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  They ached with yearning for those early throne-years

  bountiful memories—many a wiseman

  had looked to that lord for long peace-days

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  feasts and friendship as his father’s king-love

  had brought to the Danes—deep treachery

  darkened their gift-hall as that dangerous man

  bent down to evil. Beowulf prevailed

  Hygelac’s war-thane held to his promise

  brought to all of them bright victory.

  They raced their mounts measured the pathway

  on the track to Heorot. The hastening of day

  shoved up the sky—soon came fugitives

  from safe night-lodgings to see that arm-trophy

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  high upon the hall. Their hopeful king

  keeper of the hoard came from the bride-bower

  marched with his house-guard to Heorot’s doorway

  and his queen with him, waiting for hope-news,

  measured the hall-yard maidens at her side.

  Hrothgar spoke then stood by the doorstep

  stared above him at the steep roof-gable

  garnished with gold and Grendel’s hand:

  “May thanks to the Wielder for this wondrous sight

  be long in our hearts. Loathsome misery

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  Grendel has brought me. God brings to us

  wonder after wonder Wielder of glory.

  Until this day I dared not imagine

  relief from sorrow shame and treachery

  sinful murdering when stained with gore

  this best of meadhalls mournfully stood

  empty and idle—agony and grief

  gripped our heart-thoughts with no hope for mercy

  a hand to defend us from that foul hell-monster

  sorcery and death. Through the Deemer’s will

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  a visiting Geat has vanquished forever

  this murdering demon that no Dane’s courage

  could banish or harm. That heartstrong woman

  mother of this man marked by the Wielder

  to bear such a son may say to the world

  that the old Measurer honored her womb-seed

  blessed her in childbirth. I choose you now

  beloved Beowulf best among warriors

  as the son of my hopes—hold this kinship

  near to your heart—you will never be poor

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  in goods of this world while I wield this goldhoard.

  I have often allowed to lesser warriors

  weaker in battle-strength bounteous rewards

  for smaller victories. You’ve assured it now

  through your great courage that glory will be yours

  forever and always. May the almighty King

  reward you for this with wisdom and strength.”

  Beowulf answered Ecgtheow’s son:

  “With war-willing hearts we waited for terror

  gambled our lives gave up to murder

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  a thane of Hygelac. I hoped as I struggled

  that you for yourself might see that monster

  in all his strangeness stripped of his life.

  I hoped to bind him hard in my grasp

  clamp his fiend-corpse to a cold slaughter-bed

  hold in my handgrip his hateful life-core

  bring you his death—but his body betrayed me.

  I could not hold him here by the gift-throne

  hard as I tried when the high Measurer

  planned differently—he pulled too strongly

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  fled with his life. But he left his hand

  to mark our struggle his mighty fiend-claws

  and death-wrenched arm. No ease from revenge

  did he buy with that bargain no booty from hell—

  not long will he live loveless murderer

  laboring in sin for sorrow has him

  clamped in a life-grip lashed to his crimes

  in baleful death-bonds—he will bide in misery

  stained with hall-blood stand for judgment

  bound to the will of the bright Measurer.”

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  Then Ecglaf’s son Unferth the heckler

  stood silent there stunned by that trophy

  hushed with horror humbled orator.

  They stared at that hand by the high roof-gable

  terror-warped fingers—the tips of the nails

  were hard as smith-steel sharp death-talons

  heathen’s handspurs a hellish warrior’s

  sword-tips of evil. They all agreed there

  that the best of blades battle-swords of old

  could not hew that arm from its huge shoulder

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  hack from its body that hell-fiend’s claw-hand.

  Soon it was time to restore the meadhall

  shape it for feasting—they flocked then to Heorot

  warriors and women worked through the day

  washed the gore-tracks. Golden tapestries

  were hung on the walls wondrous designs

  elvishly woven for the eyes of men.

  In that bright meadhall benches were shattered

  beams unanchored iron-hard hinges

  wrenched and twisted—the roof only

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  kept to its shape when that shambling killer

  fled to the moors marked with a death-wound

  lifeblood draining. Nor is death avoided

  not easily tricked try it as we may

  but each soul-bearer must seek in the end

  by fate impelled a final slumber-bed—

  each earth-dweller earns a resting-place

  where his body will lie bowered from sky-light

  sleeping after banquet. Soon it was ready—

  to the hall he went Healfdene’s son

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  ready for feasting firelight and peace.

  Never have I heard of happier warriors

  more highly behaved with their hoard-guardian.

  They bent to the benches by bright fire-flicker

  lifted their cups. Comrades together

  Hrothgar and Hrothulf hoisted their mead-drink

  uncle and nephew honored by them all

  no guile in their hearts. Heorot was filled then

  with family and friends—no feuding in the air

  darkened the Danes no deep treachery.

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  To Beowulf then bountiful Hrothgar

  gave a golden banner beacon of victory

  with bright battle-dress breast-coat and helmet.

  To the Geat came next a great treasure-sword

  borne to his hands. To Beowulf at last

  an ale-cup was served. No shameful gifts

  were laid before him for his friends to see—

  I have not yet heard of a handsomer reward

  four such treasures trimmed well with gold

  brought with such grace to a guest in Heorot.

