Chapter 2: Who is Beowulf?
Jamie looked at his watch and realised that he had only fifteen minutes to get home. He glanced at his companion; the old man's one eye was darting here and there, watching people, watching the cars, and watching everything else that was going on. 'Can we go any faster?' he asked. 'I have to be home and start my homework,' Jamie flashed the brown paper bag with the photocopying in it in front of the old man's face.
'Homework?' started the old man, annoyed at being interrupted in his observing all and sundry. 'In that bag?'
'Yes. They are photocopies of some pictures I found in a book from the library,' Jamie fished a musty smelling A5 sized book out of the inside pocket of his shell jacket. It was entitled: 'Saxon, Viking and Norman'.
'I had hoped you had some food in there,' the old man stared at a noisy car as it accelerated up the hill, the boom-boom box of the car stereo causing the vehicle's panels to flex. 'A drink would have been better though.'
'No food, no drink, just pictures,' Jamie informed him. 'Anyway, when you got the food at Burger King, why didn't you get a drink as well?'
'That cold fizzy stuff?' the old man's eye brows arched and his empty left eye socket gaped black. 'Unfit for human consumption! Besides, magicing the food was one thing, trying to get drinks from those fiddley dispensing machines without being seen, well…' the old man's eyebrows returned to their normal place and the twinkle returned to his sharp green eye.
'So you did steal the food!'
'Rubbish, it was magic,' the old man insisted. 'Now,' he said, changing the subject. 'What is this homework you say you have to do?'
'Well, it is a very, very old poem that we have to write about for our English literature.'
'Old? How old?' The old man pulled his bag around to his front and started rummaging inside it. 'Apple?' he asked Jamie, offering the boy a fruit that had more brown bruises on it than red skin. Jamie shook his head, so the old man tossed it over his shoulder and the apple bounced off the roof of a passing car before being run over by the car following it. 'Come on lad, how old?'
Jamie screwed up his eyes trying to remember what his English teacher, Mr. Watson had told them, 'Oh, very old. It is called Beowulf and it was written in a language so old no one speaks it now.'
The old man stopped, closed his one eye and swayed on the balls of his feet. 'Beowulf, that brings back memories. The language? Why it is English! "Hwæt! We Gardena in geardagum þeodcyninga þrym gefrunon hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon."' The old man looked at Jamie to ensure that he had understood. Jamie stared at him with his jaw on his chest. 'Really! And you say that you are getting an education? In the modern tongue it means: "Hark! We have heard of the glory of the kings of the Spear-Danes in olden times, how those nobles framed deeds of glory." When I go to Cambridge or Oxford I hear the older speech quite often, badly pronounced it is true, but then English was always subject to varying dialects.'
'But, but,' stammered Jamie, 'they are university towns!'
'And you don't expect to go to university, not even to learn your own language? You disappoint me.' The old man sniffed his disapproval and started to stride up the hill again.
Jamie ran to catch him up. 'But it is a very old poem and Mr Watson, our English literature teacher, says that it contains many old myths.'
'Myths?' shouted the old man, making a passer-by jump. 'Literature?' he shouted even louder; the passer-by quickly crossed the road and only just avoided being hit by a cyclist riding down the hill with his feet on the cross bar of his bike. 'It is HISTORY, I tell you, history! As for being old, why it seems like only yesterday.'
'Yesterday?' asked Jamie. 'You make it sound as if you were there.'
The old man gave him a shocked look. 'But I was. I admit I was the young man then, but I was there. Why are you laughing?'
Jamie took his hand away from his mouth as he tried to stop chortling, but the look on the old man's face only started him off again. Finally he managed to get him self under control, 'Yeah right,' he sniggered. The old man strode off in disgust, his long staff shaking with his anger as he thrust it forward and then flicked it back in time with his stride. Jamie ran after him, 'Look, I'm sorry, but you can't mean it. Mr Watson….'
'Your so called teacher?' asked the old man; his eye still set firmly on the horizon. 'The one who thinks that history is myth?'
'Alright,' Jamie conceded, 'so it is history and,' he glanced at the old man, 'and maybe you were there.' The old man shortened his stride to match the boy's and a wry smile formed on his thin lips. 'But,' Jamie added, and the old man lifted a quizzical eyebrow, 'but, some of it is a bit exaggerated isn't it?' The old man gave an acquiescent nod of his head.
'It is called "poetic licence", that's what it is called. I mean, most of the time the full truth is very boring and no one would want to listen to it. To get folk to listen, you have to make it sound exciting, even fun. Then they all expect a bit of local colour and possibly a bit about their own history, add in a few stock characters, and off you go. A good tale teller,' the old man lent his head towards Jamie so that he could whisper in his ear; Jamie felt the old man's dirty white felt hat ruffle his hair. 'And I am a good tale teller,' the old man assured him before resuming his full height. 'A good tale teller varies the tale to match his audience.'
