And now Ursula grows very serious. “Your day, my lord,” she says. “When the Saga of Beowulf is told, the tale of how you lifted the darkness from the land. And the day after, we celebrate the birth of Christ Jesus.”
Beowulf smiles for her and wipes hair from her face.
“Christmond,” he says, making no attempt to hide his feelings about this new religion, embraced now by fully half his kingdom, even by his own Queen Wealthow. “Is Yule no longer good enough?”
“Yule is the old way,” Ursula replies. “Christmond is the new way.”
“There is much yet to be said for the old ways, my dear,” Beowulf tells her. And now he hears footsteps, and when he looks up, the king finds Wealthow and a priest coming across the causeway toward them. The priest wears long robes of wool dyed red as blood and a large cross of gilded wood dangles from about his neck. When Wealthow speaks, her voice is as icy as her violet eyes.
“I see that you’ve survived, husband,” she says.
“Alas, my queen,” replies Beowulf, the sarcasm thick in his voice. “The Frisian invaders have been pushed back into the sea from whence they came. And you, my good lady, are not a widow…yet.”
Wealthow smiles, a smile that only looks sweet, and exchanges glances with the priest.
“How comforting, my husband.”
And then, feeling confrontational but having no desire to argue with Wealthow, Beowulf shifts his gaze to the priest. He is a gaunt man beneath his robes, a thin man from some Irish longphort or another, his face the color of goat’s cheese except for the broken veins on his hooked nose and the angry boil nestled in the wrinkles of his protruding chin. Beowulf grins at the priest, and the priest acknowledges him with a curt nod.
“You,” says Beowulf. “Father. I have a question that vexes me terribly. Perhaps you can answer it for me.”
“I can try,” the priest replies nervously, and Wealthow glares at her king.
“Good. Fine. Then tell me this, Father, if your god is now the only god, then what has he done with all the rest, the Æsir and the Vanir? Is he so mighty a warrior that he has bested them one and all, even Odin?”
The priest blinks and bows his head, gazing down at the stones at his feet. “There is but one God,” he says patiently, “and there has never been any other.”
Beowulf moves to stand nearer the priest, who is at least a full head shorter than he. “Then he must be an awfully busy fellow, your god, doing the work of so many. How, for example, does he contend with the giants, keep Loki’s children in check, prepare his troops at Ásgard, and yet still find time each day to dispense so much love and grace and forgiveness upon his people?”
“I will not be mocked, my lord,” the priest says very softly.
“Mocked?” chuckles Beowulf, looking first to Ursula, then to Wealthow and feigning innocence. “I am not trying to mock you, good priest. These questions vex me, truly, and I believed that you must surely know the answers, as you say this unnamed god speaks to you.”
“When you mock Him,” the priest says, “you do so at the risk of your own immortal soul.”
“Well, then, I suppose I must strive to be more careful.”
“Beowulf,” says Wealthow, stepping between the priest and her husband. “Stop it this minute.”
“But I haven’t yet asked him about Ragnarök,” Beowulf protests.
At last, the priest lifts his head and dares to meet Beowulf’s gaze from behind the protective barrier of the queen. “It is a heathen faerie story, this Ragnarök,” and then to Wealthow he adds, “Your husband is an infidel, and I will not be ridiculed—”
“I only asked—” begins Beowulf, but the cold fire in Wealthow’s eyes silences him.
“Forgive him, Father,” she says. “He is a difficult old man and too set in his ways.”
“That’s right,” mumbles Beowulf. “I’m hopeless. Please, do not mind me.” And Beowulf puts an arm tight about Ursula and holds her close to him, but she tries to pull away.
“We will speak later, husband,” Wealthow says.
“Of that I am certain,” Beowulf replies, and Queen Wealthow and the priest turn away and head back across the causeway toward the east tower. The snow is falling harder now, becoming a storm, and soon Beowulf loses sight of them in the mist and swirling snowfall.
“She frightens me,” says Ursula. “One day, she will kill me, I think.”
Beowulf laughs and hugs her again. “Nay, my pretty little thing. She will not touch a hair upon your head. Wealthow, she has her new Roman god now, so what need has she of an old warhorse like me? Do not fear her. She is all thunder and no lightning, if you catch my meaning.”
“We should get inside, my lord,” Ursula says, sounding no less worried for Beowulf’s reassurances. “I do not like this wind.” Beowulf does not argue, because the wind is cold and his need to wrangle words has been spent on the priest. He kisses Ursula atop her head.
“Indeed. It shall blow us all away,” he laughs. “It shall grab us up and blow us to the ends of the earth.”
“Yes, my lord,” she says, and then she takes Beowulf’s hand and leads her king along the causeway high above Heorot and into the sanctuary and comparative warmth of the western tower.
16
The Golden Horn
The storm ended sometime before dawn, and morning finds a glittering mantle of fresh snow laid thick over the rooftops and streets and courtyards of the keep. The giant eagle Hræsvelg, squatting high atop his perch in the uppermost limbs of Yggdrasil, beats mighty wings, and a vicious north wind howls across the world, whistling between the towers and moaning beneath the eaves. And Wiglaf, remembering the days when winter did not make his bones ache and his muscles stiffen, trudges through the deep snow to the granite platform where he delivers the king’s decrees and news of battle and other such important proclamations. He stands there in the shadow of the two great turrets, and his breath comes out like mouthfuls of smoke. Already, a large number of people have gathered about the plinth, awaiting his announcement. He acknowledges them with a nod, their pink cheeks and red noses, then slowly climbs the four steps leading up onto the platform. They are slick with ice and snow, and Wiglaf does not wish to spend the rest of his days crippled by broken bones his body has grown too old to heal properly or completely. He stands with his back to the towers and clears his throat, spits, then clears his throat again, wishing he were back inside, sitting comfortably before a roaring fire and awaiting his breakfast.
“On this day,” says Wiglaf, speaking loudly enough that all may hear him, “in honor of our glorious Lord of Heorot, let us tell the saga of King Beowulf.” He pauses to get his breath and spit again, then continues. “How he so fearlessly slew the murderous demon Grendel and the demon’s hag mother.”
And the wind from under Hræsvelg’s wings lifts Wiglaf’s words and carries them out beyond the inner fortifications and the confines of the keep, to echo through the village and off the walls of the horned hall. Those who hear stop to listen—men busy with ponies, women busy with their stewpots and baking, children making a game of the snow.
“Let his deeds of valor inspire us all. On this day, let fires be lit and the sagas told, tales of the gods and of giants, of warriors who have fallen in battle and who now ride the fields of Idavoll.”
And near the outermost wall of Beowulf’s stronghold, at the edges of the village, stands the house of Unferth, son of Ecglaf, who once served Hrothgar, son of Healfdene, in the days when the horned hall was new and monsters stalked the land. The house a sturdy and imposing manor, fashioned of stone and from timber hauled here from the forest beyond the moors. The steeple at the front of its pitched roof has lately been decorated with an enormous cross, the symbol of Christ Jesus, for lately has Lord Unferth forsaken the old ways for the new religion. And even this far out, Wiglaf’s words are still audible.