And towards death.
For he was sure now that the day would end with hot blood soaking into the land at Ediscum. What Beobrand was not certain of was whose blood would flow and who would live to see the darkness of night.
Chapter 43
The path was well-travelled. For the large part the ground was hard packed earth, firm underfoot. There were some patches of stubborn mud, where the land dipped and trees overshadowed the trail, but these were few. Cynan had ridden this way twice already, so he warned them where it was best to skirt the path. If they had been travelling in winter or spring they would not have made such good progress. With heavy rains the path would become a quagmire and only the bravest or most foolhardy traveller would risk it. But winter was far away. The sun shone warm in the sky above them, and the horses’ hooves clacked and clopped against the dry earth as loudly as if it were stone.
Shortly after they had ridden off from where the men had rested by the Wiur, Cynan had moved alongside Beobrand. They had not spoken, but a look had said all that was needed.
It was done. The message had been given, Beobrand’s oath to Wulfstan fulfilled.
Cynan was pleased. He liked Wulfstan. The thegn had recognised him when he had galloped up to his hall that morning. Striding out into the sunlight, he had invited Cynan in to drink and eat. Cynan was surprised at the man’s demeanour: he smiled broadly and welcomed Cynan as an honoured guest. It seemed that the war between their kingdoms was still just a matter of words between kings.
Even when Cynan had imparted his grave tidings, Wulfstan’s smile had not left his lips.
“Do you hear that, men?” he shouted out to the gesithas who were lounging in the hall. “My friend, Beobrand, has been sent to kill me!” He laughed, but his warriors did not smile. Neither did his wife. She approached them, bowing in greeting to Cynan. She was broad-hipped and full-breasted. In her arms she clutched their newborn son, swaddled in a linen cloth. The babe’s pink face glowed with rude health and his intelligent eyes, so like his mother’s, darted about, watching everything, missing nothing. The lady’s round, comely face was full of concern.
“What dark news is this, my husband?” she asked, frowning.
“Never fear, my love,” replied Wulfstan with a grin. “The lord Beobrand clearly does not mean to carry out his king’s wishes, or else he would not have sent brave Cynan here.”
“Beobrand does not wish you ill, lord,” said Cynan. “He counts you as a true friend. But he is oath-sworn to Oswiu. He cannot ignore the word of his king.” He hesitated, unsure how much to say. “He promised you that one day he hoped he would be able to repay you for saving his life in Eoferwic. That time has now come. He has sent me to warn you of his orders, but know this: he is riding behind me. You should not be here when he arrives.”
At last, Wulfstan had grown serious. He looked down at the tiny bundle in his wife’s arms. Reaching out, he stroked a finger down her cheek.
“It seems a man can never celebrate anything for too long. I had hoped to spend time resting in my hall with my family. Alas, I fear such is not to be.” He sighed. “Give Beobrand my thanks. His debt, such as ever it was, is repaid.”
Cynan knew something was wrong the moment they reached the brow of the hill that overlooked Wulfstan’s hall. Smoke still drifted lazily from the golden thatch of the building. The doors were wide open. A half-dozen horses were penned in a small paddock near the stables. This was not a place abandoned by its inhabitants.
Cynan had been riding some way ahead of the others, now he paused on the summit of the hill, waiting for Beobrand to join him. Beobrand was soon at his side and for a moment they were silent, both peering down into the valley, the westering sun lending the lush grass, the trees and bushes and the timbers of the buildings, a lustrous glow. Beobrand turned to Cynan, a question clear on his face. Before Cynan could reply, Heremod and the others reached them.
For a time they all gazed down at the cluster of buildings.
“Perhaps I was wrong to judge you, Beobrand,” Heremod said, tone gruff and grudging. “It seems Wulfstan is at home.”
Beobrand said nothing. With a kick of his heels, he sent Sceadugenga down the slope. Cynan rode beside him, his mind in turmoil. What had Wulfstan done? Why would he remain in his hall when he knew men were riding to kill him? Cynan scanned the area below them, looking for any sign of deception or ambush. He saw none.