'But, but…' Jamie stuttered.
'Yes?' asked the old man, adjusting the white blanket that hung over his shoulder so that the thing now fell evenly over his back, rather than over one shoulder, as it had when he had been rummaging in his bag.
'But isn't history supposed to be true facts?' Jamie's puzzlement creased his face like a crumpled newspaper.
'Who ever gave you that idea?' the old man stopped at the curb and gazed across the road at the War Memorial that marked the beginning of the Common. 'History is what people in power want you to think happened, especially if they can gain some fame and glory from it. Truth? Huh!' The old man glanced either way along the road, grabbed Jamie's elbow and guided him across, threatening an oncoming car with his staff in the process. 'Ah "The Causeway", there is a rather nice pub down here where we can get something to drink. I will need that if I am to tell you about Beowulf and what really happened.'
'But you said that you lied when you told a story,' Jamie glanced at his watch and saw that he still had fifteen minutes to get home.
'Lie? Lie?' the old man lent down and grabbed Jamie's jacket and lifted the boy up onto his tiptoes. 'It is called "poetic licence"!' He dropped Jamie and peered ahead, 'Ah, "The Fox and Grapes", just up there. A wonderful place that is full of people from the underside of the world; they always make me feel welcome. I trust you do know that the world is like a ball and has an underside. At one time they tried to say it was flat! Ha, they obviously were never sailors!'
Jamie decided to ignore the pulling around the old man had given him and tagged along just behind him. 'They give you a welcome at this pub?' he asked.
'Well they don't throw me out using the same level of violence as they do at some of the places,' the old man threw over his shoulder. 'Now hurry and catch up little lordling. That's better, it is very hard to see you when you walk on my left side, come round the other side where my eye is. Good, good. Now; the "poetic licence", give me an example.'
'Ok: Beowulf swimming in his chain mail and gold chain mail at that. Mr. Watson says.…'
'What does Mr. Watson know eh? Was he there?' the old man interrupted. 'No he was not, but I was, and he did swim and it was in his byrnie, that's a chain mail coat to you.'
'Why didn't he sink?' Jamie hurried to keep up with the old man whose pace increased the nearer he got to the Fox and Grapes.
'Ah, well, it was a ring mail coat actually, not chain mail; that is, it was a leather coat that had lots of steel rings sewn onto it.' The old man stopped outside the pub and inhaled the aroma issuing from the open door.
'Steel not gold?' asked Jamie.
'Steel, though once it started rusting it look
ed like gold, well sort of golden, red gold that is, besides,' the old man took off his hat and made it vanish under his cloak, 'a golden byrnie sounds better than a rusty ring mail coat doesn't it? They all rusted a bit when they were at sea; very hard to keep the salt water off you see?'
'So why was he swimming in it. Surely he knew it wasn't being very clever to swim in the mail coat?'
'Well,' the old man propped his staff against the wall by the door and gazed inside. 'Well, he didn't intend to; I pushed him in.' A barman came into sight, collecting empty glasses. Rather than be seen, the old man pulled his head back. 'Him and that young fool of a friend of his, Breca Beanstanson, were boasting and pushing each other about, like all spotty teenagers do. By the way, æþeling of mine, how old are you?' The barman had moved on and the old man resumed his observation of the bar.
'Fourteen, why?'
'Ah, a man then.' Something or someone inside the pub caught the old man's eye and he tapped the fingers of his right hand on his lips while he pondered what he had seen.
'I am a boy, or a youth, but not a man. I am a man when I am twenty-one, though you get to vote and can marry when you are eighteen. Not that I will get married as I am very small and skinny and the girls don't go for that.' Jamie moved forward to try and see what the old man was looking at, but got pushed back out of the way for his troubles.
'In Beowulf's day you were a man at fourteen, likely dead by eighteen if you were a freeman of any sorts and had to fight. You would probably have been dead from over work by twenty one if you were unfree or a slave; a male one that is, a pretty woman slave, well that was another matter, till she started to get fat and lose her teeth of course.' The old man went back to tapping his lips with his fingers. 'So, as I was saying before you distracted me: Beowulf and Breca were being silly, so I gave them both a push. The sea was rough so it took the crew of the ship an hour to drag them back on board.' The old man fell silent and rubbed his hands together.
'The poem says they swam for a week and that it was a race,' Jamie insisted, still trying to peer inside and see what the old man was watching.
