“How did he help you?”
Coenred could still hear Bassus’ screams. Mead had dulled his senses, but the pain had still been terrible.
“With his axe. The arm bled a lot then. I had to stop the blood with the hot metal we had prepared. Aidan said I did well.” Coenred looked to Beobrand and saw that his Cantware friend’s jaw was set. His skin pale.
“After that, Bassus slept. We wrapped the stump in tender leek leaves and pounded salt, that the heat of the fire would be the sooner drawn away.”
The partition at the rear of the hall opened and Aidan stepped into the room. Attor rushed to him with a cup of ale as the priest made his way to where Beobrand and Coenred sat.
Beobrand stood.
“It seems you have again aided one of my trusted gesithas. I thank you.”
Coenred translated the words into Latin.
Aidan smiled but shook his head. His face was drawn and tired, but his eyes bright.
“Do not thank me,” he said in the tongue of the Angelfolc. “Thank Christ, son.”
“The Christ is not my god, but I will thank Him if Bassus lives. Perhaps I will build a shrine here in Christ’s honour.” Coenred could scarcely believe Beobrand’s words. He knew that Beobrand cared little for what he thought of as a weak god.
Aidan sipped at his ale and listened to Coenred’s translation. He replied, speaking fast words to the young monk.
“He says that you should build a place of worship for Christ followers. If you do this, you will be blessed.”
Beobrand frowned, apparently unsure how to respond. After a time he said, “How is Bassus?”
At this, Aidan showed his teeth in a broad grin. He spoke animatedly.
Coenred explained his words, unable to keep a wide smile from his own face.
“It would seem the Lord has heard our prayers for Bassus. His recovery from last night is nothing short of a miracle. The fever has broken and Aidan bids you go in to Bassus. To see you would lift his spirits.”
*
Bassus shivered as if he was lying naked under a drift of snow, and not covered in thick furs. And he felt hot. The dreadful pain of burning radiated from his left arm. He ground his teeth against the agony. He had never known such pain. He felt tears prick at his eyes. He had not cried since he was a child. He had suffered. Wounds, loss, death of friends and family, but he never wept. This throbbing, searing agony might change that.
He made to wipe his hand over his face and for an instant was confused. He did not feel his rough palm against his coarse beard. The pain was making him foolish. Of course he felt nothing from his hand. He no longer had a left hand. Despite the waves of shuddering nausea Bassus smiled grimly. This would be no easy thing to grow used to. He quickly rubbed his right hand over his features, removing the tears that had squeezed past his eyelids. He would not weep, by all the gods. That Pictish whoreson would not make a child of him.
Another heart-clenching throb of excruciating agony made him close his eyes. A small groan came through his gritted teeth. Gods, he had no arm now, so how did it still hurt? If he did not look, he would have sworn an oath that he was still whole. Still a warrior to be feared. And yet he knew the truth of it. He would never hold a shield again. The priest, Aidan, seemed to think he would survive. Looking down at the seeping bandage and empty space where his arm had been, Bassus was not sure he wished that.
He should never have come north again.
The door to the chamber opened with a rasp of wood against wood. Beobrand stood there. The pity on the young man’s face stung almost worse than the burnt stump. Is that what he was now? What he would be? Just an object of pity. An old man with one arm.
“You look better,” said Beobrand, coming to sit by his side. “Last night I feared the worst.”
“What could be worse than this?” said Bassus, his voice a croak of despair.
“Do not speak so. You will heal and mend. You still have one good arm. You are not dead yet, old friend.”
Bassus let out a harsh bark of laughter and looked away.
“No, I am not. But perhaps it would have been better if that Pict’s arrow had found its mark.”
“Better? How would that be better, Bassus?”
Something in Beobrand’s voice drew Bassus’ gaze back. Tears ran down the warrior’s cheeks. Bassus was struck by how young he looked. Not much more than a boy. Pain again made him close his eyes and hold his breath.
