Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Attor gripped the shaft of the arrow, gritted his teeth and yanked it free from his flesh. He grunted.

  A hush fell upon the valley.

  “You have done well, Attor,” said Beobrand. “Get Ceawlin to bind that.”

  Attor nodded, but did not leave. He turned his face to the giant warrior who still came towards them. The man’s beard bristled beneath his helm. His shoulders looked strong enough to lift an ox. From out of the darkness came another figure. Slimmer, but still menacing, bedecked for war with shield, spear and helm. The two warriors walked down the hill together.

  Attor held his seax tightly and moved to stand in front of Beobrand, placing his body between his lord and these two strange warriors.

  “You are brave, little man,” said the giant, “but if you mean to fight me with that tiny knife, prepare to meet Woden in his corpse-hall.”

  Attor bridled. The battle fury was fresh on him; certain death would not dissuade him from attacking.

  Beobrand placed a hand upon Attor’s shoulder, pulling him back even as he sprang forward towards the two warriors.

  “Stay your hand, Attor.”

  Beobrand walked past the wounded warrior towards the two newcomers. Behind him, Attor and Acennan gasped.

  “Wait,” said Acennan, attempting to grab Beobrand’s cloak, to pull him away from danger. Beobrand shrugged off his hands and continued.

  Two paces before the huge warrior and his companion, Beobrand halted. He drove Hrunting into the soft soil, leaving it quivering at his side, and threw open his arms.

  Acennan and Attor looked on in dismay as the giant warrior, even taller and broader than Beobrand, stepped forward. The massive man sheathed his own blade with a flourish and embraced Beobrand.

  “I should have known I’d find you up to your neck in battle, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi,” he said, his voice large and warm, like a roaring hearth fire.

  Chapter 2

  “This mead is good,” roared the huge warrior who had arrived that dawn. He slammed down the horn he had just emptied, pushing the bench back and standing up. He staggered towards the door, almost losing his balance.

  “Good and strong,” said Beobrand, smiling. “Watch yourself, Bassus. I wouldn’t want you tripping and hurting yourself, old man.”

  “Who are you calling old?” bellowed Bassus. He spun around to face the high table, arms lifted in mock fighting pose. Losing his balance, he reached out and grabbed hold of one of the hall’s wooden pillars. “I’m not old,” he said, shaking his head to clear it. “Drunk, yes, but not old!” He pushed himself away from the beam and walked unsteadily out of the hall.

  The men gathered there, most as drunk as Bassus, filled the warm, smoke-filled space with laughter. Bassus, erstwhile hearth-warrior and champion to King Edwin, was known to them. He and Beobrand had fought shoulder-to-shoulder in the battle of Elmet. The older warrior was their lord’s friend and had stood with them against the Picts in the darkness, and so they welcomed him.

  Reaghan started at the raucous noise of the men in the great hall. They were full of cheer. Glad to be alive. Flushed with the morning’s victory over the Picts. The air of celebration was clear in the expressions of men and women alike. They all felt it. Revelled in it. It was a warm day and the food and drink was plentiful.

  And yet, the happiness did not reach Reaghan. She had been so afraid in the black stillness of the night, cowering with the other women and the bairns. Waiting for the sound of battle. For the flash of fire in the darkness.

  Beobrand, sitting at the head of the room, waved to her, beckoning her to his side. She lowered her head and made her way past the men who lined the boards. She felt their eyes upon her as she approached her lord. She knew what they wanted. What all men wanted.

  “More mead, my lord?” she asked in a soft tone.

  He grinned and raised his cup.

  It was the first time she had seen him smile since before lady Sunniva’s death. Even when he looked upon Octa, his infant son, he displayed no emotion, save perhaps a brooding anxiety.

  Reaghan poured amber liquid for him and stepped back, away from Beobrand. The fear of the previous night clung to her like a rain-soaked fleece. She shuddered.

  The screams of the fighting, the clash of sword on shield and the crackle of fires had brought back to her the night she had been taken by Torran and his brother. She had not been as afraid since she was a child, when the Angelfolc had come on that autumn day, killing her family. But that was many years past and the memories had lost their edges, stones rubbed smooth in the stream of time. Her capture by the sons of Nathair had been recent, the wounds still fresh.

