by C. R. May
Beowulf dug his heels into the flanks of his mount which immediately whinnied in protest. The Dane had obviously been too busy cursing having drawn the first watch to notice them and the effect was immediate and hilarious.
The man shot backwards as if the horse had kicked, not merely startled him, dropping his shield and spear as he did so. They watched, convulsed in laughter, as he scrambled to retrieve his weapons before his training kicked in and he took the standard position before them, shield held in front of his body, left foot forward. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled somewhat by the fact that his helm had fallen down to cover his left eye and his spear blade was pointing to the rear.
They had just about controlled their mirth when the warrior, obviously still flustered, managed to blurt out the challenge.
“F... f... f... friend or fiend?”
They were lost. It was all they could do to remain on their horses as they laughed until tears streamed down their faces. Beowulf managed to notice that the commotion had caused a reaction from the camp and several armed men were racing down the beach in their direction. He had better control himself before they arrived, it would be a stupid way to die.
“We are f... f... f... friends,” he laughed. “If we weren’t you’d be d... d... d...dead by now!”
He dismounted and indicated to the others to follow suit. The Danes were only fifty paces away now and would soon be up with their companion. He needed to pull himself together. Breathing deeply he explained the reason for their appearance.
“My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson and these are my hearth warriors. We are Geats travelling with King Ongentheow. I wish to speak to your leader.”
He smiled reassuringly before adding.
“If you turn your spear around the right way before your friends arrive I will tell them that you captured us!”
Moments later the others arrived.
“It’s all right they are Geats. They want to speak to Lord Æschere.”
Beowulf held his arms wide to show them that his weapons were still sheathed and smiled.
“Have I permission to enter your camp?”
The Geats and Danes regarded one another for a few moments. Both groups were clearly experienced warriors, the Danes proudly displaying their warrior arm rings as was their fashion. King Hrothgar had obviously wished to honour the fallen Swedes with the quality of men chosen to return their remains.
“Of course lord. Please follow me.”
Beowulf and the others led their mounts along the beach and hobbled them at the perimeter of the Danish camp.
“I am Æschere. Welcome to my camp. It sounded as though you were having fun over there!”
Beowulf smiled at the thick set man who approached him across the sands. Taking the proffered cup of ale he announced himself to his host.
“Thank you. It was an interesting way to challenge strangers. My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson and these are my hearth warriors Gunnar, Cola and Finn. We are...”
Æschere interrupted him before he could complete his sentence.
“You are Geats under the protection of King Ongentheow. I know of your growing reputation Beowulf and I am glad of it. It pleases me that we meet again.”
Beowulf was taken by surprise.
Should I know this man?
Æschere laughed at his obvious discomfort.
“You were only a boy when we last met in the hall of my lord, King Hrothgar.”
Beowulf’s mind raced as he sought to place Æschere. It was an important part of a young man’s upbringing to remember the names and faces of important members of other Nations he should meet. Suddenly it came to him and he smiled.
“We hunted trolls together on the moors. That was a good day.”
Æschere grimaced and exhaled.
“That was a good day, Beowulf. Unfortunately the trolls hunt us now. Come and share our food, I am sure that you have come to find out more about this night horror which assails us.”
The Danish warriors shuffled aside, making room around the fire for the newly arrived guests. Æschere personally handed Gunnar, Cola and Finn their cups and filled them with ale. It was an unnecessary but, as they were to discover, typically dignified action by the Danish leader.
“So Beowulf, I am correct in guessing the reason for your visit? If you fancy yourself as the savour of the Shieldings my friend, many have tried but still the Grinder comes.”
Cola looked confused. “The Grinder, lord? I thought that the troll was called Grendel.”
Æschere broke a piece of bread and tossed half to him.
“Grendel means Grinder in the Danish tongue Cola. The children have a song about him.”
He leaned back and called to one of the warriors stacking the ale casks nearby.
“Sweyn, you are younger than me. How does the children’s rhyme go about the Grendel?"
Sweyn placed his cask against the others and pulled himself upright:
“Fee, fau, fum,
I smell the blood of a shielding man,
Be he living or be he dead,
I will grind his bones to mix my bread.”
“It’s a bit grim but it’s true enough. Any warrior who has tried to stay in the king’s hall since the attacks began has been killed and carried away. Sometimes we find parts, arms or legs usually, which the troll has dropped, and they have always been ground between enormous teeth.”
He shrugged. “Grinder.”
Beowulf tore at a piece of pork and wiped the grease from his beard with the back of his hand. Swallowing he asked Æschere to continue.
“The attacks began within a few days of the king’s new hall, Heorot, being completed. There was a ceremony of dedication to Woden and then a huge symbel. Within days we were finding the remains of any warriors who remained in the hall overnight. I have been in many battles and seen many grisly sights but I tell you Beowulf, nothing like this has ever happened before on middle earth.”
Beowulf looked around at the Danish warriors. To a man they looked ashamed before the Geats. Æschere continued.
