In some confrontations, there is an unspoken communication that seems to flow between the men. First one, then another, and soon the whole host turns and flees in a flood like a breaking beaver dam. The reason for this is often hard to understand, with no apparent weakness on the side that crumbles.
In the dawn light that morning, after the long, bloody night of death, it was the routing of the horses that pulled the first pebble from the dyke that shored up the Waelisc's will.
Following the death of his lord, Derian had been leading Scand's men towards the large fire and the heat of the battle when one of his men caught the sound of whinnying on the wind. Knowing that the Waelisc favoured mounted raids, and fearing Cadwallon would use his mounts to flee should the battle go badly for him, Derian quickly decided to chase off the Waelisc's steeds.
The horses were corralled to the south of the encampment, but Derian's band found no resistance as they cautiously picked their way past empty shelters and over corpses. As they edged further into the camp, they saw no more bodies. Oswald's force had not penetrated that far south. They skirted around those few dead they did see. They were all keen not to make the same mistake as Scand.
A fenced enclosure had been built to hold the horses in place, but the storm and the fighting was driving them mad. The horses huddled in a seething mass of muscled terror. Their eyes rolled white. Their ears pressed flat against long skulls. They shone and steamed in the darkness. The handful of thralls and warriors who had been left to guard them had been forced to turn to the animals. Calming them was clearly impossible. All they could do was use sticks and spears to prod them back from the fences. All this did was enrage and terrify them more.
Derian saw all of this in the dim light from nearby spitting fires. The horses would break free soon, that much was clear. But he could help them on their way.
"For Scand!" he screamed, and the warband surged forward, hungry for vengeance for their lord.
There was no fight there at the horse enclosure. The thralls and guards were slaughtered in moments.
Derian's teeth flashed in the dark. "Pull down the fences."
Two of the men hacked at a section of fencing, pulling and heaving at the wattled withies until it collapsed. An angered mass of horseflesh and flailing hooves finished their task. The fence gave way and the horses stampeded from the enclosure. They streaked into the night, a deadly equine wall of fear.
The Waelisc seemed to sense something before Beobrand saw or heard anything. The shieldwall quivered and then men took a few steps back. Some flicked a glace over their shoulder.
The Bernicians did not press forward. They welcomed the respite from the battering assault.
Then Beobrand heard it. At first he thought it the sound of Thunor's chariot, but the rain had ceased. The storm had passed.
The Waelsic turned and began to run, then Beobrand saw what caused the noise and their retreat. A rush of wild-eyed horses galloped towards them. Certain death lay under those hooves. The Waelisc shieldwall fell apart like barley gleanings blown by the wind.
The Bernician host was beginning to see what was happening and would soon follow the Waelisc.
Cadwallon's grisly standard dipped and then fell to the ground. Dropped from hands that had held it bravely in the face of shield and spear through the long night, but would not hold before a wave of animal rage and terror in the grey dawn.
At the last possible instant, the horses wheeled and turned, as if on some hidden signal. They veered south and disappeared into the grey-smeared dawn gloom. All save three. Maybe they were driven mad, or did not heed the signal followed by the other mounts, but three fine steeds continued on through the centre of the disintegrating Waelisc line directly towards Oswald.
One careened into a Waelisc warrior. The warrior fell, his red cloak dimly visible against the mud and churned grass. Beobrand had seen that warrior before. That same helm and that scarlet cloak had been worn by Cadwallon ap Cadfan, King of Gwynedd. The horse, as if feeling remorse at having toppled its king, skidded to a halt, pawing the turf with its hoof and dipping its head.
All this Beobrand saw as he roused himself from where he had rested a moment to suck in long, ragged breaths of cold morning air. Before conscious thought permeated his mind, he was already sprinting forward. He ran onto the ground between the two forces. It was corpse-strewn and treacherous, but he leapt with a nimbleness that belied the aches in his limbs. The horses were storming towards Oswald and Oswiu. Beobrand watched as the scene slowed for him. He saw gobbets of mud lifted from the hooves. One of the horses stumbled on a fallen shield. Its fetlocks buckled and it tumbled. It fell in a thrashing heap of hooves and screams.
