuss the Saxon response to any incursion by the ship army off their coast into their lands and Beowulf had immediately realised the wisdom which King Hygelac had shown by dispatching his renowned nephew to placate them. He had seen for himself the strength and vigour of the Saxons and marvelled at the speed with which they had reacted to the potential threat which had suddenly appeared. He was under no illusion as to the disaster which would result should the great Saxon army fall upon the flank of the Geatish forces.
Once the reeve at Biranum had recovered from the excitement which Grendel's head had caused them he had been more forthcoming with details of the Saxon response to this mystery ship army. Apparently the Geatish fleet had been spotted by one of the Saxon vessels which routinely patrolled the coast and the dracca had hurried in to the fortress of Hamma Burg which lay on the River Albia in the northern part of Saxland. The ealdorling there had immediately dispatched riders to inform his peers, with a request that they meet at the holy wood to elect a war leader and discuss their response to the threat. Wilfrid had explained that all men of the freeling class of warrior-farmer who owned ten hides of land or more were required to keep a horse for use as a remount by the ealdorling messengers so the news had travelled swiftly through the land. Within three days of sighting the fleet the Saxon leaders had convened and were making their plans beneath the great statue of Saxnot.
Beowulf had hurried on with the intention of travelling to the meeting place and explaining that the designs of his king carried no threat to them. The holy wood lay to the west of a place the Saxons called Marklo. Conveniently the town was situated on the River Wisera, the very river they were travelling along, and with such a fine ship and crew Beowulf had no doubt that the thirty miles could be covered by mid morning the following day. Their spirits had lifted further as the sun forced its way through to burn off the mist which seemed to hang about the coastal marshes like a heavy cloak. As the banks of the Wisera slowly drew together and the land grew firmer, the soils deeper, the landscape slowly transformed itself. The pale yell
ows and browns of the heath lands and reed beds receded in their wake to be replaced by the first trees. Alder and willow appeared and the staccato beat of the woodpecker began to replace the booming of the bittern. Deer began to be glimpsed hidden amongst the shadowy thickets, and a small herd of bison had paused from drinking at the bank to watch them sweep by.
They had, however, been disappointed in their goal. As the Wave Dancer had neared Marklo the river divided and a group of heavily manned dracca had appeared in their path, barring the way. It had no longer surprised the Geat that they were waiting for his arrival and despite his best efforts the Saxon warrior leading the group had steadfastly refused to let them pass. The man had been friendly but firm as he had insisted that they were to take the River Alera which snaked away to their left before joining the River Leina, the rope river, which would lead them up to Honovere where they were to await the return of the ealdorling. All of Beowulf's attempts to remain on the Wisera had been politely rebuffed and he had been impressed once again by the mettle displayed by individual Saxons when he had tried to intimidate them. He had first encountered it in the young boy Seaxwine and he had found that he was coming to admire their seemingly unshakable sense of self worth.
Beowulf was dragged back from his reverie as a peel of laughter rolled around the waterfront. He followed the gaze of his men across to the Wave Dancer and was unsurprised to see that his man Cola seemed to be the centre of all attention. He turned to Cola's fellow hearth warrior, Hrafn, who was chuckling at his side.
“Cola is doing his old trick and hurling children into the air, lord,” he explained with a grin.
Gunnar, Cola and a few others had stayed with the ship due to the amount of interest it had generated in the town. Beowulf had left his personal flag of the man fighting the boar at the masthead and the unfamiliar design was attracting widespread interest. In no time a crowd had gathered to admire the sleek lines of the strange foreign ship and Gunnar and a few others had volunteered to show people around. Their efforts were proving to be a great success with the workers and their families and Beowulf joined in the laughter as another child sailed high into the air. This time Cola turned away as the child began to plummet back towards the deck as he responded to a question from Gunnar. Beowulf and Hrafn chuckled as a horrified gasp came from the watching men and women. They had seen the trick many times before and knew that the child was in no danger. At the last moment Cola spun around and plucked the apparently doomed child from the air. The crowd roared with laughter as they realised that it had all been part of the show, and they all watched as Cola handed the boy back to his delighted mother with a friendly tousle of his hair. Hrafn glanced across with a smile.
“We should have sent Cola on his own to keep the Saxons happy, lord,” he joked. “We didn't need the treasure after all, shall we keep it?”
Beowulf glanced up as a shadow fell across him to find that Aldwulf's hall steward had joined them and was laughing as hard as any at the antics on the waterfront.
“Godwin!” he smiled, “will you join us?”
Godwin looked down and pulled a wry smile.
“I would like that a great deal, lord,” he sighed. “Unfortunately I will be rather busy. A rider has just arrived from holy wood to inform me that that the ealdorling will be returning this evening after all and I am to arrange a symbel in your honour. I just came down to warn you to prepare for a riotous evening.”
The pink glow of dusk was beginning to throw its light through the open doors of the guest hall as Godwin reappeared to summon them into the presence of his lord. Aldwulf had arrived back from the holy wood earlier that evening as promised and had gone straight into the main hall with the men of his comitatus. The Geats had returned to their hall as soon as they had been made aware of the expected arrival of the ealdorling where they had donned their war gear and awaited the call. It had been a long afternoon of waiting and it was with more than a little relief that they had finally responded to the summons to the main hall.
