In the centre of the group rode the monks, Gothfraidh and Coenred, whom they were charged with protecting. Gothfraidh was an elderly man, his grey hair thinning. Kindly, and uncomplaining, he was always quick to offer his help when they were setting up camp. Coenred was much younger, barely a man, though Beobrand knew that despite his youthful aspect, he was brave and had proven himself to be a true friend.
Beobrand quickly cast his gaze on those of his own retinue, his gesithas, who accompanied him. Dour Dreogan was closest to Attor, the black lines of his soot-scarred cheeks making his face savage. Behind him followed Gram, tall and powerful. He was a mighty warrior, who never seemed to show fear or excitement; a steadfast shield-brother whom they would be glad to have at their shoulder, if it came to a fight.
Broad-shouldered Elmer rode towards the rear of the group. He was brave and bold, and despite the horrific sounds of pain that came to them on the breeze, he had a wide grin on his face. He was still so pleased to have been asked to ride with his lord. He felt that in the past he had too often been left behind with the women, children and old men, and no matter the number of times Beobrand had told him this was due to the trust he had in the muscular warrior, Elmer had taken it as a slight. The last two riders were the inseparable Ceawlin and Aethelwulf. They were woven from the same cloth, each taciturn and stocky, savage in combat but quick to jest and laugh when the mead flowed.
They were all good men. Strong warriors. Loyal gesithas. Beobrand was proud that they called him lord. And yet he wished Acennan was with them. He missed his friend. He had not seen him since before Solmonath, the month of rain and mud. Summer had long since begun to warm the land and Beobrand had expected Acennan’s return weeks before.
Another scream.
Acennan would have to wait.
The trail rose up a shallow bluff. To the west huddled a stand of alder.
“Whether Mercia or no,” said Beobrand, reaching his damaged left hand down to touch the hilt of his sword, Hrunting, “I will not ride by while someone faces torment. Come, let us see what is burning.”
He dug his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks and gave the horse its head. He did not wait to see whether his men followed him, he knew they would. The stallion, ever happy to gallop, surged forward. As always, Beobrand revelled in the sheer power of the steed as they thundered up the shallow incline. Beobrand’s fair hair flew back from his face, the wind bringing tears to his icy-blue eyes. He had hoped to reach their destination without trouble, but after the long cold winter cooped up in the smoky hall of Ubbanford, Beobrand’s blood rose at the prospect of combat.
“Wait,” cried Coenred, “we should not tarry here.” Beobrand ignored him. He should probably have commanded the men to ride wide of this place, to ensure the monks and the gifts they carried reached the lands of the East Angelfolc as quickly as possible. He recalled King Oswald’s words to him: “You are to see these men of God safely to the land of my brother in Christ, King Sigeberht. Let nothing detain you. The gifts they carry are of great value and importance.” He had given his word to his king.
But he could not simply ride past.
Cresting the hill, Sceadugenga hurtled down the other side. Beobrand took in the scene in a heartbeat. He adjusted the stallion’s direction slightly, without pausing to think.
Some distance away, further than he had expected, a hall was burning. Great gouts of smoke billowed into the air as the thatch of the roof collapsed with a groaning crash. Flames leapt upward, sparks spiralling to be lost in the pale sky. Even as Sceadugenga carried him down the hill, Beobrand could feel the heat on his face like a furnace.
Smaller buildings were dotted around the hall. Some of these were also aflame. Figures ran amongst the buildings. A group of mounted men sat astride stocky steeds, watching the destruction impassively. Iron glinted in the sunlight. Byrnies, shield bosses, spear-tips, swords.
On the packed earth before the burning hall stood a pitiful band. Unarmed women and men in dark robes cowered from the blades and savagery of the men who corralled them. A few paces closer to Beobrand, two women were prostrate on the earth, held down while warriors pleasured themselves. The women were screaming, which only seemed to more inflame the passions of their attackers, who laughed and shouted encouragements to each other. They spoke in a sing-song tongue, with slippery words. Beobrand did not understand what they said, but he recognised the language.
