Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  *

  The low murmur of the voices of the men drifted to Beobrand on the cool night air, but he could not make out their words. They spoke quietly as they prepared food and readied the campsite, aware that sound travelled far at night. A gust of wind rustled the leaves of the rowan above him, further masking the sounds of the men. He pulled his woollen cloak about him. He needed these moments of peace and would often step away from their camps to stand and listen to the night.

  And to think.

  Someway off to his right he could see the shape of Elmer, silhouetted against the darkening sky. The large gesith had heard his approach, turned and raised a hand to Beobrand, but he knew his lord well enough and did not come near or attempt to speak. Beobrand was glad of it.

  For a moment, he thought of Acennan. Where was his friend? Beobrand had heard from Eadgyth in Eoferwic that he had headed south at the end of the winter. At the first sign of a thaw, he had mounted up and told the dark-haired maid that he would speak with her brother or father to seek their approval of their marriage. In the darkness Beobrand smiled. Acennan had been smitten, and he could see why. Eadgyth was a beauty no doubt, and with a quick mind and strong will too. She was a woman worth fighting for.

  Beobrand’s brow furrowed. He hoped his friend had not ridden into trouble in Mercia. He had been gone for weeks. Well, there was nothing that he could do. For all he knew Acennan had returned to Eoferwic already and was laughing at having missed his lord.

  An owl hooted somewhere off to the north-west. A fox shrieked.

  As if in answer, a blaze appeared just below the horizon to the west. It was hard to judge how far away it was, but it must have been at least half a day’s walk. The last light from the sun had faded from the sky and the fire stood out bright and flickering against the gloom. Its light glinted off the surface of one of the meres they had passed. For such a fire to be so clear, it must have been huge. Were the Waelisc burning another hall? Even now, were men, women and children being murdered, enslaved, violated? He found himself holding his breath and straining to hear, but no sound came to him beyond the rustle of the trees and the murmur of voices. The scent of cooking meat wafted to him. His stomach clenched at the smell as it mingled with dark memories.

  He shuddered. There had been so many fires in his life. His wyrd seemed interwoven with flames. He recalled his home in Hithe, engulfed in smoke and flame. Sunniva’s father, Strang, charred flesh pulling back from grinning teeth as his body smouldered on a charcoal mound. He remembered seeing the flames of Gefrin leaping into the sky to light the clouds as Scand led them to Bebbanburg and safety. The searing heat and chaos of Nathair’s hall as it burnt and illuminated a night of terrible slaughter.

  And then, closing his eyes, he could see the shape of Sunniva as she was consumed by the great bone-fire he had built for her.

  A light step on the leaf mould alerted him to someone’s approach. He felt the cooling of the tears on his face and cuffed them away angrily.

  “The Waelisc?” said Coenred.

  Beobrand relaxed. Coenred was a true friend. He’d nursed Beobrand to health after the battle of Elmet and risked his life for him more than once.

  “Probably,” answered Beobrand. “Or another warband of Penda’s. They mean to savage the land until this new king, this Ecgric, has no option but to face them in battle.”

  They were silent for a time, each gazing into the night at the distant flames.

  “It was a good thing you did, Beo,” Coenred said as last.

  “What?”

  “Rescuing the nun, Edmonda.”

  Beobrand thought of all those he had not saved. All the ghosts that would come to him in his dreams demanding vengeance.

  “Too many remained,” he said. He hawked and spat into the darkness. The taste of failure was sour in his mouth.

  “You could do no more.”

  Beobrand was not convinced. What good had he done saving Edmonda? But deep within him there was a flicker of pride in his action. Surely saving one was better than allowing all to die?

  “You saved Edmonda from terrible torture, and God alone knows what her life will bring. Perhaps she is destined for greatness.” On the horizon, the fire flared up. Perhaps the roof of the building had fallen in, feeding the flames. “Many more will suffer torment or death in the coming days it seems,” said Coenred. He did not speak of Tata. He had no need. Beobrand remembered all too well Coenred’s sister, her pale bruised and blood-streaked form on the altar, after she had been used and murdered by Waelisc warriors. Tata was another ghost that haunted his dreams.