  They had treated her hard. She was no stranger to the ways of warriors. She was a thrall. The property of Lord Ubba until his death, along with his two sons, the year before. All three of them had lain with her. Panting and pushing, grunting into her long auburn hair. Yet she had never feared they would truly hurt her. She had pitied them. Despised them. But she never believed they wished her harm.

  The Picts were different. They had beaten her, slapping and punching her tiny frame. She had been powerless to prevent it, so had done the only thing she knew. Before they could knock her senseless, she had lifted up her dress, opening her legs, offering herself to them. They had stopped hitting her then.

  What followed had been little better. The memories of that dark night threatened to engulf her with their black wings. She had passed out before they had finished with her.

  She had awoken, battered and aching as the night erupted in flames and terror. The hall had filled with thick smoke and all about her men shouted. She recalled her own village all those years before, and the acrid smoke as her home was consumed. Her mother’s screams. The Angelfolc, descended from warriors who had come from across the Whale Road, had murdered her family and enslaved her. And yet, these Picts, people who had long shared this island of Albion with her folk, had forced themselves upon her. They had kicked and hit her. For years she had dreamt of running away from Ubbanford. Escaping her life of thralldom. To leave the accursed Angelfolc behind and return to her people in the west.

  Motion in the hall drew her gaze. Her reverie broken, she watched as Beobrand drained his cup and rose to his feet. He craned his neck, seeking her out. Spotting her in the shadows, he offered her another brief smile before leaving the hall, following Bassus outside.

  She watched him leave. His fair hair was long, his movements lithe and purposeful, even now, when dulled by drink.

  The Angelfolc were a scourge on the land. So she had always believed. They were oafs who took what they desired by force. They had no honour and did not understand the ways of the goddess Danu and her children; the ways that Reaghan’s mother had taught her.

  Yes, they were a blight. Slayers of her kin who had enslaved her and used her all her life. And Beobrand was one of their thegns. A lord.

  His muscular form was highlighted in the doorway for a moment before he stepped into the afternoon sun. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

  She should hate him, as she had hated Ubba and his sons. She flushed.

  Yet when she, a thrall, had been stolen away from Ubbanford, Beobrand had not forsaken her. She had awoken in that fire-filled night of death, alone and certain that she would die.

  The next thing she remembered she had been sitting astride his horse, Beobrand’s arms around her, holding her tight, his hands stroking her hair.

  She should hate him, but she knew she never could. For when all was lost and she could see no way out, Beobrand had come for her.

  *

  “Octa would be proud of you.”

  Bassus stretched his legs out before him and leant against the bole of the oak. From where he sat he could see the new mead hall that Beobrand had built and the settlement that nestled in the loop of the river below. He belched contentedly, tasting anew the meat and drink from Beobrand’s table.

  “I leave you for a year and you become a lord with your own gesitha
s and hall.”

  Beobrand found a spot on the grass in the shade of the tree and lowered himself down with a groan. Bassus took in the way he favoured his left leg, not bending the right. A recent injury, he supposed. Beobrand’s left hand showed sign of other battles. The smallest finger and part of the next had been severed. His face bore a savage scar under his left eye. Bassus remembered hearing the tale of how Beobrand had fled the battlefield at Elmet with the terrible wound to his eye, and how he had later been nursed to health by monks.

  “But you clearly need to practice more with that blade of yours,” continued Bassus. “You can hardly walk and you’ve lost half your hand.”

  “Yes, that was careless of me. Though Hengist lost more than I.” Beobrand spat.

  “I heard of the battle at Bebbanburg where you slew him. Tales of it reached us in Cantware. Your uncle was full of pride to hear of your sword-skill.”

  Beobrand looked up suddenly.

  “Selwyn lives?”

  “That he does. As tough as a boar that one, if I’m any judge of men.”

  “I was certain he had died,” said Beobrand. “He had the fever when I left Hithe.”

  Bassus cracked his knuckles.

