Beowulf (7 page)

“Aeschere is avenged,” said Hrothgar. “Heorot is saved.”

Wealhtheow, her blue eyes thoughtful, asked Beowulf what he had done with Unferth’s head.

“Lady, it was buried,” Beowulf said.

The queen touched his hand where her ring still blazed on his finger. “Beowulf,” she said, “you are worthy of your great adventure.”

The king agreed wholeheartedly. He stretched out his arm and pointed to Heorot, its golden roofs intact and sparkling in the sun. “Every man that lives or will live in time to come in this land of Danes will honor and praise your name, O Beowulf. Thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”

Queen Wealhtheow thanked Beowulf too. She noticed that his answering smile was a
little twisted, as if with pain. “Are you wounded?” she asked him, all concern.

Beowulf’s grin broadened. “Not by the monsters,” he replied.

“By what, then?” demanded Hrothgar, anxious to give the hero the best attention that it was in his power to give.

“By myself,” said Beowulf.

“Wounded by yourself?”

“By my own bad,” said Beowulf. He threw back his head and laughed in the sun, then winced. “Please don’t think of me as some sort of saint. That would make me as monstrous as Grendel, although in the other direction. Majesty of all the Danes, sweet Wealhtheow, you see before you a hero who has come through many kinds of high adventures only to fall foul of his own weakness.” He opened his mouth and poked one square-tipped finger in. “All this excitement has given me a toothache!”

Next morning, Beowulf was woken by a hoarse sound, repeated over and over. It was like something grim and cheerless that has suddenly found within it a will to sing. He looked out the window and saw a raven, black as soot, perched in the branches of a tree. The raven’s breast was swollen with musical ambition, and its eyes were like little sparks. It flapped its wings vigorously and hopped up and down on a withered bough. Every now and again it managed an untuneful note.

Beowulf smiled, and gazed to the east where dawn was in the wind. “Sing on, raven,” he said. “Welcome morning as you can. You sound like my toothache, but welcome’s no worse for that.”

Strange to tell, the raven now managed three ascending notes of great purity. Then it
shook its wings as though casting off night forever, took a couple of awkward steps, and flew away. At once, all the other birds began to sing. Beowulf touched his jaw in wonder. His toothache was gone.

Long light spilled across the fen. Beowulf considered it with a lump in his throat. This was not his country. He wanted to go home.

He went to Hrothgar and told him so.

Hrothgar was sad. He said: “Beowulf, I love you as my own son. Why not stay here forever, where your fame is?”

But Queen Wealhtheow did not seek to make him change his mind in this fashion. “Beowulf’s fame is wherever Beowulf is,” she said. “Go home, hero, with our thanks and blessings.”

Then the king saw by the tears in Beowulf’s eyes at the mere mention of the word “home” that he did indeed pine for his own country. So he took Beowulf’s hands between his own and blessed and thanked him as the queen had, his voice trembling with sincerity, and gave him twelve jewels—burning stones, the most precious things he owned.

“May your voyage be attended by white birds,” he said, tears trickling down his cheeks.

Beowulf was deeply moved. He saluted them both. “Thank you,” he said. “I shall not mind if the birds are black.” And he thought again of the raven that had tried to sing the dawn in.

The coastguard came to meet the marching men. “God bless you, Beowulf,” he said simply. “I am glad you did not take my advice and go home in the first place.”

Beowulf laid his hand on the coastguard’s shoulder. “Your advice was well meant,” he said, “and I like your simplicity.” He looked eagerly at the bay. “Is my ship prepared?”

“It is,” said the coastguard.

Room had to be made for the treasures Hrothgar had heaped on Beowulf, chiefly gold and horses. The coastguard helped with this. He was a huge man, with patient hands, and the horses trusted him even when their hooves were nervous of the tilting deck.