'Yes, well the poet wasn't there, but I was. There was a race, but it was a race to get them out before the fools drowned,' the old man broke off suddenly and turned to Jamie. 'The soaking quietened them down for a while, now don't make me do anything drastic in order to keep you quiet while I go and get our tribute.' With that, the old man slipped inside the dark interior of the Fox and Grapes. Jamie went over to the seat on the Common opposite and sat down to wait. He checked his watch and found that he had fifteen minutes before he was due home.
The old man came out with a smile on his face and two glasses in his hands, 'A sparkling water for you,' he gave Jamie a partially full glass of lemonade. 'A fine ale for me, though,' he took a sip of the half full glass, 'on second thoughts there is a bitterness there that suggests hops, a fruity after taste on the back of the palate, so I will change that from ale to beer.'
Jamie held his glass up and examined it. 'It is a quarter empty.'
'Or three quarters full,' rejoined the old man. 'It is all a matter of perspective.'
'I suppose someone else has drunk the other quarter,' Jamie looked around the rim for telltale lip marks.
The old man sighed, 'In the old days, lordling, you would have been only too pleased to have your drink sampled by a retainer to ensure that it was neither off or, even worse, poisoned.' He dug into his bag and produced a packet of pork scratchings that was almost full. 'Yes? Don't look at me like that; a minion has merely tested them for quality! Eat and enjoy.'
'Beowulf, the "true' story."' Jamie risked a sip of the lemonade and found it to be fine.
The old man emptied his glass in one long gulp, pulled his hat out, put it on, and then strode across to retrieve his staff from its resting-place against the white painted wall of the Fox and Grapes. He came and stood in front of Jamie, struck the staff hard on the ground before holding it aloft. 'Hwæt! Harken; listen; learn.'
Jamie cracked up laughing. 'You look so funny!' he exclaimed.
'Funny? Why? Surely you know that this is how all tales begin?' The old man lowered the staff and leant on it. 'Well, if you didn't clever clogs, you do now!' and with that he resumed his stance and continued. 'Hwæt! Harken; listen; learn. For I bring to you the tale of that great hero, the mighty: Beowulf the Geat!'
'Geat?' queried Jamie.
'Geat, or some say Goth, they were from part of what is now southern Sweden but earlier was the home of the Danes, before they pushed the Geats out.' The old man leant on the staff again, entwining his left leg around it. 'Don't you want the full performance? I suppose you would prefer that I told the tale sitting down?' Jamie nodded his agreement. 'Shame really as I do a very spectacular act with this tale, though I do really need a sword to supplement the staff to get the full effect.' With that the old man joined Jamie on the bench and helped himself to some pork scratchings. He savoured the taste before fishing inside his mouth to remove a hard piece.
'Beowulf's story please,' Jamie prodded.
'Ah, yes, Beowulf.' The old man took another morsel and ate it before continuing. 'He was an arrogant braggart, boastful and violent, very willing to shed blood, as long as it wasn't his own, and unwilling to back down or lose face no matter what.'
'Those are not very nice attributes,' commented Jamie, tipping the crumbs out of the scratchings packet into his hand before tossing them into his mouth.
'But essential in a hero,' the old man assured him as he pulled the now empty packet over to see if the boy had in fact left anything behind. Finding it empty the old man grunted in disgust and rummaged in his bag before pulling out a pickled onion covered in fluff. 'You see, a hero needs to boast and brag in order that others fear him, and if they don't he needs to shed their blood in the most violent way he knows how so that everyone else fears him. He can't afford to back down or lose face for the same reason. A man's lord will reward him for being a hero, but in return he has to be prepared to fight, and die, for his lord. If the lord dies in battle, the hero is expected to die with him. Now,' the old man picked the fluff off the onion and then examined the wilted onion before popping it whole into his mouth. 'Hmmm, hmmmm,' he swallowed and waved his hand in front of his mouth. 'Strong, really strong,' he assured Jamie. 'As I was saying: in order to avoid dying, for what is the point of gaining your lord's favour and gifts if you aren't around to enjoy them? In order to avoid dying then you need to make other heroes fear you and want to avoid fighting you. Ordinary men will always fear you if you dress appropriately and swagger in a threatening manner, remember that. Many a man thought to be a hero never had to prove himself because he swaggered well and boasted loudly.'
'Ok, I'll remember that,' Jamie assured the old man, putting the idea at the back of his mind that he might try it out at school, albeit on the boys in the year below himself. 'So, Beowulf was a hero, even though he just sounds more like a bully. He went to Denmark to fight a monster right? Is that what heroes did? You know, in those days. I mean did the heroes travel around looking for monsters to fight?' Jamie drank some more of the lemonade.