  “Well, he yet lives and was hale enough. He was keen to hear of your exploits… and your brother’s.”

  Bassus drifted into silence as he relived the moment when he had told the old warrior of Octa’s death and Beobrand’s quest for vengeance. Pride and sorrow was a potent mix.

  “What did you tell him?” asked Beobrand, the slur of drink rapidly vanishing from his voice.

  “The truth. That Octa had been a great warrior, killed by a coward and that you sought to avenge his death. When word reached us of Hengist’s slaying and that you had also been present at the death of King Cadwallon, I took the news to your uncle.”

  Beobrand ran his hands through his hair. Bassus watched him sidelong. The change in the young man was vast. It was little over a year since last they had met, but Beobrand had changed from a youth to a man. His shoulders had broadened, his features had hardened. The fledgling fighter had been there to see before. He was skilled with weapons; was a natural warrior. The events of the last year had chipped away any softness in the boy, leaving the stone-faced warrior that sat beside him.

  “The pedlar,” said Bassus, “who brought the tidings of Cadwallon’s defeat, spoke of the young thegn from Cantware who brought the Waelisc king before Oswald, King of all Northumbria.”

  Beobrand shifted uncomfortably, but did not reply. He stared out over the broad expanse of the Tuidi. The river glistened like burnished gold in the summer sunlight. Swallows darted and cavorted in the valley, preying on unseen insects.

  “Still not much of a talker, I see.” Bassus laughed. “Your new lord has rewarded you well. You are rich, Beobrand.”

  “I do not feel rich.”

  “Warriors follow you. You have land. A hall. Thralls. And what of that lovely girl, the smith’s daughter? Did you bed her in the end? Was she worth staying for?”

  As soon as he had spoken the words, Bassus knew he had trodden onto dangerous ground. When would he learn not to open his big mouth? Beobrand tensed and turned away from him.

  “She died,” said Beobrand, his voice barely audible.

  “I am sorry. By Frige, I should learn to still my tongue. I let it flap like a goodwife’s.”

  Neither spoke for some time. The sounds of laughter and conversation drifted to them from the hall’s open doors. From a slope to the south came the distant whistles of a shepherd. They both watched as the man’s dog drove the sheep towards Ubbanford.

  At last, Beobrand spoke, his voice brittle as winter twigs.

  “I burnt her here, on this hill. A pyre fit for a queen.”

  “How did she die?”

  “The gods took her from me. They gave me a son and took my wife.”

  “A son!” Bassus blurted. “I didn’t know.”

  “I named him Octa.”

  “A fine name.” Bassus thought of Beobrand’s older brother. His sword-brother. His friend. “I hope young Octa grows into as fine a man as his namesake.”

  Bassus wished to ask more; to seek answers to the questions that bubbled up, but the mood between them was heavy now. He swallowed his words and bit his lip.

  Beobrand rose, wincing at the ache in his leg as he stood. He loomed over Bassus, his face in shadow, the sun wreathing his head in light.

  “Enough talk of me,” Beobrand said, his tone brisk in an attempt to lighten the atmosphere. “What of you and Gram? What brings you both to Bernicia? Are you on an errand for Ethelburga? Where are you bound?”

  “Bound?” replied Bassus.

  Misunderstanding his intent, Beobrand said: “Of course, you are welcome to stay in my hall as long as you both wish. I was merely curious.”

  Smiling, Bassus held out his hand. Beobrand grasped his arm in the warrior grip and pulled him to his feet. Bassus clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I am not bound anywhere,” he said.

  Beobrand looked confused. “But where are you going?”

  Bassus’ smile broadened.

  “I’m not going anywhere. We have arrived.”

  Beobrand’s brow creased.

  “You came to see me?” he asked.

  “To see you, yes. But more than that, Beobrand. We came to serve you.” Bassus was pleased that the mood had lifted. He almost laughed aloud at the expression of surprise on Beobrand’s face.

  “That is,” he continued, with a glint of humour in his eye, “if you have a place in your warband for an old man.”

