“Why?” he asked.
“Why?” yelled Fordraed, his voice rising to an angry scream. “Why, you ask! You will get us all killed, you fool.”
Beobrand turned his gaze on Fordraed. Despite the warmth of the morning, his eyes were as cool as shards of ice. Gods, how he would love to punch the man. The sensation of his fist slamming into his fleshy face was a sweet memory.
“If you think it is my words that will cause Penda to attack, then it is you who is the fool, Fordraed. The man is a wolf. Any scent of weakness drives him to greater savagery. He has broken the peace with Bernicia, invaded our lands, stolen our cattle, slain our people. There is only one way to tackle the likes of him.”
Ethelwin pushed his horse closer to Beobrand. When he spoke his voice was low and clipped from behind the embossed face-guard.
“When a wolf has you cowering in the branches of a tree,” he said, “do you poke it with a stick?”
“No,” Fordraed said. “You wait for the wolf to tire and to leave you in peace. Soon it will find other prey.”
Beobrand slowly shifted in the saddle to stare at Fordraed. He shook his head at the man’s craven stupidity.
“If I were in a tree with a wolf below me,” Beobrand said, “I would not cower. I would skewer it with a stick or a spear, if I had one to hand.”
“And if you did not?” enquired Fordraed.
“If I bore no weapons, I would jump from the tree and gouge out the beast’s eyes with my thumbs.”
Fordraed did not seem able to respond. His mouth opened and shut like a beached trout. They rode on in silence for a few moments. The sun was glaring in their faces now. Gazing up at the walls of Bebbanburg atop the mighty crag, Beobrand wondered how long they could withstand a determined assault. The fortress was imposing and seemingly impregnable. But even the strongest byrnie had weak links.
Without warning, Ethelwin laughed. His guffaws boomed from within his great helm. After a while his laughter subsided to mere chuckles. Beobrand could no longer hear him laughing, but could see the warmaster’s shoulder shaking with mirth.
“What is so funny, warmaster?” he asked.
Ethelwin reached a hand under his helm to wipe at his eyes.
“I was just thinking,” he said, barely able to speak through his giggling. “If you fight wolves with your hands, I understand now how you lost your fingers.”
Chapter 20
Penda did not wait long to retaliate.
As the afternoon sun dipped into the west, nine people were brought towards Bebbanburg. The four men and five women had their hands bound and ropes looped about their necks. Their clothes had been torn and their feet were bare and bloody. All of them had the despondent, empty stares of the utterly defeated. This was the look of cattle being led to the slaughter. And judging from the white-robed priest who preceded them, and the sharpened stakes that had been hammered into the hard earth, Eanflæd thought these wretched Bernician peasants would face a similar fate to animals at the winter slaying of Blotmonath.
Bebbanburg’s walls were thronged with people, though the wardens had prevented all but the men from climbing up to witness what was about to occur. Eanflæd had only been able to make her way up the ladder because she was the queen. Fordraed had tried to prevent her, but she had spun on him.
“Do you forget that I am your queen?” she asked. “I would see what befalls my people.”
He had stepped aside, with a face like thunder.
“Well, this is what we get by allowing that fool Beobrand to speak to his betters,” he said.
Eanflæd ignored him, but she wondered at his words. Many agreed with Edlyn’s husband, she knew. Moments after the small group of horsemen who had ridden beneath the green bough had returned to Bebbanburg, she had heard of Beobrand’s taunts to Penda. There was not a soul in the fortress who did not have an opinion about his actions. There were those who criticised him for his arrogance. Others admired his brash bravado. Some thought the lords should have offered the king of Mercia terms, a payment of treasure to leave their lands. Of all the opinions she heard, Eanflæd thought they mainly fell into two camps: the men welcomed Beobrand’s presence and trusted he would help lead them to some surprise victory; the women fretted and worried that his infamous bad temper would lead Penda to treat them more harshly, if he managed to breach their defences.