The other horse, a black stallion, all rippling power under sleek hair, galloped on. Beobrand had worked with animals all his life until coming to Bernicia the year before. Back on the farm in Hithe, he had seen horses spooked. Once, a mare had been bitten by a viper that had lurked in bracken. She had let out such a screech, like a baby being gutted, Uncle Selwyn had said. The mare's panic had spread to the other horses and they had stampeded towards the men who had been pollarding the ash trees in the lower pasture. Beobrand remembered what Selwyn had done in that bright, sunlit summer day and he repeated the action here on this dismal, murk-filled morning.
Beobrand stood firm with his back to Oswald and held out both his arms, like the Christ god on his rood. Neither Selwyn, when he had done this back in Cantware, nor Christ when he had been pinned to his death-tree, had a shield strapped to his left arm and a blood drenched sword in his right fist. But, if anything, these objects helped to dissuade the horse from its course.
"Woah! Woah!" yelled Beobrand.
All eyes on the battlefield were on him.
For a moment, Beobrand doubted the horse would halt. Its eyes glowered in its black face. Its lips pulled back from wicked, long teeth. Its hooves pounded.
Beobrand stared into its eyes. He stood his ground. The host ceased breathing.
At the last possible instant, the stallion flicked its head and dug its hooves into the earth. It skittered and slid towards him.
It came to rest almost touching Beobrand. Its hot breath billowed in the chill morn. The moist warmth of its panting enveloped Beobrand's face. He let out his own pent up breath. They stood that way for a long moment. Sharing the same air.
As slowly as possible, without breaking the fragile spell between them, Beobrand let his shield fall. He shook it from its straps. Kicked it away. The stallion shied from the movement.
"Easy now. Easy boy." Beobrand dared not turn away his gaze. He reached out with his left, half-hand and stroked the long snout. He fumbled to sheath Hrunting with his right hand. Eventually, he risked a quick look down, and slid the blade slowly into the fur-lined scabbard. Some distant part of his mind berated him that the blood would ruin the lining. He brought his full focus back to the stallion. He did not want to lose control now.
With both hands, he smoothed the trembling animal's neck. He took a good hold of the thick mane and then, with a sudden, fluid motion, he swung himself onto the horse's back. It wore no saddle and had no bridle. And it was petrified from the lightning, the battle and the stench of fresh blood and death. But it was also a warhorse. A steed bred and trained for war. It must surely have been the property of one of the nobles in Cadwallon's force. Perhaps it even belonged to Cadwallon himself.
The stallion gave two bucking kicks, then a sudden sidestep. Beobrand held on tightly with his thighs and clung to the coarse, greasy hair of the mane. When it was clear he would not be dislodged easily, the horse settled. It shook its great head and snorted.
The onlooking host let out half a cheer before seeming to realise that this might well cause the horse to throw its new rider.
"Beobrand! Look!" Acennan's voice cut through the ragged cheer. Beobrand followed his friend's pointing finger to where Cadwallon was also astride a mount. The Waelisc king had pulled himself onto the horse that had knocked him down. T
he horse turned a complete circle twice, as if allowing Cadwallon to survey the ruin of his warhost. The king's red cloak billowed. The Waelisc were running. The herd of horses was vanishing into the south, followed by the warriors who had lost the stomach for this battle.
Cadwallon got the horse under control, dug his heels into its flanks and galloped off south and west.
Beobrand looked down to Oswald. The king's face was pale and splattered with blood and mud. His helm sported a large dent. Their eyes met. Oswald nodded.
"You have done well, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. Now go, and bring me Cadwallon! I would have him face justice here this day."
"Your bidding, my king," said Beobrand. He wheeled his mount around and raked its flanks. The stallion jumped forward.
Grim-faced, Beobrand sped after the king of Gwynedd.
As soon as he started riding, Beobrand could see that Cadwallon was a better rider than him. The Waelisc king sat proudly on his horse, matching the rise and fall of the galloping mount with ease.