They rode slowly down the hill in silence. The air was warm and still. There was a quiet tension in the afternoon, like the oppressive crackle in the air before a thunderstorm. And yet the sky was empty of clouds. But every man could sense it. Something was about to happen. They passed the paddock and the horses there nickered in greeting to the Bernicians’ mounts.
The path narrowed between two large oaks, like pillars, or a doorway. The trees were in turn flanked by a dense thicket of brambles. Beyond, the track opened out into a yard before the hall. The doors to the hall had been flung wide and the shadowed darkness inside would have beckoned to most weary travellers, cool and inviting. To the Bernicians, riding with thoughts of violence ringing in their minds, the gloom of the hall seemed forbidding; a place of danger for the unsuspecting.
Still the steading was silent and still. Cynan began to wonder whether Wulfstan had in fact left, for some reason deciding to leave half a dozen horses behind, his hearth burning and his hall open. Before the foolishness of these thoughts could fully register, a dozen men poured out of the dark mouth of the building.
They ran as fast as they were able, encumbered as they were with byrnies, shields, helms, spears and swords. The lowering sun reflected off their polished metal with a brilliance that made Cynan and the Bernicians squint.
Beside him, Beobrand tensed and Cynan knew he was considering spurring his stallion forward, to pass the narrow throat of the path before Wulfstan’s men reached it. Cynan readied himself to follow his lord, but he could see they would never all manage to pass through the gap between the oaks in time. Those who did manage to reach the yard beyond would be left open to attack from the spear-carrying Deirans. A heartbeat later, clearly having come to the same conclusion as Cynan, Beobrand hauled on his reins and, swinging his leg over his horse’s back, he slid to the ground. Cynan did the same, pulling his sword from its scabbard as he landed. Beobrand had been right to halt and dismount.
Cynan knew then that the Deirans did not wish to fight. They could have hidden behind the trees and bushes at the edge of the path and ambushed the riders as they passed into the yard. Instead, they had awaited them in the cool shadows of the hall, before blocking the entrance.
The Bernicians were hastily dismounting, unslinging shields from where they hung on their backs, placing helms on their heads. Before them, Wulfstan and his gesithas quickly formed a shieldwall. No command was shouted and the Deirans did not speak. These were well-trained warriors. A fight with such men would be bloody; the outcome uncertain.
As Cynan watched with admiration as the Deirans formed into ranks of overlapping shields, bristling with spears, so his black-shielded brothers silently joined him and Beobrand, effortlessly taking up their positions to either side. In moments, where the afternoon of the steading had been quiet and empty, but humming somehow with the hidden energy of an impending storm, now it was filled with armed men, staring grimly at each other over the serried ranks of their linden boards.
Lightning had struck from an empty sky.
What storm would follow was yet to be seen.
Wulfstan, resplendent in a great helm and burnished iron-knit shirt that hung to his knees, stepped from the ranks of Deirans who blocked the path.
“You are well come to my hall, Beobrand,” he said. “Though you seem overdressed, if you have come to give me joy on the birth of my son.” His tone was light and jovial. He was smiling.
“I give you joy, Wulfstan,” replied Beobrand. “And I would that you could enjoy your son’s company for many years to come.”
“I wou
ld like that too,” Wulfstan said. “Why don’t you put up your blades and come and share mead with me inside?”
“You know I cannot do that, Wulfstan,” Beobrand said, a heavy sadness in his voice. He stared at Wulfstan for a long while, then shook his head. “Why did you remain? You could be safely away from here.”
Wulfstan nodded, his smile fading.
“Indeed, I could. And I thank you for your message. You gave me time to see my family safely away.”
“I would never have harmed your kin,” said Beobrand. “It is not my way. And I wished to repay my debt to you.”
Wulfstan met his gaze, his expression sombre now.
“And you have, Beobrand. For that I thank you. But I could not ride from my hall like a nithing at the approach of an enemy. What would you have done? Would you have abandoned your home to escape danger?”
Beobrand shook his head.
“I do not wish to fight you or your men.”
“You are welcome to ride peacefully from this place,” replied Wulfstan. “I have no disagreement with you or yours.”
