Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  A wailing pierced the night-silence. Instantly awake, she sat up, her heart hammering.

  And then the smell of shit wafted to her. It was Octa. He had finally decided that he had had enough of the stink. She climbed out of her cot and padded softly across the rush-strewn floor to attend to the baby. Despite the stench as she approached and the loud screams that split the quiet of a moment before, she smiled.

  Chapter 5

  “I have never been in a land so flat,” said Elmer, shielding his eyes from the setting sun.

  Beobrand did not reply, but he could not argue with the bulky warrior. They had ridden all that day through woods and past great ponds and meres. At times, they had ridden through large areas of open land, where little grew save for bracken and stunted grasses, but at no point had they encountered anything higher than the low rise they had camped on the night before. There were wrinkles in this land, but nothing that could be called a hill and certainly no mountains.

  They now stood atop one such rise in the earth. They were surrounded by trees on all sides, but for some reason none grew atop the rise.

  “Like Birinus’ hair,” Coenred had said, smiling at his own jest.

  Beobrand offered the monk a thin smile. It was true, the bald crown of land surrounded by trees was reminiscent of the strange shaved pate of the bishop of Wessex, but he did not reply. He was too tired. And he was nervous. The land was strange to him, and he feared they were riding into a war.

  Beobrand nudged Sceadugenga closer to Elmer’s mount and peered into the west, following Elmer’s gaze. The sun’s orb was hazed by a pall of smoke. It seemed the Waelisc, or perhaps other warbands, had been busy.

  “How far to Rendlæsham?” asked Beobrand.

  Wynhelm reined in beside them. He too looked tired, his face drawn and pale.

  “If we ride hard,” he said, “we should reach there tomorrow.”

  A cry came from the head of their small band. Turning to face the south, Beobrand saw Attor approaching at a canter. He had been scouting some distance from the group, vigilant for danger and seeking out likely spots for them to pitch camp.

  Clattering past the other riders, Attor made straight for Beobrand. The hands around Beobrand’s waist tightened, reminding him of Edmonda’s presence. She had been silent for most of the day. At midday he had asked her to ride with one of the other men for a time, to spare Sceadugenga from carrying two riders, but she had shaken her head, eyes wide with fear, so he had not persisted. He had felt the warmth of her against his back now for so long he had almost forgotten she rode there. Sceadugenga appeared not to notice the extra burden.

  “Riders approaching,” Attor said.

  All around them, the warriors began checking their weapons. Shields were unslung from backs, seaxes and swords loosened in scabbards.

  “How many and how far?” asked Beobrand.

  “I only saw two, lord,” Attor paused to spit into the dust of the path they followed. “They could be out-riders for a larger warband. But I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “They are riding hard. I’d say they are messengers, or they are fleeing from someone.”

  “How far?” Beobrand asked again, absently caressing the hilt of Hrunting with his half-hand.

  “Not far, lord,” said Attor.

  A shout went up from some of Wynhelm’s men. Edmonda’s grip tightened.

  Beobrand nudged Sceadugenga forward. Two riders had burst from the elm woods to the south and were galloping towards them. Quickly, Beobrand assessed them. The lowering sun did not glint from byrnies or helms. They bore no spears.

  “Not far?” he said, turning to Attor with a raised eyebrow. “They are practically in our laps.”

  Attor grinned and spat again.

  “Sorry, lord, they were coming on fast and hidden by trees.”

  Beobrand glanced back at the approaching riders. They were bearing down on them. There was no more time for talk.

  “Elmer, Dreogan, Attor. With me. The rest of you stay here.”

  “Careful,” said Wynhelm.

  “Do not worry, Wynhelm,” Beobrand said, sliding Edmonda to the ground. “Watch the girl, and if they try anything, ride them down and slay them.”

  Edmonda clutched at his hand for a moment. Her eyes were wide, tears brimming. He could feel the trembling of her. She was terrified; the events of the monastery still raw and fresh in her mind. But there was no time to put her at her ease.

  “Wynhelm will keep you safe,” Beobrand said, pulling his fingers from her grasp.

