Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  A hound leapt up from where it had been dozing under the kings’ table and sloped off, away from the furious man.

  Oswald stood slowly beside Cynegils and placed a hand on the older man’s shoulder.

  “You will kneel,” he said in a voice as cool as midnight.

  Silence now in the hall. All strained to hear. Beobrand was suddenly alert. If the feast turned into a fight they were outnumbered. And worse, their weapons were stored for safety by the door wardens.

  Cynegils turned to Oswald with a glare. He opened his mouth to shout, but Oswald spoke again in his calm, cold tone.

  “You will kneel. But to no man. You will kneel to the one true God and you will be washed in His Holy Spirit. For if you do not there will be no marriage. No alliance with Northumbria. And the next man you kneel to will be Penda. And believe me, the lord of Mercia is not so forgiving as Christ.”

  The hall seemed to hold its breath. The two kings stood face to face. Cynegils was panting, such was his ire. Oswald was still, slim and seemingly fragile next to the bulk of the Wessex king. And yet he stood his ground. Oswald’s clever brown eyes never left Cynegils’. He may be slighter of frame, but he too was a force to be reckoned with.

  After what seemed an age, Cynegils finally laughed. He reached for Oswald and embraced him, laughing all the while. Oswald appeared somewhat confused by the reaction for a moment, before he too smiled and returned the embrace.

  “As I said, I will kneel to no man,” Cynegils said, the anger in his voice replaced with mirth. “But I think even I, Cynegils, son of Ceol, son of Cutha, son of Cynric, King of all the West Seaxons can bend the knee to a god. And not just any god, the one true God!”

  *

  Night fell. Outside bats flitted between the buildings. The embers of the firepits glowed and flickered. Not for the first time that evening, Beobrand made his way to the midden pit to relieve himself. His pace was heavy, his steps weaving. Would he never learn? At least he would not be expected to take to the water in the morning. The mere thought of boarding a ship churned his stomach.

  He grunted as he loosened his breeches and let out a stream of steaming piss into the stinking morass of the refuse pit. From the hall came laughter and singing. After the kings had embraced, the merriment had not let up. Scops sang. Men told riddles and tales of sword-play and battle. Barrels of ale and mead were consumed along with copious quantities of meat.

  Beobrand looked up at the clouded sky. He could see no stars, but the moon’s light paled the clouds. He fumbled with his belt and breeches, cursing under his breath at the clumsiness of his left hand. Turning, he staggered slightly, off balance. It would not do to partake any more of Cynegils’ hospitality this night. He may not be going by ship in the morning, but they would all be going to the water. He had never seen a baptism, but Coenred had told him what would happen. It would not do for him to puke in the river while a king was being doused with sacred water.

  Nearing the hall, he saw a man and woman briefly silhouetted against the doorway. The couple left the hall and Beobrand glimpsed the woman’s pale face and full lips wreathed in black hair. The man was Acennan. Good for him. He had been giving the girl his attention all night and she seemed eager enough to give him what he wanted in exchange for his smiling flattery. And the garnet ring, of course. Beobrand felt a twinge of jealousy. He thought of the warmth of Reaghan’s body next to his. But it would be weeks before he saw her again. Perhaps he too could find a willing Wessex girl.

  He watched as the couple, arm in arm and leaning in close to one another, moved into the shadows between two buildings.

  Smiling at Acennan’s good fortune, he started towards the hall once more, when he noticed four more figures leave the building. At first he believed they were going to relieve themselves of the ale they’d consumed, but there was something about their movements. Something in their bearing. They did not walk like drunk men looking for somewhere to piss. They moved with the stealthy silence of hunters. They were all large men and none of them spoke above a whisper as they followed Acennan and the girl.

  Where moments before Beobrand had been befuddled by drink, now a calm stole over him. There was no time to seek help, or to fetch any weapons. But of one thing he was quite certain: these men were not pleased with the attention Acennan was receiving from the dark-haired beauty. And from the way they now stalked him into the darkness, they meant to make sure he would regret approaching her.