Waelisc.
Dark memories flooded his mind at the vision before him. Another burning hall, the dead heaped on the ground before it. A freezing forest. Cathryn’s pleading eyes. But that was in the past. Winter was gone and the day was not cold. And he was mounted, armed, with trusted gesithas at his back; no longer a frightened boy.
He was almost upon them now, a couple of the men had looked up, eyes wide at the sight of the fair-haired warrior on the great black steed charging down on them. They reached for weapons. One snatched up a spear, another a large, jagged-bladed knife.
Beobrand felt the battle lust sweep through him. Part of his mind screamed at him. There were too many men here. He could not face them all and survive. One of the women screamed pitiably. A beam fell into the conflagration of the hall with a choked crash. Beobrand could not turn away, any more than he could stop the sun from rising in the morning. He pushed aside thoughts of defeat and welcomed the battle-fury like a long-lost brother
Tugging savagely at Sceadugenga’s reins, Beobrand swung his leg over the stallion’s back and leapt to the earth. A dull twinge in his right leg reminded him of past injuries, but the winter’s rest had done him good. His wounds were healed and he was once again hale and strong. Dragging Hrunting from its scabbard, he bellowed his defiance at the men before him. One black-bearded man jabbed a spear at Beobrand’s chest. As fast as thought, Beobrand deflected the spear-point to his right with a push of his blade. Without pause he closed with the Waelisc warrior in two steps, the spear haft sliding harmlessly along his midriff. Beobrand brought Hrunting back in a vicious, glittering arc, slicing through flesh, sinew and bone. Blood fountained from the man’s neck and he fell back to lie twitching on the earth. His head, eyes fear-stricken and wide, toppled from his shoulders and rolled to a halt beside his corpse.
The moment of shock and surprise had passed now. The other men were leaping up, scrabbling for weapons, fumbling with breeches.
Beobrand shifted his attention to the knife wielder. The man’s face was pale, his features pinched. For an instant Beobrand believed the man would flee, but then, the eyes narrowed. The shoulder muscles bunched. And Beobrand knew he would attack. He almost laughed aloud. His blood coursed through his veins. Hrunting sang in the air. The sword-song was his tune and he was happy to let its music wash over him.
Flashing his teeth at the Waelisc, he leapt towards him. The man was fast, flicking the wicked knife at Beobrand’s throat. But few could match Beobrand’s speed. He watched as the Waelisc warrior’s hand moved, his mud-clogged boots shuffled forward on hard, packed earth. Following the man’s motion, Beobrand lashed out his left hand, catching his opponent’s right wrist. Beobrand’s hand was not whole, his grip weakened as a result of losing the best part of two fingers a couple of years before, but he had sufficient strength to grasp the wrist for long enough. He yanked his opponent forward, off balance. At the same moment, he swung Hrunting upward in a deadly swing. The fine, patterned blade sliced deeply into the man’s groin. Hot blood gushed and the knife-man let out a piteous scream.
Blood and piss splattered Beobrand’s leggings and shoes. He pushed the man away.
Around them, his mounted gesithas reined in, drawing blades. Beobrand cast a glance up the hill. He was pleased to see that Wynhelm and his warriors had also followed him. With a shout, Wynhelm led his men off to one side, away from the burning buildings. Where was he going? Then Beobrand saw what he was about. Wynhelm had blocked the approach of the mounted warriors who had been surveying the scene.
For a moment, nobody moved. The wome
n sobbed from where they lay on the ground. They shuffled close and wept, each burying their faces in the robes and hair of the other, clinging together as if that could save them from the terror that surrounded them.
More armed Waelisc came from between the huts. Beobrand reckoned that there must be more than twenty in all.
As if of one mind his gesithas suddenly dismounted. Dreogan came quickly to his left, Attor to his right.
“You looked lonely down here all on your own,” said Dreogan, a wicked grin twisting the soot-scars on his cheeks.
The endless days of training back in Ubbanford were evident as the others rapidly and silently formed a small shieldwall.