“I have lost too many, Bassus,” Beobrand said. Bassus opened his eyes. Beobrand cuffed the tears from his face. “I will not lose you too. You will get well and live many more years.” His voice had taken on the tone of one who should be obeyed. A lord. His lord. He knew then that Beobrand would cry no more. And that he would live.
“Very well, Beobrand. If you command it, I will live.” He forced a weak smile. “But there are some who need to do some dying.”
“Aye,” said Beobrand, gripping Bassus’ remaining hand. “I swear to you I will seek out Torran, son of Nathair, and I will slay him.”
“You do that,” said Bassus. “That son of a Pictish pig needs killing more than most men from what I have heard.”
“He will not live,” said Beobrand, and Bassus heard the truth of his lord’s words.
“But there is another who you must kill, Beobrand,” Bassus said, squeezing Beobrand’s hand tightly at another surge of pain.
Beobrand leaned in close to Bassus to hear tell of this other walking corpse.
*
The day was fine. A few clouds drifted in the deep-blue sky. Beobrand walked between the houses of Ubbanford. Fragments of frost lingered in the shadows of the buildings, but in the sunlight the air was pleasant. His thoughts were like a reflection of this interplay between warm light and cool shade. One moment he was overjoyed that Bassus lived, that Reaghan was well and Octa was flourishing. The next, darkness smothered him. Torran must die. And Nelda, that whore-witch mother of Hengist could not be allowed to live after what she had done.
How he would find them he did not know. But once his duty to the king was done, he would search for them, and he would see them both dead. How many more would he add to those he had vowed to kill before the winter snows came? If it were true that Wybert had travelled to Frankia, his vengeance might take him to lands he had never seen before. Part of him wished he could be free of the killing. But no, that was not his wyrd. Perhaps one day he would be able to rest in his hall, but would he ever know peace until his sworn enemies were dead? The thought of Wybert yet living, when he had caused such misery, filled Beobrand with rage. He knew he would not be able to face his wife’s defiler soon, but the fire of his anger burnt hot and slow, like a banked forge. It would never be extinguished.
His hatred of Torran and Nelda was more charcoal added to the flames.
The sound of children laughing reached him. Beobrand slowed and cautiously peered around the barn, hoping to see his son for a moment before being spotted. Octa would not even recognise him, he was sure. He was yet a babe, and Beobrand had not been with him for more than a few moments since his birth. He vowed that he would spend time with his son when he returned from fighting the Picts in the north. He did not wish Octa to grow up thinking of Beobrand as a stranger. He would be a better father than Grimgundi had been to him. He would teach the boy how to be a good man.
The grass before the house was bathed in the morning sunlight. Elmer and Maida’s children frolicked and laughed, chasing one another in a circle. In the doorway, stood Reaghan. She held Octa on her hip and watched the children play contentedly.
Beobrand’s stomach twisted. He knew in that instant, seeing her there, his son in her arms, that she could be a thrall no longer. He did not understand what he felt for her. It was different to how he had felt for Sunniva, but it was powerful in its own way. This fragile-looking Waelisc girl had somehow enthralled him. It was true. Women held more power than could be seen or measured.
Reaghan looked in his direction and, seeing
him, smiled broadly.
Beobrand returned the grin, his memories of the previous night’s passion bringing colour to his cheeks. As if she knew what he was thinking, Reaghan lowered her gaze coyly.
“My son is well?” Beobrand asked, striding forward, choosing to ignore the awkwardness between them. What did he expect? She was a thrall and he a lord. They would never be able to be at their ease before onlookers while the situation remained unchanged.
“He is, my lord. Octa is a strong, healthy boy, just like his father.” A flutter of a smile played about her lips. Those rose-petal lips that had kissed his body with such intensity the night before. Beobrand felt himself stirring. The power of the girl was intoxicating. But that was not what he had come here for. Taking a deep breath, he held out his hands.
“May I hold him?”
