“Fordraed, my old friend,” Oswiu said, stroking the fat man’s hair. “I am sorry. I should not have doubted you. You have been true to your oath.”
Beobrand shook his head, unsure how this had come to pass. Beside one of the dead attackers, the light from Grindan’s torch glimmered on Nægling’s blood-smeared blade. Beobrand bent down and wiped the sword on the corpse’s cloak. He examined the metal in the flickering flame-light before sliding it back into its fur-lined scabbard.
Oswiu was whispering to Fordraed words that Beobrand could not make out. Beobrand shivered. The king’s grief was unnerving. Turning away from Oswiu’s pain, Beobrand went in search of his fallen seax.
Chapter 39
Dawn came, bright and fresh, bejewelling the land about Hunwald’s hall with glistening dew. The rising sun painted the clouds in the west the hue of a salmon’s flesh. A light wind rustled the leaves of the ash and oak trees. The beck burbled over the smooth stones of its bed and the birds sang their chorus loudly in the forest, welcoming the coming of a warm summer’s day.
Beobrand stepped out of the hall and rubbed his eyes. He had not slept and tiredness tugged at his eyelids.
In the open area of ground between Hunwald’s buildings, several men were mounted and ready to ride. A cart, yoked to a pair of oxen, stood ready beside the horsemen. When he saw Beobrand, one of the riders moved his mount close. It was Cynan. In his left hand he held Sceadugenga’s reins. The stallion was saddled and ready.
“Are we sure about this?” Cynan asked, keeping his voice low. “I can see no good coming from it.”
Beobrand sighed. He swung himself up onto Sceadugenga’s back.
“The king has spoken,” he said. “We must do as he has commanded.”
He did not wish to converse more on the subject, so he kicked Sceadugenga into a trot. Slowly, the rest of the riders, some half of the contingent that had ridden south from Bebbanburg, followed him. The carter, one of Hunwald’s bondsmen, lashed the oxen and with a creaking rumble, the waggon rolled forward.
Like Cynan, Beobrand could see no good coming from this. The night had been filled with death and treachery. Then came Oswiu’s grief, which was quickly replaced with a searing anger. The king had become convinced that Oswine had plotted to have him murdered. When they had returned to the hall, Beobrand had sat with him awkwardly for a time, but it soon became apparent that the unusual closeness that there had been between them before the attack had vanished along with any chance there might have been for peace between Bernicia and Deira.
The fire on the hearthstone had burnt down and the thralls, seemingly frightened to approach the grieving king, did not place more logs on the glowing embers.
In the gloom, Oswiu’s face was drawn, gaunt and hard. As he sat brooding and sipping a cup of Hunwald’s mead, he barely acknowledged Beobrand’s presence. Beobrand began to wonder if he had imagined the moments they had spent talking in the darkness. He rose and paced the hall, clenching his fists at his side to control the shaking that always followed a fight. Going to the hearth, he lifted a split log of beechwood and tossed it onto the coals with a shower of sparks. Oswiu, deep in conversation with Ethelwin and Hunwald, muttered and cursed, turning a sharp gaze on Beobrand.
Outside in the darkness, Beobrand could still hear men shouting to one another as they searched for more attackers. He was sure they would find none. To be certain of his fears, he had pulled Halinard close, snatching a guttering torch from his hand and shining its light close to the face of the attacker that Cynan had killed. Halinard’s eyes had widened in recognition. They had gone from one corpse to the next, lowering the flaming torch near their soot-smeared faces. Halinard recognised one more. The other three were unknown to him.
“These two men,” he had whispered to Beobrand in his halting Anglisc, “are men of Vulmar.”
“You are certain?” Beobrand had asked, gripping his shoulder tightly.
Halinard had nodded.
“I know them.”
In the hall, Oswiu’s ire had grown, the way a forge fire burns ever hotter as the smith pumps the bellows.
“Oswine believes he can send men to murder me in the night?” he raged. “By God, I was right not to trust him. The man is a serpent!”
Beobrand shook his head.
“Lord king,” he said, interrupting Oswiu’s tirade. Ethelwin, Hunwald and the king all turned to look at him.
