by C. R. May
A hand clapped him smartly on the shoulder, making him start.
“Is it bringing back old memories?”
Beowulf smiled at Eanmund.
“I was just thinking that the last time I was on this spot I was preparing to die alongside my men. Now I am about to ask your king if I can marry his granddaughter. I am not sure which situation was the most worrying!”
Eanmund put his arm around Beowulf’s shoulders and drew him towards him. Leaning in he dug him playfully in the side.
“I would worry more about my father if he ever found out about you and Halldis in the bath cabin...kinsman.”
He laughed at Beowulf’s shocked face.
“Froson’s a small place.” He explained. “He won’t hear anything from me but I am sure that my mother suspects so I would not set the date too far in the future if I were you.”
Eanmund placed a hand on Beowulf’s arm and moved him aside as a crew member made his way forward to toss the mooring rope ashore.
“We’re here. Let’s get to the stables before all the best horses are taken.”
The scene which greeted them as they disembarked was unlike anything which the Geats had experienced at home. There seemed to be two warriors for every horse and most were milling around trying to outbid each other for the few remaining mounts. Luckily Beowulf and his men were guests of the royal party and were entitled to use their own private stables.
They left the chaos of Sigtun behind them as quickly as possible and headed back along the familiar road which led to Uppsala. Soon they were leaving the forest and trotting unhurriedly towards the distant town. Unlike others they had no need to arrange lodgings or erect temporary booths for the duration of the Thing, their halls awaited them in the Royal complex to the north.
Others however were less fortunate and Beowulf and Eanmund smiled at the indecision of those following them, torn as they were between the pressing need to arrange their lodgings as swiftly as possible and the need to show deference to their party by not overtaking the slow moving column.
Eventually Ohthere called a halt, dismounted, and made a great show of removing a stone from his boot. The following traffic ground to a halt until Eanmund waved them through to the obvious relief of the riders. They all watched, amused, as the horsemen slowly increased their pace until the orderly columns deteriorated into a mad dash towards the town.
“I hope that they can stop in time when they reach the town gates!” Eadgils laughed.
Ohthere was replacing his boot and stamping on the ground. Looking up he grinned at the party.
“They can be very painful those imaginary pebbles!”
“Frey’s beard! Who kicked open the anthill?” Eanmund had moved up alongside his father and Beowulf as they sat astride their mounts, gaping at the press of humanity before them. The roads and side passages of the Swedish capital were submerged under a sea of people, all jostling for the last places left at the hostelries.
Many enterprising householders were already moving amongst them, offering to find places in their homes for the late arrivals, at a price. Many of the townsfolk were to make a tidy sum from the disting it would seem.
“Is it always like this at the disablot father?”
Beowulf turned to Eanmund.
“What is the disablot, I thought that we were here for the disting?”
“The disablot, my foreign friend, is the name given to the religious ceremonies performed at and around the temple before the regional assemblies meet together at the disting.”
Ohthere called forward two of his warriors to clear a path through the crowd as he explained.
“The disablot is held every nine years. It is the most sacred time for the Swedish people. We are Frey’s chosen people and we honour him here, in the place which he settled and ruled at the beginning of our Folk story. You will see. You are fortunate that you were in our kingdom this year, perhaps it was the will of the gods that you witness such power.”
Two of Ohthere’s warriors were moving forward through the crowd, pushing them aside with the shafts of their spears. The column moved into single file as they channelled themselves along the main thoroughfare which led directly north to the royal halls.
As they began to move clear of the buildings their eyes were drawn, inevitably, up towards the top of the temple which lay ahead of them.
To Beowulf’s surprise he felt an even greater sense of wonder at the sight of the building than he had the previous year. It simply did not seem possible that the hand of man could build such a structure.
In addition to the thick gold chain which encircled the upper levels of the temple the priests had hung rich tapestries and golden ornaments to the lower outside walls in preparation for the coming ceremonies. The whole temple seemed to glow with an inner light as the golden hues were reflected back by their surroundings.
They rode in respectful silence past the temple, back to the familiar royal enclosure. Beowulf was relieved that even Cola and Alf had the sense to remain quiet as their horses paced slowly by.
They followed Ohthere’s lead as he dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting thrall.
“You will need to come to the king’s hall before you can see your friends, Beowulf. There are no weapons allowed in Uppsala for the duration of the disablot, they will need to be deposited in the Royal armoury.”
Eadgils walked beside Beowulf and explained the custom.
“Weapons are banned at this time in honour of our Lord Frey. This is the most important fertility ceremony held in the kingdom. It is a great honour to attend the disablot. Many of the people you saw in the town have travelled from all over the Swedish lands and those which owe us allegiance. There are Slavs from the south and Finns from far to the North. It is an event which even ceorls and thralls from far away try to attend at least once during their lifetime.”
Eadgils unfastened his sword as he spoke and handed it to one of the hall steward’s helpers for safekeeping.