'What and risk dying? No, no, he went to Denmark to repay a debt that his father owed Hrothgar, the King of the Danes. You see Beowulf's daddy had been engaged in a blood feud with Heatholaf and his family. They were Wulfings. Later the Wulfings were to be the Kings of East Anglia. A stuck up bunch that deserved all the misfortune they got. At least they recognised me as their founding father, unlike the East Saxons who said they were descended from Seaxnot. Who in Hel did they think he was descended from if not me! So, the Wulfings did have one good point, but that was about all they had in their favour, as they were a vicious untrustworthy stuck up bunch. I managed to cause them some grief later. I managed to get ….'
'Beowulf's story please,' pleaded Jamie.
'Right,' said the old man, calming himself down and then throwing his blanket cloak back over his shoulders. 'Beowulf, it is. At least his lot a
cknowledged me!' he took off his hat and ran his fingers through his long lank locks. 'Well old Hrothgar, the Spear Danes king had bought the Wulfings off with some of his treasure so, when he needed help with the monster Grendel, he called the favour in and daddy sent his son Beowulf over. That taught the young fool a thing or two. I mean, he may have been in a couple of decent scraps and one really solid fight, but he shook in his boots when he found he was going to have to fight a monster!'
'He shook in his boots?' Jamie finished off his drink.
'Yes, but when someone noticed it and called out to him, Beowulf pretended it was a war dance and thus avoided being shamed. As you said, "a bully", a fool too, but not an idiot our Beowulf. Oh no, he was one of my descendants and had plenty of cunning.'
'Tell me about the monster Grendel,' asked Jamie, putting his feet under the seat and scuffing them in the damp dirt. 'Was he really a monster, or was that another bit of "poetic Licence"?'
'Well,' replied the old man rubbing the blank socket of his left eye. 'It depends on what you call a monster. He was large, he was smelly, he was hairy all over, he had a skin that was a mixture of sallow and swarthy, he mumbled in a language that you could neither understand nor even try to imitate. Does that make him a monster? Personally I thought he was Welsh, but I never heard him sing, so I was probably wrong.'
Jamie looked shocked and his bottom jaw dropped. 'Welsh? That's racist!'
'Well I said I was probably wrong,' the old man dissembled. 'Besides, what is wrong with being a creature that stole warriors from a king's hall took them home, killed them and ate them? Hmm? Quite an admirable trait in many ways I would have thought. The Welsh would be proud to think that Grendel was one of their own: even if he didn't sing. I knew a woman once, and I have known several,' the old man added with a knowing wink. 'This woman would….'
'Look,' interrupted Jamie. 'My mum told me not to listen to dirty talk, I get sex education at school.'
'Sex?' the old man lifted his blanket cloak over his head, stood, folded the blanket and put it on the bench to sit on. He straightened a long faded blue shirt that overhung his darned and baggy trousers before giving the stained soft leather belt around his waist a tug. 'Sex? That was the last thing on her mind. The trouble with you youngsters today is that you are undereducated in the important things, such as your language and history, and over educated in those things that come naturally like sex and playing games!'
'Beowulf,' Jamie reminded the old man.
The old man sat down again, 'Beowulf,' he agreed. 'Well this Grendel had a grudge against Hrothgar and his kin. I never got to the bottom of it all. The Sea Danes were a vicious lot, you could hire them to cut someone's throat for a silver penny and then they would sell their swords to the other side when a blood feud broke out. They were land hungry too, so I suspect that Grendel and his folk had owned the land before Hrothgar's predecessors pushed them out. Whatever it was, Grendel hated them.' The old man stood up again, 'Look, do you mind if I get another drink? Well even if you do, my gift from the elves, I am going to get one. Hold my staff will you?'
The old man strode to the pub door and gave a courtesy glance inside before disappearing. When he reappeared, a couple of minutes later, it was from the door further down. In his hands he had a full glass of beer and a half-empty one of tomato juice. He gave Jamie the juice before holding the glass of beer to the light. 'A bit cloudy, but one mustn't be fussy, must one.' He sat down on the bench and took a sip before resuming the story. 'This Grendel hated the Danes so much that he used to sneak up to Hrothgar's holding and take out the guards. Some he must have killed on the spot, going by the blood. It was everywhere, thick and oily, clogging the soil'
Jamie looked at his tomato juice and put it under his seat. 'Can we move on?' he asked.
'Right, well some he killed there at the holding, others just vanished leaving only scuffle marks on the ground.' The sun came out in full and the old man threw his head back and continued his tale with his eye closed. 'Soon no-one would stand guard, so Hrothgar withdrew everyone to his hall, Heorot, for that was the name of the great hall.'
