The murmuring doubts rising within were drowned out by the chaos and clangour of battle. There was no time now for thinking.
“Come on then, Heremod, you bastard,” he yelled. “Come and die on my sword.”
Heremod did not hesitate, he shoved forward with his shield, following it up with an overarm slicing cut with his sword. Beobrand had known he would. The man was strong and skilled, but Beobrand was stronger and fought with a fluid natural ability few men could match. With his shield, he deflected Heremod’s blade, then, with an almost casual flick of his wrist, he opened the man’s throat. Heremod’s beard braid fell to the earth, severed by Nægling’s sharp blade. A heartbeat later, blood welled at the slowly yawning gash in Heremod’s throat. Heremod opened his mouth, perhaps to hurl one last insult at Beobrand, but no sound came. Blood gurgled over his tongue and teeth as he dropped to his knees. For an instant, Beobrand stared into his eyes. He had seen many men die. Some men died with the hatred of their enmity still burning in their gaze. Most were filled with terror at the end. All he saw in Heremod’s glare was judgement and disappointment. A moment later, Heremod slumped forward, resting with his forehead pressed to the blood-soaked earth, as if bowing before Beobrand.
Beobrand stepped back for a moment, taking stock. His men were fighting well. Besides Heremod, three others were on the ground. With a sudden wrenching sensation, he saw that one of his own was also lying on the earth. It was Beircheart, his face the colour of whey. Beobrand shuddered. Gods, was there some magic that had been worked by the womenfolk to beguile them? Why else would they have acted so rashly? What had driven them both to such foolishness?
A loud voice boomed out, rising loud over the clamour of the battling Bernicians.
“For Oswine and Deira!”
Wulfstan.
Beobrand watched in dismay as the thegn charged forward from the oak gateway, his dozen warriors beside him, their spears lowered and shields raised.
Beobrand shouted a warning to his gesithas. Grindan, perhaps hearing his lord, faltered in his attack against a stocky man who wielded a hand axe. Grindan turned to see what new danger approached. None of the others paid any heed, or did not hear Beobrand’s yell. They continued fighting, as death rushed towards them.
Beobrand could do nothing except watch in horror as the Deirans rushed headlong into the fray, hitting the flank of the embattled Bernicians with crunching force.
Chapter 45
There was no celebration in Wulfstan’s hall that night. Though the warriors had fought and survived, there was no cheer in them. They sat, grim-faced and sombre, sipping ale and mead. The womenfolk and servants had not yet returned and so the board was sparse. No roasted meats filled the air with succulent aromas and the promise of greasy warmth in their bellies. Instead, they gnawed on yesterday’s bread, adding some hard cheese and tough, coarsely cut ham. It was mean fare, but none of the men complained. They sat in small groups, talking in hushed tones about the events of the day. What Oswiu had planned to be the first killing in the war between their kingdoms, marked the alliance of two opposing thegns. The surviving gesithas drank and talked and were glad they yet lived when so many had been cut down in the afternoon sun at Ediscum.
Beobrand took a swallow of ale to moisten the bread he was chewing. Finishing the mouthful of food, he pushed his trencher away and rose. Attor and Cynan made to stand, but he waved them back. They were nervous, he knew. He had led them into a dark chasm of treachery and he was uncertain he knew how to lead them out safely.
He felt the gaze of all the men in the hall upon him as he climbed to his feet and moved to one of the gloomy corners of the room. There, on a small pallet, lay Beircheart. The man’s skin was leeched of colour, his lips pallid. Beobrand sniffed the air. There was no sickly scent of corruption. If the wound had been elf-shot, that would come later. A spear thrust had split his byrnie and pierced his side before Beircheart had managed to plunge his own blade into his opponent’s groin. Attor had bound the wound as best he could, but he was no healer. Beircheart’s life was in the hands of the gods now.
The gods!
What a spectacle he had provided them, thought Beobrand. Men said he had luck; that the gods favoured him. Perhaps it was true. Maybe Woden and his kin kept him alive for their own entertainment, he mused bitterly. For surely there was nobody else in all of middle earth who provided them with such amusement.
