And yet he led them towards the smoke that darkened the sky in the east. They trudged along all that morning, and Cynan longed to kick his heels into his mare’s ribs and gallop towards Bebbanburg. But he knew this was foolish. Besides, the men needed him.
After midday the thrum of a large group of horsemen reached them from the west. They were coming on fast and Cynan had felt a knot of fear in his throat. Could these be the Waelisc warriors, finally tracking them down?
He ordered the men into a defensive square, such as they had formed beneath Oswald’s rood.
“A strong shieldwall will turn away charging horsemen,” he said.
The men obeyed without question and Ingwald prodded and goaded them into position. As the riders came into view, they were a wall of overlapping shields, bristling with spears that glinted in the sunshine. Cynan felt a strange welling of pride at the sight.
The horses came towards them at a gallop and Cynan’s throat grew dry. There were at least fifty of them, spears, helms and harness gleaming. It was true that a shieldwall would turn horses away, but against so many warriors Cynan knew the fyrd-men would fall.
It was Oswiu himself who recognised the Waelisc warrior. The king raised his hand and signalled for the riders to slow their headlong charge.
Cynan let out a long ragged sigh.
As the king approached, Oswiu’s standard-bearer riding before the king, holding aloft his great purple banner, Ingwald whispered to Cynan.
“Behind the king I see Alfhun. He was one of the first to flee when the Waelisc attacked.”
The king reined in before them in a flurry of dust and Ingwald lowered his head and said no more.
“What news, Cynan?” Oswiu asked, his words clipped, no time for greetings.
“We come from Hefenfelth, lord king.”
“The fyrd?” Oswiu asked, flicking a glance at Alfhun.
Cynan swept his arm behind him to encompass Ingwald and the small band of men who followed him.
“You are looking at them.”
“By Christ’s bones!” Oswiu shouted. “And the Waelisc host? Alfhun spoke of a great host from Powys and Gwynedd.”
“It seemed they headed south, I know not to what purpose.”
Oswiu’s face was thunder.
“And what of Bebbanburg?” he asked. “Fordraed sent a messenger. The fortress is besieged. We have ridden like the wind since we saw that smoke this morning.”
Cynan swallowed.
“You know as much as I, lord,” he said. “We were hurrying to see if we could aid Ethelwin and Beobrand there.”
“Well, follow us,” said the king. “With God’s grace we will be in time to send that bastard Penda back to Mercia with his tail between his legs.”
Watching now, Cynan saw the king’s mounted warband pass through the scattered tents and campfires, past the ruined remains of the church and the halls, houses and barns, to reach the rear of the Mercian host. He could not make out any more from this distance.
“Come on, men,” he shouted and without a word, they pushed themselves onward. Their panting breaths were loud, their faces streaked with dirt and sweat. The day was hot and as they drew closer to the battle before the gates of Bebbanburg, the sounds of combat grew louder and reached them more frequently.
A ragged cheer came to them, though whether from the attackers or the defenders, Cynan could not tell.
They hurried on, and Cynan wondered whether he should not call a halt. The men were close to collapse and what good would this dishevelled band of farmers and freemen do anyway?
The writhing, shifting movement of the warriors before the walls changed somehow as he watched. Something had happened and another collective roar reached him.
Cynan raised himself up as high as he could on Mierawin’s back. Yes, he was certain of it. The Mercians had been routed.
“The Mercians are fleeing, lads,” he said.
He had half expected a cheer from the breathless men, instead he received a groan from Ingwald.
“By Tiw’s cock,” he said, “all that and now we are going to miss the fight?”
Some of the men grunted in agreement, others were too tired to speak.
Cynan smiled at them. They were good men.
“Never fear,” he said. “I’m sure there will be lots of work for strong men. That fortress is not going to rebuild itself.”
More groans.
“And don’t rest too soon,” he said, flicking his gaze back to the men scattering away from the slope before Bebbanburg. “There is nothing more dangerous than a beaten dog.”
