They were both breathing heavily now. Beobrand’s whole body felt as though it belonged to another. Plumes of steaming breath drifted around them like morning mist. Torran, all terrifying bloody smile, confidence and slashing sword, smashed another blow at Beobrand’s head. Beobrand’s feet crunched into the snowy edge of the killing square. Without thought, he lifted his tattered shield. He was slow. Much slower than he should be. Too slow. But still fast enough to halt this blow. Torran’s blade cracked into the linden and split the board. It moved into the wood and Torran’s grin widened.
“Now you die!” he screamed. The Picts above them were in an ecstasy of rage and pride as their man hacked into the Seaxon warrior’s shield. They could sense the end was close.
But the poisoned blade did not reach Beobrand’s unprotected flesh. It slid into the grain of the wood and then held firm, wedged hard between the two sides of shield board.
Torran’s grin faded. Desperately he tried to free his sword. He yanked savagely, pulling the blade left and right, up and down. But Beobrand, even in his weakened state was still the stronger of the two. He pulled the shield hard to the left, dragging the sword with it. Torran clung to the weapon, but he could not prevent Beobrand from pulling him with the blade. In that instant he understood his mistake, while focusing on reclaiming his sword, he had left himself open to attack.
Beobrand did not hesitate, he swung with all his might at Torran’s exposed stomach. He was not as fast as a striking snake. Gone was his uncanny speed, but he did not miss. Hrunting’s blade connected with a jarring force. Rings from Torran’s byrnie burst asunder, but the Pict’s battle-harness was good; the blade did not cut deeply.
Torran staggered back several paces and fell. His hand had been wrapped tightly around the grip of his sword and his weight tugged it free of its wooden shield-prison.
“Kill him! Kill him!” Dimly Beobrand made out the cries of Acennan over the clamour of hundreds of voices.
And yet he did not move. He panted, the chill air burning his throat. He watched as Torran pulled himself up with an effort and rose to his feet. Beobrand blinked and shook his head. The world was dimming. He had failed. He would not get another chance to slay Torran.
His luck had left him as had all his loved ones. Death would not be so terrible. Perhaps he would see Sunniva again. Octa. Their sisters and mother. No, it would not be so bad to enter death’s embrace.
Torran bent over and drew in a shuddering breath. He reached down to his side and gingerly felt for blood. His hand came up clean. Torran smiled again.
“That hurt,” he said, “but it did not pierce my flesh. I will live. And you will die.”
Torran raised his sword and shield. Warily, but with determination, he paced towards Beobrand. Death was coming and Beobrand knew he could not prevent it.
But if he were to face death, he would die fighting as best he could. His arms were as heavy and dull as rocks. He lifted them slowly. Agonising waves of pain washed up his leg. Wavering where he stood, he willed himself to remain upright.
Torran stepped closer. Beobrand could not take his gaze from the poison-soaked blade as it swished back and forth through the bright morning air. And then the sword seemed to hesitate. Torran had stopped walking. Beobrand looked up. Torran was looking behind Beobrand. His grin had gone, replaced by slack-jawed disbelief.
Beobrand shook his head to clear it. Could it be? Was it possible that his plan had worked?
He looked beyond Torran, up towards the fortress of Din Eidyn and what he saw there brought a smirk to his lips.
He may well die, but if the gods smiled upon Oswald and the host, Din Eidyn would fall.
*
Beobrand could hear them approaching. The sound of hundreds of men running, the jangle of harness, the crunch and stamp of boots through deep snow, the roar of unbridled battle-rage of a host of warriors that had been waiting for weeks to unleash their fury. It was the sound of battle. The sound of the shieldwall. The sound of death.
He did not turn to see them; he knew their destination. He did not dare take his gaze from Torran and his deadly blade. In moments the host of Angelfolc and Dál Riatans would be upon them. Torran’s eyes were wide. He turned quickly to look up at the castle. Sure that for that moment the Pict would not attack, Beobrand followed Torran’s disbelieving stare. The gates were open and there were men fighting there. As they watched a Pictish warrior was thrown from the palisade beside the gates. A heartbeat later the piercing sound of his scream reached them over the din of the charging host. The falling man smashed into the snow-covered rocks below Din Eidyn, trailing a splash of red as he slipped down the crag-face.
