The treatment slowly extended to me, as well. Shunned and avoided, I could not depend on my husband’s brother for assistance, and my own kin were overextended already. My husband’s brother did not have the honor he had, and I broke his nose after a particularly lewd comment followed by a suggestion that my son be “disposed of” for my “own good.”
The distrustful mutters and hateful glances wore on my sensitive son, and the fits of rage began to increase. We discovered that he could no longer tolerate music beyond my singing. Instruments or other singing voices caused him significant pain, and he became more and more sensitive to loud noises in general. He grew still taller, a full head beyond any man on the coast, and then inches more. The situation untenable, I began to search for a place to remove us to. Grendel needed space and quiet, where he did not have to hear the not-so-whispered comments of “Monster!” that followed him.
Grendel was nigh eighteen when I was summoned to the village regarding him.
Upon arrival, I discovered he was bound and subdued, and a bit confused.
“What is the meaning of this?” I asked, horrified, gesturing at my son.
Angry voices yelled at me, but Hrothgar the king raised his hands for silence. He explained. Grendel had been provoked, and in his rage, killed an erstwhile playmate of years past. Punishment must be rendered, but the circumstances and Grendel’s father’s defense in the name of the king meant it would only be immediate banishment.
I bitterly reminded the king of Grendel’s own heroic actions, and that he still bore the scars and pain. The angry muttering of the crowd turned to guilty silence at the reminder.
Hrothgar admitted this, and accorded him some leeway for gathering possessions.
My husband’s brother interjected himself into the discussion, and attempted to demand that all of my possessions be rendered to him for the breaking of his nose previously. Hrothgar merely snorted, as the man’s crass behavior was well known, but acceded he could lay claim to the land we lived on.
We were given just a few days’ time to depart. I quietly thanked the gods that I had seen fit to be prepared, and there remained little left in our home to remove. I had even moved the small herd of sheep some weeks previous, to a formerly abandoned hut by the swamp, and built them a workable fence, with Grendel’s sturdy help. We would not be completely bereft, and I would be able to keep us clothed.
My husband’s brother insisted on escorting us to ensure I did not take “too many valuables” he “deserved,” and I requested other witnesses. The look he gave me made it clear he resented I had forestalled his true intent.
Grendel, dear Grendel, remained confused and bewildered at what was happening. But he followed me quietly and did as I bid.
The bastard raged when he took in the mostly emptied homestead. The witnesses merely snickered. Edda gave me a measuring look. She had known I was worried about Grendel, and had advised I prepare for such a situation. I gave her a bitter smile.
The last of our personal belongings were easily removed from the premises. While the bastard snarled at us, one of the other witnesses stood between him and me. “Do not give me a reason to fight on her behalf,” he cautioned. “Your actions disgust me as it is.”
I was grateful for the meager defense, although I would have appreciated it more had the man ever stood up for Grendel or me these past years.
Grendel carried what I directed, in a bundle that awed the spectators. I carried the remainder, including my bow. We left. I ensured we were not followed.
The salt marsh reeked with fetid decay, but it held life enough. Only the old wisewoman Edda came here voluntarily, for the herbs that could be gathered nowhere else and were necessary to ply her trade. She would pay me for gathering those in her stead, in goods I could not make or find on my own.
The sheep fared well enough, learning to find the drier areas with edible grass. The wool kept us in clothing, and the lambs provided some food, and milk for cheese. Other foods, Grendel and I found in the swamp. He learned which plants were safe readily enough, and he hunted large game with his club. Faster game, I snared, or hunted with bow.
It was not an easy life, but it was fairly peaceful. The hearth kept us warm, and I had a pot and a griddle. The hut was made comfortable with furs and hides. And above all, I had my son.
We used the nearby cave for a shelter for the sheep, and to store some goods. Grendel liked to be there, because it was so quiet.
He still had to be bound when the worst storms hit, but he seemed just a bit better here. The fits were fewer, and I hoped for the day they ceased. Alas, that was not to be.
Edda brought word that Hrothgar intended to build a new great hall at last, to replace the one that had burned down. At first, this did not concern me at all. It shortly became apparent that the placement and construction of the building were to bring torment to my Grendel.
The first revelry, filled with song and instruments, and the deep thud of mugs being beat against tables, rolled like a dull thunder at our distant hut. It was too much for Grendel, and I had to wrestle him into submission, binding him to keep him from causing himself injury.
I was not successful in subduing him the next time, and he ran deeper into the swamp. I feared him lost, but he returned a day and a half later, worse for the wear. He brought me a deer he had caught during the fit, but he could not tell me where he had woken up from it.
The next time I failed to subdue him, I was stunned while trying, and unable to follow. I heard the shouts of anger and screams of fear from the direction the party had been. He returned, with a few minor wounds. He was distraught to discover he had injured me, and haltingly described what he could remember of what happened in the village.
“I went into the hall, where the noise hurt most,” he said. “The door was blocked, but I forced it.”
The door fastened with a solid wooden beam, and he’d broken it. Oh, my son, what a warrior you could be, if only the demons didn’t torture you.
“They attacked me and I fought them all. I remember men hitting me, and me throwing them.”