A group of a score or more horsemen was leaving the battle at a gallop. They headed towards them, riding the exact reverse of the route Oswiu and his horsemen had taken only a short time before. Then he saw the long, trailing streamer of the purple banner fluttering above the riders and realised it was Oswiu.
Why would the king ride back to them? Perhaps he came to rebuke Cynan personally for not joining the battle. The king had never liked him. Cynan thought it was because Oswiu hated Beobrand, but he could not tell if the king simply disliked him for some other reason – being Waelisc, perhaps.
Something about the approaching riders nagged him, like a word he could almost remember but that eluded him the more he strove to think of it. He peered at the oncoming horsemen for a moment longer. The sweat on his brow cooled in the wind. A flock of gulls wheeled and shrieked in the sky.
Then it hit him.
“Shieldwall!” he bellowed. “Form the square!”
To his great credit Ingwald did not ask for an explanation, he instantly turned and began to push and cajole the men into line. Cynan jumped down from his saddle, slapping Mierawin away. He would join the shieldwall. As he’d told the men, it was the best defence against charging horsemen. He slid into the wall beside Ingwald.
“Not ours then, I take it,” Ingwald said, with an enquiring look.
“No. Look there,” Cynan replied. “See that big warrior with the wolf pelt around his shoulders?”
“Aye, he looks like a mean bastard.”
The horsemen were close enough now that they could feel the ground beneath their feet tremble. The sound of the hooves was like the rumble of Thunor’s chariot.
“He is,” said Cynan. “That is Penda of Mercia. And that is his standard.”
He pointed to the wolf tails flapping beneath a crossbar that a brawny warrior carried aloft behind his king. Another man held Oswiu’s purple banner and it trailed over the group of riders.
“They must have snatched the banner,” Cynan said.
The riders were upon them and for a terrible instant he thought they meant to drive their steeds onto the shieldwall. The horses’ eyes were white-rimmed, their nostrils flared, their ears flat. The men roared with rage, their faces grim and grimy from the battle.
“Hold firm!” Cynan shouted.
“Hold firm!” echoed Ingwald.
Just before the first horse would crash into the shieldwall, the riders pulled their mounts to the side, passing within an arm’s length of the Bernician spear-tips. It was a thing of folly and bravado and Cynan could not help but be impressed by the Mercian riders’ audacity.
They thundered past, lifting up choking clouds of dust in their wake. Cynan turned to watch them with the rest of the fyrd-men.
Without a word, Ingwald stepped out from the mass of men. His spear was in his hand and he weighed it a moment, following the movement of the horses closely. Taking three fast paces, he let fly the spear and all of the men gazed into the sky. The spear’s haft wobbled slightly as it left the man’s hand and Cynan lost track of it momentarily in the bright sunshine that limned the clouds that were forming in the west. And then he saw it again, streaking down out of the sky and plummeting into the back of the rider who bore the stolen banner. He rode on a way, until his horse slowed and he left the pack of riders. Cynan saw the rearmost Mercians turn to see what had befallen their comrade, but they did not slow or return. Instead
, they rode on into the west as quickly as their steeds could carry them.
The man bearing the purple banner toppled from his saddle and at last the fyrd-men let out a cheer.
“Ingwald! Ingwald! Ingwald!” they chanted.
Cynan called Mierawin and the bay mare trotted over to him. Swinging himself up onto her back, he rode to where the man had fallen. He retrieved the banner and snagged the reins of the man’s horse. It was a fine-looking stallion, dark brown and sleek.
He led the beast back to the waiting men. There he handed the reins to Ingwald.
“Yours, I believe,” he said.
“Lord, I could not. I am no lord to ride while others walk.”
“I’ve told you, Ingwald, I am no lord either.”
“Go on,” shouted Fægir. “At least one of us will get to ride something!”
The men laughed, relief washing over them. They had survived the day, when it had looked as though it might end in battle and death.
Reluctantly, Ingwald climbed up onto the stallion’s back. Cynan handed him the purple standard.
“No, lord,” said Ingwald, his weathered face turning even darker. “I cannot. You must take it back to the king. It is not my place.”
