Beowulf (17 page)

 

                                   Not the least of battles

 

was the meeting of hands where Hygelac died

 

king of the Geats who came to his death-fight

 

in the land of Frisians far from his home—

 

Hrethel's warrior-son won his death there

 

battered by swordswings. Beowulf escaped

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by the might of his hands hard grappling-strength—

 

he hauled to the shore helmets and corselets

 

of thirty warriors from the throng of battle

 

when he turned towards the sea. Seldom did warriors

 

of the Hetware race have reason to boast

 

of fierce spear-battle—few clung to life

 

to seek their homeland after hard swordbites.

 

Then Ecgtheow's son only survivor

 

sailed heart-heavy to the home of the Geats.

 

There Hygd offered him hoard and kingdom

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did not trust her boy to take the gift-throne

 

defend it strongly against slaughtering guests

 

harbor it from harm after Hygelac's death-day.

 

None the sooner for that could sorrowing Geatfolk

 

beg Beowulf to borrow their throne

 

take loan of the gift-hall from beloved Heardred

 

child-king of Hygelac chosen by his blood—

 

he hailed him as lord held him in friendship

 

counseled him kindly till he came to manhood

 

and the Geats' gift-throne.

 

                                   Grim fugitives

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sons of Ohthere sought his help there—

 

they fled from Onela uncle and throne-thief

 

greatest of sea-kings Swedes' warrior-lord

 

who seized the gift-hall from his good brother-sons.

 

Heardred paid there for hosting his friends—

 

Hygelac's child-king chose a life-wound

 

when throne-hungry Onela Ongentheow's son

 

followed his nephews felled young Eanmund

 

then fled to his homeland when Heardred lay dead—

 

left the gift-hall the Geats' kingdom

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in Beowulf's care. He was kind to his people.

 

He remembered that day dark murder-time

 

gave then to Eadgils good warrior-help

 

backed him in sorrow—with swordmen and horses

 

he sent that young one beyond the lake-waters,

 

Ohthere's son, who settled that feud

 

mindful of slaughter, stepped to the throne

 

of the Swedish kingdom.

 

                                   Then King Beowulf

 

Ecgtheow's son-child suffered and triumphed

 

burnishing his name with bright gift-years

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till that fearful twilight when the fire-dragon soared.

 

He marched then to battle one man among twelve

 

lord of the Geatfolk to look at that monster.

 

He had seen before then the source of that feud

 

cause of that torment—it came to his hand

 

precious treasure-cup through that poor fugitive

 

who had angered the dragon entered his gold-barrow—

 

that thief-slave was now the thirteenth among them

 

unwilling guide-servant guiltily led them

 

to the sleeping serpent. He stepped fearfully

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to the old earth-hall ancient stonebarrow

 

under the seacliff set into the rock

 

near the swirling waves. In its walls were gathered

 

gems and goldwork. The guard of that treasure

 

monstrous fire-warrior minded his booty

 

held it under earth—not easily bought

 

was that glittering gold not given away.

 

He sat by the cliffside keeper of the Geats

 

hailed his men then hearth-companions

 

wished them good luck. His wavering heart-thoughts

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wandered towards death—wyrd was close then

 

ready to receive that solemn warrior-king

 

seek out his soulhoard sunder it from breath

 

spirit from body-flesh—the center of his life

 

would soon be delivered from its locked flesh-home.

 

Beowulf spoke son of Ecgtheow:

 

“Fierce spear-charges I fought in my youth

 

moments of shieldclash—I remember it all.

 

In my seventh life-year I was sent from my father

 

given for training to that good folk-king

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Hrethel of the Geats who gave me father-love

 

measured my childhood mindful of our kinship.

 

No less was I loved in those long growth-days

 

than the sons of that king kind uncle-friends

 

Herebeald and Haethcyn and Hygelac my lord.

 

The oldest of his sons by sorrowful chance

 

slept in a murder-bed through a sibling's error

 

when Haethcyn was shamed shot from a horn-bow

 

wounded Herebeald with a wandering arrow

 

missed his target murdered his elder

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his blood-loyal brother with a baleful point.

 

No payment was made for that pitiful crime

 

but aching heartwounds were offered to Hrethel—

 

no vengeance followed the fall of that prince.

 

Same is the sorrow of a solemn hall-lord

 

sharp soul-torture when his son rides hanging

 

young upon the gallows. Then he gropes for mercy

 

sings a horror-song as his son dangles there

 

food for the raven—he can find no help

 

no mercy or revenge for his mourning heart.

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Each morning his mind measures that deathfall

 

his son's departure—no patience soothes him

 

to wait through the years for young followers

 

heirs to his treasure when his only prince

 

has spoken his last left him for darkness.

 

He stares in sorrow at his son's life-home

 

the wasted wine-hall by winds emptied

 

bereft of bench-joy—riders are sleeping now

 

silent in their graves—no sound of the harp

 

warms the meadhall where men once gathered.

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He stays in his bed sings his heartsongs

 

no longer does he roam—too roomy they seem

 

fields and homestead. So Hrethel in his way

 

grieved for Herebeald heavy with bloodgrief

 

wandering in pain—no way could he find

 

to bring his slayer to settle for that death

 

nor could he hate Haethcyn his blood-son

 

or love him still for that loathsome deed.

 

His grief was too great too grim for living—

 

he gave up his hall-joy for God's comfort.

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To his kin he gave as a king should do

 

his land and homestead when he left this earthyard.

 

Then trouble began between Geats and Battle-Swedes

 

across the lakelands as they clashed in shield-war

 

hard killing-times after Hrethel's deathday

 

when sons of Ongentheow sought out the Geats

 

with angry armies not eager for peace

 

held them to sword-play at Hreosnabeorh's mound

 

struck against their shields with sharp blade-edges.

 

Later in that kind my kinsmen answered them

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took then their blood-pay as the tale is known

 

though one paid there with his precious life-breath

 

a hard bargain—Haethcyn fell deathwards

 

king of the Geats killed in spear-battle.

 

On the morrow, I heard, a man took vengeance

 

with swift sword-anger slew that king-killer

 

when Eofor quenched there Ongentheow's life

 

mindful of hall-gifts remembered his lord

 

did not spare his swordswing split through the helmet—

 

the battle-bleak Swede bent down to death.

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I repaid lord Hygelac in proud battle-play

 

for the treasure he gave times of the gift-throne,

 

served him with my sword. He soon gave me land

 

homestead and meadhall. He had no reason

 

to search among Gifthas or good Spear-Danes

 

or the Swedish kingdom for servants to his throne

 

to lavish rewards on a lesser warrior—

 

always at swordtime I stood before them all

 

guided my spearmen in strong war-clashing

 

and still I am ready while this sword endures

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this treasured Naegling that I took from death

 

on that sorrowful day when I slew Daeghrefn

 

killed him with my hands Hugas' sword-champion—

 

no time did he have to take corpse-plunder

 

fetch breast-corselets to the Frisian leader

 

but gave up his life guardian of the banner