'To his hall?' Jamie followed the old man, removed his jacket and put his face to the sun, closing his eyes as he did so. 'Would there have been room for the thousands of warriors and the women?'
'Thousands? Where on earth did you get that idea? Your daft Mr Watson told you no doubt!' the old man's missing eye started to water with the sun's heat. 'No, armies were never that big, not then. King Ine of Wessex, one of mine of course, said that, if there were seven armed men or less, they were thieves, eight to thirty five made them a war band and over thirty five, an army. No Hrothgar, as a king, would have had a hearth-troop of 20-30 men. Add to that his thegns….'
'Thegns?' interrupted Jamie as he started to wonder whether he should risk the curdled tomato juice after all.
'Thegns, servants of the king, warriors, tax gatherers, advisors, land holders etc.' the old man waved his hand around vaguely. 'Surely I don't have to go into a detailed explanation? I won't get to finish the tale if I do.'
'Carry on,' Jamie instructed as he felt around for the glass, thinking that if he drank the tomato juice with his eyes closed, then perhaps he wouldn't think of it as blood.
'Right, as I was saying; add a handful of thegns and there would have been say 50 fighting men at the hall, which was more than enough with all the bragging, boasting and bullying they indulged in. Add the lady and the other women, servants and slaves and perhaps there were 200 sleeping in Heorot. Oh yes,' the old man opened his one eye and watched as Jamie fumbled for the glass and only just managed to grab hold of it before it tipped over when one of the boy's fingers jabbed it. 'Oh, yes, Heorot was a big hall. In fact it was a grand hall, with a carved lintel and portal to the big double doors at the front and stakes on the outside rafters with the heads of Hrothgar's enemies on them. You know, when there was a breeze the heads used to nod to you in greeting. There was a great big hart carved on the main doors, for that is what Herot means: the hall of the hart, or stag to other folk. The whole door was covered in gold.'
'Gold?' asked Jamie between sips of the tomato juice. 'Gold? Like Beowulf's rusty ring coat?' he put the glass carefully down before opening his eyes to look at the old man.
'Of course it was gold!' exclaimed the old man, 'I am sure that it was gold. All right, it did used to go a bit of green in the winter when the sea fog came in, but it looked gold, especially in the summer when the sun struck it.' He looked away and smiled to himself when he thought that Jamie could not see his face. 'It was a grand hall, richly bedecked, worthy of a great king and his lady. Easily defendable too, this is why Hrothgar allowed everyone to stay in it. But that Grendel was cunning, oh so very cunning. He still managed to get the odd warrior or thegn to eat. He would tap on the door and when the guard opened it to see who it was, grab them and whisk them off to his larder, leaving blood everywhere.'
Jamie deliberately kicked the glass with the remaining tomato juice over. 'They wouldn't keep on falling for that trick,' he commented.
'True,' the old man re-joined. He fumbled around in his leather bag that sat between him and the boy and pulled out a cold sausage that had had the end bitten off it. He offered it to Jamie, who refused. After a quick bite the old man resumed his talk: 'It was then that Grendel took to picking the men off when they went to the pit to answer the call of nature.' The old man dug in his bag some more and found a crumpled piece of paper which he proceeded to open to reveal some mustard that had started to break down into its constituent parts. He dabbed the sausage into the yellow mush, ate some more, took a swill of his beer and then smiled at Jamie. 'Didn't last forever, Hrothgar had the buckets brought into the hall you see. But Grendel still had ways of getting a feed of men. He must have found a way of getting into Heorot without going through the main doors or the serving doors. Men just vanished, albeit leaving behind signs of a struggle. It was then that Hrothgar sent word to Beowulf's daddy and called in the d
ebt.' He finished off the sausage, screwed the mustard covered paper back into a ball and dropped it back into his bag. 'Hrothgar was finding it hard to hang on to his men. Not that they would desert their lord! Oh no, that would never do and they would have been shamed if they had. They found things that needed doing on the King's farms and holdings, taxes that needed to be gathered or law cases to be settled. Sometimes they left because their wives wrote to say that they were lonely or due to have a baby. It was amazing how many left to visit a sick mother or attend a father's funeral. One thegn buried four fathers to my knowledge. They did anything other than remain at Hrothgar's hall and get eaten by Grendel. Now a king without warriors, be they his hearth-troop or his thegns and their men, is no king at all. Beowulf's presence was needed. The young fool had done so much boasting that the mere news of his coming brought men back to Hrothgar's side.'
Jamie stood and stretched his legs. He looked at his watch but as he still had fifteen minutes left before he had to be home, he sat down again and smiled at the old man in order to encourage him to continue with the tale. 'He came by ship didn't he, with fourteen companions. I would have thought that he would have needed more to row the ship all that way.'
