Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  From within the hall, came the wailing cry of Octa. Awake at last. Bassus pushed himself to his feet, stretching. From the valley below the hall came the distant sounds of axe on wood. Squaring his shoulders, he followed the flight of a huge heron with his gaze. The bird languidly flapped its way along the river’s still water until it was lost from sight in the shade of the trees.

  Octa’s cries grew louder. Bassus smiled. He spied the thralls on the path, labouring up the hill with their burden of water.

  “Come on!” he bellowed to them. “There is much to do and the day is already old.”

  They heard his call and he grunted to himself as they picked up their pace.

  Turning, he entered the hall. Octa’s screams had lessened now, and he could make out the cooing voice of Reaghan, soothing the child. Bassus smiled. No time now for worry and self-pity about the past. There was yet much living to do.

  Chapter 12

  Beobrand took a firm hold on the thick bear pelt that covered the bed and tugged. The fur was lush and heavy, but it slid away easily from the naked bodies that had nestled beneath its warmth until a moment before.

  King Ecgric, flailing at the suddenness of his awakening, let out a roar.

  “You sheep-swiving, whoreson!” he shouted. Eyes wide, he cast about him in the gloom to see who would dare assault him thus. Attor and Elmer threw open the shutters, letting the morning sunlight stream into the quarters. A shaft of light illuminated the pale skin of the girl who had been curled at the king’s side. Taking in the situation more quickly than Ecgric, the girl leapt up from the bed with a jiggle of ample breasts, snatched up her dress from the floor, and ran for the partition that led to the hall. The men who were gathered around the bed let her pass unhindered.

  Ecgric paid her no heed.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his voice high and piercing. His gaze roved around the men, flicking from one to the next. Searching for weapons perhaps, but seeing none. He seemed to will himself to breathe deeply. He blinked at the bright light and rubbed at his eyes. Reaching for his breeches that lay piled by the bed, he finally fixed Beobrand with a cold stare.

  “Well? What do you mean by disturbing me in this manner? Are you all drunk?”

  Before Beobrand could answer, there was a commotion outside the door to the partition. Shouts. The hollow boom of a bench overturned. Beobrand turned his attention from the noises outside the royal chamber to the king. If he was to avoid bloodshed, there was not a moment to lose. Perhaps this had not been the best of ideas, but his skin had prickled all the while they had waited for the king to rouse himself from his drink-soaked slumber. He had asked to see the king, but had been told once again he would have to wait. Well, he would not sit by wasting another day while Penda’s host marched ever closer to the great ditch.

  They needed Ecgric to lead his comitatus to battle. They needed Ecgric to act like the king of this land.

  Taking advantage of the drowsiness of the warriors in the hall, Beobrand had seized the opportunity to awaken the king himself. He had whispered a quick command to his gesithas, and, with no warning, they had burst through the door that led to Ecgric’s quarters.

  Wynhelm and his own men remained in the hall. They had been oblivious of Beobrand’s plans and were now unarmed and surrounded by Ecgric’s hearth-warriors. More yelling emanated from the great hall. A voice raised above all others. Wynhelm.

  “Hold! Hold! We are unarmed.”

  Beobrand sprang to Ecgric, who flinched at his approach.

  “Pull on your breeches and come into the hall,” said Beobrand. “Now!”

  Ecgric jutted his jaw out, defiant now at hearing the clamour of his warriors in the hall.

  “Why?”

  “For if you do not, innocent men will die.”

  For a heartbeat, Ecgric held Beobrand’s gaze, then he stood and pulled up his breeches.

  Beobrand grabbed hold of his arm and propelled him to the door. They stepped into the hall. Light from the shutters glimmered from the blades of swords. A thicket of sharp iron. Each weapon wielded by a grim-faced thegn. Wynhelm had his hands raised, palms outward, showing that he carried no weapons. His gesithas were crowded around him. One had lifted a bench and held it out before him like a monstrous club.

  Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat. No, this had not been the best of ideas.

  “Put down your weapons,” he shouted in his battle-voice. Everyone turned to look at him, but none of the weapons were lowered.

