At last Beobrand found his voice. It came rushing up from the depths of his being. Riding on a wave of anger and hate like flotsam thrown against a cliff in a storm.
He screamed the name of the man. The last person he had expected to find here. The man he hated more than any other who yet lived. And this man would not live for much longer. For Beobrand had sworn to kill him. And Beobrand's oath was as unyielding as granite.
"Wybert!" he shouted, and the force of his own fury ripped his throat.
All eyes across the field turned to find the source of the bellowing voice. Mercian and Northumbrian alike ceased their activities and stared. Cups were set aside. Whetstones faltered. Conversations died out.
The object of the ire-filled scream stopped fastening the line of cord to one of the wooden supports of the awning, stood straight and looked directly at Beobrand. The sun was at Wybert's back, making it easy for him to recognise the Cantware man, who squinted and shielded his eyes. Wybert stood there, as if pondering something for a moment, and then took a step toward the Northumbrian camp.
"Well met, Beobrand," he called out. "Are you hale? You look unwell."
"I will kill you, Wybert," Beobrand spat. He had no more words. Perhaps those were enough.
Wybert held out his empty hands.
"You would attack an unarmed man? Under truce-oath? I think not," Wybert sneered. "Perhaps one day we will fight, but not today."
Beobrand quivered with rage. His vision began to mottle, whether from anger or staring into the sun, he did not know. He made to step forward, hand on Hrunting's hilt. Forgotten were the words of Oswald. He cared not for the consequences. All he could see was the man who had raped Sunniva. He had not protected her, just as he had not saved Cathryn. All that was left for him was to exact payment for the crime in blood. He bared his teeth and pulled Hrunting silently from its scabbard. The sun caught the shimmering blade. It glimmered red as if with fresh slaughter-sweat.
Dozens of paces separated Wybert from Beobrand, yet he paled at the sight of the Cantware warrior and took a step backwards.
A strong hand gripped Beobrand's shoulder. Angrily, he tried to shake it off. It held firm, pulled him back. He turned to see who impeded his revenge. It was Athelstan.
"No, boy," the older warrior said. "Not here. Not now."
Athelstan turned to Wybert and said in a voice for all to hear, "Your sins are known to all, Wybert, son of Alric. I went to Ubbanford and offered weregild for your crimes. But Beobrand would only have your blood. I told him of what you had done and your life is his. But not like this. In this place kings must speak, not pus-filled maggots like you. Begone. Death will find you. If not from Beobrand, then from my own hand."
There was utter silence now. The sun continued to glide beyond the far horizon, gilding the land in gold and red.
"So you told him, did you?" asked Wybert, his voice quiet, but carrying to all who listened.
"Aye, and it pained me to tell of your craven act."
"Strange," said Wybert, shifting his attention to Beobrand, "that the lady Sunniva did not tell you herself." He smiled. "Perhaps she enjoyed it. It could be that I gave her something you were unable to give."
Beobrand surged forward with a cry.
"I will rip out your guts and feed your eyes to the crows! By Woden, I will bleed you dry."
He was halfway to Wybert, when hands again grabbed him. Acennan and Athelstan had both leapt after him and now, one clutching his cloak and the other with a hand on his belt, they dragged him spitting and fighting back towards the Northumbrian line.
Oswald stood there with his hands on his hips and face as dark as a thundercloud.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said. His voice was ice.
Athelstan uttered a few hushed words to the king. Oswald looked from Beobrand to Wybert and nodded.
Taking a step forward, Oswald, King of Bernicia and Deira, overlord of Northumbria, raised his hands and spoke in a clear voice.
"This is a matter of honour between two men. There has been an act committed which demands retribution. But blood will not be shed here. This feud will be set aside for another time and place." He cast his gaze across the Mercian ranks. They watched him attentively. "Go back to your meals. Tomorrow I, Oswald, will speak with your king, Penda, Lord of Mercia and we will swear oaths of peace. Let not any man break that peace."
For a long while nobody moved, then, when it became clear that no more was to be said, and no death was to be dealt, the warriors drifted back to their food. The sounds of conversation resumed. Though now there was a new topic to discuss over the mead that night.
