“The lord of Mercia will know now that his men were pursued,” he said. “Penda will be forewarned that the element of surprise is no longer his.”
Attor nodded glumly.
“I know not how it is that Penda has been able to gather his forces here, but we cannot allow him to travel further within Bernicia unchecked.” Beobrand scratched the back of his head beneath his long fair hair. It was wet with sweat. Staring into the distance of the horizon, he wondered whether he merely imagined the smudge of a grey feather of smoke there.
“What would you have us do, lord?” asked Fraomar.
Beobrand turned to him. Fraomar met his gaze with an open, intelligent stare. He was a good man, quick-witted, and the rest of the gesithas looked up to him, despite being younger than most of them.
“You are to take the men, Fraomar, and check on the movements of Penda and his warhost.”
“Lord,” replied Fraomar, his pleasure at being given command clear on his face.
“You are to watch them, in secret, if possible. Should small bands ride out and you think you can take them, do so. If you can weaken the host in any way, do it. But I leave it to you to keep my warband intact. That means no undue risks. Watch them. Harry them, if you can. But do not throw your lives away. If they try to attack, to draw you out, you are to retreat, marking their position and the direction of travel, so that Oswiu and the fyrd can find them. You understand?”
Fraomar nodded earnestly. Beobrand trusted him to do what was needed.
“And you, lord?” asked Fraomar. “What will you do?”
“I will return with Cynan to where we left Brinin and Halinard. We shall take Brinin to Bebbanburg. The monks there can tend his wound, and I will warn King Oswiu of the approach of the Mercian and Waelisc host.”
Cynan opened his mouth as if to say something, but a stern glare from Beobrand silenced him before he spoke. He nodded, his face expressionless.
“The moment Penda’s host is on the move, send word,” Beobrand ordered.
“To Ubbanford, lord?” asked Fraomar.
“No. I will remain at Bebbanburg while the fyrd is assembled. Send a rider there.”
Beobrand turned Sceadugenga eastward and kicked the stallion into a canter. He did not notice the glance that passed between Cynan and Fraomar at his words. With a nod to the young gesith, the Waelisc warrior spurred his already tired mare after his lord.
Chapter 3
Cynan soon caught up with Beobrand. They had not travelled far. The stand of alders where they had spent the night was still in sight.
“Lord,” Cynan called. “My horse needs rest.”
Beobrand turned in his saddle. For an instant, his face was dark with anger, but after a heartbeat, he sighed and pulled on his reins to slow his fine black stallion.
“Must we halt?” he asked.
“Yes, lord,” Cynan replied, keeping his tone meek. He knew Beobrand well. Impatience would be eating at him. Any provocation now could spark his wrath into flame. “At least for a time,” he continued. “Mierawin needs water and some grain. And I will brush her down.”
Cynan knew that Sceadugenga could run all day without seeming to tire, and his own steed, the mare he called Mierawin, was as fine a piece of horseflesh as could be found in Bernicia. And yet he had ridden her hard all that morning, and to push her further without respite would likely see her winded, lame, or worse.
“If we rest in the shade of the trees a while,” Cynan said, “we can ride on in the afternoon and reach Halinard and Brinin before sundown.”
Beobrand stared at him for a moment, and Cynan could sense his simmering ire at being slowed. Cynan met his gaze, riding easily beside him. Beobrand was no fool. He knew that to push on without thought for the horses would almost certainly see them reach their destination more slowly than if they rested Cynan’s mount.
With a curse, Beobrand spat and yanked Sceadugenga’s reins, guiding him back to the alders where they had camped. Glancing behind, Cynan saw a haze of dust lingering in the air over the hill. The only reminder of the passing of the warband that had disappeared over the brow of the rise and ridden into the west.
