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  “Welcome to Saxland, lord. My name is Sæfugol. May I ask the reason for your journey to our land?”

  Beowulf smiled and announced himself as the Saxon warriors glared at their opposite numbers.

  “Sea bird, your reputation is known to me. My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson. I have been tasked by my king and kinsman, Hygelac of Geatland, with the honour of delivering fine gifts to his brother, King Gewis of the Saxons. I ask that you provide hospitality to myself and my men and provide an escort to your king that we may fulfil our duty to our lord.”

  Sæfugol smiled happily and inclined his head in respect. Beowulf noticed several of his men shoot an amused glance at one another as he had made his request. He had clearly made a fundamental error in his address but, to his credit, Sæfugol had let it pass. He would have to discover what it was at the earliest opportunity, before he made the same mistake before one less forgiving.

  “Beowulf Ecgtheowson, your reputation goes before you, you are welcome in Saxland. All men who seek knowledge have heard the tale of your fight with the fell-monster in Dane land. It would be my honour to provide hospitality for yourself and your crew. Follow us to a berth and I will personally lead you to our hall.”

  Beowulf smiled contentedly as he gazed out across the estuary of the River Wisera. The halls of the Saxons were elevated above the level of the lowlands and commanded far reaching views in all directions. The settlement to which Sæfugol had led the weary Geats consisted of a dozen timber framed halls, each one of which faced inward to a central open area, much like the ones at home save for one point. The majority of these long houses had been constructed to shelter both the people of the settlement and their animals. Apart from the lord's hall which was skirted by a ditch and palisade against raiders, the remainder of the halls had been divided into two. A smaller end housed the owners and their families whilst the longer part of the building was divided into stalls for cattle.

  Earlier in the evening Beowulf had entertained the Saxon warriors with the tale of his defeat of the monster Grendel and his fen-hag mother. The story was always a great success and the Saxons had listened in awe as he told of the great wrestling match which had taken place between them, both in the hall of the Danish king at Heorot and beneath the fetid mere of Nykken Force. Unferth had produced the head of the fiend at the appropriate time, drawing satisfying gasps from the tough warriors in the hall. Later Beowulf had left the hall and wandered alone around the perimeter of the settlement. It was, he decided, similar in a way to the raised area which contained the Frisian town of Domburg where he had had Wave Dancer constructed. Perhaps he mused, all settlements on this coast were built in this way.

  Ahead the coastline arced away behind its girdle of low sandy islands to distant Frisland and Beowulf could not but help ponder on the fate of the great ship army he had so recently left. They would have completed their dogleg out to sea by now and would be heading back towards the coast. The Frisian coastguards would gasp in horror as the Geat force would slowly materialise under a great cloud of sail from the early morning sea mist. Riders would hurry inland to alert the defenders but it would be of little use. The scip here, the ship army, would be ashore long before any opposing force could assemble, after which the warriors who would remain on board the ships would sail on and enter the great expanse of the Aelmere, bringing fire and sword to the Frisian rear. It was a well thought out plan and he congratulated himself on it. It was, after all, his own.

  Below him the low lying coastal lands shimmered as if cloaked under winter ice as the moon, full and bright, painted them with its soft silver sheen. To Beowulf's surprise the lights of men flickered into life like so many stars in the evening sky on the coastline below him and he strolled across to the young warrior keeping a lonely vigil at the head of the path which led down to the strand. The boy glanced across and nodded nervously at the famous Geat lord as he approached and Beowulf smiled as he cast a practised eye over the guard's weapons and mail. The boy was, he estimated, about fifteen winters old and obviously clad in a mail byrnie and helm which had been made for another. The mail hung in a great skirt which approached his knees and the helm made his head appear ludicrously small where it was visible at all. The lack of a sword at his waist and the fact that he was carrying an angon, a light throwing spear, instead of the more practical and sturdier stabbing spear, the framea, completed the comical image. Obviously, he smiled to himself, the more experienced warriors had clambered to attend tonight's storytelling leaving the boy to guard the shore alone. He recognised the look of apprehension in the young man's features and imagined the thoughts which where whirling around the boy's head at the moment.

  That is Beowulf, the killer of Grendel. He is a man of reputation and renown, betrothed to the daughter of the king of Swedes and ealdorman of the Waegmundings. Allfather, please don't let him come across to speak to me!

  Beowulf chuckled to himself as he decided to test the boy's resolve. Flicking open the silk 'peace bands' which secured his sword in its scabbard he advanced on the young Saxon. The boy snapped a look down at the hilt of Beowulf's sword and hesitated for a heartbeat.

  What will you do young man?

  Suddenly the guard made his decision and whirled round to face the threat. As his left foot shot forward to brace his body the angon dropped until it was pointing directly at Beowulf's chest. The wide eyed boy cleared his throat and blurted out the challenge.

  Friend or fiend!

  Beowulf looked casually down at the point of the angon and glowered at the pale, drawn, face peering up at him from behind his ridiculous helm. “Do you not know who I am Boy?” he snarled, and waited to see how the guard would respond. He was pleased to see the Saxon breathe deeply and compose himself before he replied.

