Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  With a smile, Sigeberht waved the other man to continue.

  “I am sure Bishop Felix can explain better than I,” he said.

  The smaller man nodded his thanks.

  “Golgotha is the hill were our Lord was crucified,” Bishop Felix said, his voice echoing in the dark of the chapel as he raised it as if proclaiming to dozens of men. “He was hanged upon a tree until he died in great agony. Jesu’s head was wreathed in a crown of vicious thorns and He was mocked and beaten.” He was almost shouting now, such was the fervour that had him in its grip. Without warning, he placed his face almost inside the casket, scrutinising the contents. “Perhaps the blood or sweat of our Lord is on the stone!” he exclaimed, raising his face up again.

  “I don’t see any blood on it,” said Beobrand. They all turned to look at him. “So, this stone contains magic?”

  Felix frowned.

  “No, no! Not magic. Magic is the province of witches.”

  A crow croaked from one of the windows of the building. Coenred shot him a glance. Beobrand felt the chill of a cave in Muile; a snowstorm in Din Eidyn. They both knew of the magic of witches.

  “So what then?” asked Beobrand. “What makes this pebble special? Does it have power?”

  “Oh yes,” answered Felix.

  “To do what?”

  “The ways of God are not easy for men to comprehend,” said Gothfraidh. “But these holy relics possess great spiritual power.”

  Beobrand could barely contain his anger. His hands clenched into fists and he had to fight the urge to fling the casket and its contents against the timber wall of the church. By all the gods, was this what they had carried the length of Albion? A stone and a rag? It was madness. This land would soon be plunged into the bloody chaos of war and Beobrand could not fathom why Oswald had sent them here. Surely not merely to bring these useless gifts to a king who had renounced his kingdom.

  He took a deep breath and stared up for a moment at the crow perched in the high window, from where it looked down upon them with an implacable gaze.

  “You had best pray that they also have power in battle,” said Beobrand, his words jagged and harsh, “for war is coming.”

  Chapter 10

  Beobrand strode into the sunlight. His hands shook.

  The sun had risen beyond the oak and beech trees that loomed over Beodericsworth. Mist clung to ditches and streams and around the woods, but the sky was clear and brilliant. It would be a hot, bright day. Within the enclosure of the vallum, monks went about their chores. Some glanced at the huge fair-haired warrior, but none approached. Danger and violence came off him like a stench.

  The sounds of construction that had filled the previous day once again reverberated around the settlement, but Beobrand hardly noticed. He paced first one way and then the other before the doors of the chapel, breathing hard.

  Oswald had known! He had known they were riding towards war.

  Sigeberht had asked Coenred to read the message from King Oswald. Coenred had done so in a clear voice. Beobrand saw little value in the scribblings of the monks, but he could hear Oswald’s words through the voice of the young man. The king had spoken them many days ago and Coenred had scratched the words into the vellum, but Beobrand could hear the truth in them. There was magic in this, but he cared not for that. He was furious. As Coenred had read the missive, Beobrand had wanted to reach out and shake him into silence. But he knew that would do no good; another would have read the words, if not his friend.

  “I, King Oswald of Bernicia and Deira, Lord of Northumbria, son of Æthelfrith, conqueror of Din Eidyn, send greetings to my brother in Christ, Sigeberht, wise king of the East Angelfolc,” Coenred had recited. “I trust that this message finds you in good health. As a token of my esteem, I send you a reliquary containing two most holy relics.” The message had gone on for some time extolling the virtues of the stone and the cloth, recounting miracles that they had performed. The pebble had cured a babe of palsy when it had been placed next to the child in its crib. The cloth had brought food to a hungry monk who had feared he would die from starvation. He had prayed to the dead abbot of Hii whilst clutching the scrap of Colm Cille’s habit and an eagle had flown to the monk, dropping a great salmon at his feet. There were more such stories of miraculous cures, droughts being averted by sudden rain from a cloudless sky, the lame were made to walk and the blind were made to see.

  But it was not these tales of relics and miracles that angered Beobrand, it was when the letter turned to tidings of war. “News has come to me that Penda, the great enemy of God, King of Mercia, is even now amassing a powerful warhost. I have been told that he has once more allied with the Waelisc of Gwynedd and they mean to march on your lands.”