When all was ready Beowulf called the coastguard to him. “On a little hill to the west,” he said, “within sight of hall Heorot, you will find my sword. It is a good sword. Guard it well and it will guard you. I want you to have it.”

The coastguard thanked him. “One question,”
he said. “Why did you go against Grendel without your sword?”

Beowulf smiled. “On your advice, my friend.”

“My advice?” The coastguard frowned.

Beowulf dipped his hands in the sea. He let the cold green water drip through his cupped palms. “It was you who told me that fighting Grendel was like fighting the sea itself,” he said. “Well, then, who ever took a sword to kill the ocean?”

The sails opened. The tall mast rang. The great curved prow cut clean and quick through scudding foam. In such a vessel, coming back so happy from such a venture, they soon reached home.

When they did, Beowulf knelt on the beach and gathered up shingle in his fists and kissed it. Then he stood up and let his feet sink deep into soft sand. Then he ran along the shore, kicking shells in all directions. At last he came back to his men, panting, his face flushed, still grinning, not in the least ashamed of his boyish behavior.

“It’s good to be back home,” he said.

And they all agreed, and cheered.

They dragged down the wide sails. They set about the ship’s unpacking.

The horses shivered on the new shore.

The gold was soon heaped so high, a man might not see over it to where the sun slipped into a sea flecked with black and white birds, the gulls that had followed them home.

ICing Hygelac’s heart grew big with pride when he heard what Beowulf had done. Beowulf had always been his favorite nephew, even when he was a weak and sickly youth and no one else had any time for him. In those days the wits at Hygelac’s court used to laugh at Beowulf: “A silly boy! Fancy getting himself stung by bees! And always mooning about, dreaming of adventures, when he’s not tall enough to win a tussle with a goat.… He’ll come to no good, you mark my words.” Beowulf
had
come to some good now, and those same court-wits had to eat their words when everyone learned what he had done against the monsters in the land of the Danes. King Hygelac ordered the most splendid feast his country had ever seen—and all in honor of brave Beowulf.

Beowulf was not greedy or ambitious. The
gifts that Hrothgar had given him, he passed on to Hygelac. “You are my king,” he said, “and I am your man. All that I won, I won as your retainer. Here are horses, here is more gold than a man can carry. It is all for you, dear uncle.” He hesitated. Then he unbuckled the golden collar from about his neck—the Brisingamen collar that Queen Wealhtheow had given him. He held it up in the torchlight; it shone like a star-cluster. “And this,” said Beowulf, “I would give to you, dear aunt.”

Beowulf’s aunt, Hygelac’s young wife, was Hygd, the daughter of Haereth. Queen Hygd was beautiful and wise, with a creamy brow and poppies in her cheeks. She took the collar gladly, and thanked him for it.

Hygelac was so pleased and impressed by his nephew’s courtesy that he granted to him as much land as he could cover in a day’s ride on the white horse with the black mane. The mare flew over stone and stream and meadow, and by that sundown Beowulf was master of a greater estate in the land of the Geats than anyone save the king himself.

The only gift that Beowulf kept was the golden ring Queen Wealhtheow had put on his finger after the slaying of Grendel. He could not bring himself to part with this.

A few years passed in peace. Beowulf lived quietly, doing country things—he took to the keeping of bees, and most days would see him tending his tawny hives in the sun. The bees never stung him. They were big bees, too, armed with the kind of venom that could kill, if one was unfortunate enough to be attacked by the whole swarm. But Beowulf had a way with them, and the bees seemed to love him. Sometimes he would dust his cheeks with pollen and sprawl in the sun, and the bees used to come humming and crawl all over his face, so that anyone seeing him would swear he was wearing a mask of gold and black. He drank wine from a silver cup, never got drunk, and was very happy.

Then the peace was broken. The land of the Geats was invaded by the Friesians. The Friesians were fierce and cunning. They came in the night, their long ships creeping up the moonlit fjords. They burned and they plundered. They left death everywhere they went. But they always packed back to their ships and sailed away before Hygelac or Beowulf could catch them.