Wybert, his bravado having fled under the withering gaze of a king, slunk back to the Mercian ranks.
"What is he doing here?" asked Acennan.
"I do not know," answered Oswald, "but you had best control your lord. I will not hesitate to take the life of anyone who breaks my pledge of peace. Do you hear me, Beobrand?"
Beobrand nodded. He shrugged off the hands on him, sheathed Hrunting. It took him three attempts to slide the sword home, his hands shook so. Oswald placed an arm around his shoulders and walked him away from the others.
"Beobrand," he said in a quiet voice, "are you able to control the blood lust you feel for this man? I know he has done you a terrible wrong and I understand your desire for vengeance, but I need you to hold back your anger. Can you do that?"
Beobrand sighed. His mind was in turmoil. Wybert here? He had been so close to killing him. Was it his wyrd to fail to exact vengeance for Sunniva, as he had failed her in so many other ways?
Oswald's eyes gleamed in the dying light of the sun. He was a good king. He had given Beobrand everything. How could he refuse?
Beobrand nodded.
Oswald stared into his eyes a long while. Then, seemingly content with what he saw there, he clapped Beobrand on the shoulder.
"Good. The ability to think beyond one's own desires is what makes a leader. What makes a great man. Hold on to your ire, Beobrand. I will have need for it another day. But for now, we must let this Wybert walk free."
Beobrand swallowed. His mouth was dry.
He shivered, though the afternoon sun was still warm.
Beobrand knew that Oswald spoke the truth of it. A great man would set aside his anger. He would not act on the voice within him that screamed for revenge.
Beobrand clenched his fists against their shaking as he walked away.
He prayed to Woden and Thunor that he would be able to live up to Oswald's vision of him. That he could display greatness in this.
But as he trudged back towards Acennan and Athelstan, his thoughts were dark and filled with blood. For he knew, in the deepest part of himself, in a place where he seldom ventured, that he was not a great man.
The midden pit that had been dug to the east of the Northumbrian camp was already rank. The acrid stench of the waste of the warhost turned Beobrand's stomach. But none of the men would remain in this area for long. Which was just as he wanted it.
A blustery wind had come with the setting of the sun, and now a blanket of clouds rolled overhead, the silver light of the moon shining through, like a rush light behind thick cobwebs. Beobrand watched as the shadow of a broad-shouldered man stumbled from the camp. The large warrior made his way to the midden and there fumbled with his britches before pissing in a long stream that steamed in the cool night air. He let out a grunt of satisfaction and then staggered back to the camp. He hadn't seen Beobrand. Or if he had, he would think the young warrior was doing the same as him. Why else would anyone be so close to the quickly forming quagmire of shit and piss?
Beobrand breathed through his mouth. He needed time to think. He knew what he must do, but it would bring death to him. If that was his wyrd, so be it. But what of his men? Would they be disgraced by his actions? He could not talk to anyone of his plans. They would seek to stop him, of that he was certain. But he might never get another chance. Wybert was there in the other encampment. Beob
rand had watched intently as the last rays of sunlight showed which tent Wybert had entered.
It would not be impossible to sneak into the Mercian camp and find where Wybert slept. Beobrand had left his armour and shield back in the tent he shared with his gesithas. He had left Hrunting there too. Acennan would see that the sword would be passed to Octa. This was not the killing work of such a fine sword. There would be no sword-play. Beobrand would butcher Wybert with the seax that had been his brother's. Its blade was short, but wickedly sharp. It would gut Wybert well enough.
Beobrand took a swig of the flask of mead he had taken with him. He had drunk more than his fill since seeing Wybert and the world had taken on the soft-edged jaggedness he had come to welcome in the days following Sunniva's passing. Vaguely, through the fog of the drink he wondered what would befall the men in this field after he had killed Wybert. Would a battle ensue? Perhaps Oswald would defeat Penda here, thus taking Mercia. It could prove to be the stuff of scops' songs.