“You have something to say?” asked Oswiu, his tone brittle and curt.
Beobrand swallowed. He knew Oswiu would not wish to hear his words, but he could not remain silent. The fate of two kingdoms might be forged on the fires of the decisions taken this night.
“I do not believe those men were sent by Oswine.”
“Nonsense!” cried Oswiu. “He knew we were coming here. He must have planned to kill me at Catrice. Me coming to Hunwald’s hall made him change his plans and send his men here.” The king had taken a cut to his brow and now the wound began to seep. He reached up and wiped the blood away. For a moment he stared at his red-smeared fingertips. “By the nails of Christ, Oswine will pay dearly for his mistake.”
Beobrand’s head ached.
“I know not what Oswine’s plans are, lord king. But he has always seemed an honourable man to me.” Oswiu snorted, but Beobrand did not stop. He must be heard. “Oswine is not one to skulk in the darkness, to strike with treachery in the night.”
“No, he is not brave enough for such things. He sends others to do his killing for him. But he did not count on you, Beobrand, or me.” He hesitated and took a shuddering breath. “Or my old friend, Fordraed.”
“What do you believe has happened here, Beobrand?” asked Ethelwin.
Beobrand nodded his thanks. The warmaster too could sense that they should find the truth of what had happened.
“My man, Halinard the Frank, recognised two of the men who attacked us.”
“Who were they?”
“Vulmar’s men.”
“Vulmar?” asked Ethelwin. “I know not of this lord.”
“Vulmar is a Frank. A lord of Rodomo, in Neustria. I made an enemy of him last year when I took my daughter from his hall.”
Ethelwin gazed at him for a time, pondering his words. The warmaster stroked his beard. Slowly, the ghost of a smile came to his lips.
“It is unlike you to make an enemy,” he said.
“It matters not who this Vulmar is,” snapped Oswiu. “You think you are an important man, Beobrand son of Grimgundi. It has always been thus. But know this, when killers come to murder in the depths of night, it is not for the likes of you. It is the king’s blood they want. And who wishes to kill a king but another king? No. They came for me, and it was Oswine’s hand that guided them.”
“But those men were Franks,” said Beobrand, hearing the frustration in his tone. He knew Oswiu would not pay him heed and yet he could not fall silent. “Vulmar has promised a great treasure to the man who slays me.”
“By Christ’s teeth,” shouted Oswiu. “This is not about you! Fordraed lies dead at the hand of one of those killers. As do two of my most trusted gesithas. If these men were Franks, they came here at the order of Oswine. Of this I am certain.”
“But lord,” said Beobrand, “consider for a moment that it might not be as you say. Would you truly take us to war over this?”
“It is Oswine, not I, who will take us to war!” Oswiu bellowed, setting Hunwald’s hounds barking again. “Now leave us.”
Riding now beneath the tall oaks that lined the path, the column of riders trudging solemnly behind, Beobrand shook his head. Perhaps it was best for him that Oswiu did not believe him. If the king thought his beloved Fordraed had been killed in Beobrand’s stead, who knew what he might do? The carter’s goad slapped against the oxen and the cart trundled up the incline towards the meeting of ways where the path to Hunwald’s hall joined Deira Stræt. It was here that Oswiu had ordered them to place the grisly cargo that lolled in the timber bed of the cart.<
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When they reached their destination, the men dismounted and tied their horses to the trees beside the road. From this point they could see some distance both south and north along Deira Stræt. Beobrand stared south into the morning haze. Far off, too distant for him to make them out clearly, a flock of birds, dark dots against the brilliant sky, took flight. Nearby in the hedges and weeds that grew in a great thicket along the eastern side of the road, dozens of sparrows and finches twittered, flitting in and out of the foliage. Across the wide, cracked and muddy surface of the road, a lone magpie hopped onto a large, moss-covered rock. The bird seemed to stare at the men as they climbed down from their mounts.
There was no sign of Oswine on the road. Of course, Beobrand had tried telling Oswiu that if the Deiran king were indeed guilty of ordering the attack, he would hardly ride to speak with the subject of his plot the following morning. Oswiu had refused to listen, saying that Oswine was bold and brazen.
