Wræcca

by C. R. May

  Cola rummaged inside Finn’s pack and produced a skin of ale. Finn always carried one on a journey and it seemed only right that they should toast their friend. They were all shocked. Finn was the first of their band to pay the price they all knew was sometimes charged by the gods to participate in their games.

  You are playing big boys' games now and the loser dies.

  Cola had recovered enough now to speak again.

  “Finn told me to tell you that he regretted nothing lord. He thanked you for giving him a chance to live.”

  Beowulf rubbed his face as he fought back the tears. He may be the youngest among them but he was still their lord and it would be unseemly to cry at all let alone in front of his men.

  Gunnar spoke softly.

  “What else did he say big man?”

  Cola looked down and shook his head.

  “Nothing, that was all.”

  With a look of surprise Gunnar pressed him further.

  “Yes he did. I heard him say something else. What did he say?”

  Cola looked up and smiled through his tears.

  “The silly bastard said that he wanted me to come closer because my ears were cheaper than a shroud.”

  “Beowulf...Lord!” Beowulf gulped a last mouthful of Finn’s ale and handed the skin to Cola.

  “Goodbye birdman…”

  They all looked across the field, searching out the man who was interrupting their impromptu wake.

  This had better be important or this bastard might meet with an accident.

  As they watched the warrior approach them from across the battlefield he removed his helm and swept his long, sweat soaked, hair back from his face. The fighting in this part of the valley was long over now and many men were removing their helms in an effort to cool down from their exertions. Gunnar recognised the man running towards them immediately.

  “That is Hrafn, one of Kormak’s boys. He’s not the sort to rush about for no reason, it must be important, lord.”

  Beowulf patted Finn’s body on the back and strode over to Hrafn.

  Hrafn slowed to a halt in front of them and took deep breaths to steady himself before he spoke.

  “Thank the gods I found you!” he wheezed.

  "Nobody knew where you had got to, lord. Men are searching for you all over the field.”

  Cola tossed the skin of ale to Hrafn.

  “Here, you knew Finn, you can share his ale.”

  Hrafn composed himself and looked across to Finn’s body which still lay tied across his horse. Straightening himself he nodded deliberately in the direction of the body and took a swig from the skin.

  “Travel well, Finn. I will drink to you properly tonight.”

  They all mumbled in agreement. They all would.

  Hrafn suddenly remembered his errand and his head snapped back to Beowulf.

  “Lord, we have King Hythcyn!”

  Beowulf’s mouth opened in shock. It was unlike Hythcyn to expose himself to danger and now he had got himself captured. He laughed in delight and instinctively fingered the sliver of Woden’s staff which hung at his neck.

  Thank you Allfather!

  “Where is he Hrafn, lead me to the bastard!”

  They hurried along in Hrafn’s wake as he led them towards a large group of warriors on the far side of the field. As they approached, those at the rear opened up to let them pass through to the front.

  “Beowulf, we thought that you had gone home. Where have you been?”

  Jarl Amund came back through the crowd and clapped Beowulf energetically on the shoulder.

  “We have your king here. He is badly wounded but he is still being guarded by a ring of warriors. Their leader says that he knows you.”

  As the crowd parted before them Beowulf saw a thin circle of grim faced warriors arranged protectively around the obviously broken body of Hythcyn.

  Beowulf gave a whoop of joy and, throwing his sword to the ground, strode purposefully towards the leader of the bodyguard. Pushing inside the frightened warrior’s framea he embraced him as his startled companions looked on. Stepping back, Beowulf held the man by the shoulders and laughed at his bemused expression.

  “Ulf, I am not going to let you sacrifice yourself for that sack of shit behind you. I have lost one good friend today and I don’t intend to lose any more.”

  Ulf was wavering but a small part of him clung to his sense of duty. He was a warrior and his king needed him, his own life was unimportant. Beowulf was not to be put off.

  “Stop this nonsense. Lower your weapons and join us. Hythcyn will soon be dead and the Swedes are honourable I swear it.”