Beobrand clung on to the black mane of his mount until his hands cramped. Already fatigued, he struggled to squeeze the horse's sides tightly enough with his thighs. But somehow he managed to stay on the back of the stallion.
In the murky distance, he could see the rest of the horses showing no signs of slowing their fear-fuelled stampede.
Waelisc warriors were all around him. They had scattered when the horses charged and they were still dispersed. Beobrand rode past small clumps of warriors. There was fear in the eyes of some. Anger in the faces of others. One must have realised what was happening and who he was, for a spear streaked out of the gloom and thudded into the sodden earth a few paces to his left. The stallion tossed its head, but did not break its stride. It was a warhorse and it was not so easily frightened.
Despite his precarious position, Beobrand began to revel in the power of the beast. He could feel the thrum of each hoof's impact. The horse's breath steamed and tattered in the wind. The speed was intoxicating. Never had Beobrand ridden such a horse. It would be easy to allow the sensation of potency to wash over him. To lull him into a state of calm.
The night had sapped him of all his strength. Now, he felt the familiar lethargy that followed combat threaten to settle on him. He shook his head. Not yet. He had survived the night, but it was not over. Rest would have to wait.
As if to emphasise this, a group of Waelisc warriors formed a small shieldwall before him. Beyond them Cadwallon's horse leaped a small brook easily and galloped on into the scrubby, gorse-spattered heathland. The king's red cloak flapped in his wake like a banner, or a parting wave. He was getting away.
The shieldwall numbered but five, but Beobrand could not risk charging. Should his steed be injured he would lose all hope of running Cadwallon down.
He scanned his surroundings.
The ground to the left was marshy. Rushes tufted between pools that reflected the first rays of the morning sun. To the right was a slope, crested by a tangled stand of birch and hawthorn.
Beobrand cursed. There was no alternative. He turned the horse to the right and kicked its ribs savagely.
"Come on!" he screamed.
The horse pounded up the slope towards the shade of the wood. The Waelisc on the road shouted and another spear arced towards Beobrand, but fell well short.
The small wood was a thick jumble low-hanging branches. He drove the horse forward, but how they would get through the copse, he did not know. He would be lucky not to be blinded by the twigs and sharp thorns. But there was nothing for it. Sense would have him dismount and lead the horse through the foliage, but the men below were too close. As he came near to the trees Beobrand dug his heels in once more and lay down along the length of the stallion's neck. He wrapped his arms around the neck and closed his eyes.
Branches scratched and scraped his face and hands. The horse whinnied. Something crashed against Beobrand's helm with a deafening knell. Snagging fingers pulled his cloak.
Were there elves here in this wood? Were those voices, whispering of his death in the leaf mould? He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to protect them from the undergrowth and kicked the horse once more.
"Fly! Fly!" he cried.
The air was dank. Sinister and dire. The taste of bile rose in his throat. There was an evil presence here. Some forest spirit clinging to the night, not yet banished by the sun. The horse was slowing. Its breathing was ragged. Was that the breath of another being, hot and rancid? The horse too seemed frightened. Its neck trembled beneath Beobrand's arms.
Beobrand thought of the rush light blown out. Sunniva's tears. His oath. Was he to fall here? His bones rotting into the roots of a spirit tree?
No. He had sworn a vow to return. And first he must capture Cadwallon. So many had died. Their faces swam before his mind's eye. Leofwine, Alric, Eanfrith, so many others. Cadwallon must be stopped and no eldritch phantom could hold Beobrand back.
"Easy now, boy," he whispered, his face near the ear of the stallion. "Take us out of this dark place."
The horse shuddered and snorted. Then moved forward. Beobrand could still not bring himself to open his eyes. But he was less fearful now of the twigs and branches that had torn at his face and clothes. He was certain something unspeakable lurked in the gloom. To see its face would mark his end.
More burrs and brambles tugged at his armour as the horse walked on. But the atmosphere had changed. Birdsong rang out, warbling and joyful of the morning light. At last he looked around him and saw they had come though the copse. Before them lay open scrub and in the distance, with nothing but gorse, heather and long grass between them, was his quarry.
