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  Beowulf’s own battle gear had been repaired by the king’s own craftsmen after the fighting at Sorrow Hill. The split plate at the top of his grim helm, the result of a Swedish sword stroke during the desperate fight at the river which marked the Geat border with the Brondings, had been replaced and the whole helm gleamed. His red leather battle coat had been cleaned and restored. His shield had been repaired and refitted in waxed red leather bearing his personal design of the man fighting a boar before the gilt central boss and eagles, a gift from his grandfather King Hrethel, had been reattached.

  He watched as his three hearth warriors, his comitatus, set about checking their new arms and armour for the hundredth time. He was pleased, no, more than that he decided, he was proud of his choice of men who would form the nucleus of his future war band.

  Gunnar had been the first to place his hands inside Beowulf’s own and pledge his oath of loyalty. He had been the first to force his way beside him as he broke the Swedish shield wall at the river and had later pulled his semi conscious body out of danger when a sword stroke had temporarily incapacitated him. Tall, wiry and brave to the point of foolhardiness, his tough exterior hid a keen intelligence and surprisingly sensitive nature. His delicate handling of the young girl Ursula, whom they had rescued from an abusive owner, had been a revelation. In the short time that they had had to practise sword craft Gunnar had shown a natural ability which, allied to his sharp wits, promised to make him a formidable warrior.

  The big Engle, Cola, on the other hand could not have looked more different if the gods had tried. Broad and heavily muscled the man had a natural expression which gave the impression that he did not really understand what was going on. This was topped off by a tangle of reddish hair and a pair of the largest ears Beowulf had ever seen. As if to complete their joke the gods had chosen to not only have the ears stand proud of his head but one stood out further, and was clearly lower, than the other. Cola had done nothing to help his looks either as a smile would reveal a line of greenish teeth, the result of ‘too much mead’ he had announced proudly at their first meeting in Geatwic. However his looks were deceptive. Cola was an intelligent man and a natural fighter. Forever genial and naturally optimistic he was a pleasure to be in the company of and popular wherever he went.

  The last member of his hearth troop was the least known to him. Finn had saved Beowulf’s life during the swimming race with Breca, Hythcyn’s Bronding fosterling. Later they had spoken and he had indicated to Beowulf that he had always intended to be a warrior until his father, a fisherman, had been lost at sea and he had had to take over his duties and care for his mother. Pleased to be in a position to repay the debt he owed the man, Beowulf had given his mother a purse of silver and sent Finn to Miklaborg for warrior training with the king’s men. Clearly, he was naturally strong and fit with good coordination so he had the physical attributes of a warrior. Only time, and experience, would tell if he possessed the mental toughness required to repeatedly face an enemy shield wall or take a man’s life. He would make sure that he was heavily involved in any fighting with these Jutes and see how he coped.

  He glanced over to his left. Heardred’s draccas were already becoming lost from sight in the mid morning haze. It promised to be a fine day. The sun beat down from an almost cloudless sky, the shimmering light dancing and flickering from the crests of the gentle swell. Hudda had organised the crew and warriors into three shifts instead of the usual two. That way, he reasoned, there would always be the majority of the warriors resting before the upcoming battle. There had been no drop in speed as the conditions were perfect for rowing and the men sweating at the oars would know that they would be relieved in a short time and could really put their backs into their work.

  Beowulf had erected an awning athwart the widest part of the Griffon around the mast, and those men not on rowing duty were encouraged to make use of the shade it provided by a store of food and ale. Mindful that he was actually moving further away from his intended destination at Uppsala with every stroke of the oars he was keen to arrive at the Jutish fleet with his men as fresh as possible. He needed a quick and decisive victory if he was to have any chance of arriving at the Swedish capital at all, much less with the element of surprise.

  He watched as a large group of gulls mobbed the contents of a slop bucket which had been deposited over the side of one of the ships to his right.

  “Pass the word to all the ships to keep their slops inboard from now on would you Hudda. We don’t want a cloud of gulls announcing our presence to our friends before we can close with them.”

  Hudda nodded and told Tiny to hail the ships on either side of the Griffon and pass on the instruction to the rest of the formation.

  Beowulf leaned back against the wale and watched his old companion as he worked the tiller. He was clearly thinking deeply on something. He would need his full attention today if they were to speedily smash these Jutes and be on their way. Hudda was an important member of the expedition, but also a friend.

  “You are troubled Hudda. You have not been yourself since we left Geatwic. Is it something that I can help you with?”

  Hudda rubbed his beard and sighed.

  “I don’t know lord. There is something but I can’t seem to pin it down.”

  Hudda indicated that Beowulf move to the far side of the steering platform, out of earshot of any of the crew or warriors. He glanced across to the nearest oarsmen and called to a tall wiry crew man.

  “Ucca, take the steer board will you.”

  Ucca bounded up onto the platform and took the tiller from him with a smile. He had sailed with Hudda for the good part of a decade and was one of his most trusted crew members. Beowulf himself had fond memories of the man from the time of his first sea journey all those years ago when he had been sent by his father to the court of the king of the Danes, Hrothgar. They had had to outrun three ships on the way, evidently intent on robbing them, and Ucca had been a senior member of Hudda’s crew even then.

