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  Hygelac made to protest but his friend put up a hand to stop him.

  “Do you remember that time when we dared each other to go into the bear cave and kick the sleeping bear in the arse?” he smiled.

  Hygelac laughed at the memory. They had been boys then, six or seven winters old and they had stumbled upon the cave of a hibernating bear on the hill known as the Troll's Hat. The ealdorman of nearby Edet had a fine hunting lodge there and the boys had been given free rein to explore the forests between hunts. He turned to Hromund with some of the old vigour of youth restored.

  “Listen. Now that we have supplies we can either break out in one single overwhelming body or we can slip men through under the cover of darkness and tell Heardred to return with the rest of the army. He could be back here inside a week. Then we can chase these bastards off like we have all summer, you have seen their mettle.”

  To his disappointment Hromund remained grim faced.

  “What will happen if we get through? Geats don't run back to their ships with their tails between their legs, lord. And what would happen if your son Heardred returned with the rest of the army? Even if we prevailed against such overwhelming odds, our nation would have lost the best part of it’s fighting men and the Swedes will be living in our halls and harvesting our crops within the month.” He smiled and shook his head at his friend the king. “Our wyrd is to die here. You leave your kingdom well provided with an heir and enriched beyond measure. Ealdorman Beowulf will marry the king of Swede Land's daughter and ensure our borders are respected.”

  Hromund tossed the gristly end of the pork to an expectant dog and wiped the grease from his hands on his tunic. Turning to face the king he smiled warmly and clasped him on the arm as he completed his appraisal.

  “Woden in his wisdom has given us the opportunity to make an end to our story which will ring down the ages, lord. For as long as men gather in smoky halls to entertain each other with tales of great men the name of Hygelac can stand alongside Sigurd and Arminius, Attila and Alexander. Our days will not end dribbling soup and spending more time pissing than sleeping every night as old age slowly eats at us.”

  Hromund pointed to a barrel of ale and indicated that one of the guards bring it across. As the man hastened over he completed his advice to his king.

  “Stop thinking like a king and revert to the warrior you always were Hygelac. You cannot change the end which the gods have in store for us and every man here knows it. You are no longer responsible for us, each man must die in the manner in which he deems fit and that includes you.” Hromund put his arm around the shoulders of his old friend. “Help me finish this barrel and take the rest up to the men, they deserve it. The next time we sup, we sup in valhall!”

  Hygelac reflected on his friend's words as he rode slowly back to the main shield wall. To his surprise once he had accepted the wisdom of Hromund's words his mood lightened considerably. In fact, he realised, he felt practically elated once the burden of responsibility had been lifted from him. The men in the ranks turned as word passed amongst them that their king had apparently rustled up a supply of food and ale for them and they turned and cheered him as he regained the top of the rise. Behind him the wagons rumbled away to each side and men passed the meat and drink through their ranks accompanied by a buzz of good natured anticipation.

  Hygelac acknowledged the happy, smiling faces of his hearth warriors as he regained his position and flicked a look along the line of warriors to each side. To a man they were laughing and joking as they tucked in to their unexpected last meal and he felt proud and humbled to end his days with such men.

  To his side Wulf belched as he lowered his horn of drink and indicated ahead.

  “Movement to the front, lord. It looks as though they might be coming out to play again.”

  Hygelac turned his gaze to the front and saw a group of riders emerge from the Francish positions. Small men with long dark moustaches were approaching the Geats on some of the smallest, most ridiculous looking horses that they had ever seen. Despite the warmth of the day each man seemed to be wearing a small round hat made of fur and they watched, incredulous, as the horses skipped along with short, lightning-fast, steps. Hygelac smiled delightedly and called across to Tofi.

  “Tofi, toss me my helm. It looks as though the fun is starting again.”

  8

  Beowulf crested the rise and reined in his mount as a cry penetrated the scanty tree cover. Raising his gaze he squinted into the deep cerulean sky searching for the eagle he knew would be there and was rewarded by the sight of the magnificent bird soaring high on outstretched wings.

