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Heroic Poetry: Achievement and Heroic Death in Old English Literature

John M. Hill, U. S. Naval Academy, jhill@usna.edu

Words: 5228

Whether storied in alliterative verse or in efficient prose, the unsaintly, Anglo-Saxon hero is an

outsized figure, more powerful and larger than any other; or, if a woman, more shiningly beautiful and

wise. When dying, the hero dies in a special way, nobly, honorably, and on a high trajectory. Beowulf is

the archetype of that hero, around whom Germanic legendary material clusters: he wears Weland’s

corselet, compares with Sigemund the dragon slayer, and wields a giant made sword successfully against

Grendel’s mother, with which he beheads an already dead Grendel; and of course he fights a fiery

dragon; moreover, his foster family’s losses, especially the accidental slaying of one uncle by another,

may reflect the death of Baldr (North 2006). Judith is his female counterpart in her beheading of

Holofernes; and Earl Byrhtnoth, reputedly quite tall, is the historical figure materialized heroically, that

is, in respect of a genre of heroic poetry, he is retrospectively given an heroic death in a poem

dramatizing his actions at Maldon (991). That genre includes sixty three lines in two fragments of an Old

High German poem we know as the Old English Waldere. There the powerful Walter, armed with

Weland’s sword, his father Ælfere’s gold-adorned mail shirt, and trust in a God Who is ever resolute in

what is Right, challenges his attackers at a mountain pass or perhaps a citadel. Although both of the

longer poems, Maldon and Judith, are incomplete, their plots and Beowulf’s involve some relationship

with the divine, in situations where no one else has triumphed. Always foremost is a need for firm

courage, betokening honor and glory, a courage that usually special armor or swords help enable. The

poetical genre that exists here even invades prose writing, especially the Saxon Chronicle account of

Cynewulf and Cyneheard, however partial the configuration. Beowulf, that temporally profound

meditation on the ethics of kingship, violence and reciprocity in an aristocratic, warrior world, reflects
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the genre fully. In all cases it is as though the genre, not the verbal medium or any particular attitude,

such as fighting at all costs in an unhappy choice of allegiances, is the message.

Courage and special gear matter first with Grendel’s ravages in Heorot, for which confrontation

Beowulf strips off Weland’s mail shirt and puts aside his ornamented sword. For the underwater fight

with Grendel’s mother in her hall, Beowulf descends fully armored. The struggle is intense and going

badly until Beowulf somehow escapes her hold and sees a gigantic sword. With that sword he kills her

and, after searching her hall, beheads an already dead Grendel; then, much later, Beowulf has an iron

shield fashioned for facing the dragon. In Judith, the heroine responds to Holofernes’ tyranny and the

demoralizing siege of Bethulia. Because ever faithful, the wakeful Judith receives God’s favor when she

cries out that she most needs it. This occurs first as God prevents Holoferne’s polluting lust, conveyed in

phrasing reminiscent of how fate counters Grendel’s desires (l. 59); and then, after praying, and when,

like Beowulf, angry in mind and hot in her breast, she receives help again as she calls for God’s

vengeance prior to wielding Holofernes’ sword. Her mind then enlarges to heroic size (“rume on mode,”

l. 97) as hope renews itself in her. She seizes Holofernes by the hair in his drunken stupor; she then pulls

him forward, shaming him. Skillfully or cunningly (“list”) she arranges his body so that she can control it,

exposing his neck to the sword. She strikes twice, earning the heroic epithet, woman of courage and

strength (“ides ellenrof”). Thus heroic strength of mind, of wit and of body is hers in this event, God

granted. By fighting she has attained illustrious glory (“foremærne blæd,” l. 122).