  For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The flames in the distance continued to burn with intensity.

  “Will war never cease?” Coenred asked.

  “I doubt it,” said Beobrand. “It pleases the gods too much.”

  “It does not please the one true God,” Coenred said, his voice taking on an edge of anger.

  “If your god does not like it and is so powerful,” Beobrand snapped, bitterness making his tone jagged and harsh, “then why does he not stop it?”

  Coenred was silent. He had no answer.

  Beobrand spat again and strode back to the camp.

  *

  Beobrand lay wrapped in his cloak, listening to the night sounds. A log shifted on the small campfire with a creak and a sigh. All about him, the men slept, snoring and grunting. He could not find sleep so easily. He had taken the second watch, thinking to tire his body past the point where it could resist the embrace of slumber, and yet here he lay, eyes glittering in the firelight, while memories flapped in his mind like a murder of crows caught inside a mead hall.

  He had used to be able to sleep in an instant, and had seldom dreamt. But those days had gone, fled along with lost loved ones. He tried not to dwell on the past, as Bassus always counselled. He knew he could never change what had happened, but he could no more prevent thinking of those who had died, than he could ignore the loss of his fingers on his left hand when lacing his shoes.

  He had pushed himself hard through each short gloomy day of the long winter, training with sword, spear and shield, rebuilding the strength in his battered body, honing his battle-skill. When it was raining, he would have the hall cleared of boards and benches and practise weapon-play with the men there. They griped and complained, but Beobrand could not bear the alternative: to sit drinking, eating, talking and thinking. He did everything he could to keep them all occupied and tired. A good day for him was when he fell into the bed he shared with Reaghan, coupled ferociously and then collapsed into a dreamless sleep. But such days came all too rarely.

  His nights had been plagued with vivid dreams. Faces of those he had loved would come to him. And also, the terrifying, blood-streaked features of those he had killed. He would awaken then, sweat-drenched and panting, as if he had run a long distance. Sometimes, Reaghan would stir, and mumble something to him. He would stroke her smooth slender back and she would quieten, her breathing slowing, leaving him alone with the darkness and his thoughts.

  He had been short-tempered for much of the long, frigid winter. He knew he should have been content with his lot. He had loyal gesithas, friends, a fine woman in Reaghan, and a son. And yet every part of Ubbanford, especially his great hall, reminded him of Sunniva, of the fact that her defiler, Wybert, yet roamed free and that he had failed to slay him when he had been given the chance.

  One of the wardens coughed in the still night, rousing Beobrand from his thoughts. The ghost of sleep had been tugging at his senses, but now it fled once more and he was alert again.

  He had made a decision in those long, silent winter nights, where the only sounds were the snores of his warriors, and the wind moaning under the eaves of the hall. He would not rest until he had found Wybert and taken from him the blood-price he was owed. He vowed this to Woden, Tiw and Thunor. He even swore it to Frige, the goddess that Sunniva had often prayed to. He hoped they would all witness his oath and help him to exact revenge. Perhaps th
en, he would know peace. Maybe, with Wybert dead, he would be able to sleep without the shades of the past disturbing his rest.

  One bitter day, when the Tuidi had frozen over completely and the ice cracked and groaned, Coenred had come to Ubbanford. The young monk came with a group of the Christ brethren from Lindisfarena. They came once every few weeks to preach to the people of Ubbanford and Beobrand welcomed them. Attor was always overjoyed to see the Christ followers, and earlier in the year he had been baptised in the river. Abbot Aidan had cured him from a terrible wound that had been festering and ever since, he had been a devout follower of the new god.

  Coenred had come down to the river where Beobrand stood alone swinging his sword and hefting his shield. His breath had clouded around him like fog.

  “I remember seeing you practising like this back in Engelmynster. Remember?” Coenred had said.

  Beobrand had paused, lowering his sword.