  Ahead of him the track plunged downwards, back into the gloomy embrace of the wald and he sighed as he waited for the others to come up. Riding across the Saxon lands were akin to sailing a ship across the northern seas, he mused, one long green roller after another!

  They had left Honovere several days previously after bidding farewell to Gunnar and the rest of the crew as they had pulled away from the waterfront. Wave Dancer was heading back to the German sea where she would turn her prow northwards for home. Beowulf, Cola and Hrafn were travelling on alone to link up with the army at Dorestada once they had discharged their duty to Woden and escorted Unferth to the midsummer celebration at the Irminsul. To his disappointment Beowulf knew that his chance for any serious fighting was receding by the day but, in truth, he had enjoyed his visit to Saxland and he knew that there would be plenty of opportunities to quarrel with his king's enemies in the future. He was sure that Hygelac's raid would be the first of many.

  Gunnar had sailed the lakes and rivers of Swede land as a youth and he had never lost his love of life on the water. His abilities as ship master had first become apparent on the way to Uppsala to raid the Swedes. Later they had traversed the great northern seas in midwinter as they sought to bring chaos to King Hythcyn's Yuletide celebrations and Gunnar had become a vital addition to the crew of the Puffin, the knarr which they had chartered in Trondelag to carry them south. The wind and waves had been terrifying on the trip and Beowulf reasoned that any man who could handle a ship in mountainous seas and roaring gales with such aplomb, garnering the respect of the tough no-nonsense crew as he did so, would be the ideal choice for ship master when the time came and he owned his first dracca. To Beowulf's delight Gunnar had leapt at the chance and, although he would miss the man's intelligence and ability he knew that there were few men better qualified for the charge.

  It had been a strange feeling to stand on foreign soil and watch his much loved ship and crew receding a little more with each gentle stroke of the oars. The ridiculous idea had stolen into his mind that he would never see the ship or its crew again and a strange melancholy had overtaken him as the ship had doubled the bend to the North. The great sweep of Wave Dancer's stern post had been slowly swallowed by the alder trees which crowded the bank there and it had been with difficulty that he had shaken the mood as they had crossed the River Leina and joined the track which led west.

  Beowulf twisted in the saddle and smiled as his Saxon companion came up.

  “Fresh bread and sausage,” the man grinned, “not things which a Saxon can easily ride past, lord!”

  Waldhere was one of Ealdorling Aldwulf's thegns. Beowulf had resurfaced from the guest hall at Honovere as the sun approached its high point to find a party of warriors waiting patiently for them under the shade of a large tree. He had recognised their leader as one of Aldwulf's leading thegns from the symbel the previous evening and the man had smiled warmly and indicated a bevy of saddled and readied horses which had clearly been provided for their use. In no time he had rousted his companions and their journey to the Osning had commenced.

  Beowulf had quickly come to enjoy Waldhere's companionship. The man had an open, easy-going, manner and Beowulf recognised the judgement which the ealdorling had shown when he had appointed the man to guide them to Theotmalli. Waldhere indicated the road ahead as he offered Beowulf a hunk of bread and sausage.
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  “One more ridge today and we will reach the last hall of our journey. We will reach Theotmalli the following day and then it will just a matter of following the crowds to the midsummer celebrations.” Waldere paused and shot Beowulf a wicked grin. “Just one more rendition of the man against the monster tale and you will be free, lord.”

  Beowulf returned the smile and chuckled. It was true that he was growing weary of recounting the same tale night after night but the gasps of wonder which the head of the monster invariably drew from the watching warriors had never lost their appeal to him. The events at Heorot and Nykken Force had caused his reputation to soar to almost mythical heights in the halls of the northern lands and, he reasoned, the more men who actually saw the physical head of Grendel the more his tale would be believed. Woden had helped him to establish the reputation which he had craved since childhood and it would seem that the god now required a small measure of repayment. If he could use this trip to enhance his standing amongst the Saxons all the better but, he mused, he had actually become quite attached to the macabre trophy and he would be sorry to see the head of the fiend depart forever.