Beowulf had finally decided that he would don his red battle shirt above his mail byrnie. To be truthful it was an added encumbrance that he could do without at a formal drinking celebration like a symbel but, on balance, he decided that the shirt was too impressive to leave off. Made of thick leather, the battle coat had been boiled in a wax to which the blood of an ox had been added before it had been carefully shaped to fit his body. It was the perfect background on which to display his gold belt buckle and fittings while the cloisonne work of the heavy gold shoulder clasps which held the shirt together never failed to impress.
Gunnar had spent a good part of the afternoon rolling his mail shirt in a barrel of sand and it now gleamed like newly polished silver, while the whole was set off by a fine, boar capped, helm. He had chosen to wear the open fronted helm which had been a gift from King Hygelac after he had defeated the Grendel. It was as fine a helm as existed on middle earth and was much more suitable for such occasions than the closed face grim helm which he wore in battle.
He glanced back as the men took station on him and smiled at the appearance of the warloca, Unferth. The Dane had travelled with them dressed in the plainer clothes of an everyday warrior but he had risen to the occasion Beowulf noted gratefully and had chosen to don the appearance of the holy man which he was for the symbel. The other warriors had looked on with mounting unease as the man had transformed himself slowly into the personification of a raven. The transformation now complete, Beowulf looked on the warloca with a mixture of approval and disquiet. Dressed completely in black Unferth wore a cloak of raven feathers which shimmered and gleamed as they moved in the last of the dying days light. The Dane had used a mixture of ash from the hearth to grind a paste which he had applied to his face to darken it whilst a red mixture had been applied around his eyes. Beowulf had subtly exchanged looks of incomprehension with the men as Unferth had muttered incantations as he continued to apply the mixture. The holy man's actions seemed to be only a part of the transformation and their questions had been answered as soon as Godwin had arrived to summon them into Aldwulf's presence. Unferth had gone across to a wolf skin bag and removed an item which resembled the top half of a giant raven skull. Completely covering the top half of the man's head, the beak of the raven extended almost one foot in front of his face whilst the top and sides of the headpiece were covered in the same raven feathers as the cloak.
Turning to Beowulf with a smile which seemed suddenly bereft of warmth, Unferth had, it would seem, now totally transformed himself from the easygoing companion they had grown accustomed to on this journey to a man who demanded fear and respect in equal measure. Unferth took up his raven skull tipped staff and indicated that the warriors carry the box containing Grendel's head into the hall in his wake. Beowulf glanced back at Godwin to indicate that they were ready and was amused to see that the warloca's transformation had had the desired affect on the hall steward. It could only help their cause to have the gods clearly on their side.
Beowulf's hearth warriors, Gunnar and Cola, moved forward to flank their lord as they emerged into the wide courtyard which stood before the main hall. They could not help but notice that the number of horses which were corralled to the far side of the hall had increased dramatically since their confinement and the low hum which seemed to emanate from the hall before them confirmed to Beowulf that the building was likely to be packed with Saxon warriors.
Beowulf regarded the gable end of the hall of Ealdorman Aldwulf as he approached. It was very similar he thought, in many ways, to the great hall of the Swedes in far off Uppsala. Built from massive oak posts from the surrounding wild wood the frames between the posts had been in-filled with a mixture of wattle and daub. Carved figures which clearly represented Woden, Thunor and Saxnot, guarded the entrance to the hall but other than those there seemed to be very little decoration. The whole had been lime washed repeatedly until the building seemed to shine with a brilliant whiteness which caused it to stand out in stark contrast with
its surroundings. He had noticed a similar hall in Biranum which he now knew must have been the hall of Ealdorling Gewis. It was, he thought, an effective and powerful statement to visitors of the strength and solidarity of this kingless land.
Lazzi stepped forward to take the Geats' weapons as they approached the doors of the hall. Beowulf was always reluctant to disarm himself but he recognised the practicalities involved in avoiding bloodshed in such situations. Copious amounts of ale and egotistical warriors would be a heady mix at any time. With the potential for heightened tensions between the parties due to the presence of a marauding Geat army nearby a word said out of place could have fatal consequences for both their mission and, quite possibly, themselves. With a final roll of his shoulders Beowulf stepped forward and crossed the threshold of the hall.
Godwin led the Geat party forward towards the gift stool, the high seat, of Ealdorling Aldwulf which lay at the far end of the hall. As Beowulf's eyes became accustomed to the smoky interior the familiar details of a great hall revealed themselves to him. Flanking a central hearth which ran the length of the hall lay benches packed with Saxon warriors. The walls were lined with colourful hangings which told of the deeds of the gods and, it would appear, great Saxon victories in battle. Motes of dust danced among the blades of light which cut down from openings high in the walls. A golden beam passed over his head from behind, painting the great battle flag of the Saxons which hung suspended in the place of honour to the rear of the ealdorling's gift stool with its buttery hue.
Ahead of him stood Aldwulf flanked by his thegns, Saxon lords dressed for war, the last rays of the dying sun gleaming and flashing from their burnished war gear. Beowulf allowed himself a slight snort of amusement as he recognised that the moment which they had been invited to the hall had been carefully chosen by the Saxons. It had been no accident, he knew, that the moment had been chosen which would present the lord and his men in, quite literally, the most dazzling light. They did, he had to admit to himself, look highly impressive.