“Of course, my lord,” she replied and offered the blond babe to him. Reaghan’s hands touched his as he lifted Octa. Their eyes met and spoke a truth neither would dare put into words.
Around them, the children had ceased their play and were staring up at the giant warrior, who was now holding Octa. The baby seemed curious. Beobrand was unsure how to hold him, but the boy did not squirm. Instead, he looked into Beobrand’s eyes with a questioning expression. Beobrand could see himself in those eyes. And the hair. He thought he could make out Sunniva’s chin and cheeks too, but with a sharp pang of sorrow, he realised he was not sure. Could he have forgotten her face so soon?
Cradling Octa in his right arm, Beobrand stroked the boy’s cheek with his left half-hand. Octa reached up and grasped his father’s forefinger with surprising strength. Beobrand laughed.
“He is fine,” Beobrand said. “You will grow up strong and proud, Octa, son of Beobrand.”
Maida came out of the house, blinking in the bright sunlight.
“Maida, I thank you for caring for Octa so well.”
Wiping her hands on a cloth, she blushed.
“It is my honour, lord,” she said. “And Reaghan has helped a lot.”
“Well, you have my thanks. Both of you.” He looked pointedly at Maida. “Thank you again for caring for my own. It means much to know that when I return to Ubbanford, I will find my loved ones safe and well. This winter we shall have a feast. A symbel. And I will hand out gifts to my most trusted folk. I will forget no-one.”
Maida smoothed her dress and looked flustered.
“Would you care to come inside, lord? Perhaps something to eat, or drink?”
“I thank you, but no. I have broken my fast and must ride north soon. Before I go, I would talk with Reaghan.”
“Of course.”
He handed his son to Maida, prising his finger from the boy’s tight grip.
“This fine boy can sit at my side at the feast when I return. Will he walk by then?”
“Perhaps, lord,” Maida replied, but her face showed how unlikely that was. Of course, Octa was barely a half-year old. When did children learn to walk? He had no idea. He’d never really thought of it before.
“No matter,” he said. “He will sit with his father at the high table and see the folk of Ubbanford in the hall.”
Not knowing what to say next, Beobrand placed his hand on Reaghan’s shoulder and drew her away from the house.
One of the children made to follow, but Maida shrieked at him, and he stopped in his tracks and returned to his mother’s side, crying loudly.
They walked some distance from the hut in the direction of the river. To their right, on the high hill, the imposing structure of the new hall, Sunniva’s hall, towered over the valley.
“I bid you safe journey, lord,” Reaghan said, when they were far enough away to avoid being overheard.
“I give you thanks,” Beobrand said, his tone stiff. He looked down at where the glint of the sun rippled on the waters of the Tuidi. He would be crossing the river soon. Once more riding into the unknown. Into battle perhaps. Leading men into danger. Taking Eowa to almost certain death.
“Bassus told me of the witch,” Beobrand said after some time.
Reaghan became very still beside him. Gone was the shy playfulness of moments before.
“What did he say?”
“He said she met with you and tried to poison you.”
“Nothing else?”
“What else is to be said? The cunning whore tried to kill you. And that Pictish whoreson, Torran, tried to slay Bassus. He believes perhaps they are together, plotting against me. Seeking to harm those I love.”
With a start, he felt Reaghan’s hand on his arm.
He looked down at her. Neither spoke for a long time, each drinking in the features of the other.
At last, Beobrand broke the silence.
“Do not stray from the village alone. Watch out for Octa and stay safe for my return.”
She squeezed his hand and gave a small nod.
“And what of the cunning woman, and the Pict?”
Beobrand set his jaw. Somewhere, over the river, a crow cawed.
“They will die.”
Chapter 28
The sun was past its zenith when they were finally ready to leave. Beobrand sat, straight-backed and sombre, on Sceadugenga. From his vantage point atop the tall stallion he watched as his small band of gesithas rode out of Ubbanford. Close to him, Acennan sat astride his smaller chestnut mare.
