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By Root 4052 0

written down, the reciter still carried it all in his head. He would not sing it, but declaim it in a low, stately chant, letting the words, with their heavy, stressed alliteration weave their own spell round the hall. Nor would he recite it all that night, for Beowulf was very long; but he would give his eager audience the parts they knew and loved best. He would tell them how the hero journeyed across the sea to help the Danish King Hrothgar; how at night Beowulf with his bare hands, in just such a hall as this one, fought the gruesome monster Grendel and tore his whole arm from its socket; how he slew the monster’s mother at the bottom of the lake; and how in his last fight, Beowulf died slaying a dragon that lived in an ancient barrow tomb.

He began slowly, describing Beowulf’s voyage: his slow, rhythmic chant fell on the audience like waves on the sea; and around the hall, unconscious of what they were doing, men and women alike rocked to and fro on the benches, strangely moved. Port, too, was enthralled. It seemed to him that he could see the ship, sense the motion on the waters under the empty sky, feel its keel scrape when it finally beached upon the Danish sands. Like the rest of the audience, his eyes grew misty. He, with them, was transported to the echoing, half mournful, half heroic, timeless world that is the world of the sagas of all the northern peoples.

Then came Beowulf’s great oaths of loyalty to King Hrothgar, and the fights in which he redeemed them. This was the Anglo-Saxon warrior as he ought to be – loyal to his chosen lord, trusting in fate, believing in the Christian God to aid him, but pagan in every other respect.

As the reciter came to the battle scenes, his pace quickened. The words poured out, thick, guttural, hissing, making a sound like that of the fight itself.

From Grendel’s shoulder, the gash ripped wide open,

Out sprang the sinews, the bone-casings burst;

Beowulf was given glory in battle:

Broken and bleeding Grendel was beaten:

Fled to the fens, to his dark lair.

Like the Saxons, Port’s eyes were shining; his fists were clenched and he felt the pumping of the blood. How the hero fought!

But at last, Beowulf fought his last battle; and after he was burned on his funeral pyre, he was buried in a barrow, in sight of the sea; with his brooches and his golden rings, as every warrior should be:

Kindest of Kings, of men the mildest

Just to his people, thirsty for fame.

The voice of the reciter died to a murmur. It was over; and for a long, richly savoured moment all those in the hall were silent.

Then the reciter bowed and the audience, after thunderous applause, toasted him for his excellent performance.

It was after this, when all the thanks were done, that Aelfwald the thane rose ceremoniously from his chair and called for silence.

“It is time for a ring-giving,” he announced.

No ceremony was more important than the ancient custom of ring-giving. When the king gave his earldorman or his loyal thane a ring, it was a symbolic bond between them which could never, with honour, be broken. Often such rings would be engraved with a message or charm in the ancient runic script which the northern peoples still preserved from the pagan past and which gave the ring its particular magic value.

Aelfwald the thane, rich with many lands, liked to give rings to his men, for it enhanced his own dignity.

Now, as the voices in the hall died away to a murmur, he pointed to Port.

“Today,” he announced, “Port received the wergild for the loss of his right hand.” There was a friendly banging on the tables and some laughter. “And so today, my loyal friends, I give him a ring to wear on the hand he still has.” There was a roar of cheerful approval. Port inclined his head gravely. “Keep this ring for me, Port,” the thane cried, “and,” he winked at the audience, “try not to lose it!”

The hall rocked with applause and laughter. Port’s face went crimson with pleasure.

While Aelfwald held the ring high for all to see, his wife moved along the table and ceremoniously offered