Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand clenched his fist and swung his arm around. He twisted his wrist, feeling the wrapping and straps grip his forearm. He nodded.

  “I can move it well enough,” he said.

  “Good. I don’t want to be at your side if you cannot move your sword.” Gram grinned, his teeth bright in the glare of the early-morning sun. He wore a helmet similar to Beobrand’s, with cheek guards and a strip of iron to protect the nose.

  Beobrand clapped Gram on the shoulder in thanks and glanced about him. All the men were ready. These were fine men, hale and strong. They were well-armed with blade and shield. They were good, brave gesithas. They had fought in the shieldwall before and proven themselves many times over. His heart leapt with pride.

  “My brave gesithas,” he said, raising his voice enough so that they would all hear him, “Before this day is over there will be war. Do not ask yourselves whether this is your war. It is our war. The enemy of our friend is also our enemy. And so I have brought us here to stand beside our king’s allies and I know you will stand in the wall beside me for you are my oath-sworn men. There are no better men in all of middle earth, and I am honoured to hold your oaths.”

  He looked at each man in turn. Attor’s eyes burnt with the prospect of battle. Beobrand could feel it too. Excitement was burning away the fear of the shieldwall. Dreogan nodded his approval of Beobrand’s words, the soot-darkened lines on his face adding to his grim aspect. Dreogan had given his oath less than a year before, but Beobrand trusted him completely. Ceawlin and Aethelwulf stood close together, their faces mostly hidden under helms and behind thick beards. They appeared to be relaxed, almost slouching, but Beobrand knew they would be formidable when the time came. Lastly came Elmer. The burly warrior’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes glittered. He rocked from side to side, unable to be still. Elmer had bemoaned being left behind at Ubbanford in the past, Beobrand hoped he would not regret having been brought on this journey. But it was too late to change their course now.

  Off to one side, Beobrand saw that Wynhelm’s men were ready. Wynhelm nodded at him. Beobrand turned back to his gesithas.

  “So, my brave warriors,” he said in a clear voice that rang with pride, “are you ready to fight beside me?”

  The small group let out a cheer. Men who were making their way to the earthwork turned to stare. Beobrand ignored them. Soon they would stare at the dead heaped before his warband.

  “Are you ready to soak the earth with the blood of Mercian and Waelisc scum?”

  Again they cheered, this time more loudly. Dreogan raised his fist in the air and shouted the loudest.

  Beobrand nodded to Wynhelm.

  “Come then, let us hear what the lords of the East Angelfolc would say to us.”

  *

  Beobrand was already hot in his battle-harness and the day was hardly begun. The sun was yet low in the sky, casting long shadows before the warriors who stood on the earthwork on the eastern side of the great ditch. The ditch was dark with shadow. Tendrils of mist still clung to the marshy earth at the bottom. Gazing across the dyke to the west, Beobrand could see that Penda’s host was preparing for war. But they would not be ready for some time. To cross the great dyke towards a shieldwall would take great courage, and that would mean time. And ale. Few sober men would wish to be the first to run up that steep embankment towards a forest of spears and a wall of shields. They would have a long wait he feared. The waiting was the worst. His scalp prickled with sweat under his great helm and he longed to remove it. But he would keep it on for a while longer.

  The fyrd-men had all but finished gathering. They stood along the top of the earthwork and also in a great mass of men to the west, looking up at the symbol that Sigeberht had ordered to be raised. A wooden rood, the symbol of the Christ god, stood on the earthwork for all to see. It was not huge like the cross that Oswald had erected at Hefenfelth, but it was visible enough from its raised position on the bank of earth. The sun glinted from iron on its crossbar and Beobrand realised it had been fashioned by strapping together several spears and then driving the base into the earth.

  Beobrand, Wynhelm and their warband had pushed and bullied their way close to the rood, near to where Sigeberht stood. Still wearing the simplest of white robes, he seemed to glow in the warm morning light. He raised his hands and the murmur of voices slowly subsided until all the men were quiet, straining to hear the words from this man who had been their king. Beobrand was reminded of Oswald in Sigeberht’s gesture; in the calm power he commanded without bluster.

  Somewhere off to the south a woodpigeon called into the silence.