  He tugged Sceadugenga’s head to the side and kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks. With a great burst of speed, the black stallion sprang forward. The power of the beast always amazed him. Even after a day of carrying two riders, Sceadugenga was willing to gallop. With Dreogan and Attor beside him, Beobrand rushed down the shallow slope towards the riders. Elmer followed a couple of horse-lengths behind.

  The approaching riders slowed their mounts and awaited the four warriors. In a few heartbeats Beobrand was pulling Sceadugenga to a halt before the two men. Beobrand noticed they were both young, slight of build, with only seaxes at their belts. Each was dusty and sweat-streaked, as were their mounts. It seemed Attor was right. These men were riding somewhere with haste and did not plan to fight.

  For a moment, none of the men spoke. As Beobrand had taken their measure, so now, they sized up him and his men. The younger of the two riders, a sandy-haired youth with wispy beard and freckle-splashed cheeks, seemed to come to a decision.

  “Are you Lord Ordway?” he asked, nudging his horse forward a few steps.

  “I am not,” answered Beobrand, who had never heard of the man.

  The freckled rider thought for a moment, clearly at a loss for words.

  “Are you Lord Ordway’s men?”

  “We are not.”

  “Then who are you?” An edge of concern entered the young man’s voice, and he glanced back at his companion, who started to edge his horse back, away from Beobrand and his gesithas.

  “Why don’t you tell me first who you are?” Beobrand said. He held the boy’s eyes in his blue gaze.

  “I… I mean… We…” Another glance at his companion, who had now moved his mount several paces back in the direction they had come. His eyes flicked from side to side, taking in the men on the rise and the warriors before them. All were heavily armed with swords, shields, spears and iron-knit shirts. His face was pale, but he offered his friend no aid.

  “Don’t look to him,” snapped Beobrand. “Who are you?”

  The boy swallowed and must have decided there was nothing for it, or there was no harm in giving his name.

  “I am Brun, son of Iuwine,” he said, jutting his chin in a show of defiance.

  Beobrand smiled.

  “Well, Brun son of Iuwine, where are you riding in such haste?”

  Again, Brun sought out his companion for support, but found none. Having now decided to speak, he seemed almost eager to impart his news.

  “We are sent to call upon Lord Ordway and any other man of worth to do his duty to his lord and king, Ecgric, son of Rædwald,” he spoke in a breathless rush. “The land is under attack. Penda of Mercia has a warhost and Ecgric rides to meet him. He has called the fyrd to protect the land.”

  So, it was as Edmonda had suspected. Penda sought to take East Angeln, the kingdom of the East Angelfolc. By the gods, what had they ridden into?

  When Beobrand did not respond immediately, Brun squared his shoulders, brave now that he had spoken his mission aloud.

  “Whatever your name, you must ride to do your duty.”

  “And what is my duty?” asked Beobrand.

  “You must serve your king and lord,” answered Brun.

  “But Ecgric is not my lord or my king.”

  At hearing these words, the man who had pulled some way from them wheeled his mount around and kicked it into a canter southward.

  “I told you they were Merci
ans!” he cried over his shoulder.

  “Halt!” shouted Beobrand in a voice that could cut through the tumult of clashing shieldwalls. “We are no Mercians.”

  The man reined in, but looked ready to gallop away at the slightest provocation. He was about a spear’s throw distant now, so Beobrand raised his voice for all to hear.

  “We are no Mercians,” he repeated. “Nor are we King Ecgric’s men. I am Beobrand, lord of Ubbanford, thegn of King Oswald, who is king of Northumbria. We are your allies, not your enemies. Now, tell us where the fyrd gathers so that we may ride to your king. I would speak with him.”

  *

  The two messengers had been hard to convince that Beobrand and the other warriors from Northumbria were not in fact a warband from Mercia sent to strike deep within the heart of the land of East Angeln. Though what they thought they could do about it, outnumbered as they were by armed and mounted men, Beobrand did not know. In the end, it had been Edmonda who had convinced them.