Hunwald had told them there was a copse of ash close to the road and the sound of axes biting into wood echoed in the warm morning. The young staves from the coppiced trees were stout and straight and would be perfect for what Oswiu had ordered.
“Are you not going to help?”
Beobrand turned to see Heremod standing beside the cart. The bearded warrior scowled at him. Two of Reodstan’s men leant into the cart and clumsily pulled out one of the blood-streaked corpses. The head flopped back, and Beobrand saw the death-pallid features beneath the smear of soot that the man had used to conceal himself in the darkness. Beobrand recognised him as one of Vulmar’s men.
“I think I did more than my share of the work killing them,” Beobrand replied. “It is time now for you to do your part.” He left the insult unspoken. Where had Heremod been when his lord was slain? Heremod’s face darkened and he turned away, hefting one of the bodies out of the cart with apparent ease. Beobrand knew that Heremod would never forgive himself for Fordraed’s death. He had drunk huge amounts of Hunwald’s mead and was in a deep sleep when his hlaford, still racked with guilt and worry at the king’s treatment of him, had gone in search of Oswiu. Beobrand supposed Fordraed had meant to profess his innocence, to defend his honour and to refute the suspicions that Beobrand had cast on him. Fordraed never spoke another word to the king, but with his actions, leaping to Oswiu’s defence, slaying one of his attackers and taking a mortal wound, the fat bastard had cleared his name of any doubt as to his loyalty. But Beobrand saw in Heremod’s haggard features and hollow, shadowed eyes that the man blamed himself for his lord’s death. The rest of Fordraed’s gesithas glowered at Beobrand, their fury clear.
Beobrand walked down the road, away from Heremod and the other men grunting and cursing as they manhandled the corpses from the cart.
“What do you think will happen now, lord?” asked Cynan.
Beobrand took a deep breath. His men had followed him, closing about him protectively, sensing the hatred that oozed from Heremod and the rest of Fordraed’s gesithas.
“I think that once they have dangled those corpses for all to see, we shall have an uncomfortable wait for Oswine.”
Oswiu had told them to send for him when they spotted Oswine’s approach. He had decided he no longer wished to meet with him in the hall. The idea of the two kings facing each other with threescore warriors apiece did not fill Beobrand with confidence of a peaceful outcome. He remembered a similar meeting at Dor. There it had been Oswald and Penda, and it had been Beobrand’s lust for vengeance that had almost caused a war. He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing again at their gritty tiredness. Gods, that had ended badly. Absently, his left hand stroked the handle of the seax hanging from his belt. He recalled how the blade had snagged on Anhaga’s ribs, the man’s eyes staring at him as he died.
“You think Oswine will come?” Cynan said.
Beobrand opened his eyes and nodded.
“Yes. He had no hand in the attack last night.”
“And when he comes?”
Beobrand sighed, staring into the south at where the distant birds still wheeled in the sky, like dark thoughts in a troubled mind.
“We must trust that both kings respect the bough of truce. If they do not, I fear none of us will see Bernicia again.”
Behind them, men were sharpening the saplings they had chopped down. Next, they would impale the corpses and then hoist them up, embedding the stakes into the earth. This is what Oswiu had ordered, so that all who travelled past this place would see what happened to those who raised their hands against him.
“You think Oswine will break the sacred pact of truce?”
Beobrand hawked and spat.
“It is not Oswine I am concerned about.”
Chapter 40
The sun was past its zenith when the two Northumbrian kings arrived at the meeting of ways near Hunwald’s hall. As soon as they had seen the horsemen approaching along Deira Stræt from the south, Beobrand had sent Attor galloping back for Oswiu.
Cynan watched as the Deirans approached. They came on at a trot and would cover the ground quickly, despite the distance. The red and gold banner of Deira fluttered from the long haft of a spear raised above the riders. The sun glittered from burnished metal. The threescore horsemen rode in a tight group, their colourful warrior coats and cloaks, gleaming arm rings and sparkling adornments giving them an air of gaiety and merriment at odds with the sombre expression on their grim faces.