For a moment the two leaders stared at each other, weighing up the options open to them.
“Perhaps we could have a drink and talk things over,” Wulfstan said at last. “Mayhap we can avoid any undue foolishness here. I am sure there is a way we can all leave here with our honour and our lives.”
“And our oaths?” asked Beobrand, an edge of desperate hope in his voice.
“No!” yelled Heremod, shattering the calm that the two leaders had woven over the men. “We will only leave here when we have claimed the blood-price for my lord.” The burly warrior, his plaited beard quivering with his rage, glared at Beobrand. “There will be no parley with Wulfstan, you treacherous cur,” he snarled. “I knew it! I knew you had warned him of our coming.” Heremod’s face was crimson. He shook with the force of his outrage. “Well, I care not if I must add your blood to that of the Deiran.”
Beobrand grew very still. Slowly, he shifted his weight, turning his body and shield towards Heremod. Without a command, the Black Shields shuffled quickly into a new formation around their lord. Now they stood not across the pass, but at an angle, partly towards the gathered Deirans, but also able to rapidly defend against an attack from their fellow Bernicians. Fordraed’s men shifted nervously, flicking their gaze between Beobrand and his black-shielded gesithas and Heremod.
“I have warned you once about threatening me, Heremod,” Beobrand said, his voice cold as winter steel. “I will not warn you again. If it is death you seek, I can oblige, and willingly.”
Heremod was defiant, jutting his jaw so that his beard shook.
“Nobody is going to kill Wulfstan here today,” Beobrand said, his tone final and carrying to all those gathered in the afternoon sunshine. Cynan felt a trickle of sweat run down the back of his neck.
“You would break your oath? For this Deiran?” Heremod raged, incredulous.
“This Deiran saved my life,” Beobrand replied, his voice unnaturally calm in the face of Heremod’s anger. “Wulfstan is not my enemy.”
“We stood together on the wall at Bebbanburg. Have you forgotten? We fought like brothers against the Mercian scum. Forget Wulfstan,” Heremod said, outrage in his voice. “I am not your enemy!”
Cynan sensed the change in Beobrand as he fought against his anger. Death was close now. He could sense it in the harsh tone in the warriors’ voices, the sharp smell of their sweat. If Beobrand were to relinquish his hold on his ire, Ediscum would become a place of slaughter.
“You say you are not my enemy,” Beobrand said, his voice shaking with emotion, “then perhaps it is you who has forgotten himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“You threatened me, Heremod. Do you not recall?” Beobrand’s anger was bubbling over now. He was almost shouting. Gone was the calm of moments before. “You said you would speak out about my meeting with Eanflæd.”
Cynan gasped as he heard his lord’s words. He had long known of Beobrand’s affection for the queen, but he had not suspected he had acted on his desires beyond seeking out her company in the great hall of Bebbanburg during feasts. He watched as the shock appeared on the faces of Fordraed’s men. Even Heremod was caught unawares. Cynan saw it in the widening of the man’s eyes, the way his mouth flopped open and he seemed to rock back on his heels as if punched.
“What? You—” he stammered. “You and Eanflæd? I knew nothing of this.”
Beobrand frowned, confused.
“Then why threaten me?”
“I spoke of your man, Beircheart. I had seen him with Edlyn.”
For a moment nobody spoke. Beobrand flicked a glance at Beircheart. So he knew, thought Cynan.
“But you did not speak out, even knowing your beloved Fordraed was being wronged,” Beobrand said.
Heremod looked down.
“Edlyn deserved better,” he said. “She was happy with him.” He pointed with his drawn sword at Beircheart. “Fordraed was a brute, but I should have stopped it. He was my lord. He had my oath.”
“Fordraed was a fat animal,” yelled Beircheart. “Edlyn is well rid of the toad. And so are you, Heremod. Find yourself a real man to follow, not a slug like Fordraed, who beats women and is afraid to fight men.”
Fordraed’s men let out a low growl and took a pace forward.
“A real man?” asked Heremod. “Like Beobrand here? A man who has made a cuckold of our king? Who has broken his oath to warn our enemy of our coming? This is no man to follow. The king will know of his treachery. Oswiu will see your lord slain and maybe that whore of a Cantware queen with him.”
