Scyld Scefing 

So then –

Have you heard of the heroes, the greatness and glory, the stories of the Spear-Danes? Have you heard of the Kings and Princes of those proud people?

Scyld Scefing was one. He triumphed over other tribes, he took their treasures and held their halls. He was found as a child, adrift and alone, an orphan on the ocean. But he grew to a man – powerful, prosperous, a Prince of his people, honoured under Heaven and by all around. And by all around, across the whale road – the porpoise path, from across the land and the watery ways – they paid him tribute.

Now that was one good King.

Scyld Scefing had a son, born to be King, sent by the Gods to follow his father, to hold together the tribes and halls – to protect his people.

His name was Beow.

The fame and the glory of the son of Scyld Scefing, spread wide through the Viking villages, across the Northern lands.

He did great deeds, he gave glorious gifts, he collected comrades, faithful followers, who would stand beside him in war or battle, when his father was gone.

And go he did.

When his time came, Scyld Scefing, King and Prince of all the Spear-Danes went away, to the protection of his own King. His closest companions did as he asked, carried his body – his soul cage – his corpse, down to the sea, to the ocean currents. There stood the ship – the sea splitter, rigged, ready to sail, sparkling with ice. There, they laid him down in the belly of the boat – they put him down, that glorious King, that giver of rings, and all around they piled great gems and gold, treasures and trophies.

Never, ever, have I heard of a hoard more splendid, more sparkling, with swords – weapons of war, and mail-shirts – battle-dress. The treasures would sail with him, on the ship – the dead Scyld Scefing, into the oceans, the hands of the sea, treasures no less than those he had when he first was found – a flotsam child.

Where did that boat go? Where did it sail?

No one knows. None can say.

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I

Beow, Healfdene, Hrothgar

So Beow became the King of the Danes – of the Scylding folk, and he ruled well, and he ruled wisely. And in his turn, Beow too, had a son, to take his turn as the protector of the people. His name was Healfdene and he became a famous fighter, wise in war, powerful in peace – another great King. Healfdene in his turn had children too – four in all. Heorogar, who died in war. Hrothgar, who would be King. Halga the good, and Yrse, the only daughter. She married Onela, the Swedish King.

These were the heroes, the stuff of stories, the history and the honour of the ancient Spear-Danes – the Scylding folk. 

These were good Kings.

Hrothgar, second son of Healfdene, son of Beow, the son of the great Scyld Scefing, came to be King. He walked the glory road did Hrothgar – famous in war, faithful to his people, his followers many, his folk content.

Hrothgar chose to build a Hall – greater and taller, stronger and broader, gilded and glowing, a hall to hold feasts, for stories and singing, a place for the giving of prizes and rings, a hall more mighty, more marvellous than any other seen before.

Many people, many hands, worked hard, raising up the beams and boards. Then many more went away, to distant lands, to foreign folk, to find treasures and trappings – rich, rare things for the walls and windows, splendour for the throne, for the Scylding King.

Then at last the hall was done – finely finished, with power and grace and beauty, like a stately stag, a magic hart, and ‘Hart’ it was called, in the language of those lands, ‘Heorot’ – Hrothgar’s Hall.

These were the days before the fire, when Hrothgar’s daughter’s husband came, with sword and slaughter. The marriage ties were much too weak to hold him back, to hold back his vengeance, his violence, his ancient vendetta. A wasted wedding, that was.

But for now the Hall was a happy place, a place to eat and drink, a place to hear the pluck of the harp and the songs of the scops – the story-tellers – a place of life, noise and light.

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II 

Grendel

But though the hosts of Hrothgar’s Hall were happy – happy and fat with feasting and friendship, there was one who was not. There was one who hated the song of the harp, the sounds and the singers. He lived outside, in the muddy marsh, the fen monster, Grendel. Last of a long line, banished by Gods, evil, but enduring. Grendel.

Songs from the Hall, singing and laughter, flowed from the doors, beat on his ears, and made him murderous, murdering mad. So in the darkness, in the deep of night, he came to visit Heorot, came to the Hart, to King Hrothgar’s Hall. 

It was late, and Hrothgar’s men were lying there, drunk, drowsy or dreaming – fast asleep, full up, not fearing – lying down like leaves for sweeping. Then, grim Grendel, deadly demon, hungry, greedy, mad, swept through the benches, cleared the floors. Thirty men he took, like the huntsman takes the deer – dead, lifeless – thirty men to load his larder, back to his deep marsh lair – thirty men to eat and enjoy.

Then morning came. The dawn broke. And the murders were found. Now, the sounds of singing, the stories and the laughter, the fun and the feast, were over. The Hall was filled with sobbing and crying, keening and mourning. It was a dark day for Heorot, and its King – the great Hrothgar. He sat alone, sad and depressed, mourning for his murdered men, feeling his age. 

But there was no rest, no respite, no time to recover. Again, on the next night, Grendel came and killed again. And soon the King’s men learned their lesson – after that they slept apart, away from the Hall and the horrid fate that came there hunting – every night.

And so it went on. For twelve long years, a dozen summers, springs and winters, Grendel haunted Heorot – Hrothgar’s Hall. 

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The ways of monsters are strange to men, no peace, no end, no guilt or sorrow, no wish to end a pointless war, no weregild for the wives and widows, just hating – hunting and ambush, murder and death.

The Danes would plan their self-defence, pray to their Gods, make offerings, do all they knew. But nothing stopped the grim night-stalker – Grendel, the evil slayer.

III

Hygelac’s Hall To Danish Shore

The tales of the Spear-Danes, and their evil luck, became famous, and were sung in other halls, all through that Middle Earth. And the story came too, to the land of the Geats, to the hall of Hygelac, King of those Geats. Hygelac’s nephew was in the hall, and he heard the songs, the tragic tales. He was a young man, strong and brave, the strongest man alive in those long gone days. He asked for a ship, and he asked for men, to go with him to meet the monster, to fight the fiend. The old men checked the omens, looked for signs, and they nodded, they approved the venture, they wished him luck.

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With fourteen men, fit, fine and strong, he took to the waves, rode the swan’s way, out from the cliffs, weapons and warriors crossing the waves, borne like a bird, straight on, over the sea to Hrothgar’s Hall. And, at last, they came to the coast, under the cliffs, where the Danish watchman saw them land. He saw their shining shields, their brave battle-gear, and he came down to challenge them, to ask them their business.

“What are you?” he said, “dressed for war, heavy with weapons, on your great ship from over the seas, sailing, sliding, into these shores? Who are you, coming here, with no consent from my King, without permission from my people? I have never seen a band disembark so boldly, sail so without stealth. I have never seen a man so peaceful looking, yet so suited to his sword and spear, as that Earl who seems to lead you is. Before you become like spies on our land, you must answer me – who are you, and where are you from?”

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