"It is hard work being a warrior of legend, Beobrand." Acennan slapped him on the back. Attor, a slender warrior with a thin, straw-like beard, laughed, the scratching sound mimicking the rasp of the whetstone that he dragged along the edge of a vicious-looking seax.
"It looks like you may get the woman sooner than you'd like," Acennan continued, "though I wouldn't leave Sunniva for that wizened old hag. But I suppose it is as they say, and any furrow is good to sow when the sapling is ready to plant!" More laughter.
But Beobrand did not join in the mirth. He looked at the object of Acennan's comment. A woman, old enough to be his mother, head covered and stooped, walked towards him. Recognition gleamed in her eyes.
She was followed by a young man, who glared at Beobrand, menace evident in his every move.
They stopped in front of the reclining warriors, their shadows falling over Beobrand.
"Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, are you hale?"
Beobrand stood, and to Acennan's surprise, he reached for the woman and pulled her into an embrace. The young man at her side tensed and Acennan sensed violence in his posture. He pulled himself quickly to his feet, one foot bare, ready to defend his friend should it come to that.
But the man did no more than stare with open hatred at Beobrand.
Beobrand pushed the woman back gently and held her shoulders. His eyes glistened, wet with unshed tears.
"Wilda, goodwife of Alric, it is good to see you. But I fear the news you bring is not good."
"Never mind my story, Beobrand," Wilda said. "That is sad enough, but tell me: where is my elder son? Where is Leofwine?"
The men around them shifted uncomfortably. They had stood in the shieldwall at Gefrin with Leofwine the scop. He had been a fine bard. His fingers could pluck beauty from the strings of his lyre and his voice was like golden honey, sweet, smooth and healing. He was brave; had taken up shield and spear in defence of the land. Yet the bravery of the blond, youthful teller of tales outmatched his skill in battle. His wyrd had ended his tale on the blood-soaked bank of the river at Gefrin. Many more had fallen that long hot day, but none was a sadder loss.
The warriors looked down. They could not look upon the mother of the valiant singer of songs.
Beobrand did not meet Wilda's gaze.
She needed no more. Her fears were confirmed and she let out a howl of utter dismay. "God has forsaken us!" she screamed. She pulled away from Beobrand and collapsed into the arms of her other son, Wybert, the man standing at her side.
Wybert held her close. She shuddered and raged against his chest. All the while, he glowered at Beobrand.
"This is your doing," he said. "You have brought nothing but death and sorrow to us all, Beobrand."
Beobrand recalled the last time he had seen Wilda and Wybert. Alric, Leofwine and Wybert's father, had told him to protect his son.
His failure burnt his eyes and throat as he choked back tears. Acennan placed a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.
Beobrand learnt the story of the end of Engelmynster as Oswald and his retinue plotted and schemed. The king thought up strategies to counter the Waelisc threat while Beobrand heard of the death and destruction that had been wrought on the defenceless.
Beobrand, Acennan and several other warriors sat, listening raptly as Wilda told the tale.
She began: "That day had dawned like any other. There was nothing of note about it to presage the death, darkness and despair it would bring."
Those who had listened to Leofwine recounting tales recognised the same spell in the words of his mother. She too had the gift of story-telling and they were enthralled.
She told of the warning sounds of the horns, echoing around the clearing, shattering the peace of a late summer's morning. The men had quickly gathered together, ready to defend their settlement from one of the bands of brigands who roamed the land. But they had not been prepared for the thicket of spears and armour that descended on the small monastery. This was no small group of miscreants. This was a warhost. Light glinted from shield bosses and helms like the scales of a monstrous dragon. There was nothing they could do to prevent the destruction of Engelmynster.
Wilda's eyes misted as she spoke of how Alric, her husband and head man of the village, had told the women, monks and children to flee.
"Alric turned quickly to his brave son, Wybert," Wilda placed a hand lightly on her son's arm. " 'Wybert, you must take your mother, the other women and the monks and head north. To Bernicia. To King Oswald.' "
The men, entranced at the tale, leaned forward. There was strong magic in the honour of sacrifice for loved ones. They did not know Alric, but they felt proud of his actions.