Beircheart’s eyes were closed and he did not move at Beobrand’s approach. For a heart-wrenching instant, Beobrand feared he might have succumbed to his wound. He could almost hear the gods chuckling.
But then Beircheart’s eyes flickered open and he offered Beobrand a weak smile.
“I have brought you some bread and ale,” said Beobrand.
“I will take the ale,” Beircheart replied. “My mouth is as dry as a crone’s cunny.” He started to laugh at his own words, before wincing at the pain. “I should not laugh,” he said, with a grimace. “It only makes it hurt more.”
Beobrand sighed.
“I can think of nothing worth laughing about,” he said. Squatting down beside Beircheart, he helped him drink from the cup of ale. He held out the piece of bread, but Beircheart shook his head and lay back on the cot.
Beobrand stared down at him. Beircheart’s skin was wan, shiny with sweat. It was warm in the hall. Beobrand hoped the sheen of sweat was not an indication of the wound rot.
“You will need to eat,” he said. “You’ll need your strength.”
“I’ll eat soon enough, lord.”
For a moment, neither man spoke. The sounds of the other men were slowly growing louder as the ale flowed. Good. Normally they would be telling tales of the fight, playing games and riddling raucously. To see them so subdued twisted his heart. It was his doing, not theirs. He was filled with a despairing anxiety at the path he had led them down. He longed to be able to talk of what he had done, to unburden his mind, but he was their hlaford, not their friend to ask for comfort for his mistakes.
As so often in such moments, he wished Acennan were yet among the living. His friend had always been able to lift his spirits. But he would never see the stocky warrior again. Not this side of death. When they reached Ubbanford, he would speak with Bassus. The old champion would offer him good counsel. Until then, he would have to swallow his worries and lead his men to safety.
“It seems we both have secrets,” he said.
Beircheart closed his eyes for a moment, sighing.
“Indeed, lord,” he said, staring up at Beobrand earnestly. “And yours will be safe with us.”
Beobrand reached out and clasped his forearm in the warrior grip.
“I know I can trust all of you with my secrets.”
“You have our oath,” replied Beircheart. “We are sworn to you. We will stand by you no matter what.”
Beobrand thought of the fight against Heremod and Fordraed’s men. His gesithas had not hesitated to fight against brother Bernicians. Their loyalty brought a lump to his throat, and tears stung his eyes.
“I have never doubted your loyalty, or that of the rest of the men. But I offer you my thanks.”
“You have our oath, lord,” said Beircheart. “You do not need to thank us.”
“Still, I know it is no easy thing to follow one who leads you to break your oaths.”
Beircheart stared up at him, his eyes bright in his pallid face.
“Lord,” he said, his tone grave and serious, “you have no need to worry on account of the men. They all feel as I do.”
“And how is that?”
“The men we have slain knew the manner of lord they followed. Fordraed was a devious toad.” Beircheart’s face was as hard as granite.
“But Fordraed was dead before we came to this place.”
“And what choice did Heremod leave you? Would you kill a friend? One who had saved your life? And if Heremod and the others had been allowed to return to Bernicia, your life would be forfeit. We would never stand by and se
e that happen.”
Beobrand nodded, unable to formulate the words that would express his gratitude. Despite his earlier thoughts, it seemed he had gone some way to unburdening his worries, but even that caused him further unease. He should not be turning to his gesithas for encouragement and comfort. He was their leader and must be stronger than any of them. That was his wyrd, the destiny of a lord.
“Eat that bread and get some rest,” he said at last.
Leaving Beircheart, Beobrand walked outside the hall. The doors were open to the warm night air, and Wulfstan had placed two spear-bearing men outside to guard the entrance. Oswiu and his retinue were yet close. It was not inconceivable that the king of Bernicia would send more men to attack the hall. Beobrand thought it unlikely, but it was wise to take precautions.
Nodding to the door wards, Beobrand sensed Cynan following him.