  They had ridden blithely through Mercia, and all the while they had carried a message that informed of imminent war.

  “Beobrand,” said a timid voice, “will you come back inside? Lord Sigeberht would speak with you.”

  Beobrand spun round. Coenred stood before him, his face flushed, colour high in his cheeks.

  Taking a long breath, Beobrand willed himself to calm.

  “You knew the contents of the message,” he said, “and yet you said nothing.” He shook his head, unsure to whom to direct his impotent ire.

  “It was not for me to tell. The message was for Sigeberht, no other.”

  “We rode into danger. We could have been killed.”

  “But we were not.”

  “And now what will you do? Will you return with us? I would ride this very day, before it is too late.”

  Before Penda’s host descend on the land, he thought, bringing fire and death. Before the carrion birds blot out the sun as they wheel above fields stained red with slaughter.

  “I will not ride with you,” said Coenred. “Aidan has sent us to learn from Bishop Felix and Lord Sigeberht. Both were taught the ways of the Lord in Frankia, following the teaching of the most holy Columbán. We will learn much from them.”

  “You will learn nothing from them if you are dead,” Beobrand snapped.

  “Do not fear for us. God will protect us.”

  “How can you speak so?” Beobrand said. “After what we have seen? Your god allows his own to die just as well as his enemies.”

  Coenred frowned.

  “God will protect us,” he repeated, his jaw tensed, the words clipped.

  There was nothing more to say. Beobrand pushed past Coenred. “I will speak with Sigeberht now.”

  He blinked as he walked into the gloom of the chapel from the bright light outside. Again the scent of incense caught in his throat, sweet and cloying. The small group turned to watch him stalk towards them.

  “Lord Sigeberht,” he said, his voice brittle and sharp, like slivers of iron from a smith’s hammer, “you have heard tell of Penda’s designs on your kingdom, what will you do?”

  “I am no longer king, Beobrand,” replied Sigeberht, his steady tone infuriating. “My cousin, Ecgric, is king of these lands now. I serve God.”

  Beobrand thought of the prayer they had heard when they had walked through the still, fog-filled morning.

  “I heard you pray just this morning that your god will deliver you from evil.”

  “That is true. But—”

  “Your cousin is no warrior.” Beobrand spoke the words with certainty and he saw the truth of his words reflected in Sigeberht’s eyes. “You once were a warrior of renown. A true king. Your men love you. Men like Offa.” He saw recognition in Sigeberht’s face.

  For a long while Sigeberht said nothing. He met Beobrand’s ire-laden gaze unflinchingly, as if he weighed up the man he saw. Beobrand felt the force of that gaze, saw the steel in those eyes. This was a man to be reckoned with. He was no soft monk to be cowed by anger or a raised voice. Place a blade in his hand and Sigeberht would be a warlord that warriors would cleave to.

  “Perhaps,” said Beobrand, breaking the silence, “your god wishes you to lead your people from evil.”


  “Have you considered,” Sigeberht said, a soft smile playing at his lips, “that perhaps it is not I, but you who has been sent by God?”

  *

  “I am no warlord,” said Beobrand. “The men would not listen to me. I am not even from these lands.” Did Sigeberht really believe that he should stand in the shieldwall for the East Angelfolc? That he could help to repel Penda’s host? “I am but one man. With my men and Wynhelm’s we are but a dozen. I doubt our presence would be noticed.”

  Sigeberht smiled. He shook his head, as if Beobrand’s words were those of a fool.

  “Do men not look to you in battle? Do the scops not sing of your battle-fame?”

  Beobrand’s face grew hot.

  “The scops speak of dragons and night-stalkers also. Do not trust all that is sung by bards.”

  Coenred stepped forward.

  “You know it is true, Beobrand,” said the young monk. “Oswald says you are God’s instrument, even if you do not know it yourself. And the Lord has sent you to my rescue before now. I believe he has done so once more. I have faith in Christ and I have faith that you will protect us from the pagan Penda and his unholy allies.”