That explained his black eye and bruised knuckles. He’d fought them all, all at once.
“I just wanted them to be quiet! My head spun, and stabbed, and I felt sick. I remember one man broke over the table when I threw him.”
He probably broke his back and was dead. Oh, Grendel, no.
Edda told me more. Grendel had killed one man and maimed two others, one of whom would never chew food again after his jaw was smashed. She looked fearful herself. “I may not be able to bring you any more supplies, if this happens again.”
“I am endeavoring to stop him,” I promised. “There seem to be certain sounds that are worse than others, ones that he runs to instead of from.”
She questioned which ones seemed to enrage him worse and drive him toward the village instead of away. I answered as best I could. She would try to encourage at least less of those, or to give some kind of sign so I would have time to prepare Grendel and restrain him.
It was the best we could manage. As the villagers had turned their stories of him into a troll or something even worse, it even worked for a while. She convinced them that deliberately enraging him was not conducive to their own peace. I owed her much.
Then came the day Edda breathlessly brought word about a traveler, Beowulf, who boasted he would end their “troll” problem once and for all. She argued hard to prevent the villagers from cheering on the insanity, but to no avail. Hrothgar planned for a huge celebration befitting such a “hero,” even that very night, in part to draw Grendel in. I gave her what would be one last hug.
“You have been the only family I have had besides Grendel these last years. Thank you.”
She returned the embrace. “I can only hope this madness can be avoided. Your Grendel does not deserve this.”
“As do I.”
&
nbsp; When Grendel returned later, I tried to convince him to settle down early. I even gave him the soothing tinctures, which would normally ease the fits. I couldn’t bear to tell him they were setting a trap for him, and he would not settle for storms that didn’t exist. At length, I did tell him.
“But Momma, why?”
“They think you a monster, and want you dead.” I stroked his cheek. “You are my beloved son, and I want you alive. Please, let me do what I can to keep you from their trap.”
He acquiesced, and allowed me to bind him to his bed. I made him as comfortable as I could, and then set about doing everything possible to block out all sounds from outside of our walls. Every nook, every cranny, I stuffed full of scraps of cloth and hide. The only light left was one of our precious candles, sitting on the hearth. Even the chimney was as blocked as I dared risk.
It almost worked. I underestimated how desperate this “hero” was for a victory against an innocent man gossiped into a monster. The large horn, which should have been blown only in times of invaders, sounded, and Grendel screamed in agony. Thrice it blew, and the third time, Grendel convulsed and snapped his bindings.
I fought with him, trying to keep him home, with me, safe, alive. He managed to fling me wide and battered the door down. I sank to the floor and wept.
It took moments, far too many moments, to collect myself, but I managed to rise and shake off the worst of the grief and fear. Regardless of the outcome, my boy would be hurt, so I set a tea of elderberry and cicuta for pain to steep. I prepared bandages and a tiny precious amount of honey to aid against infection. I scrubbed and heated the fire iron, to cauterize any deep wounds.
Then I prayed to uncaring, unresponsive gods that Grendel would come home to me in condition good enough that I could tend him, heal him, and take us elsewhere as soon as may be.
An echoing bellow of rage and pain, accompanied by catcalls and jeers, mocked such prayers. The hateful villagers would not be cheering so were it Beowulf who cried out in such a manner. Grief battled with rage, but I took small comfort in the boos and hisses. Grendel had either scored a fair hit or managed to escape. Multiple shrieks of fear echoed, followed by a tumult of muted voices. The distant sounds faded, and I surmised that Grendel had, at the least, escaped. The darkness of the night meant I dared not try to find him, or risk losing him completely. I waited.
A countless eternity later, I heard pained weeping and a querulous “Momma?” in the dark. I ran to the sound to find my son, grievously injured and missing an arm. I shouldered up under his good arm and helped him the last distance home. Once there, I took stock of the wounds.
The arm was no clean cut of a sword, but instead showed signs of having been mostly torn off. The stump was a ragged, oozing mess with dripping blood and exposed bone. I did not, could not cry, not while Grendel looked at me with fearful eyes. “Will I be okay, Momma?”
I lied. So help me, I lied to him. Had I spoken the truth, I would have been unable to ease his suffering. “As okay as I can make you, my love,” I said. I set about doing what I could. The state of the arm was such that cauterizing was nigh impossible, and the bandages I had prepared were insufficient. Once I had it cleaned, bound, and covered, I helped him drink the tea. I settled him as best I could.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, and he asked me for a song. I acquiesced, as a few more minutes would make little difference in the scheme of things. He, thankfully, fell asleep into a restless, pained slumber. I drew my cloak around me, and gave him one last worried look before slipping out of the hut to head for the village.
I could afford no dignity. Perhaps Edda knew some herbs, and I would beg and abase myself before Hrothgar for the slightest of mercy. Grendel and I would retreat to the cave and subsist as we could.
The village was active, and I approached carefully, hood masking my face for the little good it would do. All of them knew me.
There was much commotion at the great hall, and I watched from far behind the crowd, hidden behind the hawthorn bushes.
I saw what they did and my head spun. Was this real and not some horrific dream?
