“What do you mean by that?”
But before Alwin could answer, Andswaru pulled back the partition.
“Come, husband,” she said. “It is late and we must all sleep. The babe will awake when God wills it, whether you are drink-soaked or not. I would have you able to work tomorrow. Now, put aside your cup and come to bed.” Her tone broached no argument and with a raised eyebrow to Beobrand, Alwin stood.
“You are welcome to sleep here,” Andswaru said to Beobrand, her voice clipped and unwelcoming. “There is space enough by the fire.”
Beobrand’s head was full of memories and questions, but he could see there would be no answers this night.
“Thank you, Andswaru, you are kind. I will rest here, and, come the dawn, I will go to my father’s house and seek out my uncle.”
Alwin and Andswaru shared a glance then, but said nothing and soon the dwelling was quiet and still, save for the rasping snores of Alwin’s father.
Beobrand lay gazing into the embers. He breathed deeply and blew gently into the fire. Ripples of red ran over the few pieces of wood that yet smouldered there.
He wondered if Reaghan was looking into the fire back in Ubbanford. Or perhaps Acennan, in Folca’s hall, was even now lying beside the hearth wondering where his lord had gone and if he would return that night.
Beobrand closed his eyes. He longed for the release of sleep. But his mind brimmed, and though his eyes were shut, he saw again the rain-slick buildings of Gipeswic where he had sat all that long afternoon while Felix and Acennan had arranged passage for them to Cantware. His head had ached and he had fleetingly wondered whether his skull had been cracked. All the while he had sat there in the wind-shadow of the hut and looked to the west. He had prayed to Woden All-Father and all the gods that somehow his gesithas would come, that they had escaped the slaughter at the ditch and followed eastward. Beobrand had even offered up a prayer to the Christ god before Acennan had come to lead him down to the vessel they had finally secured through a mixture of the offer of riches and threats.
But it seemed that no gods listened. For none of his men came to Gipeswic.
Acennan had sold their mounts, and once again Beobrand had felt the pang of losing Sceadugenga as sharply as if the stallion had been another of his warriors.
Though he was no sailor and the motion of the Whale Road often made him sick to his stomach, on this occasion he had found the roll of the waves soothing. He recalled now the feeling of the keel juddering over the waves and the spray from the surf as the merchant ship pulled out of the harbour on the evening tide. The memory of the strangely calming movement of the boat pulled him slowly down towards the oblivion of sleep.
He had sat in the stern of the small, crowded craft and stared back to the land they were leaving behind. He had not spoken when Acennan or Coenred had approached him. There had been nothing to say. He had brooded sullenly, his anger doused by his failures and the terrible realisation that he had lost his men. His friends.
The low sun had hazed through the rain, and it had not taken long for the land to be lost in the distance. Just before the land had been cloaked by the rain and distance, a movement on the strand had caught his eye. Peering into the misty distance, Beobrand spied a rider galloping south, following the direction of the boat. The man was astride a huge black horse that carried its rider effortlessly at great speed so that the man’s white cloak billowed behind him with the wind of their passing. As he watched, the rider reined the horse in and it reared, hooves pawing the air.
Beobrand could not be certain, but he thought the white-cloaked rider had raised a hand, as if in salute. Could it have been Gwalchmei ap Gwyar? Was it possible that the Waelisc warrior had done that which he had threatened and taken back the horse he said was his?
The rain had swallowed horse and rider into the gathering dusk and Beobrand had been left pondering what he had seen.
Now, his mind went to that image again and he tried to unpick the truth of it, but before he could, sleep finally came, and with it, blessed peace from earthly worries.
Chapter 27
“Come on, you maggots,” Bassus bellowed. “Put your weight into it! You’re like maids trying to shove kine through a gate.”
The men renewed their pushing and Bassus grunted with the effort to hold them back. Sweat trickled into his eyes and he cursed silently. He had no other hand to wipe the stinging sweat from his face. He gripped the shield in his right hand, leaning his bulk behind it and heaved. It was yet early, the sun barely in the sky, but the day would be hot and he had decided it was time to show the newcomers what it meant to be part of a lord’s retinue.