The besieging host ran past Beobrand and Torran. None interfered with them. The two men the gathered host had watched battling for their lives moments before had been forgotten like nightmares after a trouble sleep. Oswald and Oswiu led the charge, surrounded by their comitatus. Their great helms glinted in the sun as they surged up the sloping path towards the opened gates of Din Eidyn. The fighting at the gates grew more savage. Blood sprayed in the air and painted the snow. The gates swung wide. It was clear now that the roaring tide of men would reach the open gates. And then all would be lost for the Picts.
Torran slowly turned back to face Beobrand.
“You lied,” he said, his voice aghast. “You said there was no deceit.”
“And you poisoned your blade, like the craven I knew you to be.” Beobrand raised his voice to be heard over the clamour of battle and the tumult of the warriors who yet streamed past the small plot of snow-cleared mud where Torran and he stood.
Torran shook his head, as if trying to free it of cobwebs.
“No,” he said. “No.”
He looked into Beobrand’s face. His eyes were dark, haunted.
Beobrand knew that look. It was the look of one who had seen everything taken from him and believed his life was already lost. He recognised the look for he had worn it on his own features two years earlier. Then he had stood before Hengist in the shadow of Bebbanburg. Hengist had murdered his brother and taken so much more from him. Unbidden, Beobrand clenched his left hand more tightly around the boss-handle of his shield.
Torran and he fought in the shadow of a different crag and this time it was Beobrand who was the kin slayer. But the scene was familiar to him. The gods must be laughing as they watched. The gods loved their mischief.
Torran’s eyes narrowed. In that instant, Beobrand knew what the Pict would do. A calmness descended upon him. The pain in his leg yet burnt and throbbed, but it seemed more distant, less sharp. They each would play their role here. But Beobrand had lived this scene before. In another time. Before a different fortress. With a different foe.
Despite the slowness of his limbs, Beobrand was not surprised when Torran flew at him, sword-arm outstretched, poisoned blade thrusting towards his throat. He had expected the attack and knew what he should do. Summoning all of his remaining strength, he dropped to his knee and punched Hrunting forward. Torran came on, unable to halt his rushing attack. His poison-slick blade scraped harmlessly across Beobrand’s helm. Hrunting did not miss its mark. It found the patch of broken rings in Torran’s battle-shirt and pierced his flesh as easily as if it were water. Torran groaned and sagged against Beobrand. Blood bubbled around Hrunting’s blade. Beobrand grunted and pushed Torran away from him. The Pict gasped and fell onto his back on the dark, churned mud. He looked small and bewildered now. All the confidence fled as the cold hand of death gripped him.
Beobrand stood, his leg shrieking with agony.
The sounds of the distant fighting at the fortress echoed in his head. For a moment, he looked towards Din Eidyn, but he didn’t seem able to focus on what was happening there.
Swaying slightly, Beobrand gazed down at Torran. Blood gushed from the wound, black and thick. The gaping sword-thrust oozed and steamed.
“How?” whispered Torran. His face was white as the snow that covered the land. Soon it would be as c
old. “How could you…? You should be dead.”
“Perhaps,” answered Beobrand with difficulty, his tongue was too big, his lips slack and difficult to control. “Perhaps,” he slurred again, trying to smile, as he recalled Oswald’s words, “but I am lucky.”
He gazed up once more at the fortress, but his eyes refused to work.
“I am lucky,” he repeated.
And collapsed onto the soft earth beside Torran’s corpse.
Chapter 33
Beobrand’s dreams had been filled with burning brands and howling screams of pain. Perhaps it was his own voice he heard, but it sounded to his fevered mind that a multitude of men were being slain in horrific ways. And all the while his leg was buried under the crackling embers of a hearth fire. He thought he must surely die, such was the pain. Perhaps he was already dead and was even now in the Hell that Coenred and the Christ followers spoke of. A place of endless burning torment for those who had not lived a life of virtue.