Grendel’s arm hung from a nail above the hall’s broad doors. A trophy to hate and fear.
I overheard Hrothgar announce, “They will sing of this deed for a thousand years.”
And that’s when the rage took me.
I could perhaps forgive Beowulf for killing Grendel. It had been the fairest fight of all. Grendel did only what the gods had made him to do. But Hrothgar boasted of the deed, of the killing of my poor, darling boy. He memorialized it with blood trophies.
Hrothgar would not boast of the killing of a favored dog taken over by the madness. Yet he would boast of the killing of my son.
Any man would avenge his son, his brother, his father for that shame. My son had none of those to call out this monster for his words. He had only me.
I would stand for him.
I turned to prepare.
I heard shouts, and knew I’d been seen.
I ran. There was nothing else I could do.
The shouts became jeers and my breathing punctuated with sobs. I’d vowed a blood oath, and now I ran.
One voice stood out. That was Aeschere. Years ago, Grendel had beaten his son hard enough to damage the boy’s eye, and neither had ever forgiven him. He pursued me, though my lead was good and my legs remained strong. I hoped he’d slow and give up, with nothing but colorfully degrading insults, but while he slowed, he didn’t stop.
I ran along the mucky high ground and onto the spit where my hut stood. He was some minutes behind and I had just time. I barred the door, caught my breath, and took a drink of water, followed by a mouthful of cheese for energy. Then I set about preparing.
Aeschere was a mouthy sort, and I knew he was trying to provoke me out, rather than enter himself. If I thought that would be the end of it, I’d tolerate his taunts through gritted teeth, but once he grew bored, he’d try to draw others with him. He wanted a fight with an old woman, and I determined he should have it.
When we fled years before, Grendel carried a huge trunk for me, effortlessly. It was in the back of the hut, next to my bed, where it served as a table, a chair, and a storage chest. I swept clothing and pouches off it, opened the lid, and hauled out the clothes within to dump them on the ground. I wanted what lay beneath.
I pulled my brynje of mail from the chest. It was darkened with age, but its rings were well wrought and it would protect me. I no longer had the underpadding. It was long since used for baby blankets. My dress and a winter tunic of thick wool would have to do. It was only for one fight.
The armor was snug. I was not a young girl anymore. It covered well enough, though tight on my chest, and dragged a bit on my hips. I grabbed the tails and yanked hard, bursting the three lowest rings at the front, and then it moved as it should.
I took a moment to pull the blankets around my boy and check the bandages, which were soaked through with dark blood. I carefully bound another wrapping over them, knowing it would accomplish little. Lacking a miracle from the gods who’d never seen fit to give me a pittance, his time in this world grew short. He moaned and twitched, his ruined shoulder sensitive to every waft of air, the mattress, even my presence. I kissed his forehead gently from above and resumed my task.
Behind the door, well covered in dust, were my other needs. A thick leathern hat with a string to tie it, a light but sturdy shield reinforced with iron strips and rawhide edging, and my lord’s sword. I drew it from the scabbard and examined it.
There was some small amount of brown bloom that should be oiled and scoured before it turned to rust. There was no time for that now. My tormentor awaited, and I had a blood oath to fulfill.
I stood and breathed deeply, reacquainting myself with the weight of armor, and learning the heft of the sword. When I heard his voice circle around to the front again, I p
ulled the door open and stepped out.
“Hello, Aeschere,” I said with a sweet tone that didn’t hide my rage. “Would you care to dance?”
His expression told me he hadn’t expected a fair fight. He clutched for his sword, stuttering as he did so. He almost said something, possibly to placate me, possibly to distract. But his mind caught up and realized the futility.
He dropped into guard and waited for me to attack in rage. Oh, Aeschere, this was not my first battle, nor quite my last. I simply smiled, with a flick of tongue on lips to taunt him. He shifted and hesitated, and I stamped my foot. That startled him and I laughed.
“Afraid, are we?” I asked, advancing a half step.
He took the bait.
I am not small, but he was taller. But women balance better with sword forward and shield at a slant, while men raise the shield forward and the blade back. He advanced to where he could just reach me with his greater height, assuming I could not return the favor.
But that put him a foot into my range and I struck, punching out my hand and whipping my wrist. I swung my sword low and it bit into the hide armoring his thigh. It did not cut through, but the impact staggered him. His blow stumbled and glanced off my shield, and I pressed at once.
He recovered with a solid swing that cut a deep nick into the hide edge of my shield, and we scrabbled around, trading blows to little effect. He was hurt but little, but he was shocked by my response and he was scared. He thought to overpower me unarmed, to humiliate and shame me, and perhaps violate me. Once met, he dared not retreat from a mere woman, even if it meant an actual fight. And if he were to lose?
His blood-rage brought him in hard and fast, with a blow that half cracked my shield and dented the boss. I grunted and powered into it, trying to get my point under his guard and to his belly. I succeeded, but it was a soft thrust and didn’t pierce. He backed up quickly, and I flicked the tip up, catching his exposed forearm. Skin parted and blood flowed. I pressed again, and my next thrust just barely nicked his breast under the hardened hide.
Fantastic Hope Page 31
