“You wear it well, my lord,” she says, forcing a smile, and she pushes her way through the crowd, back toward the shelter of Heorot Hall. By the time she’s reached the throne dais, the thanes have begun to cheer.
PART TWO
The Dragon
15
King Beowulf
And so the skein of years unwinds, the lone white eye of the moon trailing always on the heels of Sól’s flaming, wolf-harried chariot—day after day and year after year, season following season as it ever has since the gods raised Midgard long ago. And even as the passage of time is constant, so are the ways of men, and so it is that on this cold day in the month of Frermánudr, but two days remaining before Yule, Beowulf, King of the Ring-Danes, sits astride his horse looking out upon the battle raging where the sea touches his land. Thirty years older than the night he killed Grendel, this Beowulf, and greedy time reckons its toll upon all things under Midgard, even heroes and the kings of men. His hair and beard are streaked with the frost that stains any long life, and his face is creased and wizened. But he might easily be mistaken for a man ten years younger, if only because his eyes still burn as brightly and his body is still strong and straight. He wears the scars of a hundred battles, but he wears them no differently than he wears the golden circlet that once crowned King Hrothgar’s head.
Wiglaf, son of Weohstan, sits upon his own mount to Beowulf’s right, and together, from this small bluff at the end of the moorlands, they watch the men fighting down on the shore. The Frisian invaders made landfall in the night, but in only a few hours Beowulf’s archers and swordsmen, his thanes bearing axes and spears, have driven them back to the beaches. The Frisian force is in tatters, and there can be no hope left among them of victory. Even retreat seems unlikely, unless the man who commands these warriors should deign to call back his hounds. From the start, the Frisians were too few and too poorly trained to succeed in this attack, and any man still left alive among them will be fortunate to escape with his skin.
Beowulf shakes his head and shuts his eyes, wishing to see no more of this shameful, bloody scene.
“This is no longer a battle, Wiglaf,” he says. “It’s slaughter.”
Wiglaf, also marked by age and also yet a strong man, nods toward the battle.
“The Frisians want to make themselves heroes, my lord. They would have the bards sing of their deeds.”
“It’s going to be a short song,” sighs Beowulf, opening his eyes again.
“Aye,” says Wiglaf. “But can you blame them? Your legend is known from the high seas and the snow barriers to the great island kingdom. The whole world knows the lay of Beowulf and Grendel. You are the monster slayer.”
Beowulf shakes his head again and laughs, but there is not the least trace of humor in the sound.
“We are the monsters now,” he says, making no effort to hide his disdain and self-loathing. “We are become the trolls and demons.”
“They come to find the hero,” says Wiglaf, and he points to the handful of Frisian invaders who have not yet fallen.
“The time of heroes is dead, Wiglaf. The Christ God has killed it…leaving mankind nothing but weeping martyrs and fear…and shame.”
And now a voice comes from the beach, rising free of the clash and clamor of battle. “Show me to King Beowulf!” it demands. “I would die by his sword and his alone! Show me to Beowulf!”
Wiglaf glances nervously to Beowulf, who has tightened his grip on the reins.
“You cannot,” says Wiglaf firmly. “He means only to taunt you into delivering his own glory, my lord. You know that. Do not reward him.”
“Leave him!” shouts Beowulf, ignoring Wiglaf’s counsel. He spurs his horse forward, riding swiftly along the sandy bluff and into the midst of his warriors, most of whom have gathered about one of the last of the Frisians remaining alive. They have stripped away his helmet and much of his armor, forcing him down onto the bloodied sand. They kick at his bare head and unprotected belly, laughing and cursing the man, denying him the honor of death. Beowulf recognizes the Frisian as the leader of this invasion.
“Stop!” cries Beowulf, bringing his horse to a halt, its hooves spraying sand in all directions. The men do as they’re told, turning and gazing up at their king scowling down at them.
“What is this?” asks Beowulf to his thanes. “You think it sport to mock your opponent in this fashion? To kick and bully an unarmed man, then make jest of his pain? No. Let him die quickly, with some measure of dignity left intact. You are soldiers…behaving like a mob.”
And then Beowulf pulls tight on the reins, turning his horse about and almost colliding with Wiglaf, who has only just gained the foot of the bluff.
“Kill me yourself!” shouts the leader of the Frisians, getting slowly, painfully to his feet. “If you would have me dead, then kill me yourself, coward.”
And Beowulf sits there on his horse, staring ahead at Wiglaf, his back turned to both the Frisian and his own thanes. He can clearly read the warning in Wiglaf’s eyes, the caution that never seems to leave them for very long. The waves are loud upon the shore, the waves and the wind and the pounding of Beowulf’s heart in his ears.
“Kill me yourself,” the Frisian says again, sounding bolder now and taking a step nearer the king.
“Hold your tongue, bastard,” Wiglaf tells the man. “The king can never engage in direct battle.” And then to Beowulf’s thanes he says, “Kill the invader now. Do it quickly, and put his head on a spear. Plant it high on the bluff as a warning to others who would come to our land seeking their immortality.”
There’s a low murmur of disappointment from the Danes, as if they are being cheated of some rightful and well-deserved prize. But a number of the men raise their swords to do as Wiglaf has ordered.
“Stop!” Beowulf commands, turning his horse to face the Frisian once again. The thanes look confused, but immediately lower their weapons and begin to back away.
“You think me a coward?” Beowulf asks the leader of the Frisians as he nudges his horse forward, until he is looming over the battered man.
“I think you are an old man,” replies the Frisian, standing up as straight as he can manage and looking Beowulf directly in the eyes. He has retrieved his weapon from the sand, a bearded ax, its iron head rusty and pitted but keen and slick with blood. “I think you’ve forgotten which end of an ax is sharp and how to wield a sword in battle. You watch from a safe distance, squatting on your pony, and then call the battle won by your own hand.”
Beowulf draws his sword and dismounts, never taking his eyes off the Frisian.
“Hear me, my lord,” says Wiglaf. “The king can never engage in direct battle.”
“And whose rule is that, anyway?” Beowulf asks without turning to face his advisor, and Wiglaf does not reply. The thanes have begun to form a loose circle, with Beowulf and the Frisian at its center.
“So,” says Beowulf to the Frisian, “you want your name added to the song of Beowulf? You think maybe that ballad should end with me slain by the blade of some netherland halfwit with no name that I have yet heard?”
“I am called Finn,” the man replies. “And I am a prince among my people. And my name shall be remembered forever.”