But Cynan would not relent. He pushed the shaft of the banner into Ingwald’s hands.
“It is the place of the brave man who captured it,” he said. “Oswiu is a stern man, but he is a ring-giving lord and I would have you receive the honour that is due to you.”
Ingwald sighed.
“Will you ride with me then, lord?” he asked.
“I am no lord,” Cynan said, shaking his head. “But yes, I will ride with you, Ingwald. And you will bring back that which the king has lost and you will take your reward.”
And so they rode together through the charred gates of Bebbanburg, followed by a score of smiling but exhausted fyrd-men.
PART THREE
FOE-MAN OR FRIEND?
Chapter 30
Eanflæd sipped from her goblet of wine. It was sweet and rich. The warm liquid trickled down her throat, soothing her body and softening the thoughts and fears that had scratched at her mind all that long day. Around her the hall was a chaotic confusion of sounds and smells. Raucous laughter rang out from the younger gesithas, their spirits high from the thrill of living through the bloody battle before the gates of Bebbanburg and fuelled by copious quantities of ale and mead. Singing lilted from the far corner of the great hall, where Cædmon, a scop with a good strong voice, recounted tales of heroes of legend. Closer to where she sat, the queen could hear the quiet sobbing from a huddled group of weeping women and children whose husbands, fathers and sons had been cut down by the Mercians.
There was sorrow here, but the sounds of sadness were all but smothered by the hubbub of a great hall filled with men and women who wished to celebrate their survival and the victorious return of their king.
Oswiu’s angry voice pierced the noise of the hall like a spear-point thrust into an unarmoured chest and again Eanflæd felt the confusion within her at her husband’s return.
“You would seek to blame Beobrand for the destruction of the gates?” Oswiu shouted. His face was crimson. He had drunk many glasses of the ruby-coloured wine from one of the green glass beakers so beloved by his brother. Fordraed stood before the high table. Oswiu had not invited him to sit at his side, a clear insult and rebuke at the state of the fortress that the king had left in Fordraed’s care. Now it seemed the fat lord sought Oswiu’s forgiveness.
“You ask for me to blame another in your stead, is that it?” asked the king, leaning forward and lowering his voice to a deadly growl.
“Yes, lord,” sputtered Fordraed, his face a crumpled mask of misery. “If not for Beobrand, the gates would not have been destroyed—”
“Do you think me a fool?” screamed Oswiu, spittle flying from his lips in his rage. He slammed his fist into the linen-covered board before him, making the cups, trenchers and knives jump and clatter.
“No, lord king. It is just that—”
“Was it Beobrand whom I left in command of Bebbanburg?”
“No, lord,” Fordraed said, his voice catching in his throat in the face of his king’s fury.
“And was it Beobrand who set the blaze at the gates?” Oswiu’s voice was low and cold now. Eanflæd shivered to hear his tone, his lack of bluster now showing the true depth of his ire.
“No, lord, but—”
“And was it not Beobrand who led the charge that broke the Mercian shieldwall?”
Fordraed flicked a venomous glance at Beobrand who sat near the king at the high table, in the carved chair that should have supported his portly form. Fordraed swallowed.
“It was, lord.”
Eanflæd had been purposefully avoiding looking at Beobrand as the feast progressed, but now, with the attention of all those gathered there on the lord of Ubbanford, she gazed at him. He had washed the blood, soot and dirt from his face. His left hand was bandaged and the skin beneath his eyes was dark. He looked exhausted. As his eyes met hers she felt a flutter of excitement in her belly. She looked away, angry at her own weakness. Her mind and emotions were in as much turmoil as the cacophony of the feast around her.
“And when I joined the battle,” said Oswiu, his voice dripping with scorn, “and the Mercians lost heart, fleeing into the west like so many whipped dogs, I found you clean and unharmed, as if you had spent the day resting in the hall with the women and children. Are you injured, Fordraed?”
“No, lord.”
“Then why were you not fighting for Bebbanburg?”