They rode into the cool shade beneath the trees and Cynan was not surprised when Beobrand slid from his saddle without a word and stalked off down to the small brook that trickled over slick pebbles in the gully. Cynan let out a slow breath, glad he would not have to contend with his lord’s anger for the time being. Beobrand had ever been prone to dark moods and flares of anger, but recently things had become much worse. Ever since the attack in Eoferwic the previous year, he had been on edge. Where once he would have sat contentedly drinking, riddling and playing tafl with his gesithas, now he would often pace the length of the hall. He had also taken to more frequent rides on Sceadugenga. He would saddle the stallion himself before dawn and ride far over the hills and moors of Bernicia. He wished to be alone, Cynan knew, but he had taken it on himself to protect his lord and he always rode after him, no matter how much Beobrand protested. Cynan would follow from a distance and keep Beobrand always in sight. Beobrand often ignored him now, accepting Cynan as his shadow, and sometimes entire days would go by without them uttering a word.
Beobrand had much to concern him, Cynan knew. He had the responsibilities of a thegn. He was hlaford to the folk of Ubbanford and Stagga. And his relationship with his sworn lord, Oswiu, was troubled. There was no secret there. He had made many powerful enemies, and following the attack in Eoferwic, it appeared even those far away over the Whale Road were seeking to kill him.
In the summer after the attempt on Beobrand’s life by Vulmar’s servants, the seaman, Ferenbald, had sailed up the Tuidi in the sleek ship, Saeslaga. He bore trade goods from Cantware and Frankia: pungent incense, wax-sealed earthenware pots of sweet wine, aromatic spices, fine linen, and pottery. But more importantly, he brought tidings.
“I have been to Rodomo,” he said to Beobrand in the great hall of Ubbanford. His unruly mane of hair and bushy beard gave him the appearance of a shaggy bear, rather than a man. “I did not remain long there.”
“What of Feologild?” asked Beobrand. “Does he yet hold our treasure, or has the old bastard sold it all for profit?” When they had fled from Rodomo, pursued by Vulmar’s warriors and pirates, they had left behind a dragon’s hoard of gold and silver in the warehouse of Feologild, a merchant from Cantware.
“Feologild did not sell your treasure, Beobrand,” Ferenbald said, but despite what should have been good news, his features did not reflect pleasure. He frowned and cast his gaze downward. He sighed. “Feologild is dead. Accused of treason, he was tried and found guilty. He was executed publicly before the steps of Our Lady of the Assumption in Rodomo.”
Cynan could remember clearly Beobrand’s expression at hearing this. His brow had knitted, his jaw clenched. His face was thunder and his knuckles had grown white where he had gripped his drinking horn with savage fury.
“Vulmar’s doing,” Beobrand said, his tone dripping venom. It was a statement, not a question.
“Aye, and there is more,” Ferenbald said. “You must guard against a murderer’s blade, my friend. Vulmar has offered a man’s weight in silver for your head. You are far from Frankia, it is true, but for that prize many men would risk sailing north. You must be careful.”
“I always am,” Beobrand said, and after a brief moment of silence, without warning, all the men within the hall laughed as one. If there was one thing the lord of Ubbanford was not, it was careful.
When the mirth subsided, Beobrand shrugged.
“Well, when I am not careful, I am lucky. Isn’t that what they say? I will not be killed by some Frankish ruffian come to claim a reward for my death. And perhaps you need a faster ship, Ferenbald.”
The skipper from Cantware had frowned. The Saeslaga was high-prowed, with curving strakes. It was a beautiful vessel and as fast a wave-steed as had ever sailed.
“Indeed?” he asked. “How so?”
“Your
tidings are a month too late.”
“You knew of Feologild’s death?”
Beobrand shook his head.
“No, but five of Vulmar’s thugs tried to slay me in Eostremonath in Eoferwic. Next time, they had better send a dozen.”
The men had clapped and cheered at their lord’s bravado, but Cynan had slept but lightly these last months and he did not allow Beobrand to stray far from his side.
Jumping to the ground, Cynan tethered both horses. He loosened Sceadugenga’s girth and then set about currying Mierawin. He removed her saddle and brushed her sides with handfuls of long grass, cleaning away the foaming sweat from her flanks. The animal’s skin quivered and trembled beneath his touch.