The moment before anyone moved, Cynan sensed it; the crumbling of the bonds that had held the two lines in check. Beircheart and Beobrand leapt forward together. Cynan and the rest of the Black Shields were only a heartbeat behind them.
Heremod roared in defiance and Fordraed’s men raised their shields and weapons to meet the attack. The two groups of warriors crashed together and the warm air rang with the thunder of blades striking boards. Moments later, Cynan’s heart sank as the first Bernician blood showered into the hot air.
Chapter 44
“Death!” bellowed Beobrand, as he ran forward. “Death!”
Even as he screamed the words, bashing his black-daubed linden board into Heremod’s shield, his spirit quailed. Twisting his left arm, he managed to lever Heremod’s shield down, allowing him to strike with Nægling at the bearded warrior’s exposed head. He fought with his famous speed, agility and strength, with instinct more than thought. All the while his mind screamed silently. What have you done? What have you done?
Heremod, no mean swordsman, ducked away from Beobrand’s blow. His lips were pulled back in a savage snarl, showing his yellow teeth. With a skilful twist of his wrist, he pushed Beobrand’s shield aside, aiming a desperate swing at his shoulder. Beobrand parried the blow with Nægling, absently feeling the thrum of the two blades singing together.
They continued to trade blows, but Beobrand was barely aware of his actions. He could scarcely believe what was happening.
The king had sent them to this place to slay a Deiran in blood payment for the loss of a Bernician thegn. The order was foolish and cruel. No good could have come from it. But as the afternoon was filled with the sword-song of battle and the first hot blood sprayed in the sunshine, Beobrand understood that he had made oath-breakers of them all.
It was he who had led them to this place, and it had ever been folly. If he had meant to break his oath, why not merely run? Had he truly believed he could fulfil both his oath to Oswiu and his promise to Wulfstan? It was pride and madness to have imagined such a thing was possible. And yet here they were, grunting and shouting, the clang of metal and the thump of shields loud in the sun-drenched afternoon heat.
A howling scream and he saw one of Fordraed’s men fall back, blood fountaining from a huge gash in his throat. Dreogan, his tattoos and new scar giving him the appearance of so
me beast of legend, sprang after the falling man, into the breach in the shieldwall. There he lay about him with his sword.
By Woden, Beobrand thought, he had made murderers of his gesithas.
Heremod flicked another swiping cut over his shield, this time aiming at Beobrand’s head. He swayed back, lifting his shield to catch the blow on its rim.
“Traitor!” screamed Heremod.
Beobrand did not reply. Heremod spoke the truth. He had broken his oath and betrayed his men’s trust.
Another of Fordraed’s men collapsed under Eadgard’s bludgeoning axe blows. The huge weapon splintered the man’s shield and the iron head bit deeply into his chest, bursting the links of his byrnie with the force of the strike.
He had made traitors of them all, and they had followed him forward without question. Pride rippled within him. These were his men, his comitatus, who would stand with him even in the face of death and despair. He had led them to break their oaths with their king, but their oath with him was yet strong.
A renewed vigour filled his limbs and the fog of despondency lifted from him. What was done could not be altered. He could only lead his men forward now. Perhaps all along he had known it would end this way, but with sudden certainty, he understood the path they must follow. If they ever hoped to return to Ubbanford and Bernicia, and if Eanflæd was to have a future, they must kill every last one of Fordraed’s gesithas.
This thought flooded him as if with freezing meltwater. There was no other way. As so often in Beobrand’s life, death was the only answer. So be it then. By Woden, if he had to, he would wade through the guts of Fordraed’s men to save his gesithas and Eanflæd.
And yourself, whispered a small voice deep within him.
Was this the act of a coward? he wondered. To kill rather than be killed. And yet was that not what all warriors did?
Along the line, he heard more screams and was dimly aware of yet more men falling; more warriors dying. But now his focus was fully on the man before him. Beobrand knew the path he had led his gesithas down, and he saw the end would be awash with blood.
Fortress of Fury Page 35