“You are wondering why we are all still here while our lord, our king, our ring giver, is unable to sleep in his own hall.”
Beowulf opened his mouth to protest but Æschere held up a hand to stop him.
“Of course you do, and so would I in your position, as would every man here. We are not cowards. I have seen every one of these men fight against the king's enemies in shield walls all over the northern lands and never seen them defeated by other men. But this is not a man Beowulf it is a creature sent by Hel herself to torment the Danish people. King Hrothgar has forbidden Danes to fight against the creature lest we become too weak and succumb to our enemies. He would rather carry the burden of shame alone than be responsible for the demise of the Shieldings.”
Beowulf sighed. The sun had almost set beyond the western hills and they would need to return to the Swedish hall before it grew too dark. He had given his word to King Ongentheow that they would return to the hall before nightfall and he must be seen to be a man of honour.
He thanked the Danes for their hospitality and, rising from the fire made his way back to the place where their horses stood patiently waiting.
Æschere accompanied them and stroked the flank of the horse as Beowulf mounted. As he looked up Beowulf was struck by the sadness in his eyes.
“Don’t come to Dane Land Beowulf, you will lose your life for nothing. You will not defeat this horror, nobody can. If the gods have decided that the days of the Danish people are to end they will end with or without your sacrifice.”
Beowulf reached down and gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
“Tell King Hrothgar to look to the north. Soon I will come to free you from this curse and bring joy once more to Heorot. I am honour bound to repay the debt which my family owes to your king in any way that I can. I know that it is my wyrd. Take heart friend!”
The Geats turned and walked their mounts back towards the headland and the hall beyond
. As they passed over the crest Finn called out into the shadows.
“F...f...f... friend.”
13
Tusker pulled away from the jetty late in the morning of the following day. King Ongentheow had never been an early riser and the effects of spending a morning as host to a god were still sapping his body strength. Happily though the clouds and wind of the previous day had blown themselves out and the day looked set fair.
Clearing the headland Beowulf looked back to the site of Æschere’s camp site of the previous evening. The Danes were long gone of course. He knew that they would be, back to their cursed land and humbled king.
The royal barge stroked its way out into the deep channel and pointed her golden prow towards the open sea. On either side of them a magnificent serpent ship kept station on their king’s vessel, each manned by scores of smiling oarsmen.
“You know why they are looking so happy, don’t you?”
Kormak had come aft to stand beside Beowulf on the steering platform as he stared out at the escorting ships. Beowulf smiled at his companion. He had quickly become friends with the easygoing Swede as he had suspected he would.
“They had a nice relaxed start to the day. No doubt they would have been out breaking their backs on patrol for several hours by now if they had not formed an honour guard for the king.”
Kormak rested his hands on the wale and looked back at the remains of the Danish camp. In truth all that remained of their stay was a low pile of blackened driftwood, a dark smear against the yellow sand. Soon the rains or tides would remove even that evidence that men had ever visited the place.
“I hear that you went to see the Danes last night.”
Beowulf laughed at his matter of fact tone.
“I know. You are just making conversation. You are not in the slightest bit interested why a Geat lord and a party of Danes would meet on a dark beach within half a mile of your king.”
A laugh came from behind and they both turned to see the figure of Ongentheow approaching them.
“Why don’t you just dispense with the subtlety Kormak? Heat a couple of irons in a brazier and we will soon drag the truth from him!”
Kormak smiled and held his hands out wide as if to protest his innocence.
“As Beowulf suspected, lord, I was just making conversation. But, naturally, if you would rather I got to work on him with hot irons I will tell the men to light the fire.”
Ongentheow took another bite from the hunk of cheese he had brought from the hall.
“That will not be necessary. Beowulf did ask my permission before he went. He intends to fight against the monster which is attacking the Danes. He went to question them about it, isn’t that right Beowulf?”
“Yes, lord. Unfortunately nobody has yet survived to tell the tale so I am not much wiser. I do know that the fiend grinds them with his teeth and carries them off to his lair. It seems to confine its activities to King Hrothgar’s new hall, Heorot.”
Kormak looked surprised.
“Why does King Hrothgar allow this to happen? The Danes are not a small and weak people, they have many warriors. He could raise an army and confront the beast.”
“Many war bands and champions have tried to kill this thing over the years but they have all perished. The Danes believe that Grendel is a product of the dark arts, seith, and cannot be killed by men. King Hrothgar has decided to sacrifice his good reputation for the greater good of the Danish folk. He has forbidden repeated attempts at killing the fiend because that would drain the kingdom of its lifeblood, its supply of warriors.”
The king prodded Beowulf’s chest with a cheesy finger.
“But young Beowulf here knows the secret of killing this Grendel, isn’t that so.”
“I know some of its secrets, lord. Others I will have to discover for myself. I have been told by the wizard Asgrim that it is my wyrd to fight this fiend and I shall.”
Kormak looked impressed.
“You know Asgrim!”
Beowulf nodded.