The king grew angry at these tricks. He led his men in a counterattack. He burned whole villages in Friesland for revenge. But returning to his ship, he was trapped in an ambush.
Hygelac fought desperately, for life was dear to him. But the Geats were outnumbered. Hygelac was killed. Beowulf himself just managed to escape, bearing his uncle’s body, when all seemed lost. He had to swim back home through a half-frozen sea.

Queen Hygd was made sick with sadness at the loss of her husband. She was also worried because their only son, Hardred, was still a baby, unable to take more than a few faltering steps and say things like “Mamma! Mercy, pity, peace, mercy, pity, peace … Mamma!”—and she saw a bloody fight coming, to determine who should rule the land. So she asked the people to set aside her own son’s claim to the throne and have Beowulf as king.

The Geats cheered loud and long when they heard this. But Beowulf said: “No, I am no usurper. I do not want the crown while anyone lives who has a better right to wear it.”

“Your feelings do you credit,” said Queen Hygd. “But, tell me, how can my son be king when he can hardly talk? How will he rule? Who will listen to him?”

Beowulf knelt by the boy Hardred, who was playing with some blocks upon the floor. “I will listen to him,” he said seriously.

The baby looked at him.

Beowulf handed him a block.

“Mercy,” said Hardred.

“A fit quality in a king,” said Beowulf.

He handed the boy another block.

“Pity,” said Hardred.

“A wise virtue in a king,” said Beowulf.

He handed him a third block.

“Peace,” said Hardred.

“The end and purpose of all kingcraft,” said Beowulf.

He clapped his hands. Hardred laughed for joy and dropped the blocks. Beowulf lifted him in his arms and set him on his shield. Then he raised both, shield and baby, above his head.

“Long live Hardred!” he cried. “Long live any monarch who learns to speak of mercy, pity, and peace while still in his mother’s arms. People, behold your king! Beowulf will uphold and protect him as long as he lives!”

Hardred grew up to rule as a good king should. He was kind and firm and generous, brave in battle, gentle in the company of women, straight in his every dealing. Anyone was always welcome at his court. This, unfortunately, proved his undoing, for one day he was visited by the sons of Othere, the man who discovered the North Cape. They had
quarreled with their father, and rebelled against their uncle Onela, king of Sweden. They wanted asylum.

Hardred took pity on the two young men, doomed to wander the face of the earth because of a family feud. He said they could stay at his court for as long as they wished. Their names were Eanmund and Eadgils, and they showed themselves genuinely grateful to Hardred for this hospitality.

But when King Onela heard that his rebellious nephews had obtained sanctuary in Hardred’s land, he flew into a rage. He tore at his beard and rolled on the ground in his fury. Then he took ship at the head of a band of fighting men, and set sail for the kingdom of the Geats.

Hardred was killed by Onela’s axe in the bitter battle that followed. Eanmund was killed too, and Eadgils fled away. But King Onela was reluctant to meet Beowulf face to face in mortal combat, and anyway he had achieved what he had set out to do, so he withdrew while things were still going well for him.

After the battle, before the smoke had died from Hardred’s funeral pyre, the Geats sent again to Beowulf, asking him if he would be king. This time he said yes.

Beowulf wanted peace. He liked the days he could spend with his bees, and the summer sun, and the way night came gentle from the dusky sea. He had seen enough of wars and quarrels and sudden death. He longed for quiet—to be able to stand by a blue pool in the evening, and lob a pebble into the water, and watch the circles of ripples spread slow on the sober surface. Yet he regretted Hardred’s killing. His conscience would not let him rest till he had avenged that. So he sent word to Eadgils in exile, and helped him with men and equipment, and plotted a campaign for him. The fighting was fierce and long, but in the end Eadgils won. He killed Onela in fair combat. At last all the kingdoms of the north could live in friendship.