"Wybert protested. He wished to stand and fight along with his father, but he saw the finality in Alric's eyes. Heard the stony resolve in his voice. He must do his duty and protect those entrusted to his care." Wilda looked at Beobrand, her eyes full of sorrow.
The listeners nodded their approval. A son should do his duty and obey his father. Beobrand squirmed inwardly.
"Father and son shared a brief embrace. Each certain they would never meet again in this world. There was no time for long farewells or speeches. Wybert led us from our home, while Alric stood with the other men, holding back the Waelisc to allow us time to escape."
There was silence at the ending of Wilda's tale. Not a few of the men had tears in their eyes or on their cheeks. Many more had gathered around during the telling and now Wilda sat at the centre of a throng of avid listeners.
"Goodwife, your story is the same as that heard throughout the land," a voice spoke out into the silence, clear and assured.
All eyes turned to look upon Oswald. He stood, serious and sad, yet emanating strength.
"I am Oswald, king of this land of Bernicia, and I offer you and the others who come with you succour in my kingdom." Wybert, Wilda and the other refugees bowed their heads.
Oswald continued: "I have heard tell of how Cadwallon's host has continued north, harrying the land of Deira to the south and is now close to the borders of our lands. We will hurry south, to the Great Wall and there we will defeat this Cadwallon and bring slaughter to his host. This we will do in the glorious name of our Father in heaven."
For a moment, Beobrand imagined his own father in the heaven of the Christ. You had to lead a good life to go to heaven, so surely Grimgundi would not be there. Alric had been more of a father to him in the weeks he had known him. He would surely be in his Christ's heaven.
Oswald continued to talk to the crowd. He raised his voice to reach the members of the fyrd who had joined his host in the last days, his retinue and the gesithas of his closest thegns and the newly-arrived, displaced inhabitants of Deira and Bernicia.
"We will head off Cadwallon's host before they can cause further harm to our land or our people. We will crush them against the Wall and Christ will bring us a victory to be sung of for generations to come."
A voice spoke close to Beobrand's ear. "Well, it is good to see you following a good Christian king, Beo."
Beobrand spun round. Next to him was the smiling face of Coenred, the young monk he had befriended at Engelmynster. Coenred had grown in the months since they had last met. His face was more angular, his shoulders wider. He would never be broad and strong like Beobrand, but he was no longer a boy. He had grown into a young man.
Despite the painful memories of Leofwine's death and hearing of Alric's sacrifice, Beobrand could not help but grin. Coenred had saved his life after finding him in the forest, wounded and feverish. Like him, Coenred was alone in the world, an orphan. His sister had died while Coenred had been protecting Beobrand. Coenred had never blamed him for her death, but Beobrand was acutely aware of what the novice monk's aid had cost him.
"Oswald looks to be the perfect king for us," said Beobrand. "A Christ follower to keep you happy, but one who wishes to wage war and destroy his enemies in battle. What more could we ask for?"
Coenred looked into his eye
s for a long while before eventually smiling a sorrow-filled smile. "It is good to see you, Beobrand. You look well." Coenred looked him up and down, taking in his fine helm, metal byrnie, sword and shield. "And prosperous. War suits you."
Beobrand winced. He should not have made light of battle and death. Coenred was not one of the men who had stood with him in the chaos of the shieldwall. Coenred despised violence. He could not begin to understand what drove Beobrand to fight. To seek revenge for crimes. To right wrongs at the point of a sword.
Beobrand could no more understand Coenred's devotion to the forgiving Christ god than Coenred could fathom Beobrand's belief in the old ways of strength and blood to confront obstacles.
But one thing Beobrand knew for certain. The threads of their wyrd were intertwined.
Coenred was a true friend. And he was pleased to see him.
They rested long enough to eat, but they did not light fires and set up camp. They were close to the Wall now and Wilda's story spurred the men on. Her sincere, poignant account of the demise of all she held dear moved them all.
