Hrothgar frowns and furrows his brow, running his fingers through his gray beard. He stares deep into the dead eyes of Grendel, as if seeking there some hindmost spark of life, some ghost that might yet linger, undetected by the others. But then the king takes a deep breath and nods, conceding to the will of his queen.
“So be it.” He sighs and leans back on his throne. “Take it away…hurl it into the sea. Let us be done with it. Never let us look upon that face again.”
Unferth nods to two of his thanes, and soon the severed head has been speared on long pikes and carried off to a balcony. Another cheer rises from the hall when the head of Grendel is flung over the railing to tumble and bounce down the cliff face and at last be swallowed by the sea.
And the next evening, though the blood of those slain by Grendel’s dam has not yet been washed completely from the walls and floors and roof beams of Heorot Hall—and likely it never shall be—the feasting begins. The world has been rid of monsters, and finally the horned hall can serve the purpose for which it was built. Finally, the men of Hrothgar’s land can feast and drink there and forget the hardships and dangers of the hard world beyond those walls. And the feast honors Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow, and Wiglaf and the thirteen Geats who have died that this might be so. A long table has been carried onto the throne dais, and there the two men who braved the marches to slay the merewife and return with the head of Grendel sit in a place of distinction. The hall is alive with the boisterous din of merrymaking, with laughter and bawdy jokes and drunken curses, with song and the harpestry, with carefree, blissful celebration untainted by dread or trepidation. The cooking fire sends smoke and delicious smells up the chimney and out into the cold night. The fattest hog that could be found is hefted onto the king’s table, its skin steaming and crisp.
Unferth is seated on Beowulf’s left, and he leans close, summoning the confidence to ask a question that has been on his mind since the Geat’s return from the wilderness, for the mead has given him courage.
“Beowulf, mighty monster-killer. There is something I must ask. Hrunting, my father’s sword, did it help you to destroy the hag?”
Beowulf lifts his mead cup, surprised only the question did not come sooner. “It…it did,” he replies, faltering but a little as he shapes the story he will tell Unferth. “Indeed, I believe the demon hag would not be dead without it.”
Unferth looks pleased, so Beowulf takes up the knife from his plate and continues.
“I plunged Hrunting into the chest of Grendel’s mother,” and he demonstrates by sticking his knife deeply into the ribs of the roast pig. “When I drew it free from her corpse”—and here he pulls the knife from the pig—“the creature sprang back to life…so I plunged it once more into the she-troll’s chest…” Again Beowulf stabs the roast pig. “And there it will stay, friend Unferth, even until Ragnarök.”
“Until Ragnarök,” whispers Unferth, a note of awe in his voice, and he nods his head, then takes Beowulf’s hand and kisses it. “Our people shall be grateful until the end of time,” he says.
Beowulf finishes off the mead in his cup; Unferth’s gratitude at his easy, convincing lie has provoked a sudden and unexpected pang of guilt, an emotion with which Beowulf is more or less unfamiliar.
Better to tell them what they need to hear, he thinks, then catches Wiglaf watching him from across the table. And now Queen Wealthow is refilling his cup, and he smiles for her. She is seated at his right, and pours from a large wooden jug carved to resemble a boar.
“I thought you might need some more drink,” she says.
“Aye,” replies Beowulf. “Always.”
“And the golden drinking horn. Do you still have it?”
So now there’s need of another lie, but this time he has it at the ready and doesn’t miss a beat.
“No,” he tells her. “I knew the greedy witch desired it, so I threw the horn into the bog, and she followed after it. And that’s where I struck…” Unferth is still watching him, and Beowulf nods in his direction. “…with the mighty sword Hrunting,” he adds, then takes a deep breath. “Once she was dead, I searched for it, but it was gone forever.”
There is a faint glint of uncertainty in the queen’s violet eyes, and Beowulf sees that she is perhaps not so eager to believe as Unferth, that she might have ideas of her own about what happened at the tarn. But then Hrothgar is on his feet, coming suddenly up behind Beowulf and snatching away his plain cup, dashing its contents to the floor. He seizes Beowulf by the arm.
“Then, my good wife,” bellows Hrothgar, “find our hero another cup, one befitting so great a man. Meanwhile, the hero and I must talk.”
Hrothgar, already drunken and slurring his speech, guides Beowulf away from the table and into the anteroom behind the dais. He shuts the door behind him and locks it, then drains his cup and wipes his lips on his sleeve.
“Tell me,” he begins, then pauses to belch. He wipes at his mouth again and continues. “You brought back the head of Grendel. But what about the head of the mother?”
Beowulf scowls and plays at looking confused. “With her dead and cold, lying at the bottom on the tarn. Is it not enough to return with one monster’s head?”
Hrothgar stares discontentedly into his empty mead cup, then tosses it aside. It bounces across the floor and rolls to a stop against the double doors leading out to the balcony overlooking the sea.
“Did you kill her?” he asks Beowulf. “And speak true, for I will know if you lie.”
“My lord, would you like to hear the story again, how I struggled with that monstrous hag—”
“She is no hag, Beowulf. A demon, yes, yes, to be sure, but not a hag. We both know that. Now, answer me, damn you! Did you kill her?”
And Beowulf takes a step back, wishing he were anywhere but this small room, facing anyone but the King of the Danes.
I know that underneath your glamour you’re as much a monster as my son Grendel, the merewife purred.
One needs a glamour to become a king…
“I would have an answer now,” says Hrothgar.
“Would I have been allowed to escape her had I not?” asks Beowulf, answering with a question, and he suspects that Hrothgar knows the answer—the true answer. The old man backs away, hugging himself now and shuddering. Hrothgar wrings his hands and glances at Beowulf.
“Grendel is dead, and with my own eyes have I seen the proof,” he says, and shudders again. “Not even that fiend could live on without his head. Yes, Grendel is dead. That’s all that matters to me. Grendel will trouble me no more. The hag, she is not my curse. Not anymore.”
To Beowulf, these are the words of a man fighting to convince himself of something he knows to be otherwise. They stare at each other in silence for a long moment, then Hrothgar takes the golden circlet from off his head and frowns down at it.
“They think this band of gold is all there is to being king. They think because I wear this, I am somehow wiser than they. Braver. Better. Is that what you believe?” he asks Beowulf.
“I could not say, my lord.”
“One day,” says Hrothgar, placing the crown once more on his head, “one day you will, I think. One day, you will understand the price—the terrible price—to be paid for her favors, and for the throne. You will know how a puppet feels, dangling on its strings…” Then he trails off and chews at his lower lip.
“My Lord Hrothgar—” Beowulf begins, but the king raises a hand to silence him. There’s a mad gleam shining in the old man’s eyes, and it frightens Beowulf more than the sight of any terror that might yet lurk in bogs or over foggy moors.