  Still Ulf hesitated. Beowulf looked at the men to his right and left. They were nervously gripping their swords and spears, their eyes flicking between Ulf, Beowulf and the Swedish warriors who hemmed them in. A man to Ulf’s right swung his spear and pointed it at Beowulf's head, snarling,

  “The king told us all about you. You deserted the fleet and ran to join the Swedes. You are a Wulfes Heafod!”

  Beowulf calmly looked at the spear point and back to Ulf.

  “Do you believe that Ulf?”

  Ulf looked down and sighed as his resistance finally crumbled.

  He brushed the spear aside and embraced Beowulf.

  “It is true that the king declared you a Wolf’s Head after you set a nithing pole against him at Yule, but no, I cannot.”

  Ulf threw his weapon to the ground and called to his men to follow suit.

  “As you all know, I fought with Beowulf both in the border fight and the battle at Sorrow Hill. The man I stood alongside in the shield wall has not a traitorous bone in his body. That’s enough lads, you have done your duty.”

  Beowulf raised his finger and gently swung the spear point away from his face. He looked the warrior in the eye and calmly reassured him.

  “You will be treated honourably. I swear it.”

  The rest of the men threw their weapons to the ground and sat to one side as the Swedes moved to disarm them. Beowulf stepped forward and knelt beside the broken body of the king. Hythcyn had clearly been hit a glancing blow by a horse during the initial charge of the Swedish Bison. It was a testament to the man’s strength that he had survived at all and not been killed outright as most men would have been. A weak voice came from below him.

  “So, it has come to this kinsman.”

  Beowulf looked down at Hythcyn. Just about every bone in the man’s body must have been broken by the impact. His legs and arms lay at grotesque angles and a rim of dried blood lay thickly encrusted around his mouth. Fresh blood coloured his teeth and ran freely across his cheek from his shattered nose.

  “It has uncle. It was always going to end like this for one of us.”

  Beowulf sat down in the long grass beside him. Hythcyn’s breathing came in tortuous rasps which seemed to tear rather than flow from his lips. As Beowulf watched, Hythcyn’s eyes began to lose their focus and he realised that he clearly had very little time left on middle earth. He slapped him gently on the cheek in an effort to revive him for a short while.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  Beowulf marvelled at the man’s temper. Even in death Hythcyn sounded impatient.

  “Uncle we need to know the truth before you die. Did you kill Herebeald and your father, King Hrethel?”

  Hythcyn tried to laugh but the pain was too great.

  “You know that I killed my brother, you were there.”

  Beowulf was having trouble keeping his own temper in check. He had moments left to find out the truth from the perpetrator of the killing which had torn his family apart and scattered them to the winds. Hundreds of men had already died because of that one arrow. One, dear to him, was tied to a horse not one hundred yards away and his father was still to be found. Beowulf forced himself to remain calm and asked again.

  “Did you kill Herebeald on purpose Hythcyn or was it an accident? You lie here, broken, as a result of that action. Help your family to recover
from it while you still can.”

  Hythcyn’s face hardened and a look of pure loathing came to his eyes. Beowulf had seen the look before many times over the years. It was the true face of his uncle.

  “No, kinsman! It is my last curse on the family, my last curse on the mighty Swertings. You will have to keep on guessing. Now put a sword in my hand and finish me off. I will away to valhall.”

  Beowulf laughed but his expression was as cold as ice. He moved his mouth closer to Hythcyn’s ear.

  “No, uncle, you will not be going to valhall. I have met the Allfather, he speaks to me through a wizard, and I will ensure that you freeze for eternity in Hel’s rancid hall!”

  Beowulf sat back up and looked into Hythcyn’s terrified face. He smiled and continued brightly.

  “Besides what would Herebeald and my grandfather say when you turned up at the benches?”

  Beowulf barred anyone from approaching Hythcyn until he finally died, in pain and alone. When he was sure that he had gone he paid several Swedes to cremate the body and scatter the ashes, releasing his soul to Hel’s safekeeping.