  *

  Gram, lean, strong and sure of himself, flashed his teeth at Elmer. They circled, legs bent, shields raised. The high sun of morning glinted from their byrnies and helms. The blades of their weapons did not sparkle in the light. The swords were wrapped in leather and wool. This was a practice bout. It was Bassus’ idea. Good to get all the men to bond as quickly as possible, and nothing better for that than a good fight. Beobrand’s gesithas, his growing warband, sat on the grass, cheering and jeering.

  Most shouted support for Elmer. He was well-liked and had stood with them against many foes. Gram was a newcomer, friend of the giant Bassus. Their lord vouched for them both, and the two men drank, boasted and riddled as well as any, but they were still strangers. They were yet to prove themselves worthy of the warriors’ respect. Or trust.

  “Come on, Gram,” shouted Bassus, “you move like a goat who’s been fucked by a bull.”

  The men laughed. A good insult was always appreciated. Beobrand could not help but grin. The cloud of darkness still shadowed him, but Bassus’ appearance had gone some way towards dispelling the gloom that had settled on him.

  Maida, wife of Elmer, glared at Bassus. She was surrounded by children, the youngest of whom was Octa, Beobrand’s infant son, cradled on her hip.

  “Watch your tongue around the little ones,” she snapped. “You are little better than a bull yourself!”

  “Nice of you to notice, my lady,” Bassus smirked. “It is what many a maid has found.”

  More laughter. Maida’s frown deepened. She looked set to respond, the colour high on her cheeks, but she did not utter any sound. For at that instant Elmer let out a scream and launched a withering attack.

  Elmer was broad of shoulder, hale and strong, and his blows rained against Gram’s shield. The dull thuds of the padded blade against linden board and the grunts of the combatants were almost drowned out by the men’s raucous shouts of encouragement. Maida and the other womenfolk lent their own shrill voices to the cacophony.

  Gram retreated, his footing fast and assured, his balance true. Elmer pressed his attack. His eyes sparkled beneath his helm. He could scent victory. His opponent was on the defensive and his woman, children and all his friends looked on. There was a desperate edge to his attacks. Beobrand sensed it. Elmer had not forgiven himself for the death of Tobrytan. The old warrior and he had been left guarding
Ubbanford. When Torran and Broden, the sons of Nathair, had attacked, Tobrytan had died, his throat spit by one of Torran’s arrows.

  Elmer screamed again as he battered Gram’s shield. There was something else in that scream now. Frustration. Elmer wished to prove himself before his friends and his lord, but this new warrior was deflecting all of his blows. He could find no opening.

  In an instant, with no warning, Gram did what Beobrand had known he would do. He suddenly ceased his backwards movement, deflecting on his shield rim a savage blow that had been aimed at his head. At the same moment, he dropped his right shoulder, and thrust the point of his blade beneath Elmer’s shield and into his groin.

  The watching warriors winced as one. If the blades had not been covered, it would have been a killing blow. A man struck there bleeds like a pig sacrificed at Blotmonath. As it was, the blow would surely hurt. The blades were heavy and Gram had not been gentle.

  Gram leapt back, dancing on the balls of his feet, ready for Elmer to counter-attack. But he needn’t have worried. For a moment, Elmer looked ready to surge forward, and then his face paled and he crumpled to the ground, clutching between his legs. Maida rushed to him, but he waved her away angrily.

  “Well done, Gram,” said Beobrand. He limped into the area that the men had roped off for the bouts. His leg hurt. So did the big toe on his right foot. He glanced at the sky, but the wisps of clouds were white. There was no sign of the rain that twinges in his toe usually presaged. He looked down at Elmer. The man was struggling to catch his breath. Beobrand wished Gram had not beaten him. Elmer was a good man. Brave and true. But his belief in himself was damaged. Beobrand held out his hand with a smile.

  “Rise, Elmer, son of Eldred.”

  Elmer reached for his lord’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

  “You fought well, Elmer,” Beobrand slapped him on the back. “I see Gram had to resort to hitting a large target. Perhaps we should call you Elmer the Bull.”

  Elmer flushed as the men roared their approval. He looked to Maida and smiled sheepishly.