“There were too many men…” Fordraed stammered. “The press of men prevented me…”
“It did not stop Beobrand and Ethelwin from reaching the enemies of Bernicia,” said Oswiu. “They were in the front, leading the brave men in the defence of the realm and the fortress. And they will bear the scars to prove it.”
Eanflæd glanced back at Beobrand and found his gaze still locked on her. When she had seen him after the battle, smeared with battle-grime and gore, walking stiffly into the courtyard, her heart had soared. Moments later, Oswiu had passed between the charred remnants of the fortress gates and she had been shocked at the flood of relief that had washed through her. Her husband was returned and Bernicia had its king back where he belonged. At her side. He’d seen her and raised a hand in greeting and she had further surprised herself by going to his side and offering him a kiss of welcome.
“I am sorry, my lord,” Fordraed said, his voice barely a whisper. He was clearly defeated, humiliated before Oswiu’s onslaught. Despite her loathing of the man for his contemptuous attitude towards her and the violence he directed at Edlyn, she felt a stirring of sympathy for him. Oswiu had decided who was to blame for the near-destruction of Bebbanburg. And she knew it was impossible to stand against the anger of one’s king.
Thinking on Oswiu’s arrival that afternoon, perhaps it was not so strange that she should be pleased to have her husband come back to her and their son. She pushed aside the pang of jealousy she felt when she imagined him with his Hibernian princess. But what right did she have to anger? Had she not embraced and kissed another man? She was not innocent and could not cast stones. All that interminable day, she had prayed hard for victory, for the safe return of her husband and to be rid of the temptation of Beobrand. When the men had cried out that the Mercians were fleeing, she had rejoiced. Her prayers had been answered, but then a chill had stabbed at her, as if a dagger of ice had been plunged into her heart. Had God responded to her plea to be free of temptation by having Beobrand slain in the battle?
It was only now that she understood. In His wisdom, the Almighty had answered all of her prayers at once. With Oswiu’s return from the west, Bebbanburg was saved, and her husband’s presence acted as a reminder of her sacred vows before him and God. Oswiu was her son’s father and her king. She would put aside her foolish attraction to Beobrand and focus her attentions on her husband. That is
what her mother would have counselled her to do. The thought of Ethelburga brought the sting of tears to her eyes.
“You should be sorry, Fordraed,” Oswiu said, lifting his glass goblet to his lips and drinking deeply. He seemed somewhat mollified, as if all he had wanted was an apology from the man. “Now, take some food and then get back out to the gates.”
“Lord?” Fordraed seemed bewildered and confused.
“As you said, the gates are destroyed. Until they are rebuilt, they must be guarded. As you are not fatigued from the fighting, you will organise the defence of the gates. Take your men and see to it.”
Fordraed looked as though he would protest, but then he seemed to sag, his shoulders slumping.
“Yes, lord king,” he muttered and walked out of the hall like a man dazed after being punched.
Oswiu, clearly done with the matter of Fordraed and the gates, turned to Ethelwin. The grizzled warrior’s head was wrapped in a stained strip of cloth. He looked tired, but his cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. Where Fordraed had become the object of the king’s ire, his warmaster had become a hero, praised by Oswiu for his stalwart defence of the fortress.
“How’s the head?” asked Oswiu.
“It is but a scratch,” replied Ethelwin.
“A scratch indeed,” said Oswiu, laughing. “When I met you before the gate you were awash with blood.”
“Head wounds are always the worst,” said Ethelwin with a lopsided smile. “The smallest cut will gush like a waterfall in spring.”
Oswiu slapped him on the shoulder. Draining his goblet, he held it out absently for more wine. Eanflæd signalled to the waiting thrall, a plain-faced slip of a Waelisc girl. Rising, the queen took the silver jug from the slave and then poured the wine into her husband’s empty glass beaker.
His gaze flickered over her breasts and down to her slender hips as she leant over him. When she finished pouring the wine, she found Oswiu’s dark eyes staring at her face. He smiled and stroked his rough fingers over the back of her hand.
“Thank you, my queen,” he said, his voice thick with some secret emotion.
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