Cynan was tense. The sight of Penda’s host had unsettled him. He had stood in many shieldwalls and was not one to frighten easily. But he had never before faced such a horde. The camp had thronged with hundreds of Mercian and Waelisc warriors. Campfires smoked lazily and banners hung lank in the still air. Attor had said it was a smaller force than they had faced at Maserfelth, but Cynan did not know whether to believe him. Surely no larger army had ever been assembled. But the mention of Maserfelth, where Oswald had fallen and Northumbria had suffered a terrible defeat, filled him with sadness and dismay. He had missed the battle and still wondered whether things might have gone differently if he had been there. Bassus scoffed at him when he’d mentioned this to him once after they had both drunk too much mead.
“So you think that you alone would have changed the course of the battle where so many others failed?” Bassus’ tone had been incredulous.
“Not alone,” Cynan stammered. “Bearn was with me. And a score of others… If we could have fought in the shieldwall at Maserfelth, perhaps Oswald would yet live. Maybe Acennan…” He trailed off then, thinking of the man who had trained him to fight. Acennan had been like a father to him, or an older brother. Cynan had loved him as if he were kin and his loss in the aftermath of Maserfelth had weighed heavily on him.
“You are a good warrior, Cynan,” Bassus said, refilling both of their drinking horns with the strong mead that Odelyna brewed. “Perhaps you are even a great warrior, but you cannot blame yourself for what takes place in your absence. Such pride is foolishness. You are but a man.” He grinned. “And a damned Waelisc one at that!”
Cynan had laughed dutifully at the jibe about his heritage. He knew Bassus meant nothing by his words, but still they stung. Whenever one of the gesithas insulted the Waelisc, Cynan would bite his tongue, choking back the words he wished to shout at them. Surely each man should be judged on his actions, his honour, his oaths. He had ever been faithful to his oath-sworn lord and had stood steadfast in battle, shield to shield with his Black Shield brothers, and still they would jeer at his accent, at the sing-song lilt of his voice.
“To imagine what might have been is enough to drive a man mad,” Bassus went on, before taking a great swig of mead. “You can only walk down one path, no matter how many forks you pass in the road. You can never go back and retrace your steps. To think of what you might have missed along the way is foolish.”
Cynan finished rubbing Mierawin’s flanks and fetched some oats from his saddlebags. He placed some in his helm and offered them to the horse, who dipped her nose into the iron receptacle and snuffled at the contents.
Despite the wisdom of Bassus’ words, Cynan often found himself wondering what his life might have been like if he had taken different decisions. He did not regret following Beobrand and Acennan all those years ago. They’d offered him a new life, and he had been accepted and respected as a gesith of Bernicia in a way he could never have dreamed of when he was a thrall in Grimbold’s hall.
But one moment plagued his memories. And he was unable to prevent himself from entertaining dreams of what might have been. He recalled the sight of Sulis walking away from him, disappearing into the gloaming of dusk. She had not looked back and he still remembered keenly the sense of loss he’d felt as the Mercian woman, so fragile and broken from what had taken place, had touched his cheek and called him a fool, before walking out of his life. He had thought then about chasing after her, building a life away from Beobrand and his new family of gesithas. But he had not. Cynan knew then what he yet understood. He could not turn away from the oath he had sworn; could not forsake Beobrand, the lord of Ubbanford, the sometimes brutal man who had given him everything.
When they had discovered Sulis, Beobrand could have taken Cynan’s life. Gods, he would have been within his rights to do so as Cynan had placed himself between his lord and the trembling thrall woman, refusing to allow Beobrand to mete out justice. And yet, Beobrand had stayed his hand and allowed Cynan to remain with him even after the Waelisc gesith had defied him.
Cynan wondered for how long Sulis’ face would haunt his memories. They had never been lovers, but her fragile toughness had entranced him, and the weft of her had woven itself into his thoughts and dreams.
Beobrand was trudging up from the stream. The cloud of ire had lifted and he offered Cynan a thin smile. Cynan nodded, leading the horses down to drink.