Beobrand shivered and patted the horse's neck.
"You are a brave one," he whispered. The stallion's ears twitched. "You brought us through the shadows." Beobrand did not look back for fear of what he might see in the murk beneath the trees. "Now you must run once more."
With a kick of his heels they set off in pursuit of the king of Gwynedd.
Beobrand followed the king's red cloak across the low, rolling hills for some time. The sun burst through the clouds to their left, its light dazzling from the finery of the Waelisc's war gear.
Cadwallon threw a glance over his shoulder. Beobrand was lagging far behind and it must have been clear to the Waelisc king that he had little to fear from his pursuer.
Beobrand was no horseman, but he was allowing himself to settle into his steed's rhythm once again. The horse had shaken off the terror of the wood and now seemed keen to place as much distance as possible between them and whatever dark entity lurked beneath the trees. Beobrand felt his muscles loosen. He still held tight to the black mane, but unclenched his fists slightly. The stumps on his left hand throbbed as the blood returned.
Beobrand watched as Cadwallon lengthened the distance between them. He resigned himself to a long chase. Probably failure. He could not compete with the nobleman's skill on horseback. But he would strive to bring him to ground. Perhaps Cadwallon's horse would tire first. Even as he thought it, Beobrand knew it was not likely. His black stallion was a battle mount, muscled and hale. It was not built for the chase. It was already blowing hard. If he pushed it too hard, he would kill the horse.
Beobrand gritted his teeth. It would be a sad end to such a fine beast, but he must continue. Seizing the Waelisc king would end the bloodshed that had washed the land with death. This northern kingdom was now his home and he would do all he could to bring peace to it. He gave the stallion its head and the great hooves thundered across the bush-strewn turf.
In the end, Cadwallon's pride in his horsemanship was his undoing.
Beobrand had fallen into a waking reverie. His exhaustion seeped into his bones as the horse's rolling gait rocked his body. Cadwallon drew ever further away. The taste of defeat was in Beobrand's mouth. To come so close, only to see the ruler of the Waelisc escape into the hills to the southwest of the Wall was galling.
Then, as if swallowed by the earth, Ca
dwallon and his horse disappeared. For a moment Beobrand was unsure what he had witnessed. Cadwallon had been riding easily down a slight slope and then he had gone. Beobrand shook his head, bringing himself fully awake.
He rode on, cautious of some treachery. Perhaps Cadwallon meant to ambush him.
He cantered down the incline and the sound of screaming reached him. But these were not sounds made by man. The hairs on Beobrand's neck prickled. He slowed to a trot. Then the scene became clear.
The slope ended in a burn. Its waters, swollen by the storm, were brown and churning. Cadwallon's horse floundered in the stream. It was on its side, thrashing and screaming. Cadwallon was waist-deep in the water. The scraped furrows in the nearest bank attested to where the horse had skidded. Apparently Cadwallon had thought to leap the burn, but his horse had baulked, slipped and thrown him. Both horse and rider had ended up in the burn. It seemed the horse must have broken a leg for it was moaning pitifully and could not right itself. Its violent thrashing placed Cadwallon in danger of being crushed or kicked.
He waded dazedly out of the brook. He was not kingly now. Loam-smeared and bedraggled, his cloak a sopping rag, he dragged himself out of the mire.
Beobrand pulled his stallion to a halt and in one smooth motion leapt from its back. For a fleeting moment he worried that his horse would run off, leaving him stranded here. But it was on the edge of collapse. It drooped its head, snorting hard and trembling.
Cadwallon dragged his sword from a mud-drenched scabbard and faced Beobrand. His teeth flashed from the dirt-dripping face.
"Well, boy," said Cadwallon, in the tongue of the Angelfolc, "it seems you have finally caught up with me. Just as well for you that my horse was clumsy and had no heart for the jump. You ride like a sack of turnips!"
Pulling Hrunting free from its scabbard, Beobrand stepped forward. The blade was blood-encrusted and dim. He had not stopped to clean it after the battle.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 8