For Byrhtnoth the situation is a Viking threat of bitter, dire slaughter during Aethelred’s late,

tenth-century reign, met initially by Byrhtnoth’s commanding boldness and his skills with shield and

sword. He kills Vikings, thanks God for that, before being cut down. In all cases, lesser figures matter,

both those who are foils to the hero, or accompany him or her, as do Byrhtnoth’s trusted retainers, or

come to his aid, as Wiglaf does against Beowulf’s dragon. A female figure, presumably, Hildegund in
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Waldere, urges Walter on, announcing that now is the day to win long-lasting fame. And Judith’s

companion maid carries a sack into which Judith puts Holofernes’ head, the two of them then making

their way out of the drink-befuddled, Assyrian camp. We know that Judith triumphantly returns to

Bethulia, and receives considerable material reward of a martial sort, especially Holofernes’ sword,

blood-stained helmet, gold-trimmed mailcoat, along with many other gleaming treasures, after the

people she successfully urged to attack the now leaderless Assyrians return triumphant. Judith seems to

be coming to a close as she thanks the Lord of Hosts for her worldly renown and recompense in heaven,

the reward of victory. In what we have she does not die, so we cannot be sure how the poem might

have ended, although in the Vulgate story she lives chaste for a very long time, her eventual death

mourned for seven days. All the time of her life no one troubled Israel (much as with Beowulf during his

fifty-year rule). If the Old English poem ends in a way fitting for the genre, Judith would give her martial

goods to a successor or else her people would bury them with her, perhaps erecting a grave monument

to her.

Similarly, we do not know how matters turn out for Walter but genre-guided surmise suggests

two possibilities. Though rushing into battle fiercely, Walter survives, defeating Guthere, who has

boasted and unrightfully first sought battle, having spurned offerings of sword and treasure (ll. 27-28).

Walter triumphs gloriously, winning long-lasting fame, after Hildegund’s prompting, because of his trust

in the great sword Mimming, in his father’s golden armor, and in God’s help for himself. Thanking God

for that victory, he and Hildegund prosper somewhere. Because her strong urging differs greatly from

comparable moments in the Walter of Aquitaine poem, where she suggests that Walter cut her throat

so that she will not, should he lose, suffer the embrace of any other man, and then later, timidly, that

Walter flee his approaching enemies (Magoun 1950, pp. 16, 31), the Old English poem is likely a

significant variant in relation to analogues. Should Walter lose, he likely dies fighting after being too

bold (as in “to fyrenlice,” Waldere, l. 20) in rushing his enemies, although as hero he would succeed in
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killing Guthere; after thanking God for all of his worldly joys, and ministered to by his beloved, now

mournful Hildegund, he would first arrange the passing on of his gold and armor, and then his own

funeral and perhaps the erection of a monument.

Interactions with lesser figures produce songs of loyalty and show off the hero who, while

mortal, is not beyond criticism, thus not deified: there is pride in Byrhtnoth when he invites battle,

yielding too much land to the Vikings; scorn in Beowulf as he disdains avoiding the dragon; too much

battle ferocity in Walter; and a shining beauty that incites lust in Judith’s case. The hero lives on a

different horizon than mere warriors do, spurning sensible advice, reflected only implicitly in Judith

given the case of doubtful or else wavering watchmen, who just sit, those mournful people

(“geomormod,”), awaiting Judith’s return from the Assyrian camp. Those watchmen recall the unsure

waiting of Beowulf’s retainers for his emergence from the blood-suffused lake, as well as the waiting of

those mind-sad (“mod-geomor”) Geats for the return or not of their beloved lord from the dragon fight.

But Judith, while sporting much heroic diction, especially in depictions of battle, is a hybrid. Heroic, the

poem is also a religious narrative of God-given strength and courage against debased power – sharing

that connection with Waldere, where Walter invokes trust in God’s power against his foes. Judith’s

diction for God is of a piece with other religious poems and Judith herself is almost goddess-like, being

elf-shining, curly-haired, trinitarian, and then courageous and wise (Griffith 1997, ll. 11-13; 77-125).