Beobrand sighed. He was accustomed to the Waelisc warrior shadowing him, but he wished for nothing more than a moment of peace. A moment to turn over the thoughts that rattled within his mind; to sift through them as a man winnows wheat from chaff. It was true that Heremod and the others had followed Fordraed, in spite of knowing him to be a brute. And yet, had not his own gesithas followed him blindly to break their oaths to the king? He despised Oswiu, but did he too not follow the man because he had sworn his oath to him? Should a man be judged for the actions of his lord?
Walking into the darkness, he sensed as much as saw bats flitting about him in the summer night air. Moths and other night insects fluttered, picked out by the light spilling from the hall’s opened doors. He halted, looking out into the darkness beyond the stables. The hills and trees that surrounded the hall were huge looming shadows in the gloom. Soon enough the sun would rise in the east and another day would begin. What new trials would the dawn bring? No man could say. The future weft and warp of the tapestry of a man’s wyrd were hidden to him.
A crunching footfall made him turn around angrily. He had hoped that Cynan might sense his mood and keep his distance. By Tiw’s cock, the man was insufferable. But it was not Cynan who stood close to him. He could make out the shadowy form of the Waelisc near the door wards. The man who had walked across the yard to join Beobrand was Wulfstan.
For a time they stood in silence. The first ripples of laughter floated from the hall as the men within began to relax, to feel the tensions of the day slip away.
“Your men fought well today,” said Wulfstan. “I give thanks that none was slain.”
The Black Shields had fought with great skill and discipline. They were a formidable force and famed throughout Albion for good reason. Bassus would be proud to hear of how they had followed the training he had drilled into them. Few could stand before them. Even Brinin, young and inexperienced, had held his ground and stood firm with the others. Afterwards, Eadgard had slapped him on the back, almost knocking him to the ground. No words were said, and the atmosphere had been sober, but Beobrand knew Brinin had proven himself to the men and they had accepted the youth into their ranks.
“I thank you too,” Beobrand said. “Without your aid, I fear I might have lost some men.”
He could not bring himself to say that Wulfstan’s gesithas had fought well. Wulfstan had held them back, waiting to see the outcome of the fight amongst the two groups of Bernicians, only falling upon them when the battle seemed already decided. His Deirans had rushed into the exposed flank of Fordraed’s men, quickly dispatching the unsuspecting warriors who were too caught up in fighting Beobrand’s Black Shields to note the danger from the Deirans. There was little honour in what they had done. And yet, as he said, without their help, more of his men might have been injured or killed, and for that, he owed Wulfstan his thanks.
“How does Beircheart fare?” asked Wulfstan.
“Well enough. Travel will be hard, but with some luck, we will get him back to Ubbanford where he can rest.”
“You can leave him here, if you wish. The womenfolk will be back tomorrow, and they could tend to him.”
Beobrand turned the idea over in his mind for a moment before shaking his head.
“No. I thank you, but we must be gone from here. Gone from Deira. We are at war, remember?”
A sudden outburst of laughter, followed by a thundering of fists on the boards, echoed out of the hall.
Wulfstan snorted.
“They do not sound as if they are at war.”
Beobrand sighed. He liked this man. He had no desire to be his enemy.
“And yet we are.”
They stood in silence for a while longer. Beobrand could not shake the feeling of despondency that had draped over him like a wet cloak.
“Those men did not deserve death,” he said into the silence. “They were oath-sworn to a bad lord, that is all. Is it not right that they followed their lord’s commands? Is that not what we all do?”
“It is the way of things,” replied Wulfstan, his tone deep and serious in the night. “But they will not be the last men to swear an oath to a man who was not worthy of it, eh, Beobrand?”
Beobrand said nothing.
He thought of his oath to Oswiu. How he longed to be done with it. For a brief moment in the night at Ingetlingum he had begun to feel something akin to understanding for the king. But then, following the attack and the death of Fordraed, the cruel edge of Oswiu’s character had returned, like a man slipping a grimhelm over his face to hide his features, turning him from a mere man to a warlord, implacable and deadly.