  He was family after all. It was the least he could do.

  As soon as he was sure that Hythcyn had set out on his final journey along the cold, dark road to Nifolhel, Dark Hel, the place of shadows, he sought out Jarl Amund. He found him busy organising a guard detail for the prisoners from the ranks of the newly arrived men of the levy.

  They had been arriving in ever increasing numbers since the end of the battle and were warmly welcomed by the Swedish warriors. Beowulf had underestimated the value of the men of the levy when he was younger and inexperienced but he now shared Amund’s appreciation of them. They were ideal men to act as guards for the prisoners, releasing the more experienced warriors for tougher duties.

  Beowulf hailed the jarl as he approached.

  “Jarl Amund!”

  Amund turned and smiled in greeting.

  “Beowulf! It is all over then I take it?”

  Beowulf nodded grimly. Try as he might he could never truly hate his uncle, however much he deserved it. Whatever the truth of the slaying of Herebeald and King Hrethel he had always known that Hythcyn had forever craved the affection of his family but his hopes had never been fulfilled. The gods had just never seen fit to endow him with any likeable qualities.

  Beowulf strode over and placed a friendly hand on Amund’s shoulder.

  “Can I ask you to release the leader of the king’s guards to my charge. He will give you his word that he will return, I am sure of that.”

  Amund grimaced and scratched his beard as if in deep thought.

  “I don’t think that I can Beowulf. Once I release him to you I wouldn’t necessarily want to see him again. I have got enough extra mouths to feed as it is.”

  Beowulf laughed and gestured to Gunnar.

  “See if you can find Ulf’s weapons for him, he is joining our little band for a while. Cola, come with me.”

  While Gunnar jogged off to speak to the warrior guarding the higher quality weapons which had been taken from the prisoners, Beowulf and Cola crossed the field to the area which contained the prisoners themselves.

  They sat forlornly, in a wide circle at the centre of the valley. Ringing them at a distance of roughly twenty-five paces were a number of bowmen with arrows notched and ready to loose. The prisoners had been warned that any encroachment of the free space between them would cost them their lives.

  As he grew closer Beowulf noted that none of them looked even remotely interested in trying. It was an unpleasant experience to see a Geat army so thoroughly beaten and demoralised and he wished that this day would end. There was of course still the greatest reason which had brought him to this place yet to resolve, the whereabouts of his father.

  Beowulf and Cola approached the nearest bowman. He was a member of the levy so it would pay to be sure that the man knew who they were before venturing beyond him.

  “Do you know me?”

  “Yes, lord. You are Beowulf, the Geat.”

  “And you know that I fought alongside your king and jarl today and that I am a friend of theirs?”

  The bowman looked nervous at the questioning. The most that he had ever said to a man of Beowulf’s rank was ‘Yes, lord’. This was developing into a full conversation.

  “Yes, lord. We all do.”

  “Excellent! I am going to go in there and take one of the prisoners away, a friend of mine, and I will be very disappointed if someone shot an arrow at me.”

  “I understand, lord.”

  Beowulf patted the man on the arm and walked forward towards the prisoners. It was an uncomfortable feeling, despite his precautions, walking before dozens of itchy fingered bowmen. He did not envy the prisoners at all.

  As he neared them the nearest prisoners drew back in fright. Beowulf was confused until he realised that they were actually afraid of Cola. It would seem that enough men had witnessed Cola’s retribution on Finn’s killer for word to get around.

  Luckily the man who Beowulf had come to collect had been one of the last to arrive and was therefore at the edge of the large group. He smiled as he approached his old companion.

  “Ulf, will you help me free my father?”

  Ulf looked puzzled.

  “I will gladly come with you lord but I know nothing of your father. There were rumours that he had been killed by the Swedish rear guard after the battle at Sorrow Hill but that was the last anyone heard of him.”

  Beowulf was shocked. How could they not know why they had come here? How could they not have seen him?