About Beowulf, whose huge strength has been a potential danger (Gwara 2008), Wiglaf

gnomically says that often many “eorls” will suffer the will of one. In our case, he continues, we could

not dissuade Beowulf from seeking the dragon. Our dear lord, the kingdom’s guardian, held to his high

destiny (l. 3084). That destiny first showed itself when wise men among the Geats cast omens, assessing

Beowulf’s luck (“hæl”) in his decision to seek out Hrothgar, that battle-king, because Hrothgar has need

of men (“manna þearf,” l. 201). Unlike the more personal need in Judith, that invoking of “need” in
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Beowulf marks an heroic world obligation on the part of a hugely powerful warrior, who is the strongest

of men in those days of this life. Such “need” calls for help from right thinking heroes and warriors,

whether already in a reciprocal relationship with the lord who needs help or not. Danes practice it as

their internal custom (l. 1250); concerning “need,”Unferth lends the venom blade, the blood hardened

Hrunting to Beowulf for the watery encounter with Grendel’s mother (l. 1456); Beowulf invokes the

obligation when in his leave-taking he promises to return again should Hrothgar have need of men (l.

1835); Wiglaf invokes it in his speech before going to Beowulf’s aid against the dragon (l. 2637); and in

Wiglaf’s actions it becomes a point of praiseworthy obligation: such should a man be, a thane in time of

need (l. 2709). Having vowed a deed of valor against Grendel, or else end his life in Heorot, Beowulf

receives a guardian’s stewardship of the hall. He then, trusting in his great strength and God’s favor,

strips down and disarms himself for the expected encounter, putting aside his ornamented sword

because chivalrously supposing that Grendel knows nothing about sword fighting. Holy God, he says to

his retainers, will decide as He deems best. While waiting for Grendel, all but Beowulf fall asleep.

Enraged and awaiting the outcome of battle, he keeps an heroic wakefulness (much as Judith is awake

when the drunken Holofernes is not). Afterwards, Beowulf apologizes for failing to keep Grendel in the

hall; God did not will it. However, he is sure that, having left arm and shoulder behind, Grendel is in

death’s grip and, dead, will have to await God’s judgment. The great hero, for all his strengths of mind

and body, is appropriately aware of a greater power, here as elsewhere, although he says nothing of the

sort before seeking out Grendel’s mother (that point is left, for a later moment, and for the poet, ll.

1553-55).

We know from Beowulf’s perspective that he both scorned to meet the dragon and considered

this fateful moment his alone – a luck (“hælo”) he has somehow drawn for himself, wishing better luck

for his dear men (l. 2418), whom he would keep safe from harm (l. 2529), having them observe who will

better survive the rush of battle. While this luck now differs greatly in feel from those omens wise men
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among the Geats read a long time ago, it is not a judgment. Though sensing the nearness of death,

Beowulf heroically steels himself for the occasion. He will not retreat a foot nor will he, while resolute in

spirit, boast against the dragon.

When Beowulf and Wiglaf combine to kill the dragon, Beowulf having suffered a terrible wound,

we are told that this is the last time of victory (l. 2710) for that lord. Though a combined effort, this is

Beowulf’s victory. His becomes, then, an heroic death in the final minutes of which he, described as

wise-minded (“wishygend,” l. 2716), first observes the scene, contemplating the giant stonework around

the mouth of the dragon’s cave, seemingly solid forever, as man’s life is not. We learn then that Wiglaf

bathes the swelling, poisoned wound of his weakening, dear lord, removing Beowulf’s helmet. That

intimate, heart-felt tending moves Beowulf to speak in the sad knowledge that he has reached the end

of his days, the end of earth’s joys. Never a stupendously powerful idiot, Beowulf now offers something

more than a fierce warrior’s death quip. His is a hero’s last will and testament, beginning with the

thought that he would give his battle gear to a son, if he had one of his body. He then rouses himself to

assert how well he ruled his people for fifty years – a momentary assertion of self against imminent

mortality. No king among surrounding peoples, he adds, dared try battle terror against him. His fifty

years were largely ones, then, of domestic rule, the ethical quality of which is a source of pride: he held

his own well, not seeking intrigue or swearing false oaths. Although sick with his death wound, he takes

ethical pleasure in reflecting upon his rule. The Ruler of men need not charge him, he says, with the

baleful murder of kin, apparently what intrigue and false oaths would involve or lead to.