The thought of scops brought back to him the face of Leofwine. How was it possible that two brothers could be so different? Leofwine had been fair-haired, with a caring character. Brave and loyal with a voice like molten gold. Wybert was dark, angry, jealous and craven. He seemed to walk the earth seeking things upon which to focus his hatred. He had loathed Beobrand since the moment Alric and Wilda had taken him in and tended to his wounds after the battle of Elmet. His hatred had seemed to fester with every day that passed. For a long while, Beobrand had cared little for Wybert and his petty selfishness. That had changed now.
And there was only one end to this. Beobrand would wrest the life from Wybert, with a blade or his bare hands. It mattered not. It seemed it was Beobrand's wyrd to live his life seeking vengeance. Well, so be it then. He heaved himself up. If he survived the night, he would see what the day brought with it. But this night, death was stalking and he was its messenger.
Somewhere far off in the distance to the north, as if an echo from some half-forgotten dream, a wolf let out an ululating wail. Beobrand smiled thinly in the darkness. He felt wild. Reckless. He stifled the urge to return the beast's call and threw the half empty flask to the ground. He had clearly drunk enough mead.
He made his way southward, away from the stink of the midden. Away from the tents and the guards. The Mercians had left wardens around their camp too, and he planned to walk south and then west. It should not prove too difficult to merely walk into their camp. With any luck, they would think him one of their own who had gone to relieve himself.
The thin light from the cloud-veiled moon allowed him to pick his way around clumps of shrubs and long grass. Brambles tugged at his cloak and leg bindings. The wind swung into the north and a murmur of rain followed. A light drizzle began to fall, and the grass was quickly slick, making walking difficult. Beobrand looked up at the sky. The clouds were thicker than before. He reached for Thunor's hammer at his neck. It seemed the thunderer god would once again provide him cover under darkness and rain. Perhaps he would send lightning too.
As if in answer to his thought, a flicker of light lit the clouds. Moments later, the rumble of the god's hammer reached his ears. He bared his teeth in a savage grin in the gloom. Thunor was watching over him this night. A storm would make it much easier to approach the Mercian tents and to find his quarry.
He cast his gaze back to the path before him, trying to gauge how far south he had walked. Another flash of light picked out the form of a warrior standing just paces before him. Despite himself, Beobrand let out a curse and took a step back. His feet slipped on the wet grass and he fell. He leapt up quickly, drawing his seax and brandishing it before him.
Thunder crashed, louder now. The storm was approaching.
The shadow of the warrior moved closer. Beobrand had not been able to make out the features of his adversary. It must be one of the Northumbrian wardens. They could not find him here. They would make him return to the camp. He would not be able to leave again. He was about to turn and flee when the warrior spoke in a hissing whisper.
"Beobrand, it is I, Acennan."
Beobrand let out his breath in relief.
"Go back to the tents, Acennan. I am well."
Acennan did not move. Beobrand could discern his form now, a darker shadow that blocked out moonlight and campfires.
"You cannot do this thing, Beobrand," said Acennan. "You will die. And many more might die too, if you break the truce."
Shaking his head, Beobrand wished he had drunk less mead. His mind was slow. He could think of no words to counter what Acennan said.
"I will die," he said. "Perhaps I will see her again..." His voice cracked. "I cannot see her face in my mind, Acennan. When I try, all I see is Wybert. I must kill him. I must."
"I cannot allow it," said Acennan.
"I am your lord," said Beobrand. "You will stand aside. Let me pass."
The wind shredded the words. Bitter rain began to pelt them from the angry sky. Acennan had to raise his voice to be heard.
"No! I am also your friend, and I cannot let you do this. Sunniva would not want it. You have a son. You must live."
Lightning flashed, a great forking streak of white fire in the heavens. The ground-shaking smash of Thunor's hammer followed a heartbeat later. In the moment of silence that followed the blast, Beobrand leapt at Acennan. He would not be deterred.
Acennan saw him late in the murky night, but he knew Beobrand and he was prepared for an attack. The stocky warrior stepped back, allowing Beobrand's fist to drift harmlessly past his face. Beobrand lost his balance and stumbled. But Acennan did not retaliate. He did not wish to raise his hands against his lord.
Regaining control, Beobrand spun to face Acennan once more. The cold rain went some way to clearing his head. He was still drunk; slower than he should be. But he knew he could best Acennan. He had done so before and he could do it now.