  “Yes, lord, but I need you to confirm your identity to me before I let you pass.”

  Beowulf leaned forward until the point of the angon pricked his chest but the guard still held his weapon firmly and refused to retreat. He was impressed, this boy may look young but his balls had definitely dropped! He made one last try to bully the boy into neglecting his duty.

  “What will Sæfugol say when I tell him that one of his men threatened his guest at spear point?”

  To Beowulf's delight the boy's resolve remained firm and he kept the angon firmly fixed on him.

  “He will say well done, lord. Saxons fear no one.”

  Beowulf laughed and nodded.

  “I can see that. You stood your ground well and I will tell him so. You can relax now, I assure you that I am a friend of the Saxons.”

  Beowulf indicated the lights on the foreshore. They were clearly causing the guards no concern and he wondered at their purpose.

  “They are the local women, lord. They go to the foreshore to collect shellfish when the tides are low.”

  Beowulf nodded as he understood.

  “Just the women?”

  “The men are all out fishing, lord,” the boy replied. “Since the gods sent the sea to eat at our lands there is very little which is suitable for farming. There are some sheep but very few cattle. Grain and vegetables are traded for dried and salted fish inland, at the markets in Biranum.”

  Beowulf was surprised. He had seen the large number of stalls in the long houses, perhaps they were intended for horses. The boy shook his head sadly.

  “No, they were byres for cattle, lord. When the halls were built they overlooked rich farming land but the sea has slowly swallowed it until it is little more than the salt marsh which you see before you. This whole area was populated by one of the most powerful and numerous people during the time when the lands ruled from Rome lay just to the south. We were called the Chaucan and we built these mounds, wierde we call them in our tongue, to keep the settlements safe from storm surges and floods. We were great raiders and warriors but during the time of our great grandfathers we began to move west, across the sea to Britannia. Now only a few of the lowest sort remain in these parts and we are all Saxons.”


  Beowulf threw the boy a look of surprise.

  “Men made all of these hills!”

  The Saxon nodded as he looked out across the drowned lands below them.

  “Hundreds of years ago, lord. As the sea rose a little higher so the wierde were added to until they reached the level that you see today.”

  Beowulf looked back across the flooded land as the rasping bark of a vixen carried across the haunting wastes. The sea had ravaged it as brutally as any invading army and for all their ferocity and strength the Chaucan had been powerless against this unrelenting foe.

  “You kept saying, 'we'.”

  The boy turned questioningly to Beowulf.

  “Lord?”

  “When you were describing the Chaucan you always referred to them as we. Are they your people?”

  The guard nodded sadly and stared wistfully across the landscape.

  “They were, lord. As I said they are all in Britannia now, my family are one of the few who remain.” He indicated the lights on the foreshore. “My mother and sisters will be down there now, lord, with the other women and my father is away fighting in the South. He tries to return every autumn with silver and soon we will join him in Britannia,” he said proudly.

  Beowulf smiled and turned to go before he hesitated and turned back.

  “What is your name?”

  “Seaxwine, lord.”

  “Come and see me before we leave in the morning Seaxwine. I will see if we can at least find you a framea before you really do meet a fiend!”

  5

  They left the place the Saxons knew as Feddersen early the following day. The milky haar, the sea mist which Beowulf had witnessed creeping in on the land the previous evening, had grown thicker during the night and they moved upstream through a landscape washed free of colour.

  Sæfugol had bid them farewell from horseback as Wave Dancer pulled clear of the jetty and moved into the deeper channel. Glancing back they had watched as the Saxon reeve and his men turned and disappeared back into the mists of their strange land. Beowulf had smiled as one of the smaller riders had proudly raised his new framea in parting before he hurried along in their wake. It had been such a small thing to him but he knew that the gift of the weapon would have raised the standing of the young Saxon amongst his peers and he was glad of it.

  As Gunnar went forward and fixed a brand to the stem post to warn other ships of their presence Beowulf reflected on the place they were entering. He had listened incredulously as Sæfugol had explained the organization of the Saxon lands to him over their ale the night before. The reason for the Saxon warriors amusement when they had arrived had been the use of the title king for the local ruler, Gewis. To Beowulf's astonishment it had been made obvious that the Saxons had no king, the lands being a collection of equal tribes who recognised no overlord. Beowulf had listened attentively as he mentally parcelled up the store of gifts he had been supplied with by the king to lavish on his, assumed, opposite number, as his host chirped happily away.

  “We are a loose collection of different tribes, Beowulf. To others we are all Saxons but to ourselves we are still members of the older tribes. I am Chaucan but others here are Chamavian, Reudignian even a few Langbards who remained here in the North whilst the rest of their people migrated south. All the tribes are ruled by their own ealdorling, the equivalent to the rank of ealdorman like yourself. Below them come the farmers and warriors of the freeling, your ceorls, and then the lazzi who you call thralls. Each spring representatives of each tribe gather at a place further upriver called Marklo and travel on to the heiligen loh, the holy wood. There, before the great tree of Saxnot, the god of the Saxons, laws are passed and war leaders appointed for the coming year. Saxons jealously guard their freedoms and are wary of those who wish to rule others. As you can see,” he had smiled proudly, “we have no need or desire for kings.”