  “Aye,” he’d said, wiping his fast-cooling sweat from his brow with his sleeve, “I remember.” He had been injured and left for dead after the battle of Elmet. Coenred had helped to nurse him back to health.

  Coenred had given him a long, appraising look.

  “You have that same intensity now.” He’d frowned. “The same anger.”

  Beobrand had sighed.

  “I wanted vengeance then. And I want vengeance now.”

  “Has nothing changed, then?” Coenred had asked.

  For a moment Beobrand had said nothing, just staring down the river. The land was cloaked in ice and snow, making it strange, quiet, still and forbidding.

  “All that has changed is that I have more enemies. And more need for revenge.”

  Coenred had cast his gaze down, sadness washing over his face.

  “Our Lord the Christ says that whosoever shall smite you on your right cheek, turn to him the other also.”

  Beobrand had scoffed at the idea.

  “I have heard the priests say as much. But I have also heard them say that the punishment should match the injury: ‘An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.’ That is a god I could follow, for he speaks as Woden.”

  “You should turn away from this path, Beobrand. It will bring you nothing but pain.”

  “I cannot. I have sworn the bloodfeud. It is the only way I can hope to find peace.”

  As soon as the snows had melted and the frosts of winter had receded into the north for another year, Beobrand had been summoned to Bebbanburg.

  There, in the great hall atop the rocky crag that overlooked the slate-grey Whale Road, Oswald had told Beobrand he wished him to lead an escort for holy men who would carry gifts of great value to Sigeberht, king of the East Angelfolc.

  Beobrand had stepped forward, close to the great gift-stool of the king.

  “Cannot another perform this task?” he had pleaded. “I would seek your leave to go in pursuit of my enemy, Wybert. You know I have sworn the bloodfeud with the man, and I cannot find peace while he yet walks upon this middle earth.”

  Oswald had not wavered.

  “No, Beobrand,” he had said in his soft, even tones, “I need you to accompany these men of Christ southward. I know you burn for revenge, but your vengeance will have to wait.” At least he had not attempted to preach to him of turning his cheek. Oswald knew him too well for that.

  And so, Beobrand had ridden south, putting aside his bloodfeud for a few weeks more.

  Somewhere, out in the darkness of the fens, a bird shrieked. One of the guards placed a fresh log on the fire where it crackled and popped for a moment, sparks drifting into the blackness.

  Beobrand closed his eyes and willed sleep to come. The last thing he remembered seeing in his mind’s eyes before drifting into slumber was the sneering face of Wybert, goading him from across a sun-licked meadow while a host of Northumbrian and Mercian thegns watched on.

  Chapter 4

  Reaghan looked down at the little round face of the babe. Octa’s eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. He had flung off his blankets and now lay in a tangled mess of limbs and bed clothes. He was on his back with arms and leg flopped out with abandon in the crib. He was a good child. He hated being swaddled and always fought his way free of his blankets, but he seldom woke her in the night and was quick to smile during the day.

  She loved Octa as if he were her own child. The thought scared her. Reaghan had never said the words to anyone, but she had long since admitted as much to herself. Of course, he was not hers and despite Beobrand’s vigorous attentions throughout the long winter nights, his seed had failed to find fertile ground within her. How had she been so foolish? She had carried his child before and had longed to be rid of it, and now she wept silent tears of regret whenever her monthly blood came. For the briefest of moments, she remembered the cramping pains as her body had voided the unborn babe. No, she would not think of it. It was an evil thought and she could not change the past.

  Stupid, stupid, girl.

  She sniffed. Octa had soiled himself, the sickly pungent stench of baby-shit oozed from where he was sprawled. He smirked in his sleep and she could not help but smile back. How he seemed to love lying in his own filth! She could scarcely believe it, such was the stink, but it never seemed to wake him.

  She would clean and change him soon, but while he yet slept, why wake him? She knew he would bawl and scream once she began to wipe him with a wet cloth. After that, there would be a long while of grizzling before he would find sleep again. So, she would wait.

  But not so close, the smell was terrible.