  She had walked down the slope towards them. Beobrand noticed she had ensured her plain wooden cross pendant was clearly on display, resting atop the rise of her breasts. Plain as she was of face, her slim form was feminine beneath the rough linen of her habit. None of the men could look anywhere but that bouncing rood as she approached.

  “What the lord Beobrand tells you is the truth,” she said, her voice firmer than Beobrand had heard it before. “These men rescued me from Waelisc allies of Penda. They now mean to seek out King Ecgric with news of the attack on his kingdom.”

  “But Ecgric knows Penda plans to attack,” said Brun.

  “That may be so, but we did not know that. Besides, there are two other holy men who travel from the sacred isle of Lindisfarena with gifts for the most Christian Sigeberht.”

  Eventually, they either believed them, or had come to the conclusion they could do nothing to stop them if they tried.

  “Follow this path and soon you will see the campfires of Ecgric’s host,” Brun had pointed south. “Godspeed to you, lady,” he had nodded to Edmonda. “Mayhap we will see you, lord Beobrand, on our return.”

  With that, Brun and his nervous companion had galloped northward into the gloom of the trees.

  Chapter 6

  They rode into the encampment the next day, shortly after the sun pushed itself over the horizon. Clouds had gathered at dusk bringing with them an all-drenching drizzle. Before the land was cloaked in darkness, they had seen the smear of smoke from many fires against the gloaming. Ecgric’s host was not camped far away, but they had decided to wait until morning to approach.

  “Riding into a host of warriors who are expecting battle is not wise,” Wynhelm had said. Beobrand had not argued. The two messengers had been tense, full of the tension of impending war. To surprise a host of such nervous men would not end well.

  And so they had spent a miserable night, huddled around a guttering and spitting fire that only Aethelwulf’s fire-skill had been able to kindle. The light rain had fallen incessantly and by the first watery glow of morning, they were all cold, wet and irritable.

  Despite their concerns the night before, none of the men assembled at the encampment seemed interested in their arrival. Their mounts churned up earth that was already a quagmire, while around them men crouched beneath any shelter they could find or craft. There seemed no order to the camp. They continued slowly through the camped warhost, scanning the small collection of tents that some of the wealthier warriors possessed for sign of a royal standard or sigil.

  “Look at that,” said Ceawlin.

  They reined in and spread out, so as to all be able to see what the warrior was staring at in open amazement.

  “It looks as though a giant carved out the land,” Aethelwulf said, awe in his voice.

  “Do you think this was made by the same men who built the Wall?” asked Beobrand. It was the only thing he could think of that matched the scale of what lay before them.

  The land fell away into a deep, steep-sided ditch. As deep as the height of many men, it was a formidable defence. It disappeared into the rain-misted distance to the left and right, cutting straight into the earth until lost to sight.

  “Who can say?” said Wynhelm. “But it is a good place to make a stand against an enemy. It would seem this Ecgric is no fool. A small force,” he looked about him, “however slovenly, could hold off a larger host here, atop this ditch. Even Penda, the great warlord, will be unable to take this position from a stout defence. As long as the men hold this ridge, none shall pass.”

  Beobrand gazed into the south-west. The path they had been following stretched to the horizon. Who knew how far it went? Perhaps it too was a reminder of the men from the south who had long ago ruled the land of Albion, but he did not think so. This was something more natural, less tamed. Perhaps it was even older than the men of Roma. He pictured Penda’s host as he had seen it at Elmet. He imagined the great wall of men beneath their lord’s wolf-pelt standard. They would darken the land with their numbers. Looking back at the fyrd-men gathered around them, he shivered. Could these men stand against the might of Penda?

  He hoped that Wynhelm was right about being able to defend here, but doubt tugged at his mind.

  “You,” Beobrand said suddenly to a scraggly-haired man who stood gawping at them. “Where is the king?”

  The man sucked at his moustaches and shook his head.

  “No king here,” he said.

  “Then who leads?”

  “I don’t rightly know,” answered the man, scratching his head. He wore such an expression of vacant stupidity that Beobrand wanted to leap from Sceadugenga’s back and beat the man. Did he not see that they would all perish here, if they did not organise a strong defence? He gripped his reins until his knuckles hurt. It was not the man’s fault. Someone must lead here.