  Slowly, imperceptibly, the mist began to retreat as the long, low form of the dracca swept upriver and further away from the coast. By mid morning the reed lined banks of the Wisera had appeared, ghostlike, from the gloom as the haar gave way to a light but persistent drizzle. Beowulf finally abandoned the steering duties to Gunnar and huddled beneath the awning which they had erected amidships in a vain effort to escape the unrelenting damp.

  Thankfully the rain had eased off by late morning as a thin, hazy sunshine struggled to impose itself on the world of men. Around the middle of the day a small tree studded island appeared ahead and Beowulf ordered Gunnar to run the ship aground there. Soon the crew had set-to, preparing a hot meal to warm their chilled bodies. As the men sat at their meal they wondered at the steady procession of ships and boats of all shapes and sizes which plied the Wisera. Numerous small craft travelled inland to the markets of the town known as Biranum and they had cast knowing glances to one another as the smell wafting across to the Geats marked them out as fishermen on their way to the markets in the town.

  As they prepared to leave and journey on a dozen powerful dracca, the golden dragon of Saxland snapping proudly above them, had pulled past them on their way to the sea. The stern faced warriors had stared to a man at the great golden man and boar flag, Beowulf's personal herebeacn, which flew at the masthead of Wave Dancer but no challenge had been forthcoming. Obviously, Beowulf mused, they had complete confidence in the ability of Sæfugol and his men to guard the river mouth.

  Soon after they had resumed their journey the town of Biranum hove into view. The town was the focus of all shipbuilding activity in Saxland and even from a distance they could see that the waterfront swarmed with activity. On the western side of the town a series of jetties jutted out into the Wisera like so many misshapen teeth whilst further upriver fingers of smoke pointed lazily skyward from the shipyards and smithies which built and repaired the great Saxon fleets. Huddled as it was beneath the scud of smoke which drifted across it, the town was unlike any other the men from the North had seen. It was, as Cola remarked, ‘buzzing and heaving like an overturned beehive,’ and Beowulf had to agree with the big Engle. The town seemed to him to encapsulate all the power and vigour of the Saxons within its boundaries.

  Coming abreast of the town Beowulf heaved on the big steer board and brought the Wave Dancer about. Gunnar rushed to take his place at the stem, ready to guide his lord into an area of the strand which seemed to be kept clear of normal shipping. There was obviously a reason for this, Beowulf knew, but he reasoned that he was on important business and, after all, the Wave Dancer could never be classed as normal shipping!

  As the ship neared the berth Beowulf was unsurprised to see a group of heavily armed warriors racing along the strand to intercept them. Led by a man who would seem to be the reeve of the town from the quality of his clothing and obvious air of authority, Beowulf and his men watched as the Saxons turned onto the jetty ahead of them and drew to a halt. Beowulf glanced across to Gunnar and indicated that he take the helm.

  “Gunnar, take us in will you. Let's see what is getting these Saxons so worked up.”

  Walking to the side of the ship Beowulf cupped his hand to his mouth and called across the rapidly shrinking gap.

  “My name is Beowulf Ecgtheowson, Ealdorman of the Waegmundings. I request a berth in your town and a meeting with Ealdorling Gewis.”

  To his satisfaction Beowulf noticed that the Saxon warriors exchanged sideways looks with one another as he had announced himself. They clearly knew of him and his reputation. It should help in the upcoming negotiations. He was, however, to be disappointed. If the Saxon reeve was impressed he hid his personal feelings very well. With a wave of his arm he called across to them.

  “I am sorry, lord. I must ask you to clear away from the jetty. Biranum is a closed town by order of the ealdorling and these berths are reserved.”

  Not easily dissuaded, Beowulf called back.

  “I have an important matter to discuss with the ealdorling. Can you direct me to a berth where I can tie up?”

  The reeve shook his head a
nd repeated his request.

  “I apologise lord, but I must insist that you leave Biranum. The town is closed to all movement, in or out.”

  Beowulf turned to Gunnar and nodded pensively. He understood and with a flick of his wrist expertly guided the tall prow of the ship aside. Beowulf cast a look back at the Saxon group and was surprised to see that the reeve had left the protection of his accompanying warriors and was hastening to the end of the jetty. Now that the Wave Dancer was headed away from the town this would bring him very close to Beowulf's position at the stern. Gunnar had also noticed the actions of the reeve and used the big oak blade to take the way of the ship. Beowulf walked across to the stern and smiled in welcome as the man approached. To his relief the smile was returned.

  At last, I might find out what is going on!

  The Saxon approached the end of the jetty and bowed his head slightly in supplication.

  “My name is Wilfrid, lord. I am the reeve for the town of Biranum. I can guess at the reason for your desire to meet with the ealdorling but I am afraid that he left the town yesterday in response to the news of the Geat ship army which was reported to be off our coast.”

  Wilfrid flicked a look along the length of the Wave Dancer and Beowulf smiled to himself as he recognised the reeve mentally tallying up the numbers of his crew and their quality. He also noticed that the reeve's gaze had hovered over the awning fastened amidships which covered the gifts which they had brought on their errand.