  “I mean no harm to your lord king, Ecgric,” he said. “See, he is hale and I have not raised a weapon to him.” He kept a firm grip on the king’s arm, but all could see Ecgric was unharmed.

  “Then what is this madness?” shouted one of Ecgric’s thegns, a thickset man with a neck as stout as the bole of an oak.

  “It is not I that is mad,” answered Beobrand. He raked them all with his gaze, blue eyes glinting. “Is this how a king’s comitatus acts in the face of battle? Feasting and drinking and fucking, while Penda rapes your women, burns your farmsteads and kills the freemen who have answered the call to the fyrd?” Some of the men could not meet his icy stare. “You are thegns,” he continued, “the finest warriors of this land. You must ride to the great ditch and there you must stand against Penda.”

  Oak-neck nodded, lowering his sword slightly.

  “And who are you, to command me or my men?” asked Ecgric, in a haughty tone. Beobrand turned to him, impressed despite himself at the man’s control. Their eyes met.

  “I do not seek to command you, Ecgric King. Or to give orders to your trusted thegns. But I sought out your cousin, Sigeberht, at sunrise. The monks who travelled with us brought him holy gifts from the abbot of Lindisfarena and your ally, the lord king Oswald of Northumbria.”

  Ecgric’s eyes narrowed.

  “You spoke with my cousin? Took him gifts?”

  “We did, lord. Oswald believed him still to rule here. But I found Sigeberht to be touched by the one true God. We prayed together,” Beobrand lied, “and Sigeberht received a sign from the Lord.” A murmur ran through the gathered warriors. More weapons were lowered. One man made the symbol of the rood. Wynhelm caught his eye. He gave the tiniest shake of his head.

  “A sign?”

  “Yes,” Beobrand said. “He heard the voice of God in the call of a crow.” He remembered the croak of the bird at the window of the church.

  “And what did the crow say?” asked Ecgric, doubt colouring his words.

  “It said I should awaken you and your men. We should make haste to defend this land of Christ’s children.”

  “We? You ride with us?”

  “Yes. I, Beobrand, who they call Half-hand, will ride with you. And so will Sigeberht.”

  “My cousin will ride to battle?” Ecgric sounded eager. “But he has forsworn violence.”

  Beobrand ignored the king’s comment, instead raising his voice so that all would hear his words.

  “You know lord Sigeberht to be a strong warrior and a great leader of men. And now he also wields the power of the Christ god. He will ride with us to the great dyke where the fyrd is gathered and there we will make such a stand that Penda will rue the day he set his eyes to the lands of the East Angelfolc.”

  Woden, All-Father, god of wisdom, let them believe the words and hear the truth in what must be done.

  For a heartbeat, there was no reaction. The mood of the hall rested on a seax edge. Beobrand did not breathe.

  A clatter at the far end of the hall broke the silence. The doors to the hall swung inward. More light flooded in. For a moment, Beobrand thought that more warriors had somehow been called to their king’s defence. All would be lost. The Northumbrians, unarmed and outnumbered, would be cut down. The fate of Ecgric’s kingdom would mean nothing to Beobrand then. If only he had ridden north instead of coming here. He could have returned to Ubbanford. To Octa. To Reaghan. No time for regrets now. The die had been cast.

  His eyes adjusted
quickly to the flare of daylight in the hall. A single man strode into the room. Only one man.

  “Lord king,” the newcomer exclaimed loudly, his voice cracking with the effort, “Lord king, Ecgric.” The man scanned the room, clearly confused and trying to make sense of what his eyes beheld. Ecgric shook Beobrand’s grasp from his arm and stepped forward. Once again Beobrand was amazed at his composure. He could understand why Sigeberht had believed him capable of leading his kingdom. Despite holding his breeches up with his left hand, Ecgric managed to portray an air of control and power.

  The king pushed out his broad chest and raised himself to his full height.

  “I am your king,” he said. “What tidings?”

  The messenger peered at the bare-chested man for a moment before seeming to accept the speaker’s identity. He gave a small bow.