  Wiping the rain from his eyes, Beobrand selected the largest tent he could see, a taut leather structure, surrounded by three smaller shelters, and spurred Sceadugenga towards it.

  Men cursed as they passed, splashing rain and mud. A man bearing a spear leapt to his feet and hurled abuse at the riders. Gram’s mount shied from the man, trampling over the campsite of a small group of men. The horse whinnied in fear as it crashed through the smoky fire, sending sparks and sputtering logs flying. The men threw themselves aside, screaming their anger. Gram wrestled with his mount, for a moment looking like he would be unseated. But he soon had it under control once more and joined the rest of them as they reined in before the collection of tents.

  “Well done, Gram,” Aethelwulf said, no hint of a smile on his face. “That will have woken the bastards up.”

  “This bastard is already up,” said a brawny man who strode forth from the shelter of the large tent. He was not a young man, but broad of shoulder and strong of arm. His beard was dark, but streaked with grey at his chin. He wore a sword at his side, the finely-wrought hilt protruding from a red leather scabbard, adorned with embossed metal. He took in the scene at a glance with the practised eye of a warrior and leader of men.

  “Who are you?” he asked, voice sharp, but not raised. “I recognise none of you, but you are clearly men of worth. Whence do you come?”

  “We have ridden from Northumbria,” said Beobrand. “From the land of our lord king, Oswald, son of Æthelfrith. Who are you? Do you lead here?”

  The man squared his shoulders. The arm rings he wore strained against the muscles there as he folded his arms across his wide chest.

  “You have ridden into my camp, Northumbrian,” he said, voice as cold now as the rain that trickled down Beobrand’s neck. “I would know your name before I speak mine, and I would have you do me the courtesy of dismounting before we speak further.”

  Beobrand clenched his jaw. Wynhelm shot him a look of caution. He took a deep breath of the damp morning air. It was redolent of churned mud, cooking fires and midden pits. Slowly, he swung himself down from Sceadugenga’s back. Then, reaching up, he helped Edmonda dismount too.r />
  Wynhelm and the rest of the men followed his lead and a moment later they were all standing at the heads of their steeds, holding their reins.

  Beobrand handed Sceadugenga’s reins to Edmonda and took a step towards the man.

  “I am Beobrand, lord of Ubbanford, thegn of Bernicia,” he said, keeping his tone flat.

  “Truly?” the bearded warrior surprised him by smiling broadly. His eyes flicked down, and Beobrand realised with a start that the man was staring at his left hand. “Beobrand Half-hand is here,” he said, turning to the men who had congregated outside the tents. “Tales of your exploits precede you, lord Beobrand. We have oft heard the scop’s sing the lay of how you slew Hengist.”

  Beobrand frowned.

  “The scops tell many lies,” he said.

  The man, rubbed his beard thoughtfully, but his smile remained.

  “Mayhap that is so. But you are here now, and you can tell us your tale yourself.”

  “I am no story-teller.” Beobrand thought of his friend, Leofwine. There was a man who had possessed a true gift for songs and tales. Alas, he was not gifted in the sword-play and had fallen at Gefrin. Beobrand wondered whether he would ever enjoy again the telling of a good story. Perhaps, but not one that told of his own life.

  Nobody spoke for a moment, then the man raised himself up to his full height and lifted his head. He was still at least a head shorter than Beobrand, who towered over most men.

  “Well, you have told me your name, now I will tell you mine. I am Offa, son of Alfric, and yes, I lead here.”

  “Where is the king?” asked Beobrand. “I would speak with him.”

  Offa’s face clouded.

  “My lord Ecgric is not here.”

  “Where is he?”

  Offa hesitated

  “Come, let my men tend to your horses. Break your fast with me in my tent and I will tell you of the king.”

  *

  “King Ecgric is where?” Beobrand struggled to keep his voice even.

  “Your ears do not deceive you,” said Offa. “The king has retired to Beodericsworth.”