“We have spoken several times. He sometimes gives me advice.”
Kormak gave a short, nervous, laugh.
“Well, he is a powerful man to have as a friend, but I am still glad that he is not my friend!”
Ongentheow flexed his hands, clearly examining the wrinkles as they rose and fell. He had certainly seemed to have aged since the events of the disablot. He sighed at the sight of his ageing body.
“It is true that the gods are fickle friends. They can give you your every desire one moment and snatch it cruelly away the next.”
He looked at Beowulf with sad, rheumy eyes.
“Remember my friend. There is always a price to pay in return for the gods' favours.”
Suddenly he seemed to become aware of the effect his melancholy mood was having on those around him. He relaxed and smiled.
“The gods may ride you hard Beowulf, but they ride you well. You live your life to the fullest. Why drift through life like a summer cloud when you can light up the sky like a thunderbolt!”
The king took another bite of the cheese. Shaking his head he declared.
“This is good cheese boys, you should try some. It is English apparently. I made sure that they added it to the tribute the traders send up to Uppsala. They sent some cheese from Franc Land once, bloody awful, it stank like a shepherd’s sandal. We had to keep it in a separate room because the smell contaminated all the other food. You bit into this greasy white crust and all the cheese inside ran out all over you. What good is that? You can’t carry it around with you, all it does is smell and mess everything else up. No, good firm English cheese is the best.”
Ongentheow waved cheerily as he jumped down from the steering platform and went to mix with his warriors. Kormak turned to Beowulf.
“Perhaps you could use this cheese from Franc Land against Grendel. Fight seith with seith!”
The serpent ships left their charge at the mouth of the fjord and, splitting up, darted off to the east and south. Beowulf and Kormak watched as the oars bit deeply into the churning waves before rising again, water streaming from the glistening blades. Both ship masters had clearly decided to impress their king with the speed and efficiency of their crews and the pair smiled as they imagined the curses and exhortations which were falling onto the heads of the unfortunate rowers.
“It’s lucky that they had an easy start after all!” Kormak laughed as he jumped from the steering platform. Beowulf called after him, disappointed that he was losing his companion so soon.
“Where are you off to?”
“I am going to try some of that cheese. If it is good enough for my king it is certainly good enough for the likes of me!”
Egil noticed Beowulf’s disappointment and called across.
“Would you like to take the steer board? It beats nibbling cheese any day, lord.”
Beowulf beamed back. He had always enjoyed steering a ship at sea and Tusker was as fine as any afloat. Crossing the deck he gratefully took the handle from the ship master.
“No tiller?”
A tiller ran at right angles to the steer board and helped the helmsman to apply pressure to the board in heavier weather.
Egil shook his head.
“Not on a fancy ship like this one, lord. Old Tusker rarely ventures beyond the lakes and estuaries of our home waters. There is no need for one.”
Beowulf smiled as he felt the power of the sea course through the steer board and into his arms. He had not realised how much he had missed it. The weather had been too horrendous on the winter journey back to Geatland on the Puffin and he had wisely entrusted their lives to Helgi’s more experienced hands.
Egil stood to one side and admired Beowulf’s prowess with the big wooden blade.
“You have a natural flair for handling a ship, lord. I can see that you are no stranger to feeling the power of Aegir coursing through you.”
“We Geats grow up on the sea, we practically have gills! I spent a few weeks la
st winter crossing the German Sea and Ran’s daughters, the waves, were as high as tree tops. I am no stranger to the power of the sea.”
Egil looked impressed.
“Truly! I have spent my life on the waters of the Baltic and the lakes of my homeland. I would like to experience such a thing before the norns snip my life thread.”
Beowulf leaned across.
“If you can persuade your king to help us free our country from my uncle's rule this summer instead of sending his army in the other direction, I promise that I will take you.”
Egil laughed and moved closer to Beowulf. Placing a friendly hand on his shoulder he murmured.
“King Ongentheow may be growing older but he is stronger than he looks. Never underestimate him, lord. His body may be ageing but his mind is still as sharp as any blade.”
Taking a pace back, Egil pointed out the channel ahead of them.
“Keep the ship hard over to the shore, lord. I will guide you through the outer islands which litter the mouth of the fjord and then it is a straight run up to the town of North Market. We should be there by mid afternoon, even as this leisurely pace.”
Other river traffic scattered before them as they swept majestically up the fjord. Small vessels and fishing boats pulled to one side, their occupants bowing as their king waved happily alongside Beowulf and Egil. Even the seals seemed to stop their antics and bobbed in the water, watching them pass.
This trip was the perfect way for the king to reinvigorate himself after the trials of the disablot. In fact, Beowulf reflected, the trip was the ideal way for him and his men to also forget about some of the things they had witnessed at Uppsala.
As promised, the fjord soon narrowed and the offshore islands were left far behind them. Beowulf took in the heavily forested lands which stretched away on either bank. He was glad to be back amongst the elm, oak and maple trees of the South.