Satisfied with that, he has now a pressing concern: that Wiglaf bring up some of the dragon’s

treasure so that by looking upon that wealth he can more easily give up life and long rule. When Wiglaf

returns with an armful of cups, dishes and the brightest of battle standards, perhaps choosing the latter

to especially honor his great lord, Beowulf, now weakening further and described as old in his pain,
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thanks the Lord, the King of Glories, the eternal Lord for what he sees, for what he has gained. This full

statement comes close to religious exultation as Beowulf takes pleasure in having acquired such

treasures for his people before he dies (“minum leodum,” l. 2799). His people are much on his mind,

the phrase repeating a few lines later as Beowulf utters his next and penultimate concern – that Wiglaf

should have a barrow erected for him on Whale’s Cliff, a memorial for his people. He wants it

prominently rising where sailors can see it, sailors who will call it Beowulf’s barrow as they drive their

ships out over the dark sea.

His last request is both a bequest and a dauntless statement of transcience. That bold-minded

lord (“þristhydig”), as though in an aggressive move, gives his great, gold neck ring to Wiglaf, along with

his golden helmet, rings and mail shirt, bidding that he use them well (“het hyne brucan well,” l. 2812).

His is a powerful legal injunction, used much earlier when he passed on four, splendid gifts from

Hrothgar to Hygelac upon his return home from the Grendel adventure (l. 2162). In effect, Beowulf

passes on war band leadership to this young spear-warrior of his. His final words pronounce their

kinship, that Wiglaf is the last of their people, the Wægmundings, presumably on his illustrious father’s

side Ecgþeo (although alliterating names do not directly tie Wiglaf and his father, Wihstan, to Beowulf’s

father). Fate has swept away all the others at their appointed time, those brave earls. And now I, he

says, will follow after, as though he will go just as boldly as they did, death being the last adventure.

The burial rites and the mound erected for Beowulf testify beyond his life to his heroic status,

bringing together an ancient past – the dragon’s treasures, some burned on Beowulf’s pyre, others

placed into the barrow with Beowulf’s ashes– and an honoring present as Geat nobles ride around the

barrow fittingly praising their friendly lord. Although the poet notes that treasure in the barrow is now

as useless as it once was, the Geats must think otherwise as they thereby honor their great lord.

Additionally, they lovingly weave a word song expansively and uniquely in the poem for their king,
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fittingly praising his nobility and valorous works, something of which the poet ethically approves. They

end by saying that he was, of the kings of this world, most generous, most harmonious, most kindred-

kind to his people, and most eager for fame. Not even Scyld Scefing magnificently sent out to sea with

treasures and golden banner received as signified a send off. The barrow itself sits prominently on a

headland, a beacon for sailors, thereby memorializing what has passed and having a purchase on the

future (Williams 2006). Through their praise, the funeral links Beowulf’s people to the deeper heroic

past and, as they circle the barrow, memorializes the expansive kingship values for which Beowulf lived

and died.

As for the Maldon hero, Paul Cavell (2011) compares Byrthnoth’s actions to those of Edmund in

the Passio Sancti Edmundi: both stories highlight the singular nature of the hero and his rejection of

common sense. The hero pursues his necessary trajectory (Cavell, p. 117). In each secular case of great

fatality, retainers help as they can, Wiglaf in Beowulf’s case, where a song of loyalty and obligation

arises, and the two, Aelfnoth and Wulfmær, who die flanking the dying Byrhtnoth (ll. 181-4). Their

deaths in part spur the many still left, after the stark alternatives of a passage on those who fled: flee or

else stay and avenge one’s dear lord, or die trying; that in turn soon modulates into laying one’s life

down next to his. Wiglaf comes to Beowulf’s aid, surviving the dragon’s rush, though sacrificing a burnt

hand, for which he gains a new status. Before the fight he sings his heroic motive. Unable to hold back,

he declares what he and the others promised in the mead hall: to repay Beowulf in his time of need for

gifts of gear, helmets and swords, by means of which Beowulf honored them. God knows, he adds, that

he personally for that gear would much rather embrace the dragon’s fire with dear Beowulf than behave

in ways he denounces: that is, bear his shield home without first confronting the foe that threatens the

life of his lord (ll. 2633-55).