  “It's strange,” he replied, “but sometimes those events seem to be a dream, even to me. When Unferth turned up carrying Grendel's head it was almost like meeting an old friend again!”

  Waldere tore a length from the sausage with his teeth and shot Beowulf a cheeky grin.

  “Remind me not to upset any of your old friends then, lord!” he winked.

  They laughed together as the horses picked their way down through the sun dappled pathway which stretched out ahead of them. Soon, inevitably, the ancient oaks and elm closed in on the group once more as they dipped down and plunged back into the dense tree cover.

  The cool of the shade came as a welcome relief to the pale skinned northerners as Beowulf breathed in the sights and smells of the Saxon wald. The weather had rapidly grown warmer the further they had travelled from the coastal lands and the heat of the sun on their skin was becoming painful. Cola had slept on one side at a rest stop and promptly burned one side of his face so badly that he now resembled an enormous red and white dog, much to the other warriors amusement. Luckily the man had an enormous capacity for self depreciation and Beowulf could hear him happily discussing the relative merits of Frisian and Saxon pies further back along the column with one of Walhere's men despite the obvious pain it caused him to move his taut, shiny red skin.

  The pathway was just wide enough for one small wagon and several times they had had to squeeze past apologetic freeling as they descended into the next valley. The stillness of the ancient woodlands soon became as oppressive to the Geats as the heat of the day outside its leafy embrace. Wolves and bears were common here they knew and at one point they had surprised both themselves and a family of wild boar as they had stumbled unexpectedly upon a small glade. Perfectly hidden by their dappled coats the swine had suddenly emerged into the full glare of the sunlight as they had drawn abreast of the clearing. Beowulf had calmed his startled mount and prepared to bring his spear forward as the male boar had snorted and pawed the dusty forest floor in warning. Notoriously aggressive when surprised the boar could easily disembowel a horse or man with one swipe of its vicious tusks and they had remained motionless until the agitated boar had considered that its family was safely away and, with a final grunt, darted into the wald in their wake.

  As Mockery, the great iron-grey wolf, chased the sun down towards the western hills the track emerged from the tree line and made its way, arrow straight, across to the ferry. Ahead the sky was transforming itself into a sheet of burnished bronze as the rays of the setting sun painted it in a brawl of sandy reds and pale oranges.

  Beowulf shielded his eyes against the glare, squinting as he searched out the location of the hall which was their destination for that day. It was, he snorted, easy to find. The entire journey from Honovere to Theotmalli had passed in a succession of thickly wooded ridges and river filled valleys which ran up from the lands of the Francs in the South almost directly northwards to the Saxon interior. Wide roadways hugged the riverbanks and a steady procession of small trading craft plied these arteries of trade between the two German giants.

  Naturally such obvious routes into each other's heartlands offered equally tempting routes for the passage of armies and the Saxons had fortified any natural choke points on the routes with a series of stoutly constructed halls and burgs. They were ideal locations to collect duty from the travelling merchants and the thegns who presided over these valleys had become wealthy and powerful men.

  The hall crowned a natural hillock on the floodplain, reflecting a pale pinkish hue against the dark greens and darker shadows of the wald beyond as the late afternoon sun reflected from it’s, typically Saxon, lime washed walls. A massive stockade skirted and enclosed the hall and the surrounding compound, the stout oak timbers weathered a pale silvery-grey by the actions of sun and rain.

  A defensive ditch had been dug around the base of the mound and filled with water, no doubt tapped from the nearby river. High above it all, the golden dragon of Saxland twitched lazily in the soft summer breeze as a mass of rooks cawed noisily in the nearby treetops. It was an impressive hall.

  A heat haze shimmered above the surface of the water meadow as they completed the last few yards of that day's journey and clattered on to the ferry. Beowulf noted again the independence of spirit shown by the ordinary Saxon freeling. In Geatland the ferry would have been put aside for his party's use but here, although the Saxons were not disrespectful in any way, they expected to share the passage with the obviously wealthy and important group of warriors.