  Hudda pursed his lips, as he struggled to shape his thoughts.

  “I don’t know, lord. There has been something pulling at my thoughts for a long time about this whole business. The more I think about it the unhappier I become.”

  “How long have you felt this way?”

  “Now that I think about it I began to feel uneasy that time in King Hythcyn’s tent, you know after the battle at Sorrow Hill. I was there while you were sleeping and the king and his closest aides were making plans but most of us were excluded. At the time I assumed that it was to keep our attack a secret for as long as possible. Now I am not so sure. You saw the men with him Beowulf. Did they have the look of warriors about to embark on a major campaign to you?”

  Beowulf remembered the group of warriors which had accompanied the king and the way that they had laughed at all of the king’s weak jokes at his expense. He had dismissed them at the time as nithings, but no, now that he thought about it they did not have the air of excitement and anticipation about them you would expect in such a situation.

  “No, they didn’t,” he mused, catching the mood.

  “The only sign of offensive action that I saw the whole time that I was at the camp was when your father and his men were sent off to shadow the Swedes. Now, with this Jutish attack and the weather conditions turning against us I am beginning to feel as though even the gods are against us!”

  Beowulf sighed. He had known Hudda all his life and trusted his judgement implicitly. He was a friend and confidant of his father, a man who chose his friends wisely, so it was likely that there would be some basis to his misgivings.

  “I don’t know,” Hudda continued softly as he gazed out over the stem.

  “The best way I can describe it is that it reminds me of the time when I was a boy. One of the older boys had slipped a turd into my hood without me noticing. Everybody seemed to be laughing at me and I had no idea why. It seemed that everyone knew what was going on but me. That is how I feel now.”

&nb
sp; Beowulf clapped the older man affectionately on the shoulder.

  “Well, we have a clear duty to perform today. Perhaps it is a stroke of luck that the Jutes turned up when they did. Without them we would have been well on our way to Swede Land by now. That means that the gods are on our side.”

  “Do you really think so?” Hudda replied, puzzled.

  “Think about it. We set off in perfect sailing conditions and head south with a steady wind at our backs when suddenly the wind dies to a whisper. One of the elk ships develops a fault and drops back just long enough to catch a glimpse of an enemy force sailing to attack our coast. He can catch us up easily and warn us because we are basically becalmed nearby.”

  Hudda brightened.

  “I see what you mean!”

  “The gods have given us a chance to stop and think about what we are doing instead of blundering on blindly. I will think about it and we will discuss with Heardred what to do when we have defeated these Jutes. Come old friend, let us get the first task over with.”

  They rowed steadily north all morning under a cerulean sky. Soon the rocks which marked the headland at the mouth of the Geat River estuary came into view, crowned by their usual collection of guillemots and gannets. Hudda made a slight detour to intercept one of the fishing boats which had emerged from the estuary, at the head of which lay the vital port of Geatwic. It was perhaps the richest town in Geatland and a successful attack on it by an enemy would not only enrich them but would have a devastating effect on the Geat traders and consequently their contributions to the royal coffers. The king would be less than impressed.

  To their relief the crew of the boat had seen no sign of raiders in the area but, more worryingly, several of the boats which had gone out the night before had failed to return that morning. This boat was one of half a dozen which had volunteered to forgo their sleep for a day and go in search of their compatriots.

  Beowulf had sent the fishing boat back to port and put the draccas into a line a long bow shot apart. At his signal they had begun to move steadily seaward. A bowman had been placed in the bow of each ship. As soon as the enemy were sighted they were to loose off a fire arrow in the direction from which they were approaching. The ships on the wings were then to race ahead and envelop the enemy formation to prevent their escape. Hopefully Heardred’s force would be chasing them in from behind so they would be crushed by an overwhelming force.

  After all the preparation and anticipation, the enemy force appeared with what seemed like almost indecent haste. The shoreline of Geatland was still a distinctly solid line to the rear when a fire arrow arced skywards from a dracca over to his larboard side. Immediately those ships on the outer wings surged forward as the crews doubled up on their oars.

  Beowulf strode to the bows and swung himself up beside the stem post. An untidy gaggle of ships were heading directly towards them. Only a few of the ships, those at the centre of the formation, looked to be powerful draccas like the Griffon. The rest of their number appeared to be smaller warships.

  He smiled to himself as the situation became clear to him. The main Jutish army had already left, as they had hoped, for their summer campaign in the south. They had left a small force for the defence of their coastal settlements whilst they were away under the command of either a minor noble or an older warrior. He had heard of the war in Geatland and had decided to make a name for himself while they were preoccupied elsewhere. Unfortunately for him it would seem that Woden had forgiven Beowulf for upsetting his volva, Kaija, and had intervened to delay the Geatish fleet.

  Beowulf removed the piece of Hrani’s staff he carried as a talisman around his neck and kissed it before replacing it inside his battle coat. He was fully dressed for war now, a Geat lord in his battle finery. With a last roll of his shoulders to ensure that everything was tight and secure he moved down the ship to retrieve his grim helm from Gunnar.