  Quietly, Beobrand followed the men at a distance. If they meant his friend harm, they were the ones who would look back on this night with regret.

  Into the darkness the four men walked, oblivious of Beobrand shadowing them. Acennan and the girl were clearly making for a destination far from the hall. Somewhere quiet. Secluded.

  The couple darted between two buildings. The larger of the two seemed to be a byre, the scent of hay and manure surrounded it. The other building was dark and silent; perhaps a storehouse. Sounds of feasting from the hall carried into the night air, but were muffled at this distance. Further away, Beobrand heard the hushed murmur of wind caressing the leaves of the trees that lay at the northern edge of the fields that surrounded the settlement.

  The four men sped up, closing the gap between them and their prey. Beobrand caught the faint light of moon-glimmer on metal. A blade! He rushed forward. He would not allow Acennan to face these men alone. Or worse, to be surprised by them, unarmed and unaware. Something fluttered into his face as he ran, making him start. Just a moth, seeking the light of the firepits. He brushed it away absently and hurried forward. The men had disappeared between the two buildings now and no sound came from them.

  As stealthily as he could while still moving fast, Beobrand rounded the corner. A horse whinnied and stamped in the byre. For a moment, he could make out nothing in the moon-shadow. He peered into the gloom. There was a shuffling movement and forms coalesced from the darkness, but he was still unable to make sense of them. Then, suddenly, someone fell backwards into him, with a grunt. Without thinking, Beobrand shoved and the man stumbled back between the buildings.

  At the same instant, Acennan’s voice came clearly from the shadows.

  “Is that the best you can do? Did you think the four of you could take me?”

  “We’ll kill you, you Northumbrian shit.” The voice was young. Brash and strong. Certain in the superiority of four armed men against one who carried no blade.

  “There will be no killing here tonight,” said Beobrand, voice as hard and cold as chiselled rock. He sensed as much as saw the faces turn towards him.

  “Who are you?” asked the voice.

  “I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. Thegn of Bernicia and Lord of Ubbanford. Who are you?”

  “Fuck off. Or we’ll gut you too.” Was there a slight tremor now?

  “There are two of us, and four of you. Drop your blades and fight us like men.”

  “Why should we do as you say?”

  “Our kings have just sworn to be allies. Oswald is to wed Cynegils’ daughter. How do you think they will take to their gesithas slaying each other?” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “Besides, if you start a fight with Acennan and me with blades drawn, I swear on Thunor’s hammer we will kill all of you. Now, you choose.”

  He backed out of the darkness into the relative light of the path. He tensed his leg. The wound still ached, but the leg was strong now. He rolled his shoulders and winced slightly at the tightness of his left arm. The night hid his grimace. His arm would have to do. His course was set now. Whatever happened, there would be a fight.

  Slowly, cautiously, the four men shuffled out of the shadowed alley. The squat figure of Acennan came behind them. They twisted this way and that, not wishing to turn their backs on either warrior.

  “I still see seax blades. This is your last chance. Drop the weapons, or I swear they will taste your blood before this night is through.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, they let their blades drop to the grass at
the side of the path. As they did so, without warning Beobrand sprang forward, swinging his right arm towards one man’s face. Sensing the attack, the man tried to duck but was too slow. Beobrand’s elbow connected hard with the side of his head. He went down, as if struck with an axe.

  Beobrand was aware of Acennan entering the fray. There was noise and movement, but he could not afford to lose his focus. His senses were perfectly clear now. The battle calm enveloped him and he welcomed it like the embrace of an old friend. He had hoped that his savage attack would give the second Wessex man pause, but it was not to be. Rather than being stunned, the man threw himself at Beobrand. A fist glanced against his cheek as he swayed back, taking most of the sting from the blow. The man came on without respite, seeking to wrestle and gouge. Beobrand, slapped the man’s arms away from his face.