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Retainers step forward to avenge Byrhtnoth’s death or die trying, for which they gain a life-

transcending glory–true to their lord during his life and recommitted now in the face of his death.

Woven through these plots is an admonitory message and two genre points: what should those do who

follow? And what kind of lord is worth following? The answer: one’s great, generous lord, who is

heroically vigorous when attacked and whom one should support in whatever way one can. One should

win status and renown if possible; otherwise one should become a martyr, or at least an icon, to

retainer loyalty. In prose tales that message includes one of victory as long as one does not follow one’s

lord’s killer. We see this in a prose account of heroic strife between Cynewulf, Cyneheard and their

retainers (entered in the Saxon Chronicle A for 755); in the story of Aethelwold’s rebellion (Saxon

Chronicle A entries for 901 and 905); and in the Finn episode in Beowulf. When the great war leader,

King Cynewulf, spies an ambush while visiting a compound where his mistress lives, mention of whom is

an implied criticism, he heroically rushes out (“ut ræsde”) upon his attackers, severely wounding their

leader, Cyneheard, before being cut down. The few retainers who accompanied him, and who no doubt

vowed support in the mead hall, do no less, despite an offer of settlement from Cyneheard. They die

furiously fighting Cynewulf’s attackers, all except for a Welsh hostage. They thus act out their heroic

obligation. Cynewulf’s men accepted mead from Cynewulf and so they do not accept Cyneheard’s offer.

They keep to the drink confirmed kinship and reciprocity of the mead hall, heatedly upholding the

faithful law of retainer-kinship with their lord. Cyneheard, the attacker, then holds the compound

against other men of Cynewulf’s, who come in the morning to avenge Cynewulf’s death. Again

Cyneheard offers terms, noting that the opposed groups have kinsmen in common. They reject his terms

while offering safe passage to those who are their kinsmen, who in turn refuse that offer, preferring to

stay with Cyneheard. Thus a principle of retainer loyalty triumphs, as well as one of competitive honor.

The men who are with Cyneheard say they will no more abandon their lord than did those men who
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were slain with Cynewulf. Cyneheard and all who are with him then die in the subsequent attack, except

for one, Osric’s godson (Osric is one of Cynewulf’s loyal thanes).

Right loyalty to a king prevails here, as it does in the dispute between King Alfred’s successor

and Alfred’s nephew (entered for 991 and following in the Saxon Chronicle). But there Edweard, Alfred’s

successor, is not slain and eventually Aethelwold, the rebellious nephew, dies when confronted by the

men of Kent. Although some scholars think stories like Cynewulf and Cyneheard circulated as heroic,

saga-type literature before and during the Alfredian period (Stenton 1977, p. 209), the Saxon Chronicle

instance and the Aethelwold story are politically inflected prose, although, if turned into poetry, they

would resemble an extended moment in Beowulf – the Finn episode, during which Danes suffer an

ambush in which their lord, Finn’s brother-in-law, is killed.

The Danes last through a winter in close quarters, in a truce with their lord’s slayer, before

taking revenge. They then annihilate Finn’s men and his allied Jutes, returning home with Finn’s treasure

and his queen, their princess. A forty-eight line fragment, in an early eighteenth-century copy exists,

probably from a version of this story, The Fight at Finnsburh. There we have heroic boasts as Danes

discover hostile warriors massed outside their hall. A close siege ensues at the doors of the hall; the

fighting lasts for at least five days. The poet says he has never heard of young warriors fighting more

worthily in repayment for the mead Hnæf gave them, a sentiment reminiscent of Wiglaf’s motives for

helping a beleaguered Beowulf against the dragon. Chronologically, heroic poetry in the tenth century

moves in two directions: into the victory verse we call The Battle of Brunanburh along with a much

shorter poem, The Five Boroughs Poem, before giving us the fatal rededication of loyal retainers in The

Battle of Maldon.