  “All set boys?”

  “Yes lord!” they chirped happily.

  The three members of his comitatus stood before him, beaming with pride in their new arms and armour. He had spent practically his last piece of silver on them in the workshops of Geatwic the day that Cola had left his sister’s house and agreed to join him. It had been treasure well spent though he decided as he looked them over. The standard of a lord’s retainers was one of the best indications of his wealth and generosity and, if he had to say so himself, they did look fine. Even Cola, who usually had the knack of making even the most expensive garment look like an ill fitting sack, fully looked the part of the wealthy, seasoned warrior.

  “I am going to lead the attack when we board their ship. I want Gunnar on my right, he has fought there before, and you, Cola, to my left. Finn as this is your first fight I want you to tuck in behind me, ready to step forward should I fall. As we move down the ship it will widen and I want you to take up position beside Cola. Go in hard like we practised and you have nothing to fear. Keep our shields together and keep going forward. If we can keep them on the back foot it will be over in no time. They will be stumbling over benches and each other. Any questions?”

  “No, lord!”

  “This is our first fight together. Let’s make a name for our little band.”

  They all grinned in reply reminding Beowulf of a group of children eager to please their father. A cry interrupted him.

  “Lord, you need to see this.”

  Beowulf turned back to the steering platform where Hudda was pointing at the Jute formation. He made his way back aft, past the other warriors busying themselves with last moment adjustments to their armour. Leaping up onto the platform he turned to view the enemy.

  “They are pulling themselves in together. It looks as though they are going to form a fighting platform.”

  Hudda was right. As he watched, Beowulf saw the Jute ships form into a dense square around their commander. As they converged they struck their masts and lay them across the neighbouring ship. Once they were all in position the mast posts would be lashed together, holding the ships tightly together in one large, solid, square. It was a good defensive position, certainly as far as the commander was concerned, as he was in the place of greatest safety at the centre of the square, but it had no attacking value at all. He turned to Hudda and grinned.

  “You know what that means don’t you?”

  “That Heardred is right up his arse, lord and he knows that he is trapped.”

  “We hit them as hard as we can and then give them a chance to yield. We don’t need to annihilate them. They are obviously not the best warriors the Jutes possess or they would be in the South with the others and we don’t have the time or need to take more casualties than is really necessary.”

  “Fast and hard then, lord?”

  “Fast and hard. Hit them as hard as you can and wedge us between two prows. Clear the first ships quickly and they will crumble. Let’s go!”

  Beowulf leapt from the steering platform and strode the length of the Griffon as he fastened the strap of his grim helm.

  “Let’s go, lads. Gunnar, Cola, Finn to me. The rest of you fall in behind them. We hit them hard and it will all be over before we know it. They are already hugging each other, terrified. Let’s show them that they were right to be afraid.”

  The men cheered and crowded along in his wake. Beowulf felt invincible. He was leading men to battle for the third time in as many months. How could a man wish to live his life in any other way?

  He was not quite seventeen winters old.

  2

  Beowulf watched as the Geat ships converged on the Griffon. They had been strung out over a mile or so of sea as they sought the enemy and now that they had been located they were straining to close up once again, concentrating their force.

  Standing in the bows he was struck again by the discipline shown by the other helmsmen. He knew that they would all like nothing more than to lead the fleet into battle but he had already given that honour to Botulf’s ship in recognition of their quick thinking whe
n they had initially sighted the Jute ships.

  Beowulf watched carefully for the time when he judged that the force would come together and estimated that they would do so about one hundred yards in front of the now completed Jute fighting platform. Cupping his hands to his mouth he called across to the figure braced against the stern post of the ship to his right.

  “Botulf, pull ahead two ship lengths and hit them hard. May Woden go with you!”

  Botulf inclined his head and made his way to the prow of his ship, the place of honour. He would be the very first Geat warrior to come into contact with the enemy and would have a tale with which to thrill his grandchildren if he survived the coming battle.

  One hundred yards.

  The ships were close together now, the sea around them a maelstrom of churning foam flecked water as the oars of the fleet bit the surface. Botulf’s elk ship now stood at the very tip of a Geat spear aimed directly at the heart of the enemy.

  Seventy-five yards.

  Beowulf watched in satisfaction as the Geat formation completed its manoeuvre and formed up in a line on either side of the Griffon. The timing was perfect. They would have just enough time to increase speed and hit the enemy with one, irresistible, hammer blow.

  Fifty yards.

  They were close enough now to be able to make out the faces of individuals on the Jute ships, the men who would soon fall to their arms or would be sending them to valhall that day. Ahead of the Griffon lay one of the larger dracca of the Jutish fleet. At its prow stood what was obviously one of their lords. The man shone as the sunlight danced and shimmered from his highly polished mail and helm. As they watched he produced a long handled axe, swinging it in a mesmerising series of wide, deadly, circles. They could hear the swoosh of the deadly blade even above the cheers of the warrior's companions.