When he finally awoke, it was slowly. He dragged himself up from the bog of nightmares in which he had become enmired. He was yet on middle earth, surrounded by living men. The screams of horrific torture were replaced by the hubbub of feasting and laughter. His left leg still felt as though it were smothered in smouldering coals.
He opened his eyes. A great fire raged on a central hearth, sparks flew upwards towards the roof of the hall. The beams above his head were bare apart from tendrils of soot that wafted gently in the smoky air.
With difficulty, Beobrand raised himself on an elbow. He lay on a pallet, off to one side of a long hall. All around were benches and boards. Men ate and drank. Laughed and talked. Beobrand lifted the blanket that covered his legs. For an instant he was convinced that his leg would have been removed. He was to be a cripple. He would not be fit for the shieldwall. He would not be fit for anything. Terror gripped him. Death would surely have been better than this. Then a shuddering relief washed through him like soothing rain after a summer drought. He was whole. Both his legs were intact. The left leg was bandaged, and the cloth was surrounded by mottled bruises. But he would walk again.
“Ah, Beobrand awakens at long last,” said a voice he knew well. Oswald. The room grew still.
Beobrand shifted his position to see his king. A stabbing pain jolted down his leg. Oswald, Oswiu, Derian and a few others sat at the high table. Beobrand realised with a start that the pallet in which he lay was set next to the king’s board. A position of honour. He looked around the hall. All eyes were on him. His guts churned. He could barely support his weight, propped up as he was. Rarely had he felt so weak. He prayed that he would not disgrace himself before all these hardened warriors, these noble-blooded thegns, and the king.
“We have prayed for you this day, Beobrand,” Oswald said. “It is as I foresaw. You are God’s instrument.”
“The plan worked?” Beobrand croaked.
Oswald laughed.
“Yes, it worked, did it not my thegns?” The hall erupted in a cacophony of approbation. The men cheered, hammered knives and fists into the boards.
“I am glad, my king,” said Beobrand, his voice fading as he struggled to maintain himself in a sitting position. He was so tired. His eyelids drooped.
“Rest now, Beobrand. That Pictish poison yet weakens you. Rest and we will talk when you are recovered. You have earned your rest, and other rewards of which we can speak on the morrow.”
Beside the king, Oswiu scowled and sipped from a metal-tipped drinking horn.
Beobrand allowed himself to fall back onto the thin, straw-filled mattress. His eyes were heavy. He would sleep some more. He hoped he would not dream of Hell again. A shadow fell over him, pulling him back from the brink of slumber. Acennan, his face pale and drawn.
“You should eat and drink,” his friend said. “You must regain your strength.”
All Beobrand wanted was to sleep, but he could see from the set of his jaw that Acennan would not allow that without him taking some nourishment first. Beobrand sighed.
“Very well, then. Fetch me a few morsels and you can recount the day to me while I eat.” Beobrand’s voice cracked. “And bring me some ale. My throat feels as though I have swallowed sand.”
Acennan brought provender and pulled up a stool beside Beobrand. Around them the hall was awash with sound and movement. Beobrand turned his attention to the small cuts of bread, cheese and meat that Acennan had provided. His mouth filled with liquid. Acennan was right, he must eat, he was famished. He drank a deep draught of cool ale that tasted softly of heather and asked, “So, Acennan, tell me how I ended this day here.” He glanced at the high table. Behind it a great shaggy bearskin hung from the wall beside a horse’s skull. He shuddered. “And where is here?”
“This is the fortress hall of Din Eidyn. Your plan worked. When you fought Torran before the gates, all of the Picts came to witness the duel. When we gave the signal of the second cheer Attor and his band began to scale the cliffs at the far side of the rock.”
“Thank the gods Attor was able to climb, despite the snow. I had feared the snow would make the ascent impossible.”
“By all accounts it was not easy. Aethelwulf fell.”
Beobrand ceased chewing, the food was ash in his mouth. He swallowed with difficulty.
“Was he the only of my gesithas to be slain?” Please let there be no others.
To his surprise, Acennan laughed.