Brunanburh, Saxon Chronicle A for 937, celebrates noble lordship and martial settlement. One

defends hoard, home and lands against a reign of terror, in this case a Viking-Scot invasion, establishing
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boundaries in doing so. That settlement, furthermore, intensifies kinship bonds where they already exist

between King Aethelstan and prince Edmund, thus partially reconstructing them. Warfare as a clash of

weapons is a kind of law expressed in images of blood and God’s candle, the sun, a sign of victory. That

theme finds reinforcement in the next poetical entry celebrating Edmund’s victory in the five boroughs.

The poem explicitly states the motif of freeing men from the bondage of Norse oppression; while

expanding kingly dominion, Edmund, that protector of warriors, frees Danes. Both poems comprise an

intense political argument for the primacy of West Saxon kings. Phrases invoke an heroic past, as in

Brunanburh’s celebration of victorious battle, such that never has there been greater slaughter, so

books say, since Angles and Saxons first seized the land, proud war smiths overcoming the Welsh (ll. 72-

73). The heroic past is here revived in the present. That is, myth, history, and heroic poetry form part of

an extended present that would seize the future, as inflected from the ruling perspectives of a

triumphant, West Saxon dynasty (Hill 2000). In that respect, Brunanburh shares with Widsith a

reflective, albeit aggressive, concern for an emerging, Anglo-Saxon social order, which asserts status

given a formative, legendary past (Niles 1999). In genre, though, Widsith lacks heroic action, being a

catalogue poem praising the generosity of some kings and queens rather than others. It showcases a

poet’s conferring of fame or infamy on legendary figures, without which they would have been

forgotten.

Unlike Homeric heroes, the Anglo-Saxon poetical hero is not partially divine, nor does he or she

in some way usurp or else defy the powers of a legitimate, righteous king (think of Achilles opposing

Agamemnon). Beowulf serves both Hrothgar and Hygelac, his uncle, as well as his cousin, Heardred.

Byrthnoth serves Aethelred, Judith beheads a besotted tyrant, and Walter escapes Guthere’s clutches.

Cynewulf is a legitimate king in his own right and Hengest and the half-Danes in Beowulf disentangle

themselves from a terrible truce with Finn. The hero is mortal and recognizes God’s power – as decider

and as protector, through whose strength granted Judith prevails against Holofernes, to Whom
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Byrhtnoth prays intensely in his last moments for the safe passage of his freed soul, and to Whom, in

several boasts that are vows rather than braggadochio, Beowulf defers (though not prior to pursuing

Grendel’s mother).

When divinity becomes integrated into the hero’s tests and triumphs, as with Judith, we have

something almost hagiographical (Cavell 2011), which the Byrhtnoth story anticipates. In this connection

one should note Byrhtferth’s late tenth or early eleventh-century account of how the lord’s mercy

sustained Byrhtnoth because he was worthy and so did not need Aaron and Hur, Exodus 17.12 (Lapidge

1991). Yet as Aaron serves Moses, so Byrhtnoth serves King Aethelred. Moreover, although not

hagiographical, there is a deep plot determinant in Beowulf’s case. He is a culture hero whom one can

hardly imitate, coming out of an Indo-European matrix Dumézil (1988) sketches for us, eventually

combining as he does three functions: a ruler function, a warrior/guardian function, and a fertility

function (purging hall and mere of pollution, much as Judith slays Holofernes, who was intent on

polluting her). Those functions are dramatized in linear order: first the warrior and fertility functions,

then the king function when he rules his own people, although, true to the warrior function, he will seek

the dragon alone, following the luck he has drawn, and spare his beloved men that danger.

In that respect, Byrhtnoth does not follow the heroic archetype, that is, taking on the battle as

his alone. As the peoples’ lord, he arrays his army and shows his men how to stand, shield in hand. He

urges them not to fear. Then he alights from his horse there where his trusted, household troops are.