“There will be a great fair which lasts for the duration of the disablot and the disting and there will be copious amounts of eating and drinking. We always put away our weapons at such a time.”
He smiled.
“Any killing at this time not only risks the displeasure of Lord Frey but goes against the whole spirit of a fertility ceremony, wouldn’t you say?”
Beowulf followed their example and handed his weapons to the helpers.
“You may keep your seax, lord.” The steward explained as Beowulf made to remove it from its scabbard.
Beowulf nodded with relief and slid it back. He could not remember the last time that he was completely unarmed, sometime during his childhood he guessed. He had even amused Halldis by taking his seax into the bath cabin.
Ohthere returned, having spoken to the senior steward.
“Beowulf, you are in the hall which you occupied last year. It seems that very few of your people have arrived as yet. I do know that your father and Alfhelm are not attending the celebrations. Your father was given the honour of escorting my mother, the cwen, to the hunting lodge at Ravenswood. Alfhelm is already there. It seems that our betrothal arrangements will have to wait a few weeks.”
Eanmund noted the look of disappointment on Beowulf’s face and dug him in the ribs.
“You don’t know how lucky you are. I wish that my father was not at the disting, I could have a much better time!”
“Same place, lord?” A voice, clearly under great strain, came from courtyard.
Beowulf turned and grinned at the sight of Gunnar struggling beneath their combined belongings. Festooned with bags and pouches his arms were also beginning to visibly wilt under the weight of their shields.
“Yes, the same hall as last time. It seems that we are one of the first to arrive. Let’s get over there and claim the best benches!”
To Beowulf’s delight, Heardred arrived at the hall late the following afternoon. As they sat in the hall feeling abandoned the hall doors burst open and the
familiar figure of his cousin crashed in.
“You always did know how to make an entrance.” Beowulf called. “I will go and warn the women to take the rest of the day off!”
Heardred beamed and spread his arms wide.
“Cousin! Tell me you missed me!”
“He’s been far too busy, lord.”
Cola opened his mouth to continue but the words caught in his throat as he noticed Beowulf’s glare. He had plenty to tell his kinsman but he wished to be the one to break the news. The warning glance had not gone unnoticed by Heardred, however.
“You are joking of course!” He exclaimed.
Heardred’s expression changed to one of disbelief as he scanned the smiling faces before him.
“You bastards! What were you up to while I froze my balls off all winter hunting elk and beaver?”
Beowulf laughed and thrust a horn of ale into his hand.
“We went to spend Yule with Hythcyn. You should have seen his face, in fact, no…I don’t believe it… there he is!”
Beowulf clutched his cousin and pointed to the benches. Cola had anticipated the tale and had dived beneath the table. As they watched he slowly emerged pulling the ‘Hythcyn face’ as Beowulf, Gunnar and Finn collapsed in tears of laughter.
Bemused, Heardred turned to his companions and held up his horn of ale.
“I don’t know how long they have been here but I would pour yourselves some of this if I were you. It’s obviously good stuff!”
Over the course of the next few days the other wræccan joined their compatriots. Sigehere and Tatwine, the men whom Beowulf had appointed to lead contingents during the aborted attack on Sigtun the previous summer, arrived with the rest of the men who had accompanied them on the Raven.
Most had enjoyed their winter of hunting and recreation in the Swedish heartlands but all were clearly envious of the men of Beowulf’s comitatus and their adventure on the German Sea and back home at Miklaborg. All agreed that a nithing pole on Yule morning was about as powerful an insult they could think of. It was guaranteed to spur Hythcyn into retaliatory action this summer whether he felt his forces were strong enough or not. He simply could not afford to be seen not to act after being so severely insulted in front of his closest supporters if he had any chance to remain king.
To Beowulf’s disappointment Heardred had looked horrified when he broke the news of his upcoming betrothal to Halldis.
“You are getting married! Why? I thought that we were going to Byzantium!”
Beowulf had explained that they still would but Heardred still looked glum.
“No, that is it kinsman. She will slowly start to weave a web around you and pull you in. In no time you will be asking permission to go as far as the wood pile. I have seen it before.”
Heardred recovered a little when Beowulf explained that he was going to Britannia, even if he had to take Halldis along with them. The bodies on the boat carrying the settlers still came to him in his dreams and he still carried the girl’s doll in his belongings. He would fulfil his promise to lay it to rest one day in the soil of the English.
Eanmund arrived one afternoon to inform Beowulf and Heardred that they were to be honoured by accompanying the Royal party to the ceremony which would begin the nine days of the disablot. They would be required to join them as they passed by their hall before sunrise the following day and he had come to ask them that they remain sober for the coming evening and that their men clean and prepare their clothing and armour before they went before Lord Frey.
Heardred had thanked him and thrust a cup of ale into his hand which Eanmund had felt obliged to drink out of politeness.
Cola and Gunnar had helped him back to his hall in the early hours of the following morning.
“Do you think that he will get into trouble?” Beowulf had slurred as they watched him weave his way up the slight incline.