  “Today, we stand before a terrible foe,” said Sigeberht, his voice clear and loud. “Penda of Mercia seeks to take what is rightfully ours. Like a plague on the distant kingdom of Ægypte, he has descended on our lands, stealing, slaying and destroying. But like God’s children in Ægypte, we shall be set free. For the Lord is the true King, and if we pray to Him, He will grant us victory this day over the heathen plague.”

  Beobrand glanced at Wynhelm. He knew nothing of this Ægypte. The older man’s brow was furrowed.

  “So kneel,” continued Sigeberht. “Kneel before the rood of the one true King and let us pray to Him for deliverance from the infidel horde.”

  Offa was the first to kneel, followed quickly by his gesithas. Then slowly, uncertainly, all of the men bent their knee. The ground was damp with dew and soaked into Beobrand’s breeches.

  Sigeberht prayed loud and long. And he did it in the sacred tongue of the Christ priests. Beobrand wondered if any there understood the words. He did not, and to judge from the fidgeting, and the whispers that began shortly after the tonsured lord began, none of the men of the fyrd did either.

  “Gods,” he hissed to Gram, “if he continues like this, the men will wish to be killed to rid them of this boredom.”

  It seemed that Ecgric must have come to the same conclusion, for he now stepped close to his cousin and whispered something. Sigeberht frowned, but came to an abrupt halt.

  “Amen,” he said.

  A handful of the warriors replied with the same word. Sigeberht looked perplexed at the lack of response to his prayers. Beobrand wiped the sweat from his brow. Perhaps he had been wrong to bring Sigeberht here. The men loved the man, but his words and actions had done nothing to instil the fyrd with the courage to fight. Maybe Sigeberht truly had the ear of his god. Beobrand hoped so.

  Ecgric now raised his hands to the host of East Angelfolc. He was resplendent in his battle gear. He looked every bit the great warlord. The sun picked out every detail of his fine sword hilt, with its gold and garnet pommel. The intricately-tooled leather of the scabbard shone, as did the finely-wrought links of his byrnie. His fair hair was brushed back from his striking features. The man certainly knew how to play the part of king. Perhaps, thought Beobrand, that was all any man ever did.

  The men of the fyrd, uncomfortable to be kneeling for so long, began to rise to their feet, until at last they all stood in silence, eyes turned to their king. A frown darkened Ecgric’s face for a moment, as if a cloud had flitted before the sun.

  “Men,” he said, raising his voice for all to hear, “countrymen. You have come from all corners of our land, from the fens in the north, the great forests of the south, and the low lands of the coast. For that, I thank you. As you know, I called you here to defend our land and you have answered that call. You are the bravest and the strongest of the warriors of our folk and those arrayed against us should feel fear. For we will not break.”

  He paused, as if expecting a response, but none came.

  “Yestereve, Penda asked me to buy our peace. As if I would part with gold and treasures to be free of him and his rabble of Waelisc and Mercians.”

  A murmur of whispered exclamations ran though the men. They had not known of this offer. Beobrand looked at some of the faces nearest him and saw anger there. Perhaps they thought losing some gold a better prospect than that of spilling their lifeblood int
o the soil.

  “No,” shouted Ecgric, trying to hold the host’s attention, “I told Penda we East Angelfolc would face him with shield, spear and sword. We have God on our side and we would rather shed our blood than to give our land and our riches to him. If he wants our gold, let him try and take it from us by force.”

  Again he paused and again there was no cheer of acclamation. A sinking feeling came over Beobrand. If the spirit of the fyrd could not be fired with the belief they could win, all would be lost before it began. And if they faltered, what then of Coenred and Edmonda? Despite the warmth of the day a chill ran through him, making him shiver. And what of Wybert? The East Angelfolc must hold firm if he was to be able to face him and bring an end of their bloodfeud. More than the safety of the land and those who could not defend themselves against the Mercians, the thought of facing Wybert in battle consumed him.

  Without further thought he pushed forward towards Ecgric. He shouldered his way through Offa’s warband, ignoring the curses and pushing aside men who tried to shove him back. Ecgric’s eyes widened as Beobrand strode towards him.

  “What madness has gripped you?” Ecgric hissed.