“No, Aethelwulf is not dead. He fell from the rock. Slipped on the ice. He twisted his ankle and banged his knee, but he is as alive as ever. See, he is there, doing his best to drink whatever mead has been found for this feast. He was furious at missing the fight at the gates.”
Beobrand saw that at one of the benches sat Aethelwulf and the rest of his gesithas. They had clearly been waiting for him to notice them, for they raised their cups and horns and cheered. His heart swelled. Grinning, he lifted his own drinking horn in toast to them.
“My brave gesithas!” he called, his voice hoarse, but loud enough to carry over the din. “I am the luckiest of lords!”
Again they cheered.
“You are truly lucky, Beo,” Acennan said. He reached over and took one of the chunks of cheese from Beobrand’s trencher. “I know you well, and I know your thoughts. You are thinking of all the things you have lost, counting the ways in which you are not lucky.”
Beobrand said nothing. Acennan truly knew him well.
“But know this,” Acennan continued. “Your gesithas scaled that rock and then fought like giants to open the gates. They did that for battle-fame and glory and for their king, but mostly, they did it for you. And they all yet live. You believed in them and that gave them strength and the luck to conquer all before them.”
“What of Dreogan and Athelstan’s men? How did they fare?”
“They are Athelstan’s men no longer. They battled as hard as any. Dreogan saved Attor’s life at the gates. See how they drink together now?”
Beobrand looked to see Dreogan, teeth flashing starkly against his soot-darkened cheeks, pouring ale from a pitcher into Attor’s cup. Attor’s head was bandaged, but he seemed hale enough beneath the stained rag. The fire of battle had forged the men into a single force. Beobrand nodded.
“It is good to see them. You speak true – my wyrd is woven with a strong thread of luck.” He just wished it was not so tangled with strands of sorrow and loss.
“And I know at times you wonder whether death would be a welcome escape. But one who cared not about dying would not fight so hard to live. I thought we had lost you. The poison was working deep into your leg by the time I reached you. I cut your skin and let as much of the foulness out as I could. It tasted like pig shit.”
Beobrand spat his ale onto the rushes of the floor. “You… sucked… me?”
“Your leg, Beobrand!” Acennan chortled. “Likely you would have died had I not done so,” Acennan laughed. “But I am not lying when I say it tasted like shit.”
“How do you
know what shit tastes like?”
“Have you not tried Maida’s pottage?”
They both laughed. It felt good.
“Well, I thank you,” Beobrand said, wiping the tears from his eyes. “You are right. I have thought of death these past months, but I do not wish to die now. I have much to live for.” He thought of Ubbanford. Of Octa. Reaghan.
A thought came to him suddenly, like an icy blast from an opened door during a blizzard.
“What of Nelda?”
Acennan shook his head.
“She was not in the fortress. Neither was Finola, or the boy, Talorcan.”
“How could that be? The rock has been surrounded all the while.”
“Aye, but they escaped. That witch is cunning beyond measure. When we did not find them, Oswald was furious. Lord Donel told him how they had done it. They had wrapped themselves in white cloaks and left during the blizzard. In the night and the snow, none saw them pass. Whether merely cunning or witchcraft, they are gone. Donel laughed at having thwarted Oswald. But he did not laugh for long. Oswald took his head from his shoulders right there in the yard before the hall. Oswiu was furious. Said Donel had been his. For a moment I thought the sons of Æthelfrith would come to blows. In the end, Oswald gave his brother the fortress and Donel’s hearth-warriors, those that remained alive.”
Acennan hesitated. His gaze grew distant.
“What did he do, Acennan?”
Acennan rubbed a hand over his bearded face. He let out a sigh.
“He slew them all. Like cattle. Stripped them and had them hacked down. It was like Blotmonath in the yard.” Acennan leaned in close and lowered his voice so none save Beobrand would hear. “Oswiu has a wild streak in him. Like a crazed dog. Oswald is a great warrior and king, and I would never wish to have him as my enemy. But his brother? The rage within him grows. He frightens me.”
Beobrand looked at the high table. Oswiu was watching him through the haze. The atheling raised his ornate drinking horn in toast, a smile playing on his lips. His eyes were hard as flint.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 29