The Waelisc bunched together, interlocking shields and facing Beobrand’s small band. Smoke wafted around them as the wind picked up. The heat from the flames brought beads of sweat to Beobrand’s brow. He gazed at the furious faces of the Waelisc. They stood strong and firm. These were no brigands, they were warriors. Raven-feeders. It was ever his wyrd to rush into battles, but this had been foolish. There were too many of them. Those flames would likely be his bone-fire. The pyre of his recklessness on which his men would burn.
Between the two lines of warriors, lay the corpses of the Waelisc that Beobrand had slain. Friends and shield-brothers of the men yet lived and longed for nothing more than to rip the life from Beobrand and his gesithas. Death and violence hung in the air, as palpable and acrid as the smoke.
One of the Waelisc, a tall man, with close-cropped hair and beard, and a nose so twisted it didn’t seem to fit his face, called out something in their burbling tongue. Evidently the others listened to him, for they all took a step forward.
“Hold firm, men,” Beobrand said. “There may be more of them, but we are men of Northumbria. We do not crumble before a few sheep-swiving Waelisc scum.”
The men closed more tightly about him. He could smell Dreogan’s sour breath. The Waelisc took another step toward them. Spear-points lowered. In a few heartbeats, the shieldwalls would meet, and then the killing would start in earnest.
Beobrand clenched his jaw. So much for arriving without incident. Another piece of the roof structure fell into the swirling furnace of the hall, sending fresh sparks into the sky. Did the gods look down upon them? The gods loved mischief. Beobrand tightened his grip on Hrunting. Well, let’s give those bastards something worth watching.
He drew in a deep breath, ready to shout with his battle-voice. He would scream his defiance and his men would join him. They would deal more death this day before the end.
But before any sound passed his lips, another voice cut over the din of the fires and the approaching shieldwalls.
“Halt!” came the cry.
Beobrand turned to see that one of the mounted warriors, evidently the leader, had ridden forward. Wynhelm had stepped aside, allowing the man to approach. What in Woden’s name was he thinking? The Waelisc had black hair and a spotless white cloak. At his neck shone a golden torc. He reined in his mount and spoke in a clear, ringing voice.
“I know you,” he said, “but you are far from home, Beobrand Half-hand.” The man spoke the tongue of the Angelfolc well. Beobrand had no idea who he was.
“If you know who I am,” said Beobrand, reaching up to wipe a splash of crimson from his cheek, “then you know how I deal with treacherous Waelisc curs.”
The man did not react to the taunt.
“Well, you will not be killing any more of my men this day,” he said.
“Believe what you will, but the wolves and foxes will feast on Waelisc flesh this night.”
“The animals will not go hungry, but no more of my men will feed them.” The man ran his left hand through his black hair. “You will turn and ride from this place now. There will be no more bloodshed.”
Beobrand looked at the pallid, fearful faces of the unarmed men and women. The younger of the two ravaged women stared up at him, her eyes glistening, tears streaking her face. She was a plain girl, but he had seen eyes like hers before. She was lost without his aid.
“What of these people?” he asked. “No more harm will befall them?”
“Oh no, they must be punished. My lord Penda has willed it, and these are his lands. You have no right to intervene.”
“He’s right, Beobrand,” said Wynhelm. “Mercian problems are not ours.”
Curse the man. Why did he speak?
The Waelisc leader grinned at Wynhelm’s words.
“This has all been rather unfortunate. But you will ride on your way now. Later, I will send someone to collect the weregild for my men.”
Beobrand’s ire rose in him like the flames of the hall.
“Pay weregild? You are mad.”
“Oh, but you will. As your wise friend here so rightly says, Mercia is not your land. Would King Oswald be happy to know you had broken the peace he agreed with Penda?”
Beobrand recalled the anger of his king when violence had threatened the truce with Mercia. He did not reply to the smug Waelisc horseman.
“If you do not leave now,” continued the Waelisc leader, “I will give my men the order to attack. You will surely kill some of them, but you will be overrun. You will all die.”
“Listen to the man,” said Wynhelm. “We should never have got involved here.”