  Cola suddenly stepped forward and glared at the petrified men closest to him.

  “Does anyone here know anything about Ealdorman Ecgtheow or Ealdorman Alfhelm?”

  A cry came from the centre of the group.

  “I do!”

  The man struggled to his feet and rubbed his legs in an attempt to restore the blood flow. They had been crowded together on the valley floor for some time now and Beowulf watched as the man struggled to support himself on legs which were becoming more painful with every passing moment. At any other time it would have been funny but Beowulf was beginning to feel uneasy about the fate of his father and Alfhelm.

  “Come forward.”

  The Geats moved aside as best they could and allowed the man to painfully pick his way through to them. He forced a smile as the man reached them and, reaching out a hand, helped him to hop over the last legs which lay strewn before him.

  “What is your name?”

  “My name is Cuthwulf lord, but only my mother calls me that. Everyone else calls me Hondscio, Hand shoe, because I always wear these in a fight.”

  The warrior held up a pair of gloved hands and explained with a disarming smile.

  “I have very sweaty palms lord and I need these to keep a grip of my weapons.”

  Beowulf found himself relaxing a little. He was slowly becoming surrounded by friends and countrymen. He had quite forgotten how much he had missed them during his time as a wræcca, and as a Wulfes Heafod too he had now discovered.

  “What can you tell me about my father, Alfhelm and Cwen Æthelhild?”

  “They were taken from the lodge some time ago lord, soon after it was taken.”

  Beowulf was horrified. All the time they had taken to reach Ravenswood and the battle and its aftermath his father had been travelling back into Geatland as a prisoner. He would be miles away by now.

  “Where were they being taken?”

  “I don’t know the exact place, lord, but I know that they were going to meet a boat.”

  Beowulf gritted his teeth in frustration.

  If they reach a boat we will never catch them.

  “Ulf, go with Cola and find Gunnar. He is retrieving your weapons. Hondscio can you ride a horse well?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Good you are coming with me. Let’s go!”

  Hondscio beamed at his sudden and unexpected freedom as he hobbled along
side Beowulf.

  A voice called from behind as they turned to leave.

  “Take me, lord. I fought with you at Sorrow Hill!”

  Other voices added themselves to the first. Some had even been with him during the fight at the river. Beowulf turned back sadly.

  “I am sorry, I cannot help you at the moment but I promise that I will support your cause when the fighting in finally over. King Ongentheow is an honourable man. Those of you that were with me at the river fight know that I keep my promises but I ask you to be patient for a while longer.”

  Beowulf had promised to the men at the river fight that he would be the last man alive to leave the field of battle. It was one of his proudest achievements that he had been able to keep that promise.

  Beowulf and Hondscio left the prisoners and crossed to Jarl Amund.

  “Amund I am sorry, I have had to relieve you of another hungry mouth.”

  Amund smiled.

  “I wish that you could take them all. Is there any other way that I can help you?”

  “I need arms for this man and horses. I need to see King Ongentheow urgently. This man tells me that my father and Cwen Æthelhild were taken to meet a boat somewhere. Would you know where that would most likely be?”

  The smile fell from Amund’s face. He immediately realised the need for a speedy reaction if they stood any chance of intercepting the prisoners before they reached the boat.

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Soon after we arrived this morning, lord.” Hondscio put in.

  Amund’s shoulders slumped, and he shook his head sadly. They had failed in their attempt to rescue the Ealdormen and his cwen.

  “If they have had that long Beowulf, they will be on the boat and long gone by now. They could only have gone to the port at Motala. It’s not the best road in Swede Land but it’s only about twenty miles away from here. It would only take horses a couple of hours at most.”

  Hondscio grinned.

  “It’s lucky they went by wagon then, lord.”

  15

  The horses clattered down the track sending great clods of earth spinning in their wake. The road was narrow, dark, winding and, despite the recent hot weather, still damp and muddy due to the shade afforded by the overhanging trees.