Byrhtnoth, Aethelred’s thane, fights for his king, while his men fight for him. That puts him in a

leadership position he handles well as he arranges guards for the ford the Vikings must use, placing his

army so Vikings cannot cross. The Vikings, seeing their predicament, cunningly ask for passage.

Byrhtnoth relents, in his pride, we are told. Yet he calls out what God alone knows: the outcome

beforehand of battle. In that call he heroically makes himself prominent.

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When battle begins, Byrhtnoth encourages his men, urging a focus on glory against the Danes.

Hardly thinking he will lose, he steps forward, heroically resolute, toward an advancing Viking, each

intending evil, much as hate arises when Beowulf calls out the dragon. The Viking wounds Byrhtnoth

with a spear thrust; but the earl’s shield skill saves the moment, breaking the spear. He kills the Viking,

and then a second one, which gladdens him. Laughing, he thanks God for the day’s work God has given

him (much as the Life-Lord gives worldly honor in Beowulf). A second phase develops as a flying javelin

pierces him, a spear that a comrade plucks out and returns, killing the Viking who threw it. Meanwhile,

another Viking attacks, meaning to seize Byrhtnoth’s golden armor; beleaguered in this third phase, as

Beowulf was against the thrice attacking dragon, although in the third attack aided by Wiglaf (ll. 2669-

2706), Byrhtnoth fights back, drawing his sword and striking the Viking, only to have yet another Viking

cut off the sword arm. While still exhorting his men, he feels infirm and so begins a prayer of thanks for

all the worldly joy he has had, a prayer in which he hopes further that the Lord will grant grace to his

soul on its journey to Him, so that it may travel in peace, unharried by hell-spirits (ll. 173-180).

That prayer’s opening further aligns him with Beowulf’s last fight and dying moments, during

which Beowulf thanks the Lord for the treasure he won for his people. We are later told that Beowulf’s

soul seeks the judgment of the righteous. But in Byrhtnoth’s case a special issue has arisen, a personal

need much like Judith’s for God’s protection. Byrhtnoth says he has the greatest of needs on behalf of

his spirit (“mæste þearfe,” l. 175), thus invoking that heroic world obligation but now transferred to

God. His mood may be anxious, as Fred Robinson (1979) has argued; it at least reflects an intense desire,

a beseeching of the generous, merciful Lord of Angels. After his prayer, heathens kill Byrhtnoth, along

with the two warriors who flanked him (ll.132-184). Although Byrthnoth’s death only merits a laconic

entry in the Saxon Chronicle for 991, and his burial at Ely is said to be in a place of honor, the poem in

effect is his memorial monument, by which he is given an heroic death.

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Moreover, that heroic stand has yielded a compelling triptych: Byrhtnoth and two warriors

alongside him, forming a stark image the loyal survivors now contemplate, each in a particular way. They

must turn retainer loyalty to their lord firmly away from the psychologically understandable desire to

save their lives. They then express that loyalty as a recommitment. As a group their speeches and

reactions recall vows in the mead hall and social status, while invoking every personal tie and obligation

possible in their world, aside from marriage and in-law relations. Those ties even include a political

hostage’s loyalty to his host. All the ties, then, that bind characters in heroic story, and man to man in

society, are then dramatically opposed to the shame of lord-less ingratitude. The poet knits them

together to underwrite a new ideal of reciprocal loyalty unto death, a suicidal ideal that goes beyond the

initial urge to avenge Byrhtnoth. When Offa, one of the loyal retainers, is said to lie “thanely” near his

lord (l. 294), the original tableau of Byrhtnoth flanked by two retainers becomes the ultimate meaning

of being a thane. Indeed, as Byrhtwald says late, in the most moving of speeches, may he mourn who

even thinks to turn from the war play. Rather than leave he, Byrhtwald, thinks only to lie by the side of

his beloved lord, thus reenacting the feelings of love if not the mournful actions of those Geats circling

Beowulf’s barrow. Rededicated loyalty unto death has become the ultimate meaning of warrior

devotion.

References

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