The Waelisc were coming and the Waelisc would pay.
Oswald had sent out word for fyrd men to meet to the north of the Wall. On a hill known to all as Hefenfelth. There they would congregate and form ranks, stopping Cadwallon's force from passing the Wall and gaining access to Bernicia.
The pace was exhausting. A renewed urgency had fallen on them all. The day was warm and they sweated and panted their way along the furrowed and cracked road built by men who had left these lands in a time beyond memory. It might be crumbling and uneven, but it was still the best route to follow for a large group of men marching apace to battle.
"Cadwallon will be travelling up Deira Stræt towards us," Acennan panted from Beobrand's side. "It is the only way he can move a host of that size. If God is smiling on us, we'll arrive at the Wall before him. Then we'll be in with a chance. Not much of one, I grant you, but a chance all the same." He punched Beobrand's arm and let out a laugh.
How Acennan could be so happy when they were heading towards almost certain doom was beyond Beobrand's ken. He could not imagine ever being happy going into battle. Yet deep within him he did feel the first quickenings of excitement. A spark deep within a forge blown into life by a gust from the bellows. The shieldwall was terrifying. A place of sickening fear and pain. But also of exhilaration. He could not deny it. He was not content to be battle-bound, but part of him was eager for the thrill of it.
That is what separated him from Coenred. The young monk was truly perplexed that Beobrand welcomed the chance to test himself once more against the foes he had faced already three times in the last year.
Beobrand had tried to explain it to him before they had parted ways once again, Coenred heading north to the safety of Bebbanburg, Beobrand continuing south with Oswald and the fyrd of Bernicia.
"These are the men who killed Tata. I will avenge her death," Beobrand said.
If he had thought by mentioning Coenred's sister that he would gain his approval, he was sorely mistaken.
Coenred turned pale and screamed at Beobrand, "Do not speak her name! More death and killing will not bring her back to me. She..." Coenred's eyes brimmed. "She..." His words caught in his throat. "She is dead. I want no more death on my soul." He rubbed his hands over his face, scrubbing at his eyes. Men who had turned to stare at the monk's outburst turned away. Coenred continued in a calmer tone. "Defend the land, Beobrand. That is noble. Do not use Tata's murder to justify your own lust for blood."
His words had stung Beobrand. Is that how Coenred thought of him? Craving violence and death the way bears crave honey? Once they have the scent of a hive they can think of nothing else and no number of stings will stop them. Beobrand looked down at his left hand. At the stumps of his two last fingers. He pictured Leofwine's face as it had been in death. Pallid and muck-spattered. Could it be that he sought battle, whatever the cost?
Wybert certainly blamed Beobrand for his brother's death. Wybert had always disliked him, but now, without Alric's calming influence, his hatred bubbled freely. Beobrand had approached him as the warriors prepared to march on.
"I am sorry for Leofwine's death," he said. It was the simple truth. "He died bravely."
"Bravely?" Wybert spat. "He was no warrior. He would not have been at Gefrin if not for you. Your dreams of glory spoke to the poet in Leofwine. He went north because of you. You might as well have struck him down with that fine blade of yours."
Beobrand reeled under the heat of Wybert's fury. He could offer no defence. Leofwine was dead and he had failed to protect him. Nothing could change that now.
"I am sorry," Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat and took his place among Scand's gesithas, next to Acennan.
The warriors allowed Beobrand to join their ranks without the usual jesting and jostling. If he had just received a beating at the hands of another warrior, they would have teased him without mercy. But they had seen the encounters with Coenred and Wybert. They had heard Wilda's tale too. They were subdued and sombre.
Beobrand's pain was no matter for laughter.
Some wounds were more easily dealt with than others.