The old man closed his eyes again as if digging into his mind to remember what he had seen all those years ago. 'It was a short journey they had to make and fourteen was enough, besides they only had to row to and from jetties, otherwise they sailed.'
'Mr Watson says that they couldn't sail then and that the ship they dug up at Sutton Hoo proves that they only had rowing boats.' Jamie watched the old man, expecting him to explode as he had before when the boy had told him of what his teacher had told the class.
The old man gave Jamie a sideways glance and then snorted down his nose. 'Tell him to watch the sea, for I have seen a ship just the same as that craft and it was only recently too. The ship at Sutton Hoo was named "Spume Cleaver" by the Wulfing king who owned her. True the craft I recently saw was but half Spume Cleaver's size, but she sailed, oh yes she sailed.' The old man tapped his nose with a long bony finger, 'Ask this know all Mr Watson: "Who ran the North Sea trade when the Romans were still around?" It wasn't the Romans themselves I can tell you. They were brought up in a land that has a very gentle sea. No, it was your forefathers, the Saxons. And the Saxons sailed their ships and rowed only when they had to. They were very skilled and their cousins the Angles and their cousins the Jutes and their cousins the Danes and their cousins the Geats all learnt from them, for at that time they all spoke the same tongue.'
Jamie watched the old man nodding agreement to himself. He waited till the old man had stopped before asking him a question that was forming on his tongue. 'You said earlier that you had pushed Beowulf and his friend into the sea from the ship so that they had to swim. Were you one of the crew this time too?'
'CREW!' yelled the old man with such vigour that a dog, that was being walked on a lead, took off with a loud yelp, dragging its hapless owner across the common at an inspiring rate of speed. 'CREW!' he yelled again. 'I am the old man, I am the young man, the All Father, the visitor, decider of battles, hoarder of slain warriors, Rune caster….'
'And teller of tales?' added Jamie helpfully.
'Quite so: and teller of tales,' agreed the old man, his voice returning to a more acceptable volume. 'As such I have never been, nor will be "crew". My descendants regard it as an honour to have me on board their ships, or in their halls.'
'Do they invite you, or do you just turn up?' inquired Jamie, picking up the old man's bag that had fallen over, spilling some of its content on the ground. 'I bet you just turned up, like you did at Burger King and at this pub!'
'It is more discreet,' the old man conceded. 'I get embarrassed by too great a show of respect.'
'So, were you a guest on Beowulf's ship?' Jamie asked, gingerly dropping a collection of half-eaten pies and sausage rolls back into the bag.
'No I wasn't. In fact, hearing of Hrothgar's problems with the land's previous tenant; Grendel the man eating Welshman who couldn't sing, I had kept well clear of the North as I had no intention of being the main course in one of his disgusting banquets.' The old man joined Jamie in putting things back into the bag, retaining a desiccated gherkin after sniffing it first. 'I was spending time with the Rus, somewhere on the trade route to Miklagarth.' He saw Jamie's raised eyebrow and stopped. 'Miklagarth,' Jamie gave no response. 'Micklagarth,' still no response. 'Constantinople?' Still Jamie's eyebrow was raised. 'They changed the name recently, let me think. Ah yes, Istanbul!' the old man took a tentative nibble of the gherkin and screwed his face up before tossing it into the leather bag. 'The Rus belong to me as well you see, a bit watered down these days the connection; too much intermarriage with the local Slavs, but that is another story. Right, where was I? Ah yes. I was staying with the Rus, picking up tittle-tattle, encouraging fights, the usual, when I heard that Beowulf had been landed with the task of sorting Grendel out. I couldn't miss that, now could I? So, laden with tributes from the Rus....'
'Which they didn't know they had made?' suggested Jamie.
'With a small tribute, which I had decided was all I needed. I mean,' said the old man with great sincerity, 'it is so embarrassing when they overwhelm you with their generosity and you can't take all their gifts because your poor old horse can't carry it all. I have only ever had the one horse, so too many gifts can be a problem. No, no, it is far better for me to take just what I need and thus save them the trouble of giving me too much, or worse, picking the wrong things out for me.' The old man decided that he would have the gherkin after all and retrieved it from the bag. He carefully picked little black bits of unknown origin off the wrinkled skin. 'So, with my horse, Sleipnir, lightly burdened with a very small tribute, I set off for Hrothgar's hall. I got there just before Beowulf and his men did.' The old man took another nibble, which seemed to taste no better than the first as his face screwed up again. 'What a splendid sight they all made coming into the hall. The torchlight sparkled off their boar-crested helmets and glanced off their ash-shafted spears.'