Facing the Deirans on the brow of the hill was a tired group of half their number. The Bernicians had not slept, having spent the night scouring the woods for signs of other assailants. After that they’d had the gruesome task of bringing the bodies of the night-time attackers here and displaying them for the arrival of the king of Deira. Now, the five mottled bodies, stripped of all items of value, appeared to hover, like otherworldly ghouls gazing out over the old Roman road with sightless eyes and gaping, swollen-tongued mouths. They had been impaled on the sharpened stakes the men had cut from the copse, and their feet dangled some way above the grass and nettles that grew beside the road. Soon, Cynan knew, they would become unrecognisable, once the birds and beasts had gnawed at their flesh and corruption had set in. But during the morning, whenever a crow or magpie had landed on the corpses, the men had waved their arms or thrown pebbles, scaring off the birds.
“On your horses,” growled Beobrand. He swung up onto Sceadugenga’s back and Grindan handed him the bough he had cut from one of the coppiced ash staves.
The Bernicians had separated into distinct groups as they had waited, with Heremod and Fordraed’s men sitting away from Beobrand and Reodstan’s gesithas. The two bands of men had not conversed, but now Beobrand broke the silence between them. Heremod, his plaited beard quivering as he turned, glowered at Beobrand.
“I do not take orders from you, Beobrand,” he said. “You are not my lord.”
“I am not,” replied Beobrand. “But Oswiu will want us all mounted when Oswine arrives here. The Deirans are all riding. Do you think our king would want us to be lesser than his enemies?”
Heremod glared, but did not reply. Instead, he climbed to his feet and the rest of Fordraed’s men did likewise. Soon they had all clambered into their saddles and formed a line across the road, facing the oncoming Deirans. The five corpses on their stakes watched on with vacant empty eyes, a silent, twisted reflection of Penda’s blood sacrifices before Bebbanburg.
Cynan sat astride Mierawin on Beobrand’s right flank. He watched as Oswine and his comitatus trotted closer. He admired the finery of the warriors’ clothes, armour and weapons. These were the greatest men in Oswine’s retinue; men of renown and battle-fame. In the front rank he spotted Wulfstan. He wore a red warrior jacket and gold and garnets glinted at his shoulder and on his belt and sword. In his left hand he held aloft a leafy branch of oak that rustled and waved in the breeze. Cynan had seen the man several times before and he had always seemed affable, smiling and jovial, almost comical in his lightness of spirit. But now Cynan
understood well why the man was held in such high esteem. This was no light-hearted jester, this was a stern-faced leader and slayer of men.
Cynan looked sidelong at Beobrand with a renewed respect. He had obeyed his hlaford’s command to mount up, but it was only now, as the Deirans drew close and their full might became apparent, that he truly appreciated the decision. It seemed natural to Beobrand, but having the men on their horses was clearly better than leaving them on foot. To stand in the road, with shields and spears, and the grisly spectacle of the staked corpses behind them, would have looked like a provocation. Men fought on foot, not from horseback. But at the same time, the horsemen would have felt some superiority garnered from looking down at the Bernicians. And thegns and warriors had the wealth to ride. Ceorls could not afford mounts. By having them mount, Beobrand had at once elevated the Bernicians to the same status as the Deirans, while lessening the threat of their presence.
Cynan thought of Ingwald and the other men he had left back at Bebbanburg. Again he wondered if any would wait for him. If they did, and if he survived this encounter between kings, he must learn to lead with Beobrand’s instinctive decisiveness.
When they were still several paces distant, Wulfstan raised his hand. The column halted, dust from their passing hazing the air behind and around them. Oswine scanned the line of Bernicians before him. His handsome face was drawn, his eyes dark-circled. Cynan realised they were not the only ones to be tired. The Deirans had fought for their kingdom and if leading a few men from the fyrd had weighed on Cynan’s mind, how draining must it be to have the lives of all the people of a realm on your shoulders?
Oswine’s gaze lingered for a moment on the haggard, open-mouthed horror of the faces of the impaled men. Finally, his eyes settled on Beobrand.
“Lord Beobrand,” he said. “What is the meaning of this? I was asked to meet Oswiu at Hunwald’s hall, and yet you block my path.”
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