  Beobrand frowned. Coenred had learnt much these past years as he had grown into a man. It seems he could not only write now, but also speak with a persuasive tongue. Beobrand looked at Coenred’s open face. The monk returned his gaze. Beobrand felt the weight of Coenred’s belief in him. What could he really do here?

  He scanned the others. Wynhelm leant calmly on a timber pillar. He gave Beobrand a slight nod of the head. Attor’s face was solemn, he seemed to be in awe in the company of the Christ-follower holy men. But he cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Lord,” he said, voice cracking in his throat, “I know the decision is yours alone to make, but I would be honoured to stand at your side in the shieldwall to defend these lands and these fine people who love the Christ.” He closed his mouth and his cheeks reddened. His words spoken, he lowered his gaze now and said no more.

  Lastly, he turned to Gothfraidh and Edmonda. Neither spoke. The grey-haired monk seemed disinterested in the conversation, instead he had picked up the vellum that contained the message from King Oswald and was perusing the scratchings there. Edmonda’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the building. Again, something about her reminded him of Reaghan.

  By Woden, Thunor and Frige, he could not just ride from this place and return north, leaving these people to their wyrd.

  Turning back to Sigeberht, Beobrand spoke in an angry rush.

  “You must also come. I have seen the men of the fyrd and they are not warriors. They need to be trained. And if they are to stand strong against the Mercian and Waelisc host, they need a true warlord, a king, to look to. Not a young thegn from Bernicia.”

  Sigeberht’s eyes twinkled, but his face grew grave.

  “I will not bear weapons ever again,” he said. “I have vowed it so before the one true God.”

  “But you must,” said Beobrand. “The men need—”

  Sigeberht cut him off with a raised hand.

  “But if it is the Lord’s will, I will give my guidance to my cousin.”

  “And you will come to the great dyke where the men await Penda?”

  “If my cousin allows it, I will come. But I will not raise a weapon or don armour.”

  “I believe if you speak to the fyrd, they will take heart. And with strong hearts and courage,” said Beobrand, “perhaps we can defeat the Mercians.”

  “We?” asked Sigeberht, raising an eyebrow. “So, you will stay? You will stand with us against the pagans?”

  Beobrand sighed. He would not ride away and leave these people when he could offer his sword and his shield to their defence. And yet, his mind returned to the shambles of the camp where the fyrd had gathered, to the raucous feasting of Ecgric’s hall, the king choosing to ignore the peril that approached. He thought of all this and his stomach clenched in fear. What difference would his small band of warriors make? But there was nothing for it now, he had made his decision and there was nothing to be gained from fretting about what might be. He had been told this many times by men older and wiser than him, but that did not prevent his innards coiling like eels.

  Beobrand gave a terse nod.

  “Aye, I’ll stay,” he said. “But there is no time to waste. Prepare yourself and have a mount brought for you, for we ride at once.”

  His mind now made up, he made to leave the hall.

  Coenred trotted alongside him to keep up with his long strides.

  “I told you God would protect us,” Coenred said, face aglow with excitement. “Once more he has sent you to defend his own.”

  “Pray that you are right, Coenred,” Beobrand said. “Pray to your god and see if he listens.”

  Beobrand stalked out of the gloom of the church and into the warm light of the morning. There was no time to waste.

  He had a king to awaken.

  Chapter 11

  “By Tiw’s cock!” hissed Bassus, as the whet stone fell from his grasp. It clattered against the leg of the stool on which he sat and knocked painfully against his ankle. It was the second time he had dropped the thing that morning and he had only been at the task for a short while. He grunted as he reached for the stone, all the while listening for sounds of activity from inside the hall. The sun was up, dawn long past, but he had told the two hall-slaves not to begin preparing food, or airing the hall. Instead, he had sent both the young girls down to the river for water. Reaghan and Octa could sleep a while longer. If he did not wake them with his clumsiness. Octa had cried for much of the night and he knew that Reaghan would be tired.

  He had roused the men, those of Beobrand’s gesithas who remained in Ubbanford, dragging them out of the hall into the misty wolf-light of the dawn. He had sent them to cut timber down by the river, far from the hall, telling them they could return to break their fast when he sent for them. They had grumbled, but they had done so quietly. Bassus’ stern warnings would have been enough to quell their complaints, had they not already loved Reaghan. They all did. Accepting her as their lord’s lady and mistress of his hall.