  For a heartbeat, Beobrand thought of explaining himself to the king, but just as quickly he knew it would lead to naught but trouble and confusion. Well, if he was to have trouble, best he make good use of it. He turned to the gathered men. The sun was hot on his face.

  “What are you about?” whispered Ecgric with urgency.

  Beobrand ignored him.

  “Many of you know me,” he shouted in the tone he used for battle. Not one of the men there would be able to ignore his words. “I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. Lord of Ubbanford and sworn thegn of King Oswald of Northumbria, who is Bretwalda of Albion.” Sweat trickled from underneath his great helm, stinging his eyes. But he did not wipe at them now. He could show no weakness before these men. “I stand here because I believe we can win. I have brought my men to this place not only to help friends in their time of need, but because I see there is much plunder to be taken from those Mercian whoresons. And what do all men want if not good land and plunder? You have the land already. And now Penda brings you a whole host of warriors wearing metal-knit shirts and fine swords. Think not of them as enemies to be feared. Look at them as men bearing you gifts of armour and weapons.”

  A smattering of laughter from the men.

  “Look at where we stand,” Beobrand continued. “This great ditch is a place of great strength. If we stand firm in the shieldwall at the top of this earthwork, we can hold this place until the end of time. We will rain death down upon our enemies as they seek to bring their gifts to us, and they will fill the ditch with their bounty. All we must do, is to remain steadfast and strong here. We do not need to chase them should they run, for the ditch gives us the greatest protection. Let them come to us. We will give them death in return for the treasure they bring.”

  He paused for breath. The sun was blinding in its brightness. Blinking away the sweat that sheeted down his forehead, he tried to make out the faces of the men looking up at him, but they were blurred and in shadow.

  “What will we give them?” he bellowed.

  “Death!” came the reply from the fyrd.

  “What will we give them?”

  “Death!” they roared.

  Beobrand joined in the cry.

  “Death! Death! Death!” they chanted. The sound washed over him and with each shout, Beobrand pictured finding the bear-head banner and ripping the life from Wybert.

  Chapter 19

  The attack finally came as the sun reached its zenith.

  By mid-morning the men on the earthwork had tired of hurling abuse at the invading force. There had been a brief moment of excitement when one young warrior had thrown a javelin across the great ditch, skewering a long-haired Waelisc man through the throat. The man had fallen over onto his back, clawing at the shaft of the spear, his feet scraping and kicking the ground briefly, as if trying to regain his footing. The defenders had let out a cheer and the jeers had intensified for a time. The Mercians and Waelisc had pulled back from the lip of the ditch and continued drinking and eyeing the East Angelfolc balefully. A few others launched spears at Penda’s host after that, but no more came close to striking an enemy. Eventually Offa had yelled at them to save their weapons for when they could not miss.

  The morning had worn on, and as Beobrand had known would happen, men had begun to shed helmets and, in some cases, even armour. They sat slumped in groups on the raised earthwork, using their shields for shade. Women and boys came up from the camp with water skins, but there was never enough for all the men and by midday the warriors’ tongues were swollen; their mouths dry.

  When the attackers suddenly charged towards the ditch, it took Beobrand a heartbeat to react. The first of the screaming warriors were already hurtling down the western slope when he leapt to his feet. He shoved his helm onto his head, cursing at having removed it. There was no time to tie the cord beneath the cheek guards.

  “Spears! Spears!” he bellowed, pushing his arm through the straps of his shield and grasping the warm iron of the boss-handle.

  With horror, he saw that the enemy had reached the bottom of the ditch. They were slowed by the sodden ground there, but they would be starting up the longer eastern slope in a matter of moments.

  “Spears!” he yelled again, snatching up his own.

  Something hard clanged off his helmet, deafening him. His head was thrown back by the force of the blow and his great helm tumbled off and down the earthwork bank behind him. Beobrand staggered a pace backwards. His ears were ringing and his vision blurred. He shook his head to clear it, unsure what had happened. Dazed and scarcely thinking, he stepped into the gap he had left in the rapidly forming shieldwall. The first of the enemy host were now labouring up the slope beneath him. On the far side of the ditch and some way back from its edge stood a ragged line of men. For an eye-blink he could not focus on what they were at, then in an instant he understood what had hit him.