“Hold your tongue, Wynhelm,” snapped Beobrand. He trembled with rage. He longed to rush at Wynhelm and pull him from his saddle. But he did nothing save for gripping Hrunting so tightly his knuckles cracked. The words of both men were true. Oswald would never forgive him if he broke the fragile peace between Northumbria and Mercia. And their mission was to take the monks safely to the king of the East Angelfolc. Beobrand knew that he had been foolish to enter this fray, but he could not bear the thought of leaving these people to their fate at the hands of these Waelisc savages.
He glowered at Wynhelm for a moment. The fool would pay for speaking out against him. The eyes of the women who yet huddled on the earth, pleaded with him. The younger one shook her head slightly as she saw that he had made his decision. The Waelisc leader had spoken true. Beobrand could not hope to save these poor folk. All he would be doing is throwing away the lives of his men.
He swallowed the hard lump in his throat.
“Mount up, men,” he said, his voice cracking. He hawked and spat into the dust. “We are riding out.”
Beobrand beckoned to Sceadugenga. The black stallion approached and lowered its head. Did it look disappointed in its rider? Beobrand swung himself into the saddle. Around him, his men climbed back onto their horses, slinging shields over their shoulders. All the while they watched the gathered Waelisc furtively for any sign of attack.
Beobrand spat again, but the bitter taste lingered.
“You cannot leave us.”
Beobrand looked down. The girl clung to his foot. Fresh tears washed down her face. She shook like a tree in a strong wind.
“Please,” she went on, “they will kill us all.”
Beobrand surveyed the scene. Most of the huts were burning now, adding their smoke to the roiling grey column that issued from the hall. The faces of the Waelisc men in the shieldwall were grim, hard and unyielding. She was right. As soon as Beobrand and the Northumbrians rode away, the unarmed men and women would pay the price of the warriors’ humiliation. He looked to the two corpses. The head of the first lay at an impossible angle next to the body. Its sightless eyes stared up into the smoke-smeared sky.
Yes. They would pay, and it would be a high price.
He could not save them all, but perhaps he could rid himself of the bitter gall-taste of utter defeat. He reached out a hand to the girl.
“Come, I will take you from here. You will be safe.”
She stared up at him, eyes wide. She shook her head.
“I cannot. What about the others? My sisters and brothers?”
The older woman raised herself up then and spoke in a clear voice.
“Go with them, Edmonda. The Lord has seen fit to send thes
e men here for a purpose.”
“But you will all perish,” Edmonda said, her voice almost lost to the crackle and roar of the fires and the wind rustling in the alders.
“Perhaps that is God’s will,” said the older woman. “But we must not question Him. Salvation is offered to you. Take it, Edmonda, and carry the word of the Lord with you, so that all may know of His love.”
One of the huts collapsed with a muffled crunch. Sceadugenga shook his head nervously.
“Come, girl,” said Beobrand. “I know naught of the gods, but better to live than die, I would say.”
One last look at the other woman and then Edmonda grasped his hand. Beobrand pulled her up behind him with ease.
“God bless you all,” she said, sobbing.
“Hold on to me, girl,” said Beobrand. “Tight, mind, or you’ll fall when we start to ride.”
She did not reply, but her slim arms encircled his waist.
Swinging Sceadugenga’s head around, he turned to the mounted Waelisc warrior in the white cloak.
“You say you know me,” said Beobrand. “And yet, I know you not. What is your name, Waelisc?”
The man offered him a broad smile.
“I am Gwalchmei ap Gwyar. And you have now stolen two things of mine.”
The name meant nothing to Beobrand.
“What two things? What riddle is this?” How he would love to ride the man off his horse and smash that smile from his face.
“Well, now there is that girl. But she is nothing. That however,” he said, indicating Sceadugenga, “is another matter.”
What was the man speaking of? He made no sense.
“What do you mean?” Beobrand asked, his words as sharp and cold as shards of iron.
“That fine stallion you are riding,” said Gwalchmei, “is my horse.”
Killer of Kings Page 2