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  On the helmet’s crown a hammer-hard ridge

  wound with steel-wire stood against blade-bites

  a fire-tempered tube to toughen the head-guard—

  no file-sharp edges would eat through that crown

  when shielded swordmen stepped into battle.

  Then the king of the Danes called for attention—

  eight fine horses entered the meadhall

  with gold-laced bridles. On the best was mounted

  a silver saddle studded with garnets

  the gleaming battle-seat of gladman Hrothgar

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  when that son of Healfdene sallied to warplay

  rode before his men to the rush of swordswings—

  he was always in front when they fell around him.

  To Beowulf then the Battle-Danes’ leader

  offered all of it urged him to take

  weapons and horses hold and use them.

 
With royal manners the mighty Dane-lord

  guardian of that hoard gave from his treasure

  horses and weapons worthy of his kingdom—

  no courteous man could quarrel with those gifts.

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  Each of the Geats every man of them

  who crossed with Beowulf the curling sea-road

  was worthied with gifts by the wise old king

  honored with heirlooms—then he offered wergild

  gold for that wretch ravaged by Grendel

  viciously murdered—as more would have been

  had not God in his wisdom and one man’s courage

  withstood wyrd there. The Wielder controlled

  all of mankind as he always does.

  Forethought is best future in the mind

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  plans for everything. All who are given

  loan-days in this world life before darkness

  will suffer and enjoy sorrow and happiness.

  AT THIS POINT Hrothgar’s minstrel celebrates Beowulf’s victory with a highly allusive episode recounting an earlier fight between Danes and Frisians which he calls the Freswael (“Frisian slaughter”). A fragment of a heroic poem about half the length of this episode, printed in 1705 from a manuscript leaf now lost, gives Finnsburuh as the site of the battle. Those two accounts are the only extant versions of an obviously well-known story that has engaged Beowulf scholars for more than a century. From a wilderness of versions, drawing upon both episode and fragment, I summarize as follows:

  A Danish king Hoc has two children, Hnaef and his sister, Hildeburh, who marries Finn Folcwalding, king of the Frisians. Hnaef and sixty retainers visit Hildeburh at Finnsburuh in Frisia. For some reason, the Frisians attack the Danes at dawn in the hall assigned to them and fight for five days with many Frisian casualties (including Hildeburh’s son) but no Danish dead until Hnaef is finally killed, leaving the Frisian forces badly depleted and unable to vanquish the beleaguered Danes.

  As winter approaches, a truce is made between Finn and Hengest (now in charge of the Danes), giving the Danes an honored place in Finn’s hall and equal status with the Frisians, Finn paying wergild for Hnaef and staging a formal cremation for dead warriors, including Hnaef and his nephew, Hildeburh’s son. Some Frisians apparently return to their homes, and Hengest spends an unhappy winter at Finnsburuh, his thoughts turning to vengeance with the coming of spring. Hunlafing (encouraged by Guthlaf and Oslaf) gives Hengest a sword to urge him on. The Danes attack and kill Finn, loot Finnsburuh, then carry Hildeburh back to Denmark.

  Then sweet strumming silenced the company

  harpstrings sounded for Healfdene’s son

  fingers drew notes found story-words

  hushed mead-benches when Hrothgar’s minstrel

  mourned a winter-tale matched it with song

  of the house of Finn that fatal night-visit

  when that doomed hall-guest Hnaef the visitor

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  fell to death-rest in Frisian slaughter.

  Nor was Hildeburh’s heart rewarded

  by that hostile truce—tormented queen

  bereft of loved ones by linden-shield play

  her brother and son slain in treachery

  by deep spear-bites—dark was her mourning.

  With heavy heart-thoughts Hoc’s daughter-child

  measured destiny when darkness paled

  when the graylight sky spread before her eyes

  black murder-bale. Battle-slaughter won

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  fetched from life-breath Finn’s warrior-thanes

  all but a few—ended at last

  when Hengest and his men held against them all—

  nothing could flush them fighting was stalled

  with ominous silence—at the end of slaughter

  was no victory. They vowed peace-terms—

  to Danes was offered their own winter-home

  hall-room and high-seat to hold peacefully

  with half of everything enemies together—

  before the gift-throne Folcwalda’s son

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  would honor the Danes each day and night-time

  welcome with rings warriors of Hengest

  give from his treasure gold arm-bracelets

  in full friendship with Frisians around them

  equal in boasting beer-cups and song.

  So they swore together solemn companions

  a firm peace-pact. Finn gave to Hengest

  in full hall-council hard oath-bindings

  with his elders’ advice: In honorable plenty

  he would hold them all—no envious hall-thane

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  with words or with deeds would damage that peace

  no Dane would lament with malice on his tongue

  that they now followed forced by that truce

  their lord’s life-taker through the long winter—

  if one Frisian with foul hate-words

  mindful of mischief should mention battle-thoughts

  a sharp swordedge would silence that tongue.

  Oaths were honored old gold-treasures