  “Slingers and archers!” he yelled into the din, though whether any heard him, he knew not. Arrows streaked across the ditch towards the shieldwall and more stones clattered from shields and helms. Beobrand ducked behind his shield, cursing again the loss of his helm. He felt naked without it.

  Off to his left one of Wynhelm’s men let out a scream as an arrow pierced his thigh. To the right an unarmoured fyrd-man tumbled down into the ditch without a sound. Perhaps stunned by a stone, or already dead. The man’s body rolled into the path of the attackers and one stumbled, falling to his knees on the grassy slope.

  All around Beobrand men were launching short throwing-spears down at the Mercians and Waelisc who came in a ragged wall of men, slowly but inexorably up the side of the dyke. Something thunked hard into the linden-board of his shield. Beobrand winced as the blur of an arrow flew a hand’s breadth above his head. Gripping his spear firmly, he ignored the men on the other side of the ditch and their deadly rain of projectiles. Peering under his shield rim, he fixed his gaze on a squat, broad-bellied man who wore no byrnie. The man’s nose was an ugly mess of scars from a previous fight and his eyes were white-rimmed like those of a frightened horse. He struggled to run up the hill, his feet slipping, and with no hand free to help steady him, he came on slowly. The sound of battle seemed to lessen around him as Beobrand focused fully on the oncoming man. The man who would be the first he would kill this day. The ringing in his ears subsided and the calm madness of battle washed through him like the rush of strong mead on an empty stomach.

  He watched as the man came ever closer, wide-eyed and winded, with no strength left to yell his defiance. To the left and right of them spears were thrusting into shields and flesh. Men screamed and the blood-piss-shit stench of battle filled the air. But Beobrand was only vaguely aware. For that moment, his world was reduced to him and the scar-nosed warrior. Beobrand lowered the point of his spear, awaiting the perfect moment to strike. He saw e
asily the moment when the attacker would lash out his own spear at Beobrand’s unarmoured legs, leaving himself open to attack. Beobrand skipped to the side and the spear met only air. At the same instant, he plunged his spear down hard. The thrust was true and found the man’s chest. The steel point pierced flesh and drove deep.

  Scar-nose dropped his spear and shield and his eyes opened even wider until Beobrand thought they might fall from the man’s head. The dying man grasped the haft of Beobrand’s spear, perhaps meaning to pull Beobrand with him into the ditch. For a moment, all his weight hung on the spear-tip and Beobrand feared he would indeed be pulled from the earthwork or have to drop his spear. With a roar of rage, he twisted the spear savagely and the man relinquished his grip and fell away. Dark blood spouted and then he was lost behind the next attacker.

  Beobrand let out a barking laugh.

  “Death!” he screamed and thrust his spear down once more, this time into the face of a beardless boy. The point slammed into the boy’s mouth, smashing teeth, cutting sinews and crushing bone. Another twist of the spear haft and the boy fell in a whimpering heap into the ditch where the wound-sea was already running thick.

  For a moment there was no enemy to slay, though many more were trudging through the quagmire at the lowest point of the ditch. To the left and right the line of defenders was mainly intact, the elevation of their position and the reach of their spears enough to hold off the first wave of attackers. Arrows still flicked across the ditch. Some thudded into the earthen bank below the defenders, and some flew harmlessly overhead. But a few struck home and a handful of the East Angelfolc had retreated back toward the encampment, nursing their wounds. Beobrand saw Wynhelm’s man, arrow still jutting from his thigh, skewer a Waelisc warrior in the gut. The attacker fell back and the injured Northumbrian spat down the slope at him, seemingly unheeding now of the pain in his leg or the blood that soaked his breeches and leg bindings.

  Before the next Mercians and Waelisc could come within spear-reach, Beobrand risked the arrows and stones and glanced over his shield. He quickly scanned the thronged host on the far side of the great ditch. There was Penda’s banner, the grey wolf fur looking almost white against the blue sky. Further off was the grisly Waelisc standard of skulls and scalps. Spears and banners waved above the invading host like a wind-blown forest. But where was the standard he sought?