'Their golden chain mail coats tinkled as they walked?' Jamie offered.
'Their golden chain mail coats tinkled as they walked' added the old man, choosing to ignore the irony in the boy's voice.
'Dropping rust as they passed,' Jamie added.
The old man gave him a hard stare and then bit hard into the gherkin. His face gave no inclination of what it tasted like, or how strong it was, but his one eye watered and from the empty socket of his left a running stream gushed. 'As I was saying; their golden mail coats tinkled as they walked. They stood in front of the King's high table with the mead benches to their back, the peace ribbons that held their swords in their scabbards fluttering. All fell silent.' The old man stopped and dipped the gherkin into the remains of his beer. After a precautionary taste, he decided that the flavour had sufficiently improved to warrant him eating the rest in one go. While he chewed, he watched Jamie with his unblinking eye. He swallowed the morsel before continuing. 'Then Wulfgar the herald announced them: "Great king, a party of Geats, lead by the hero Beowulf, beg audience with you. Do not refuse to speak to them, for their leader is of great renown and their equipment deserves respect."'
'Quietly dripping liquid rust as they stood there,' Jamie quietly added as he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe from his eyes the tears caused by a whiff of the old man's gherkin and beer powered breath.
'Naturally the King welcomed them, for he would have been a fool not to. I mean; men, who are either brave enough, or daft enough, to tackle monsters, are very rare indeed. Beowulf then spouted all the usual boasts expected of a hero. With the formalities out of the way, everyone took to the mead and ale with a vengeance.' The old man looked sadly at the dregs of his beer, made even cloudier by its encounter with the dried gherkin. 'The Danes wanted to get drunk because they knew what would happen if Grendel came that night. Beowulf and his Geats wanted to get drunk because they didn't know what would
happen if Grendel came. I got drunk because the drink was free. But drinking leads to boasting and boasting leads to arguing and that can so easily lead to fighting. Hrothgar's law sayer was a man called Unferth and he had a go at Beowulf about the swimming race. Beowulf had boasted about it earlier and I had mentioned the true facts of the matter to Unferth, well, as true as the facts appeared to me at the time, for I had downed a few horns full of mead by then and my mind had become a trifle hazy. Anyway, they were about to have a go at each other when Hrothgar's wife, the Lady Wælþeow came in with a peace cup.'
Jamie pulled at the old man's sleeve to get his attention. 'The names of the people are so strange. Why are they strange?'
'Strange?' the old man looked perplexed. 'I don't think that there is anything strange about them. Beowulf, is bee wolf in your tongue, a keening for a bear, which is a honey raider.' Jamie gave him a blank look. 'Kenning?' posed the old man. 'Your wonderful Mr Watson hasn't explained a kenning to you? It is a poetic name. Now, some of the others: Hrothgar is a glory spear as Wulfgar is a wolf spear. Unferth is un-peace or no peace if you like. No, no, the names are not strange at all young lordling. I must admit, though, that Wælþeow is interesting, for it means Welsh slave. She had no Welsh blood in her to my knowledge. Now, young æþeling, lordling of mine; tell me, what is your name? For I cannot keep on using just a title when addressing you.'
'Jamie.'
'Jamie? What a strange name!' The old man decided to take a chance on the cloudy beer and drained the dregs. He grimaced as they went down. 'No that won't do. It causes grief to my tongue. I shall call you Leofwine. As you are so ignorant of your own language I shall tell you what it means. It means "Dear Friend".'
'I am a dear friend?' Jamie asked.
'You will be, I foresee it.'
'I spy with my little eye?' asked Jamie his eyes twinkling at his gentle jib directed at the one eyed man.
'Something like that. I had two once you know, I gave one away to gain knowledge, so don't mock young Leofwine.'
'All right. If you want to call me that, you can. But now I have two names.'
The old man stood up and retrieved his cloak, for the sun had gone behind a cloud and the air had started to chill. He turned to Jamie. 'Anyone of any worth has more than one name. I have many!'
'So, old man, what shall I call you?' Jamie pulled on his jacked and zipped it up.
'You may call me Grimm for the time being, later I may give you another name to call me.' Grimm sat down again and contemplated his empty beer glass with sorrow.
'Grimm? As in grim and joyless?'
'Grimm, as in a mask. The other meaning came later, and it wasn't from me, for I am full of joy, especially when I have a full glass.' The old man looked longingly at the door of the Fox and Grapes.
'Grimm, can we get on with the story please?'