For her part, Eanflæd thought that nothing Beobrand had said would change Penda’s mind. His course had been set when he marched his host into Bernicia and he would not leave without the spoils he had promised his thegns and ealdormen. It was possible, she supposed, that Ethelwin could have offered Penda treasure to lead his warriors away, but from what she knew of the taciturn warmaster, that was something he would never countenance. He had been set the task of defending the realm in his king’s absence and defend it he would. Besides, the treasure was not his to give. So, without the king there to make a contrary decision, Ethelwin would stand firm against Penda.
As she looked down from the walls now, Eanflæd wondered whether Penda’s latest actions might further sour people’s mood towards Beobrand. They would blame him for sure, even though his was not the hand on the priest’s knife. Such was the way of things. She glanced along the rampart to where Beobrand stood with his gesithas. He must have sensed her gaze, for he turned to look at her. His features were hard and fixed. She could see the tension in his neck and shoulders, the grim sternness of his jaw. But the afternoon light softened his stony features, bathing all of the onlookers on the wall in its warm golden glow.
Beobrand offered her a small nod of recognition, nothing more, and she wondered what he must be thinking as he shifted his attention back to the events playing out beneath Bebbanburg. Did he blame himself? She had heard from Beircheart, one of Beobrand’s gesithas, that Penda had said he would make Beobrand regret his insults. As she watched the Mercian warriors leading the nine bound prisoners towards Bebbanburg, she could not help but question his actions. Deep down, she was certain that Penda had meant for this to occur from the beginning. If not, why did he have these Bernicians captured and ready for whatever cruel fate awaited them? And yet, the seed of doubt was there. Could Beobrand have averted this outcome with a less belligerent response to the Mercian warlord?
They would never know. Yet, she told herself, it was not Beobrand who had led the Mercian warhost to this place, nor was it he who now stood before the cowed prisoners, raising his voice and his arms to the heavens.
Some way distant, perhaps three arrow flights away, stood the amassed ranks of Penda’s host. They had come forward, a great shambling horde, to witness their priest’s bloody ritual. Nearer to the sharpened death poles, the waelstengs that had been driven into the earth, stood Penda and his closest retinue, his comitatus. Penda was huge, his bulk as imposing as the malevolence in his gaze as he looked up at the faces staring down from the palisade. He grinned and it was as if he was staring directly at her. She shuddered and regretted her decision to come up here. Fordraed was right, this was no place for her. She knew what was going to happen. Why did she wish to see it? Was knowing not enough?
But she was the queen of these people. She would not turn her back on them. She could not forsake them in the moment of their greatest suffering. By the holy Virgin, where was Oswiu? This should have been his task. He should be standing here with the warmth of the setting sun on his face, about to watch the sacrifice of nine innocents.
A man stepped forward from Penda’s comitatus. He was tall and slender and wore a fine warrior jacket of red. From his many-coloured belt hung a golden-hilted sword.
“My lord Penda, king of Mercia, overlord of the West Seaxons and chosen son of Woden, father of the gods, bids you bear witness to this blood sacrifice in honour of the All-father. Nine lives are offered, one for each of the nights Woden hung, wounded and suffering, from the world tree.”
The man’s voice was clear and carried well. He spoke with the musical clarity of a scop and if his words had bee
n other, his tone would have been something to marvel at. No sound came from the walls now.
“And know this, people of Bebbanburg,” continued the man, his voice carrying to all the listeners. “The All-father will drink the blood from these sacrifices and grant us victory over you. You may feel secure behind your walls, but walls can be destroyed, and when the wolves of Mercia are victorious, this too will be your wyrd; to have your blood given as tribute to Woden!”
He shouted the name of the father of the gods and his scream was answered by a roaring cheer from the warhost.
“Woden! Woden! Woden!” came the thundering chant.
Eanflæd felt the flesh on her neck prickle. There was magic here. She clutched the rood necklace she wore and whispered the words of the Pater Noster. Her words were drowned out by the warhost’s cries.