Sulis had cast some secret spell on him so that he could not forget her. It was a kind of madness. Or magic, perhaps. But as Beobrand approached, Cynan knew he was not alone in such folly. The men whispered about Beobrand’s obsession, but were too nervous of his infamous fury to broach the subject. And yet it was no secret amongst them that they had visited Bebbanburg more frequently of late than ever before. Where Beobrand once was content to stay away from the royal household, now he made every effort to visit. He said it was to see his son, Octa, who was fostered by the king, but they all knew there was another reason. One with golden hair and swaying hips. The allure was evident for all men to see, and yet so was the danger. They feared for their lord and they spoke in worried whispers about what would befall them, should the king discover that which was so clear to any who looked.
Sceadugenga snorted, shaking his mane. Beobrand reached out his mutilated left hand and stroked the stallion’s soft nose.
“How long until we can be on our way?” he asked.
Cynan paused a moment, pondering the possibilities.
“After the horses are watered, let us wait a while more. We will have time to reach Halinard and Brinin before nightfall. If Brinin is no worse, we should make good time tomorrow.”
Beobrand said nothing, but took Sceadugenga’s reins and followed Cynan down to the stream. It was cool by the water, the burbling of the brook soothing. The horses lowered their snouts, drinking thirstily. After a time, Cynan pulled Mierawin up from the burn. Too much of the cold water at once could cause the horse to sicken.
“What is it you would say to me?” Beobrand said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.
“Lord?” Cynan was ever wary around Beobrand. He was all too aware of how quickly a misplaced word could cause his anger to flare.
“You have wanted to say something to me for some time,” Beobrand said. “What is it?”
Cynan sighed. He turned, leading Mierawin back to the trees. It was easier to speak when not looking Beobrand in the eye.
“We are heading to Bebbanburg?”
“You know this to be true. We must inform the king of what we have discovered. The fyrd must be summoned.”
“But is the king not in Caer Luel?” Oswiu, with a large retinue of thegns and gesithas, had travelled west the previous month to visit the royal vills and to collect tribute. The journey to Caer Luel was long and there had been no sign of the king’s return.
“Of course. You speak true,” Beobrand replied. Cynan thought he detected a slight hesitation in his words. “And yet travel to Bebbanburg we must. Ethelwin is there. He will summon the fyrd. And lead the levies into battle, if it comes to that, which I fear it will. Penda is never one to leave without a fight.”
Cynan tethered Mierawin to a low branch, leaving enough slack in the reins for the animal to crop the grass in the dappled shade.
&nb
sp; “Oh yes, Ethelwin,” he said. “The warmaster. Of course.”
“What is it you wish to say, Cynan?” Beobrand asked, his voice low and cold. “Speak plainly, man. We are alone here.”
“All I am saying, lord, is that there is much at stake. For you, for us all. For Bernicia. With Penda marching once more, there will be no time for distractions.”
He risked looking at Beobrand and was met with an icy glare, the blue eyes glinting angrily.
“I know my duty, Cynan,” Beobrand spat. “Make sure you know yours.”
Cynan held Beobrand’s gaze.
“Just be careful, lord. I beseech you.”
“You know me,” Beobrand said, a half-smile playing on his lips. “I am always careful.”
Chapter 4
Seeing the crag of Bebbanburg rising over the North Sea before them, Beobrand could hold himself back no longer.
“See that Brinin is tended to as soon as you arrive,” he said to Halinard and Cynan. His daughter’s husband would recover, he was sure. The young man was still weak, and in pain, but Halinard had seen to his wound while they had awaited Beobrand’s return. The Frank had boiled water and cleaned the cut, binding it with clean cloths and changing them frequently, as they had seen the monks of Lindisfarena do. The gash was still raw and open, but it had none of the stench that came after becoming elf-shot.
Beobrand swept his gaze across the three men. Brinin’s face was pale and Beobrand felt a flash of anger at having been held back by the injured youth. Without him slowing them down, they could have reached Bebbanburg a day, or perhaps even two, earlier.
Without waiting for a reply from his companions, he touched his heels to Sceadugenga’s flanks and the horse bounded forward, as if the animal shared its rider’s impatience. A cloud of birds rose noisily from the land either side of the road, as his passing disturbed them from their feeding.
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