He could not escape it. Oswiu had his oath. And even without it, what would Beobrand have done? He owed much of his wealth to the king. And of course, Octa was in his household. If Beobrand should turn against the ruler of Bernicia, what would befall his son?
And if Oswiu should learn of his meeting with Eanflæd? What then? He was certain of his men. They would not spread word of what they had learnt. But even the truest of men spoke to their women. And women did gossip so. The rumour would reach Oswiu eventually, of that he was sure. It was just a matter of time. Besides, Wulfstan and all his men had heard the secret too. Beobrand had already slain to prevent the secret getting out, he would not kill for it again.
“Those men chose who to follow,” said Wulfstan, interrupting his spiralling self-pity. “And it was their choice how they followed him. You are sworn to Oswiu, are you not?”
“Aye, and today I have broken my oath to obey him.” The thought of it turned his stomach. “If he finds out what has happened here, my life, and that of my men, will be like dust in the wind.” He stared into the darkness, glad that Wulfstan could not see the tears that threatened to spill from his brimming eyes. “My word now is worthless,” he said, his tone desolate.
“And yet,” said Wulfstan, “I still live.” He placed his hand on Beobrand’s shoulder. “You gave me your word that you would help me in a time of need. Today your promise is fulfilled. I hope no more comes of this madness between Oswiu and Oswine. I would rather be your friend than your enemy.”
Beobrand blinked back his tears, cuffing at his eyes.
“No matter what our lords command, I am happy to be your friend, Wulfstan.”
The Deiran squeezed his shoulder.
“What will you say happened here?”
“I know not.” Beobrand thought for a moment. “I suppose I will tell Oswiu you defeated us and killed Heremod and Fordraed’s men.”
“Will he believe you?”
Beobrand hawked and spat.
“Probably not, but what man would accuse me of being a liar?”
His own words, full of vitriol, failure and disappointment, were as sharp and cutting as a sword-blade. Without waiting for a response, Beobrand turned away from the hall and the sounds of laughter and camaraderie. These things were not for him. Leaving Wulfstan staring after him, he stalked into the night to be alone with his anguish.
Like a distant shadow, unseen and unheard, Cynan moved silently from the porch of the hall and followed his lord.
Chapter
46
As they rode north, Cynan could see that something had changed within Beobrand. Always a surly, serious man, not prone to merriment and levity, now the lord of Ubbanford seemed somehow less present. He was distracted, as if he listened to words that only he could hear. Whenever Cynan attempted to converse with him, Beobrand reacted as if awoken from a dream. He would then turn his glower to Cynan, offering him the barest response. After a time, Cynan did not approach him, merely keeping close to him in case of danger.
The rest of the men whispered about Beobrand at night. Cynan listened to them, but did not enter into the discussions. The gesithas were not griping and moaning about their lord or his decisions, though well they might have, for the course he had set for them would only lead to misery, thought Cynan. They were concerned for him, worried where his dark state of mind would take him next. For they were oath-sworn to him, and wherever he led, they would follow.
The journey had been without serious incident. They travelled slowly, as Beircheart was too unwell to ride. Wulfstan had given them a cart in which to carry the injured man. It was pulled by one of the horses. First they had tried Beircheart’s mare, but the beast had hated being harnessed to the wooden contraption, kicking out and whinnying in distress and anger. Eventually, Cynan had selected Eadgard’s sturdy gelding and had him ride Beircheart’s mare. The gelding was docile and much more suited to the task of pulling, but Eadgard was no rider and was thrown twice until his brother, a more accomplished horseman, had swapped mounts with him.
Two of Fordraed’s men’s horses were tied to the waggon, a precaution against any of the mounts going lame. The rest of the steeds Beobrand had gifted to Wulfstan. The story of being beaten by the Deirans would never be believed if they returned with all of the mounts they had left with.
The sun was low in the sky, hazing the hills in the west with a rosy hue. Beobrand rode ahead of them on Sceadugenga. Cynan spurred Mierawin forward to join him. Beobrand did not turn to see who approached. His eyes were dull and he seemed content to allow his black stallion to carry him where it wished.
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