  She carried the rush light back to her bed, sheltering the small flame with her hand as she walked. The stink of the sizzling mutton fat that she usually hated, seemed almost pleasant following the smell of Octa’s soiled cloth wraps. She lay down on the straw-filled mattress. It was a large bed, big enough for two. Her tiny form was lost in it without the bulk of Beobrand beside her.

  She looked at the dancing shadows of the roof beams as the rush light guttered on the stool where she had placed it. Sleep was a long way off. She found it hard these days to find slumber. Her days used to be marked with arduous chores. Lady Rowena would chase her about Ubbanford, never happy to see her idle. And after a long day of cleaning, mending, cooking and carrying water up from the river, Reaghan would collapse into her small cot, sleep washing through her almost before she was still. The only times she had found it hard to sleep then was if Rowena or her daughter, Edlyn, had seen fit to take a hazel switch to her. Then she would lie on her front uncomfortably, every movement causing the welts to sting.

  Now she was not pushed to complete her chores, nor did Rowena or Edlyn dare to strike her. And the only other thing that would send her to sleep was not possible without Beobrand. The pleasing memory came to her of his weight. His callused hands caressing her, the feel of his heavily-muscled arms around her, his hips thrusting…

  She shivered in the gloom of the hall. How she missed him.

  A year before she would have scoffed at the thought. She had hated the Angelfolc. They had killed her family and enslaved her. She had been ill-used by Ubba, his sons and some of his gesithas. She had been largely accepted by the women, until she had begun to turn the heads of their men. Jealousy had made the womenfolk spiteful and Reaghan had merely sought to get through each day without a beating. As each drudge-filled day had passed, her hatred of those who had made her a thrall deepened. She had dreamt of her family, the freedom to do as she pleased, the warmth of her father’s embrace after a long day working the land.

  And then, one autumn day, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, had ridden into Ubbanford on his huge black steed and just like that, she no longer hated all of the Angelfolc.

  Beyond the partition she heard a cough, then a loud snoring.

  She smiled. No, she no longer hated them all. Bassus, Beobrand’s friend, was gruff, but he was a good man. He doted on Octa as if he were the babe’s grandfather, and he treated Reaghan with respect. And sometimes, when he forgot himself,
even with tenderness.

  But it was Beobrand who had changed everything. Lost in his grief for his wife, he had turned to her for solace, as Ubba and his sons had before him. And yet, there was something different about the young thegn from Cantware. Something had stirred within her at his touch. Then, in that terrible night of flame and horror, he had risked all to rescue her. From that point on, she had known she was his, and not merely as thrall and lord.

  Evidently, he had felt it too, for after the Blotmonath feast he had given Rowena a small sack full of hack silver and trinkets in payment for Reaghan. Then, he had led Reaghan and a large group of witnesses out on the path towards Berewic. When they had come to the first joining of paths, Beobrand had stopped and, blushing, had haltingly declared that Reaghan was no longer a thrall. Just as she now stood at a crossing of tracks, so she was now free to choose her own path from this day hence. He had turned then and limped his way back towards Ubbanford, for his leg had still troubled him after his fight at Din Eidyn. For a moment, everyone had stared at her, as if they expected her to run off into the wilds. She had looked upon the faces of those gathered there. Some, like Bassus and Maida, had been pleased for her, smiling encouragement. Rowena had frowned and turned her face from her. Reaghan had looked down the paths that led away from Ubbanford, and then turned to watch Beobrand’s back. He did not turn to see which path she would choose.

  A strong wind had rustled through the woodland that surrounded the track. She had shivered. Then, taking a deep breath, she’d set off after him.

  She could still scarcely believe this thing had happened. Her sudden freedom had frightened her. Still did. She would always be thankful to him for what he had done, but she wondered whether he had ever given a thought for what she would do while he was away. She longed for his return. When he was at the hall, laughter and song rang out in the night as his men revelled and riddled by the firelight. When he was away, the hall was quiet and she never felt at ease; never fully safe.

  Her eyes had closed now, and she was at last slipping into the embrace of sleep.