  It was a strange aspect of the Saxon people that each man seemed to believe that, although he was clearly not the equal in wealth or status of such men as himself and his companions, nevertheless they were no less worthy as those which would be considered at home to be their betters and it was a quality which, he had to admit, irked him.

  Beowulf dismounted and stood at the rail of the raft, watching as the waters of the river tumbled past and trout rose to take insects from the air. Hrafn came and stood at his shoulder and indicated towards the fortress with a flick of his head.

  “I wonder where they are off to, lord. They seem to be in a hurry.”

  Beowulf raised his eyes and looked across. Fully a score, heavily armed mounted warriors had emerged from the burg and were hastening down the doglegged path which led down from the great gated entrance. As they watched, the leading riders gained the water meadow and kicked in, surging forward onto the roadway which led south and sending a cloud of dust billowing in their wake. Beowulf glanced across to Waldhere who was standing near the front of the ferry with one of his men.

  “I hope that's not our welcoming party. They don't look to be in a friendly mood!”

  Waldhere handed the reins of his horse to his companion and walked slowly across, watching the mounted riders as they swept down on the roadway as he did so. He shook his head, obviously deep in thought.

  “I don't know for sure where they are going to but I have a good idea. They are heading south and there is only one danger in that direction and it is not our little party.”

  As if to confirm the Saxon thegn's conclusion the party of Saxons thundered past the western jetty which the ferry was now approaching, their long blue cloaks streaming in their wake, and hastened on to the South. Waldhere turned to Beowulf and his normally carefree mien had taken on a rather more serious aspect.

  “They look as though they are heading down to bolster the warriors at the border. If you asked me for my opinion I would have to say that it can only mean that the Francs are finally reacting to your raid, lord.”

  “You cannot leave Beowulf. The runes were very clear. You must accompany the head of Grendel to the Irminsul and remain there for the duration of the midsummer ceremonies.” They were sat in the hall of the Saxon thegn, Eadred, and Unferth was patiently explaining to Beowulf again that his duty lay in ful
filling the wishes of the Allfather and not with the army in far off Frisland. Beowulf's immediate reaction to Waldhere's statement on the ferry had been to hurry on to the West and warn the forces at Dorestada that the Francs were massing against them. The Danish warloca was however slowly beginning to convince him otherwise. Unferth continued as they sat at their ale.

  “You and I both know that Woden expects to be obeyed without question. Besides,” he added, “how would it appear to the Saxons if you felt that the Geatish army could not survive without yourself and your two men. There is no way that you could reach Dorestada before the Francs even if you set off at first light. King Hygelac will have scouts and raiding parties scouring the lands to the South. He is an experienced warrior and he will not allow himself to become trapped in the town even if the Francs move against him in overwhelming force. Remain calm and your confidence in your people's abilities to cope with this threat will impress the Saxons.”

  Beowulf nodded thoughtfully as he listened. He had to admit to himself that there was more than a pinch of wisdom in the Dane's advice. He reached across and scooped up another piece of pork from the platter which lay before them and smiled as his decision was made.

  “You are right. I have a duty to discharge for the Allfather before I worry about the Francs.” He turned to Unferth and smiled. “I wish that I was there though,” he managed to sigh through a mouthful of pork. “They will be having a great time.”

  9

  Ealhstan threw a grin to his king as he casually raised his shield and Hygelac smiled warmly. He had known the man for nigh on twenty winters, ever since he had arrived at his hall as a scrawny boy. Hygelac had promised his father that he would make a warrior of the boy as he lay dying from a Swedish spear thrust to the belly and he had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. A diet rich in meat and an outdoor life had worked wonders on the lad and Hygelac had looked on proudly the night he had danced with the wolf warrior and became a man. Tough and ever cheerful he had grown into a popular member of the king's war band. It would take more than a group of strange looking little men on children's ponies to faze the warrior he had become, Hygelac snorted happily.