  Retrieving the stone, he rested it on his lap while he went about placing the seax blade in just the right position for sharpening. He wedged the antler hilt between his thighs, blade upward, sharp edge towards him. By lifting his left ankle onto his right knee, he could get an angle that allowed him to run the stone over the whole length of the shimmering patterned blade. Careful not to cut his leg on the already-sharp knife, he shifted his position until he was comfortable and recommenced whetting the blade.

  Comfortable? He chuckled to himself at the idea. He rarely felt comfort these days. For a moment he paused, closing his eyes. His left arm no longer pained him. Neither did the stump where it had been removed. But he would have sworn the limb and hand were still there, had he not known differently.

  He opened his eyes and gazed down into the valley. Smoke drifted up from several buildings and from the old hall where Rowena and her daughter lived. He frowned. He saw the sharp looks they gave to Reaghan when she passed. The ire in their glares was plain. Where the gesithas loved Reaghan, Rowena and Edlyn hated her. He could guess at their reasons, but it pained him. Reaghan was a good girl. It seemed to him she had done nothing wrong but to be born to Waelisc parents, and then to allow herself to be captured and enslaved. That Beobrand had become a widower, and chosen to make the thrall his woman was not through any misdeed of hers. But women held grudges long and heavy in their hearts, just like men. To see a Waelisc thrall girl take her place must have been a bitter draught for Rowena to swallow. She had lost her menfolk and her power. To be surrounded by reminders of what her life used to be, must scratch at her like nettles under the skin.

  The seax blade slipped from its precarious position and Bassus shifted quickly to catch it before it fell. He lost neither the stone nor the blade this time, but his hand was encumbered and his knuckle caught the wickedly sh
arp edge of the blade. Cursing silently, he raised his hand to his mouth and sucked the blood away. Thankfully, it was not a deep cut. But it stung. Tiny nicks and scratches always did.

  He sighed. By all the gods, he understood how Rowena must feel. He too was getting old, surrounded by young men who were faster and stronger. More able. Whole. Once he had been a champion of a king, now he cowered in this small settlement. He knew what Beobrand and his gesithas must think of him. Pity for the grizzled warrior who had once stood tall and strong in the shieldwall. He would never stand shoulder to shoulder with his spear brothers now. Not since that bastard Torran’s arrow pierced his flesh.

  Well, Torran was no more. Beobrand had taken the Pict’s life, as he had also taken that of his brothers. Bassus was glad, but even the joy of being avenged was sour. He had lain quivering and crying, in the grip of the wound-rot fever, while Beobrand had slain the Pict. There was a time when he would have wreaked his own vengeance on his enemies, not needing to rely on his friends to stand for him.

  Perhaps the curse of the witch was also upon him. Bassus shuddered, as if ice had scratched down his spine. There had been no sign of Nelda since she had escaped the siege of Din Eidyn, but could it be that she had woven his wyrd into the warp of her dark magic? He remembered the straw figure they had found dangling by the river, a tiny arrow jutting from its body. And then the searing pain of Torran’s arrow as it had plunged into his arm. The arrow that had taken so much from him.

  Enough of this! Would he sit here, eyes welling with tears as the sun climbed into the cloud-strewn sky? Was he some greybeard who raved and wept over what had been and what he had lost? No. He was Bassus, son of Nechten, and he yet had power. Awkwardly, he slid the seax into its intricately-worked leather scabbard. To dwell on the past would not bring it back. He still had his strength. He may only have one arm, but he could still wield a blade as well as any man. If any Pictish scum thought to attack Ubbanford while its lord was away, they would discover just how dangerous he could be.

  After they had broken their fast he would gather the men and lead them in weapons practice. They must be prepared for anything. Bassus looked down at the silver sheen of the broad water of the Tuidi. The dense forest of the northern bank shadowed the placid waters. Did new enemies lurk there? Let them come. He would lead the men to meet any that sought to attack them. With cold iron and stout boards of linden they would defend this land.