  “My lord king,” he said, his words coming in a rush of panicked excitement, “I bring word from Offa. You must ride to his aid with your hall-warriors. There is no time to delay. Penda has arrived with a host of many hundreds.”

  All eyes turned to Ecgric then. The king gave Beobrand a long, appraising look, before raising his voice.

  “To arms, my loyal thegns. God has spoken. Penda is a rat that would steal our harvest. He must be slain. Prepare the horses and don your byrnies. We ride to war.”

  Beobrand let out the breath that had been burning his lungs.

  Part Two

  Fate of Kings

  Chapter 13

  Beobrand shielded his eyes as he gazed at the great warhost Penda had brought to the great ditch. The sun was low in the sky, its red fire glinting from countless burnished helms, byrnies and sharpened spear-tips.

  Sceadugenga snorted and Beobrand patted his neck. They had ridden hard and the day had been long and hot. The stallion’s skin quivered beneath his touch. The horse was tired. Perhaps he was frightened by the great gathering of warriors. The great horse was not one to show fear, but as it tossed its mane and snorted again, Beobrand could not blame the beast.

  “I have never seen such a host,” said Elmer, awe in his voice.

  Dreogan leant from his horse and spat into the mud-churned grass.

  “There are not so many that we cannot kill them,” he said. “The more bastards that stand against us, the more battle-fame for us.”

  Beobrand smiled. The words could well have been spoken by Dreogan’s old lord and Beobrand’s friend, Athelstan. Beobrand wished that the warrior yet lived. He had been worth ten men in a shieldwall.

  “How many are they?” Elmer asked.

  Dreogan shrugged.

  “There must be hundreds,” he said.

  Beobrand could not count the enemy. Their camp began some distance from the great dyke and disappeared into the evening haze. Standards and banners fluttered and flapped in a building wind that came from the east. Beobrand scanned the standards until his gaze settled on two that he recognised. At the centre of the encampment was raised the wolf-pelt banner of Penda, and beside it stood the grisly totem that had been carried by Cadwallon. He had not been certain of what he saw at first, distance and the smoke from the multitude of campfires blurring the image. Then, a gust of the strengthening wind cleared the smoke and shook the wolf tails that hung from the crossbeam of Penda’s standard. The breeze also moved the dark shapes that dangled beneath the other banner. With a shudder, Beobrand recalled what those shapes were. The hair and tattered skin from the heads of the slain. The lighter-coloured shapes at the top of the standard were skulls of the warlord’s most famed enemies. It could not be Cadwallon’s, of course. Cadwallon was dead. Beobrand remembered the eyes staring up from his severed head as the lifeblood of the king of Gwynedd had soaked the earth at Hefenfelth. No, this must be some other chieftain’s. One who had ridden with Cadwallon, no doubt. Suddenly, he was sure whose banner it must be. Gwalchmei ap Gwyar. The Waelisc whoreson who claimed that Sceadugenga was his steed.

  Beobrand patted the horse’s neck again. Perhaps Sceadugenga could smell his old master. Beobrand leant forward and whispered into the stallion’s ear so quietly that none of the others would hear.

  “Do not fear. You are mine now.”

  Sceadugenga whinnied, as if in answer and ceased pawing at the ground.

  Wynhelm urged his horse close to Beobrand.

  “I hope it is as Oswald believes,” the older warrior said, his tone flat and quiet, only meant for Beobrand’s ears. “I hope you are truly blessed by God, for I see no way that we can defeat this horde.”

  Beobrand shot the man a hard look, but did not reply. He too felt the darkness of fear creeping into his heart. There were so many of them. And he had brought the Northumbrians here. And for what? To defend this land so that Coenred and Edmonda would be safe? Was that the true reason or was there something else? Sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair.

  Wynhelm was staring at him, as if expecting a response.

  Beobrand looked again at the amassed enemy force. The East Angelfolc would be outnumbered, but it was a strong position, here on this great earthwork with the deep ditch before them that would slow the enemy terribly.

  “I am not blessed,” he said, sudden anger igniting in him, “but I am a warrior. A thegn of Northumbria. And I would not stand by or ride away leaving friends and allies to face an enemy alone. Is that what you would have had me do? Is it what you would have done, Wynhelm?”