The old man reluctantly dragged his eyes away from the pub and looked at his young friend. 'If you insist Leofwine, if you insist.' Grimm settled himself down on the bench. 'Wælþeow made them drink the peace cup together and wove a lasting peace between them. I was a bit annoyed at her for that, for I had been looking forward to seeing Beowulf pit his youthful strength and energy against Unferth's mature cunning and experience. Her meddling annoyed me so much that I determined then to do some mischief to Wælþeow and her cubs, but that was much later and another story. So, with their heads in a whirl and their bellies full of beer, everyone turned in for the night. The king and his lady went to their chamber, the maids to their bower and the men to the benches along the wall. Those who were still able of course, for many were so drunk that they slept where they lay.' Grimm picked the glass up for another examination but, despite all the attention it was getting, it stubbornly remained empty. When the old man spoke again his voice was very quiet. 'Heorot was silent, the darkness deepened, nothing stirred.' Grimm pulled back from Jamie's ear. 'Except for the usual belching and breaking of wind, which is only natural when you have stuffed yourself with food, ale and mead all night,' he said in a normal voice. He leant forward again to talk quietly in Jamie's ear again. 'Grendel silently moved from shadow to shadow, making his way across the holding to Heorot's hart marked door. He tried it, but it was barred. Turning his shaggy head this way and that that, the monster sniffed the air for the scent of Danish flesh.' Grimm's one eye opened wide as he wove the word web. 'He smelt Danes, but he smelt something strange as well: the scent of others, the warm delicious smell of fresh warm Geats. Moving as gently as he could, trying not to make not a single sound, Grendel edged his way around the eves of the hall, seeking his secret way in. Finding the place he was looking for, he eased aside the wood cladding and slid through the gap into the hall. All around the hearth and all along the walls the Danes and Geats slept in their drunken stupor. Grendel leant over the nearest man,' Grimm moved closer to Jamie and sniffed him. 'The man smelt like a Dane, he also smelt tasty, for there is nothing more edible than a Dane well soused in mead and gently greased with pork fat.' The old man pulled back and then lunged at Jamie, his voice raised, 'GRENDEL RIPPED OFF HIS HEAD AND DRANK THE SPURTING BLOOD IN GREAT GULPS!'
Jamie pulled back with a scream, 'What are you doing?' he yelled.
'Telling a story,' Grimm told him in his normal voice. 'I know you won't let me give the full performance, complete with actions, but you can't deny that it goes better for a bit of drama, can you?'
'All right, but warn me next time.'
'The Dane didn't get any warning did he?' the old man asked. 'The rest of them in the hall were so sozzled that they heard nothing. Grendel would have got away with the killing if he hadn't tripped over Beowulf as he swung the drooping dead Dane's body up over his broad and hairy shoulder.' Grimm tapped the empty glass on his knees and looked soulfully at it. 'Next thing you know Beowulf leapt up, yelling and screaming insults, grabbed hold of Grendel's arm, the one that was free as the other was hanging onto the dangling deceased Dane, and ripped it completely out of the poor monster's shoulder. Naturally Grendel dropped the Dane and, yelling for his mummy, as men tend to do when they have parts ripped off them against their will, ran out of the hall. He was so maddened with pain he didn't even notice that the part of the wall he charged through wasn't the one with the missing cladding panel.'
'And,' asked Jamie, 'that was that? Beowulf didn't even know whose arm it was he had ripped off?'
'Oh, not when he did it, but an arm so large and hairy couldn't remain anonymous for long.' Grimm got up, removed his cloak, put on his bag and then resettled the cloak. Again he looked at the glass then studied the nearest door of the Fox and Grapes. 'All that noise awoke the rest of the hall and the Danes soon recognised the arm dangling from Beowulf's hand. They hailed him a hero and went back to boozing to celebrate the deed.' Grimm looked at Jamie and rubbed his bearded chin with a dirt engrimed hand. 'I must see if they will give me just one final tribute. It is all this talking you see. As I told you, in the old days they would have sent the drink down to me, wherever in the hall I sat, be it king's high table or the lowest mead bench. But times have changed, and now I must fetch my own.' Grimm picked up his staff and headed for the door of the pub. Jamie checked his watch, but there were still fifteen minutes to spare before his mother would start to get worried.
Suddenly Grimm came flying out of the far door of the Fox and Grapes, grabbed his staff from against the wall, and vanished down the side of the building.
Jamie watched in amazement at the old man's speed, for he ran like a young man. Realising that his new friend man had "done a runner," he turned, only to find himself looking at a tall policeman with hair poking out of his nose. The policeman was holding four empty glasses in his hands. 'Now then, young sir; what can you tell me about the old man who has been helping himself to drinks without paying for them?' The policeman smiled, but it was not a pretty sight.