Beobrand surveyed the men leaving the settlement. The first of them splashed into the ford, sending up great glittering arcs of spray from his horse’s hooves. The warband he took to Oswald numbered seven, counting Acennan. Eowa and Beobrand took the band to nine. Nine men heading north. All strong warriors. All killers. And all mounted. The horses they had ridden from Eoferwic were not fresh, but they were good steeds that would see his men northward.
Behind his dour, scarred face, Beobrand felt like a child playing at being a warlord. That these men would follow him filled him with shock and yet it was not without pride that he looked on them. He could scarcely believe that his retinue had grown by three just that morning. He was still reeling at the suddenness of their addition to his gesithas.
Beobrand had just bid farewell to Coenred and Bishop Aidan. Coenred has smiled broadly at Beobrand’s offer of thanks for aiding Bassus. Aidan had merely nodded and said, “Thank God, Beobrand. Not his servants.” Around the settlement the warriors had been completing their preparations for leaving when three horsemen had cantered into Ubbanford, causing men to rush to their weapons.
The new-arrivals were led by Dreogan, the tattoo-faced warrior of Athelstan’s. They had ridden from Eoferwic to Athelstan’s hall to give the tidings of Athelstan’s death to his widow. When they had left on their woeful errand, Beobrand had felt a terrible guilt that he had known nothing of Athelstan’s wife. He had considered the man a friend, and yet only knew him as a shield-brother and drinking companion. They had needed no more. Beobrand had never thought to ask him of who awaited him back at his hall. The old warrior was always pawing at pretty girls; Beobrand and he had first clashed over Athelstan’s treatment of Sunniva. He’d not imagined the man had a wife. It felt wrong now that his life beyond the mead hall and the shieldwall had been unknown to Beobrand.
Beobrand had been surprised to see Dreogan’s dark-striped face beneath the helm of the lead rider. The grim-faced warrior and his two companions had dismounted and approached Beobrand. For a moment, he had thought they meant to attack him and Acennan and Attor had rushed forward, blocking their path. Then, to the shock of all, Dreogan and the other two men had knelt, offering their swords, hilt-first, to Beobrand.
“We would join you, Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford,” Dreogan had said. “You were friend to our lord, and we would now be your men. And swear our oath to you.”
Beobrand had been shocked. He had believed that Dreogan had despised him for a youthful upstart. He knew not what to say to them. To refuse would be a great insult, but to accept… Did they truly wish to be his men? His gesithas? Would they fight for him? Die for him?
> “Mighty Dreogan,” Beobrand had said, and, recognising the other men, “Brave Beircheart and Renweard, you do me much honour in your offer of service. Of course I would be glad to hear your oaths.” What else could he say? “But know this: I mean to deliver Eowa atheling to our lord king, Oswald. No ill may befall him. I give you my word that he will face our king’s justice, but not ours. If this does not sit well with you, I understand, but you would not belong amongst my warband. Once I have heard your oaths, you will be my men, and my word is final. What say you?”
For a long while, Ubbanford had been silent. Dreogan raised his gaze and sought out Eowa. The atheling of Mercia stood beside his steed. Beobrand watched as Dreogan sized up the slayer of his erstwhile lord. Eowa was clean, and dressed in his fine warrior coat. His good sword hung scabbarded from his belt. They stared at one another and Dreogan’s hatred was plain for all to see. Eowa did not lower his eyes.
At last, Dreogan looked back to Beobrand.
“If you give your word that he is to be brought before the king for what he has done, then we will plight our oath to you.”
“I am the winner in this bargain. You have my word.”
They had spoken their oaths clearly and he had raised them up. And so it was that Beobrand had found himself with three new warriors. Each with his own heregeat; horse, armour and weapons. He had seen them fight in Mercia and knew they had stood in the shieldwall at Hefenfelth. They were hale warriors. Shield-bearers and strong spear-men.
Now, as they splashed through the Tuidi, Beobrand could not help but feel uneasy at the haste with which they had come to him.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 24
