Standing, shaking off the sleeping pelts, he howls again, and if his mother were there, she would hear the words lost and tangled within that animal scream. She would hear the grief and the despair at a promise soon to be broken. But she would also hear relief in equal measure, that shortly he will crush and squeeze and pound the life from these clamorous fools, and they will taste sweet on his tongue. And then, when he is done, the night will be silent again, save those comforting sounds which come from the old forest and the marshlands and the beach. Save the soft dripping of his cave, and the splash of white eels in his mother’s pool.

“So, would that be your demon?” Beowulf asks the king, as the ghastly shriek from the moorlands quickly fades away and a sudden hush falls over Heorot Hall. The musicians have all stopped playing, and the Danes and their ladies sit or stand, frozen by the voice of Grendel, each one among them waiting to see if there will be another cry to split the twilight. Hrothgar rubs at his forehead, draws a deep breath and frowns. Glancing toward the sundial carved into the wall, he finds it gone completely dark. The day has ended.

“Indeed,” the king sighs. “I see that the dreaded hour is come upon us once again.” And he motions toward the sundial.

“We should clear the hall,” Beowulf says, but already Heorot has begun to empty on its own, the evening’s revelry cut short by those two cries from the direction of the approaching night, and the king rises weary and drunken from his throne.

“Well, it’s just as well. This old man needs his rest,” he says, and looks about until he sets eyes upon his queen standing not far away, watching Beowulf. “My beauty,” he says to her. “Will you be so kind as to help me find my way down to sleep? Sometimes, I think I have almost forgotten the path.” And he holds out a withered, trembling hand to his young wife. She hesitates a moment, still looking at Beowulf.

“My dear?” the king asks her, thinking that perhaps she has not heard him. “Come along. I do not believe I am yet either so drunk or infirm that we might not take some small scrap of pleasure beneath the sheets.”

“A moment more, please,” she says. “You go along without me. I promise, I shall not be very far behind.”

“She promises…” Hrothgar mutters, only half to himself. Then, speaking to the Geat, he says, “I hope to see you in the morning, Beowulf, son of Ecgtheow…Odin willing. It is a great service you do me and my household this night. Be sure your men secure the door.”

“It will be done, my lord,” Beowulf assures him. “We will take all possible precautions.”

Four of the Danish thanes come bearing Hrothgar’s litter, having threaded their way through the thinning, nervous crowd. When they’ve lowered it to the floor, the old king steps down from the throne dais—aided by Unferth—and he climbs into the seat mounted there upon the sturdy platform. The thanes groan and heave and lift him into the air, supporting his weight and the weight of the litter upon their strong shoulders, and Beowulf bows respectfully to the Lord of Heorot Hall.

“Good night, brave warrior, Hygelac’s heir,” the king says to Beowulf. “Show the fiend no mercy. Give no quarter. Remember all those he has so callously murdered.”

“No mercy,” answers Beowulf, and the king smiles and orders the thanes to bear him away to his bedchamber.

“Yes. Good night, brave Beowulf.” Unferth sneers. “And I trust you’ll keep a weather eye peeled for sea monsters. I’m sure that imagination of yours is fair teeming with them.”

“I am disappointed, Unferth, that you will not be joining us tonight in our vigil,” Beowulf replies, looking the Dane straight in his green eyes. “Surely Odin Allfather has prepared a place in his great hall for you, as well.”

“I already have my duties,” Unferth replies curtly. “You see to yours,” and then he turns and follows the thanes as they ferry King Hrothgar from the hall.

“It’s a grievous responsibility,” says Wealthow, when Unferth has gone. She’s still standing there beside Beowulf at the edge of the dais. “Cowering in the shadows and cleaning up after a sick old man. But at least it’s a duty to which he’s well suited.”

“Your song was beautiful,” Beowulf tells her, changing the subject, not wishing to speak any more of Unferth. “But you need to go now.”

“Of course. Grendel. That demon is my husband’s shame.”

“Not a shame,” Beowulf tells her, and he begins loosening the leather straps and buckles on his breastplate. “A curse.”

“No, my lord, a shame,” Wealthow says, and she furrows her brow and looks down at her feet “My husband has no…” but then she pauses, glancing back up at Beowulf. “He has no sons to fight this evil, no Danish son to restore honor to our house. And he will have none, for all his talk of bedding me.”

Beowulf removes his heavy iron breastplate and lets it fall, clanging to the floor between them, and then he begins unfastening his belt. Behind him, Hondshew enters the hall, though Beowulf had not noticed his absence. Olaf and another of the Geats begin to laugh, making some joke at Hondshew’s expense, and soon the hall rings with their shouts and profanity. Hondshew hurls himself at Olaf, and the two tumble over a table and onto the floor, where they roll about, wrestling and trading blows and curses and insults.

“Why don’t you stop them?” Wealthow asks, and Beowulf looks over his shoulder at the commotion. The other thanes are cheering them on, some rooting for Hondshew, others for Olaf. Beowulf sees that all the Danes have gone, and only his men remain in the mead hall.

“They’re only letting off steam,” he tells the queen. “They’ve a long night ahead of them. It is good to laugh before a battle.”

“But if they knock themselves senseless—”

“You really do need to go now, Your Majesty,” and at that he tugs his tunic off over his head and drops it on the floor atop his breastplate.

“What exactly are you doing?” the queen asks, staring perplexed at the pile of clothing and armor. Beowulf has already begun shrugging off his chain mail.

“When Grendel comes, we will fight as equals,” he tells her, and continues to undress. “As I understand it, the creature has no sword, no shield, no helmet. He does not know strategy nor the art of war. And I have been assured that I have no weapon capable of slaying this monster. But I have my teeth, and sinews of my own.”

“But…my Lord Beowulf,” Wealthow protests, and she stoops to retrieve his discarded breastplate. “Your armor.”

“Armor forged of man will only slow me. No. We will fight tonight as equals, this Grendel and I. The Fates will decide. The Norns have already woven their skein, and I cannot undo it, not with leather or cold iron. Let the demon face me unarmed, if he so dares.”

“Do not be foolish. Do not throw your life away, Beowulf. You may be our last hope in all the world.”

“Go now, good queen,” he tells her. “Go to your husband’s bed, before I have my men remove you. Or before I am forced to do it myself.” And now the Geat’s long mail shirt falls nosily to the floor, and he stands before Wealthow, naked save the modesty of a loincloth.

“You would not!” she gasps.

“Aye, it would be my pleasure, though I doubt the king would much approve.”

“Are all the men of your country so brazen?” she asks, and takes a step backward, putting more distance between herself and Beowulf.

“They do their best, though I am generally held to be the worst of the lot.” And now Beowulf can see that Wealthow is blushing, though whether it is at the sight of him unclothed or at his words, he cannot say. “This is my final warning,” he says, and takes a step toward her.

“Very well then, son of Ecgtheow. Do as you will, as I’m quite sure you ever have,” and she hurries away, disappearing through the anteroom door, which she slams shut behind her. He listens while she bolts it from the other side.