  He stepped back again, letting his adversary swing wildly. The man’s eyes, wide and unblinking, shone in the darkness. Beobrand took a punch on his right forearm. A second blow came fast. He deflected it on his left arm, gritting his teeth against the pain. He allowed the Wessex man to throw two more punches, each time parrying them or stepping backwards. His opponent’s teeth gleamed then, as his lips pulled back in a snarl of victory. He stepped quickly forward again, ready to land another blow. But this time, Beobrand did not step back. He raised both his arms before him, gripped the man’s kirtle in his fists and pulled him on towards him. At the same moment, as fast as an eye-blink, he swung his head forward. He put the weight of his body behind the attack, folding from the waist. The man’s blows went wide. They made less impression on Beobrand than the moth that had touched his cheek moments before.

  Beobrand’s forehead slammed into his enemy’s nose with crushing force. Blood splattered black in the moonlight. The man swayed, but to Beobrand’s surprise, did not fall. Beobrand shot a quick glance in Acennan’s direction. He was down on the ground and wrestling with one of the men. The last one lay crumpled in a heap on the grass by the discarded seaxes.

  Turning his attention back to the man before him, Beobrand was grudgingly impressed with his strength. The West Seaxon shook his head like a bear that has been stung by a bee, and then launched himself at Beobrand with a roar.

  There was no more time for this. Again, Beobrand let the man come, but this time, he feinted a jab at his blood-slathered face. The man saw the punch and tried to block it. Beobrand let him. He took a brisk step forward and hammered his knee into the man’s groin. The wind rushed from his attacker’s lungs and he let out a groan. Beobrand shoved him hard on the chest. The man stumbled, tripped and fell, sprawling on the path. Beobrand finished him with a savage kick to the head.

  He spun around, ready to help Acennan. But his friend was rising from the still form of his opponent.

  Beobrand felt a strange mixture of disappointment and elation.

  His heart pounded in his chest. He could hear its thumping. His arm stung. His forehead throbbed. He was vaguely aware of the ache in his big toe. He had broken it once before, kicking a man in the face. Perhaps he had done the same again. But despite all of the hurts and pains, unbidden his face split into a wide grin. For it felt good to fight. Every day he held back his anger. The gods had laughed at him, taking all he loved.

  He stood there, panting in the darkness, surrounded by fallen foes.

  He had wealth. A great hall. Lands. A fine sword.

  A son.

  He had all these things, yet none brought him happiness.

  Acennan staggered over to him, delivering a kick to one of the bodies as he came.

  “Thanks for the help,” Acennan said, “but I could have taken them on my own.”

  “Where’s the girl?” Beobrand asked.

  “Fled at the first sign of trouble. And I don’t blame her.”

  Beobrand scanned the ground around them and realised something that sent a shiver down his spine.

  “Pity there were only four of them,” he said.

  “Why?”

  And he spoke the words that frightened him.

  “I was just beginning to enjoy myself.”

  Chapter 11

  Coenred narrowed his eyes at the bright sunlight that shone through the leaves of the willows. It was as if God himself looked down upon them. And of course, He did. If God was interested in anything that man did, surely he would care to witness the baptism of a king. The river bank was lined by ealdormen and thegns. Men of import and their wives. On the far side of the river stood a shieldwall of warriors, their backs to the king and the assembled dignitaries. Cynegils had insisted.

  “If I am to kneel in the river in nothing more than a white shift,” the King of Wessex had said. “I will have my hearth-warriors close at hand. I have many enemies and I am not certain that God can stop an arrow.”

  “God can do anything,” Oswald had replied.

  Cynegils had frowned.

  “Perhaps that is so. But would He bother? I trust my men.”

  Cynegils and Oswald now stood on a shingle beach, flanked by several of those men. Each king had his most trusted thegns at his side. Coenred surveyed the warriors, all of whom were bedecked as if for war. Helms and byrnies gleamed in the hot sun. Beobrand stood stiffly near Oswald, his gaze flicking from one person to the next, as if they were all potential attackers. Beobrand’s eyes met those of a Wessex warrior and lingered there. The West Seaxon glowered hatred back from puffy, swollen bruised eyes.