"Let me pass," Beobrand said. "I do not wish it to end this way between us. You have been the best of friends. Now step aside."
"We can find Wybert another day. In another place. Then I will watch as you gut him like a fish. Gods, I will help you do it! But I cannot let you throw away your life like this."
Around them the storm raged with renewed intensity. They abandoned all attempts at keeping quiet. They each had to scream over the cacophony of the elements.
"It is my life, not yours!" Beobrand spat.
He leapt for Acennan again. They grappled, Acennan seeking to restrain Beobrand. But Beobrand was larger and stronger. And as fast as a cat, despite the mead.
All about them lighting stabbed the sky and rain fell in sheets. The deafening roar of the storm was terrifying.
Beobrand's face was twisted with rage as he broke free from Acennan's grasp, pushing him away.
"Do not do this!" Acennan screamed. "You will bring about war and death."
"I'm sorry," Beobrand said, but Acennan could not hear the words. Lightning-glare lit Beobrand's features and Acennan knew then that he would not stop his lord. His friend.
Beobrand rushed in again. Acennan dodged to his left, again seeking to get a hold on Beobrand, to prevent him from his course rather than retaliate. Yet Acennan was not fast enough. Beobrand's right fist smashed into his face. All his weight was behind the blow and Acennan's head snapped back. His legs buckled as his senses left him. He slumped to the rain-soaked turf, his eyes glazed and unseeing.
Appalled at what he had done, Beobrand staggered away from his fallen friend.
His face was a mask of despair and anguish in the storm-flickered night. He squared his shoulders, flexed his fingers, feeling the sting of broken skin on the knuckles of his right hand. He made his way south. There was no need to worry about being detected now. Thunor's storm would provide him with cover.
It was all Wybert's fault. All this pain, the result of one man's actions. Wybert would die at his hand before the night was through. He would pay for everything.
Yes, it was all Wybert's doing.
He was to blame for all of this.
But as Beobrand walked into the night, the rain running down his face stung like bitter tears of remorse.
CHAPTER 28
The crash of thunder made Wybert jump up from where he lay. He groped in the dark of the tent for his seax. In his dreams Beobrand had been coming for him. Leaping from the shadows like a night devil. His blade had dripped with the blood of all the men he had slain. Wybert had seen him fight before. Beobrand was a born killer. Wybert had learnt much, perhaps even had natural skill. But he was no match for Beobrand's deadly ability.
In the gloom of the tent his hand found the wooden handle of his seax. He cast his gaze around, but there was no sign of Beobrand. Rain thrummed heavily on the taut leather of the shelter. Near where he sat hunched in the darkness, a stream of water poured through a leak. A flash of lightning lit the world outside and briefly, from the light that had shone under the edge of the tent and through the partially closed door flap, he could make out the forms of the slumbering warriors. None of them seemed to have noticed the tumult of the storm that raged outside.
Wybert flinched again, as another roar of thunder shook the world. He had always hated thunder and lightning. Leofwine had made fun of him about it. Just the gods at play, he had said. Well they could keep their play. Their games had cost him his brother and father. His home. The gods must love to toy with him. He had found a lord in Bernicia. Athelstan had trained him in the way of the sword. Given him arms and a place at his benches. Then, as if they could not bear to see Wybert happy, the gods had thrown before him Sunniva, with her radiant beauty. How was it possible that he should lose everything he loved, yet Beobrand should gain riches and a woman of such beauty? The gods were capricious indeed.
How they must have enjoyed watching him telling Athelstan and his gesithas of his exploits. She was only a woman! What did they care? He had only swived her. It wasn't as if he had killed her.
At the far end of the tent, furthest from the draft of the door, lay Grimbold, sheltered under a huge bearskin. Wybert sniffed. Perhaps his luck was changing. Or the gods had grown bored of him. He had found Grimbold soon after entering Mercia. He seemed to be a good lord. And, having just lost three men to the red plague, was not one to ask many questions of a warrior who had his own horse and weapons. Wybert had kept himself out of mischief, being careful to befriend the strongest of the warriors. He trained with them and continued to pick up new techniques. His strength grew, as did his confidence.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 34