The priest stepped forward, cavorting and chanting, spitting and screaming as he danced before the strangely docile prisoners. All the while the battlehost’s roar rolled towards Bebbanburg, filling her ears with the name of their ancient, evil, one-eyed god of death. The priest skipped close to the nearest prisoner, a young man with a wispy beard. In a paroxysm of ecstasy the priest howled his incantations at the sky and his knife flicked out, glinting in the fire of the sunlight. The young man’s throat opened and blood fountained, bright and terrible. The liquid spurted far and the priest danced in its hot rain, besmirching himself in gore until his robe was crimson.
Eanflæd moaned. Her prayers died on her lips. She wanted to look away, but found herself captivated by the horror, unable to turn from the grisly sight before her.
The dying man fell to the earth. The rest of the prisoners seemed unaware of what was happening around them. They stood, heads bowed, mouths agape, eyes vacant, as the priest screamed his imprecations to the gods. Again his blood-slick blade lashed out, slicing deep into the throat of an old woman. More hot blood gouted and she tumbled, twitching, to the ground.
The Mercians continued their roaring scream to their gods and Eanflæd wondered whether the rushing she heard in her ears was from the chanting warriors of Woden, or the sound of her own blood flowing within her.
The pagan priest was now wholly drenched in blood and he spun like a demon, mouth wide, eyes blazing from his mask of gore. He killed two more of the waiting Bernicians and Eanflæd’s vision began to darken at the edges, as though she were staring into a tunnel. All she could see now was the priest, his knife and the blood.
So much blood.
The waves of sound from the screaming warriors washed over her. Another victim fell to the man’s knife. Blood gushed, adding to the rivers and pools of the stuff soaking the dry earth before Bebbanburg. Her head spun. She should not have come up here. There were such quantities of blood. How much more would be shed before the end; before Bebbanburg fell and Woden’s wolves ravaged them all?
A slashing stroke, a spray of slaughter-sweat, a screamed chant to the ancient dark gods.
They would all die here, Eanflæd thought, and her vision blurred. Darkness consumed her and she felt herself tumbling down, down.
As she fainted, caught by the strong hands of those Bernician wall wards who stood close by, pale and grim in the face of Penda’s unholy sacrifices, a terrible thought surged in her mind. Had Beobrand brought this horror upon them? Or, worse than that, had it been her own sins that had brought the Devil to the gates of Bebbanburg?
Chapter 21
Beobrand staggered across a wasteland of ashes and blood-streaked corpses. The sky was roiling and dark. Lightning flickered far off, and the growling rumble of thunder reached him moments later. His feet sank into the soft ground and he stumbled forward, panting and gagging against the metallic slaughter-stench of blood and the acrid stink of opened bowels that hung over the gloom-laden land.
A rustling flapping, loud as a ship’s sail luffing in a gale, made him look up. A wheeling black cloud of ravens seethed in the sky. Dominating the storm-swept horizon was a great crag of rock, topped with a fortress, its timber palisades looming impregnable above the plain. He recognised the fortress and the rock. It was Din Eidyn. When last he had seen the Pictish stronghold there had been snow all about in a white cloak.
As if in answer to his thoughts the wind picked up and its icy chill cut at his cheeks and hands, tugging at his cloak and pulling his long hair about his face. He swept the hair from his eyes with his half-hand and saw that the air was now filled with a dark blizzard. The fortress was almost hidden from view, lost in the maelstrom of grey particles that swirled and swarmed about him.
But this was not snow.
As he ran forward, breathing heavily now with the effort of running into the storm, dry flakes of the stuff settled in his mouth, melting to a salty paste on his tongue. It was ash. He spat, cursing. The fire-snow fell thick and covered all the land with a deep blanket. His mind twisted and writhed at the thoughts of what might be burning to create such quantities of ash in this wilderness of death.
A sudden wind came then, like the breath of the gods, parting the clouds and clearing the air of the powdery remnants of the hidden fires of doom. He was closer to the fortress now, but still it was some way off. A sickly, malignant light shone from the heavens and highlighted the rock and the wooden walls that crowned it. There was movement there and Beobrand peered into the distance, trying to make sense of what he saw. Squinting against the glare of the wan light, Beobrand suddenly recognised what it was that was moving there. Scores of warriors were scaling the rocks, unseen by the unsuspecting inhabitants of the fortress.