  So, it was as Coenred had thought. Beobrand was responsible for the beatings of Cynegils’ men. At the height of the feast, four Wessex warriors had stumbled into the hall. They had all been bloodied and bruised. When Cynegils had asked them what had happened, they had dismissed the questions, stating that it had been nothing but a minor disagreement. Cynegils had nodded and let the matter lie. But Coenred had seen Oswald flick a glance at Beobrand where he sat with his friend Acennan. Both men had been flushed and in high spirits, but they had stopped their boastful jesting when the injured West Seaxons had entered the hall. They had sat upright and set aside their cups, listening intently to the exchange between the men and Cynegils. Coenred did not know if Oswald had seen, but the young monk’s eyes were keen, and he had spotted a cut on Beobrand’s cheek. And where Acennan’s hand gripped his drinking horn, his knuckles were split, raw with fresh blood.

  Now those same keen eyes were almost shut against the bright glare of the noon sun. All along the line of onlookers, others squinted in the light. There were many there who wished they had partaken less freely of the king’s mead the night before. Two nights of feasting had proven too much for some, and they stood now, with downcast stares and hunched shoulders.

  But Birinus was not one of them. He had fasted for the day and night following the arrival feast. The dark-robed bishop stepped forward into the centre of the beach, raising his hands for silence. This was his moment. He had come from far away to bring the word of God to these people, and now he was about to baptise their king. The pride of the moment glowed on his face. Coenred smiled as he could almost hear the thoughts inside the bishop’s head. Pride was a sin. He was here to do God’s work, not to take credit for it. Birinus fought to control his features. He removed the beaming grin of success and replaced it with a beatific, demure smile.

  Coenred saw all this with great intensity of vision. His senses were as sharp as a spear-point. He recognised the acute awareness that came with fasting.

  In the day and night since the feast, Coenred had fasted and prayed with Birinus. Following the incident with Cormán, Coenred found it hard to trust strangers. A new figure of authority within the brethren of Christ was especially difficult to feel comfortable with. And yet soon after meeting this foreigner, with his strangely cropped hair and unusual accent, Coenred had felt at ease. It was hard to describe, but there was a fundamental goodness that exuded from Birinus.

  Gothfraidh agreed.

  “Whilst Birinus differs in his beliefs to some of our ways,” the grey-haired monk had said, when Dalston had
questioned why the bishop wore his hair differently from the monks of Hii and Lindisfarena, “I cannot doubt that he is a true man of Christ. I believe the West Seaxons have found one who will shepherd them well.”

  Oswald had joined them for a large portion of the evening in which they had fasted, entering into the prayers and songs in a most pious manner. Cynegils had also been told to abstain from eating in preparation for his cleansing in the sacrament of water, but Coenred doubted he had. It was not his place to judge others, that was for the Lord to do. But it seemed to him that the King of Wessex had accepted Christ as a way to find favour with Oswald and to gain access to the power held in the Northumbrian king’s grasp.

  As he looked over now at Cynegils’ daughter, Cyneburg, he could not help but think that Oswald was to take the victor’s share in this bargaining for alliance between kings. Cyneburg was as beautiful as a sun-kissed summer morning. Her hair, like so many fine chains of gold, was secured upon her head in elaborate plaits. Her lips were full, pink and moist and looked as succulent as rosehips. Beneath her sumptuous blue mantle, Coenred could discern full hips, plump breasts…

  Gothfraidh elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a sharp look. Coenred felt his face flush. Why was he tempted so? Why would the devil not leave him alone? He tried his best not to think such lewd thoughts, but he seemed incapable of focus when in the presence of young women. He shifted his body awkwardly, suddenly terrified that his arousal would be seen by those gathered at the riverside for this solemn occasion.

  Birinus was speaking, and Coenred willed himself not to look or think more on the princess who was soon to wed his king.

  “Who here is to be Godfather and sponsor of Cynegils, son of Ceol on this, his baptism into the church of Christ?”

  Oswald stepped forward, resplendent in purple cloak, bejewelled clasp at his shoulder. His chestnut hair was held back from his face by a simple band of gold. He stood tall and proud. A king in every aspect of his being.