CHAPTER 3
Scand ached. He placed his hands in the small of his back and stretched. The throbbing pain subsided slightly but was replaced by a tingling, numb sensation in his right leg. Gods, he was old. His body had barely recovered from the gruelling battle at Gefrin and the punishing march to Bebbanburg. His torso still bore the marks. The bruises from blows he'd received had faded, but were still visible. At the time, in the heat of the action, he had not felt anything. It had always been so in combat. He would lay about him with his sword and shield, allowing his metal shirt to soak up any strikes he could not deflect.
His frame was not what it had once been. Years ago, before his hair had turned the colour of hoar frost, the bruises and aches would disappear within a couple of days of a fight. Now, weeks passed and he still suffered. He was no longer young, it was true. He wondered how many battles he had left in him. Well, he could not sit by the fireside telling tales of his exploits just yet. He had sworn his oath to Oswald, and his oath was iron.
He looked over at the young king. Oswald looked like his father, Æthelfrith. He had the same intensity in his gaze. The same clarity of vision. Æthelfrith had been a brilliant leader of men. Oswald had inherited his father's charisma. Scand had known Oswald since he was a mere youth, fleeing in exile into the west, with his brothers and their mother. Scand had been sworn then to Oswald's older half-brother, Eanfrith. Eanfrith had also had charm and a keen mind. Men had flocked to serve him like carrion crows clouding the corpses after battle. But despite Eanfrith's ability to have men follow where he led and his undoubted prowess in battle, his blind ambition was tinged with a recklessness that saw his demise only months after his triumphant return from exile.
During the long years in exile, Scand had often wondered whether it would be Oswald who would succeed in reclaiming Bernicia. Even as a child he had always carried himself with a calm assurance. There was a cunning behind his cool eyes. And a ruthlessness too.
He would be a good king. If he could secure his place with a defeat over Cadwallon here, at the Great Wall.
The massive structure, built by long-dead rulers of this land from grey slabs of stone, stretched to the horizon to the east and west. One of the fortified gates, that stood at intervals along its length, loomed near. The rocks that formed the edifice had been cunningly fashioned and placed together. None living knew how to build such things. Whenever he saw the Wall, or any of the tile-roofed buildings or stone bridges that yet stood throughout Albion, Scand felt a sense of awe and unease. People talked of giants having wrought these things, but Scand was no fool. The doorways and stone-hewn steps of the buildings were made for men, not giants. But how could men who ruled the land so absolutely have taken their leave of these lush shores? Had they all died? It was a quandary he would never solve, so he
pushed it from his thoughts.
Scand turned his attention instead to the young man at Oswald's right. Oswiu, the youngest of the sons of Æthelfrith. He'd been only four years of age when they had fled to Dál Riata. Now he stood, straight-backed and proud, but always in the shadow of his brother. He had the same chestnut hair and thoughtful eyes as Oswald, but he was more solid somehow; broader and shorter, closer to the earth. Oswald was like a strong oak, looking down on all as the winds of his wyrd moved him. Oswiu was more akin to a boulder, unmoving and unyielding. Scand disliked the boy. He was unsure why that was. Too young, most likely. He was too full of anger for his liking. Still, he was a fine swordsman and would stand strong when the time came to face the Waelisc.
Oswald broke the silence that had fallen on the small group of thegns who were gathered in the shade of an awning made from cloth stretched over a wooden frame and secured with cords.
"You say we are outnumbered. Give us news we do not already know. Where is Cadwallon? What number of men does he have with him? Do they have horse guards? Are they on the move, or camped?" Oswald spoke to the scout in a soft voice, which made all of the listeners strain to hear over the background hubbub of the several hundred-strong fyrd amassed on the hill around them.
The scout had just ridden into the camp and was covered in dust and sweat. The day was still hot, but muggy and heavy with pent up rain. He beat some of the dust out of his clothes and wiped his face and straggly beard with the inside of his cloak. He accepted a flask of water from Scand and drank thirstily before answering the king.
Oswald remained still and outwardly patient, but Scand knew that he would be furious with the small affront to his authority. The scout, Attor, was Scand's man, and Scand would not have him bullied after he had bravely volunteered to ride close to the enemy force.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 4