  Wynhelm’s mount shied away from Beobrand’s ire. Wynhelm tugged the reins hard. He gave a shake of his head, his face sombre.

  “No,” he said, “you speak the truth of it. I am older, my blood is not so quick to burn, but you are right. We had to stand with our allies here. Whatever the cost.”

  Beobrand nodded. He was glad Wynhelm had finally spoken.

  The older thegn had been silent for much of the day. They had waited in tense silence as the king and his comitatus had gathered. Beobrand had made an attempt to speak with Wynhelm, but the older man had stalked away, mumbling under his breath. Beobrand knew Wynhelm was furious. He probably believed Beobrand to be rash and to have endangered them all with his actions, but Beobrand had not the energy to talk of it. Perhaps Wynhelm was right, but there was nothing that could be done now, and besides, the outcome was the same. They had ridden to the ditch and brought the best warriors Ecgric could field, along with Sigeberht, who the men of the East Angelfolc seemed to revere as they would a god.

  The erstwhile king still wore his simple white robe and had insisted on riding beneath a cross made of timber. Ecgric’s oak-necked thegn had offered to bear the rood standard for Sigeberht and all that day he had carried it whilst riding beside the holy man. Even now, he still held the wooden cross aloft. The wood glowed in the warm evening sun. Beneath the cross, Sigeberht stared out over the vast host that had descended on his land. He had said nothing, but now made the sign of the cross over himself in the way of the Christ followers and mumbled words in the secret tongue of their priests. There was power in the Christ cross, Beobrand had seen it at Hefenfelth. There Oswald had erected a great rood and had them all kneel and pray to the new God before the battle. A battle they should have lost. They had been victorious that night, routing the Waelisc and slaying their king. Beobrand thought of Wynhelm’s words. He was not blessed, but perhaps Sigeberht could wield the power of the Christ as Oswald had.

  Beobrand looked both left and right at the men they had brought with them from Beodericsworth. The setting sun lit their faces with a ruddy hue as they squinted into the brightness and surveyed the men they would soon face in battle. Their faces were grim, lines of tension etched in their features.

  The warband had left Beodericsworth in good spirits. God had given them a sign, they were led by two men of royal blood, and they had powerful allies from Northumbria at their side. All that long afternoon, as they had cantered along the leaf-dappled path, they had been passed by a constant stream of people who fled from the approaching Mercians and Waelisc. Their faces
were dirt-smeared, eyes empty of warmth and feeling. Some of the refugees shuffled from the path of the armed riders and watched them pass without a word. Others fled into the forest.

  As they had entered one glade, riding suddenly into bright sunlight, they had startled a family at rest. As soon as they had seen the riders, the women had begun screaming, their shrieks unnerving men and horses alike. Snatching up the infants and smaller children they had run as fast as they could into the dense woodland, leaving behind a pitiful collection of belongings strewn about the clearing. They also left an old man who had been too slow to follow them into the cover of the beech and oak trees.

  Reining in, Ecgric had called out to the greybeard.

  “Why does your family flee from their king?”

  Rheumy-eyed, the man had peered at the mounted lord.

  “They are frightened, lord king,” he had said slowly. His voice was as gnarled and thick as the roots of the oaks that loomed around them. “Men on horseback came. My son, Benoic, tried to stop them…” Tears welled in his eyes and he wiped a twisted, wrinkled hand at his face. “He could not. How could one man stop so many? They burnt our farm. The womenfolk were sorely used, lord. Who is to say whether a mounted warrior is friend or foe-man? Brigand or king?”

  “Where do you hail from?” Ecgric had asked.

  The old man waved his hand.

  “To the south and west of here. You would not know of the place. It is too small to be of interest to kings.”

  With that, the man had slowly sat back down in the shade of an elm. He had spoken no more.

  Ecgric had sat astride his fine horse for a time, staring at the wizened man who was surrounded by all his family’s possessions. The king had opened his mouth, as if he planned to speak further, but it was clear to all that the young Ecgric had been dismissed. Eventually, he had closed his mouth and waved the riders on.