Heardred stood outside the hall, his breeches around his ankles, as a perfect golden arc glistened in the moonlight.
“No, he’s a big boy. He can look after himself.”
A few hours later they both stood outside their hall as they waited for King Ongentheow’s procession to arrive. The moon still shone brightly, low in the western sky, reflecting dully from highly polished war gear.
To their surprise they had been asked to wear their full faced grim helms to the ceremony. They had never worn them to the ceremonies at The Hill of Goats despite the fact that they had been dedicated to Woden, the god of warriors and warfare. Here Frey was the chief god, a god of fertility so their confusion was understandable.
Beowulf rolled his shoulders as he attempted to clear the sack of wool which seemed to have replaced his brain. He breathed deeply and addressed his cousin. “How do you feel?”
Heardred grinned cheerfully; “bloody great!”
It never ceased to amaze, and annoy, Beowulf that his cousin could drink for days on end with no apparent ill effects.
“Never go to sleep the same evening you get pissed. You remember I told you that the morning after Astrid’s wedding, before we went for a swim.”
Beowulf smiled as he remembered that morning. It had been a riotous evening and he had risen early to find Heardred still drinking alone beside the hall.
“Yes, I remember. That was the first time that you talked to me about going to Britannia and about how dangerous Hythcyn was. You told me to go to the Swedes and ask for their protection if Hythcyn ever became king and I thought that you were mad. I should have listened to you kinsman.”
Heardred nodded sagely and glanced across to the Royal hall.
“Ah, here comes your new grandfather. I had better pull these up. I have to look my best to meet Frey.”
Beowulf caught his breath as Ongentheow came into view. He wore a golden grim helm which gleamed dully in the moonlight, above which was mounted the figure of a ferocious boar. Clearly the boar was a representation of Golden Bristle, Frey's boar. Sprouting from the boars back were long bristles of pure gold which moved gently in the morning breeze.
If anything, the magnificence of the king’s helm was surpassed by the cloak which he wore over his highly polished mail. Made of golden thread, the cloak shimmered and glistened in waves as he moved. Enveloping his shoulders it was fastened at the front by boars head brooches of solid gold from which eyes of red garnet sparkled menacingly.
Beowulf and Heardred waited until the procession had passed by before joining the end of the line as they had been instructed the previous evening by Eanmund. The outline of the temple rose imperiously on their left as they cleared the shadow of the holy tree and moved around to the compound they had seen so many times before.
Beowulf was astonished to realise as they moved into the open ground before the temple that the whole of the plain which stood between it and the town was filled with hundreds, no thousands, of people, all straining to catch a glimpse of their lord and king.
As they passed through the wattle fence and into the grounds of the temple, two godi sealed the gap behind them. Beowulf momentarily thought of his hearth warriors. He hoped that they would hurry along otherwise they would miss what promised to be one of the most memorable mornings of their lives. The last he had seen of Finn and Cola they had been absent mindedly gnawing at pork bones as they waited for Gunnar to finish his ‘morning movement’ as he delicately described it, out the back.
Ongentheow led the party into the temple. As he approached the passageway which led deep inside the building Beowulf felt as though he were gazing into the white heat of a furnace. The light from within the temple shone as bright as the sun and seemed to draw him on. As they passed inside Beowulf heard Heardred gasp beside him as the source of the glowing light was revealed.
To their amazement the entire interior of the passageway and inner hall was lined by sheets of solid gold. Intricate designs had been chased into their surfaces which told the story of Frey’s adventures, both on middle earth and in the realm of the gods. It really was like trave
lling inside Hjalti’s forge in Ost Sund Beowulf decided, and living to tell the tale.
At the far end of the hall, three enormous figures rose before the king. To Beowulf’s surprise he was pleased to find that the statues of the gods remained in their natural state. Although massive in every sense of the word he felt that the contrast between the opulence of the room and the austerity of the gods sent a powerful message. Despite what the wizard Asgrim had thought about the temple and its godi, the gods here remained fully a part of the natural world outside.
Although Frey had replaced Woden as the central figure of veneration, and had replaced Tiwaz entirely from those which they were used to worshipping in the temple at home, the familiar unadorned images of the gods made him feel more comfortable in the alien surroundings of the Swedish temple.
The central figure of Frey was carved from a massive, solid piece of oak as were those of Woden and Thunor, Odin and Thor as they were known in Swede Land.
All three figures wore conical, open faced, helms above a full beard and moustache.
Frey was distinguished by the fact that he was gripping his long beard in his right hand, an indication of his masculinity. A more obvious indication of his masculinity and fertility was the erect phallus which rose beneath it.
Woden glowered above a neatly trimmed beard and moustache as befit one of his nobility and learning. In his left hand he carried his spear, Gungnir, Shaker, whilst his right eye socket was closed. The Allfather had exchanged his eye with the giant, Mimir, for a drink from his magic well of knowledge. Beowulf smiled as he wondered what the godi would think if they knew that he had met the Allfather.