Beobrand screamed out a warning to the defenders. He was certain they were his friends, his countrymen and his kin, but no sign came to him that anybody had heard him. He waved and shouted, spitting to clear his mouth of the ash, and then shouting again until his throat was dry and hoarse. Still the enemy warriors climbed the rocky outcrops. Soon they would reach the fortress walls and Beobrand was certain they would swarm over them and destroy the men, women and children who were hidden inside.
He ran on, the soft ash-earth tugging at his ankles, seeming to pull him back with every stride. He was the only chance the fortress had. He alone could warn them. Running in a straight line towards the castle, he leapt over the bloated cadavers that lay in his path. His stomach twisted as he realised that he recognised the face on every pallid corpse. There was Acennan, mouth open in horror. There lay his brother, Octa, fair hair soaked black with blood and ash. He saw the grey beard and wise eyes of old Scand. Some way off to his left he noticed a flash of gold. Turning momentarily, he saw the beautiful, unblemished face of Sunniva, eyes wide and staring, lips parted as if to offer a farewell kiss. Beneath her lovely features her throat was a bloody ruin. Her lifeblood drenched her clothes and the ashen sand around her. All of the corpses had their throats slit.
Stifling a scream of terror, he ran forward. He could not help the fallen, but the unsuspecting defenders of the fortress could yet be saved. He ran on, his breath wheezing, sweat trickling down his forehead and back. He was too far away! Too far. And yet he would not give up. With a roar he pushed himself to even greater speed, half wading now through the deep ash field, those dunes of death.
Something caught at his foot and he tripped forward, flailing with his arms for balance. He managed to remain on his feet for a few steps before crashing to the ground. Pushing himself up to recommence his panicked run he found his hands resting not on the sandy ash but on the cold pliant flesh of a dead body. He looked down and his gaze met the unseeing eyes of Eanflæd. Like all the others her throat was in tatters. He could see the bones of her spine inside the huge gash beneath her chin. Blood had splattered and flecked her smooth cheeks, reminding him of the blood that had dotted the snow after his dual with Torran at the foot of Din Eidyn.
So many dead. How had it come to this? Looking up, he saw that the distant warriors had clambered over the palisades of the fortress and the sounds of slaughter came to him on the freezing wind.
He was to
o late.
Always too late.
Beobrand awoke with a start. His heart hammered and his breath came in short gasps, as if he had been running. For a moment he could not recall where he was and his mind was filled with the tumbling shadow memories of the dream. The horror of the corpses, the bitter taste of ash in his throat and the forbidding fortress, its defenders unaware, overrun by savage warriors who scurried over its walls.
Opening his eyes, he looked about him. The hall was dark and peaceful. Slumbering bodies lay all about him, all but hidden in the gloom. He listened for any sign of battle, anything that might have disturbed his sleep. The night was quiet, not resounding with the clash of blades and the screams of the dying. But the soul-wrenching terror of being overrun was real, clawing at his insides like rats trapped in a basket.
It was just a dream, he told himself, forcing his breathing to come more slowly. Relaxing finally, he sighed and turned his thoughts to the previous evening.
When he had seen Eanflæd fall he had felt panic rise within him. He must have made to push his way along the palisade, for Beircheart had placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered, “She has but fainted, lord. See, the men have caught her and she will be tended to.”
Beobrand’s mind had still been reeling from the vision of the blood sacrifice to Woden and for a moment he had pulled against Beircheart’s grip, angry at the man for daring to hold him back. But Beircheart had kept firm and told him that the queen would be well.
“It is not your place to see to her welfare, lord,” Beircheart had said, his tone strangely soft.
At the time Beobrand had thought little of the man’s words. He was right, of course, and Eanflæd had been carried down to her chamber. Later, word had come to them that she was well. She had merely swooned and Fordraed had raged in the hall that evening that he had told her not to climb up to the ramparts.
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