“Is that the best you can do?” he screamed through teeth that were clenched in a savage grin. He knew he would never stand again in the battle-din, but by the gods it felt good to hold a shield, to be surrounded by spear-brothers. To his left stood Garr, almost as tall as Bassus himself, but willow-thin. To look at him you would think him weak, but he had proven himself in many battles. He may not have the bulk that would help push back a shieldwall, but when the time for blood-letting came, his speed and spear-skill made him a deadly adversary.
“You can do better than that, you turd-eating pig-swivers,” yelled Beircheart from his position to Bassus’ right. Broad-shouldered and long-legged, Beircheart was a natural warrior; strong, yet light of foot. Bassus knew that the younger of the men who had arrived over the past weeks admired the man. Bassus liked him well enough, but Beircheart’s preening and vanity prickled him. He was a good man to have at your side in a fight, Bassus was sure, but Beircheart was as likely to have a comb in his hand as a seax.
The last man in their small shieldwall was Renweard. Like Beircheart, Renweard had been Athelstan’s man before joining Beobrand’s gesithas. The two were close friends, often sharing some joke that only they understood, but they could not have been less alike. Where Beircheart was vain and quick to speak, Renweard was slovenly and rarely offered an opinion. He was stocky with a great black rook’s nest of a beard. Looking at the three men in the line with him, Bassus, was pleased with what he saw. There was iron and determination in them all, as they dug their toes into the grass and leaned into the shields.
Before them, the line of four young men slowly slipped backward.
“Would you give up so easily if we were your lord’s enemies?” Bassus screamed at them over the rim of his shield. “We will fuck your mothers and sisters if you let us pass. Will you let us get to them without a fight?”
A young man glared into Bassus’ eyes over the shields. The boy was called Fraomar. He barely had a beard on his chin, but there was a depth to him that singled him out. In some ways, he reminded Bassus of Beobrand. Fraomar was shorter and his hair was dark, but he had the same intensity in his stare. A glint of steel that spoke of death-dealing.
“No!” Fraomar shouted. “Come on, men. Heave!”
The men with Fraomar pushed with renewed strength. Grunting with the effort, they halted Bassus’ shieldwall.
Bassus hid his smile behind his shield rim. Fraomar showed courage and the others turned to him to make decisions, despite his youth. A natural leader, he had come to Ubbanford a couple of weeks before with nothing to his name but an old spear, an eating knife and the threadbare clothes he wore. He had come before Bassus to offer his service to the lord of Ubbanford. Bassus had been tempted to send the youth away. He had no heregeat, no horse, and no reputation. In fact, Bassus knew nothing of the boy’s past. But when Fraomar had knelt in the great hall, Bassus had recalled Beobrand standing proudly before King Edwin in Bebbanburg. Beobrand had been a farmhand, with no weapons to his name, but Edwin had liked the boy’s mettle and so had allowed him to join his warband. Watching the young man rallying the others now, Bassus was pleased with his decision to allow him to stay.
The three other men with Fraomar were all older, but still young to Bassus’ eyes. Eadgard was thickset, with a brawler’s face. His broad nose was crooked from a break and when
he smiled there were many gaps between his teeth. Eadgard’s arms were gnarled and strong and bore the scars of numerous fights. His older brother was Grindan. Slimmer than Eadgard and he either fought less, or was more skilled, for his face was unmarked, all his teeth were still in his mouth and his arms carried fewer scars. The pair had arrived a few days before Fraomar. They told of having served a lord south of the Wall who had died at Hefenfelth. Each carried his own spear, shield and seax, and Eadgard also had a long-handled axe.
“We wish to serve the mighty Beobrand,” Grindan had said, speaking for them both as was his custom. Tales of Beobrand’s battle-fame and the gifts he had received from King Oswald and the atheling Oswiu had travelled far and Bassus had thought these would not be the last seeking to swear an oath to him.
Bearn was the oldest of the newcomers to Beobrand’s hall. Perhaps five or six years Beobrand’s senior. He was quiet, never speaking unless asked a direct question. A compact man, he rarely seemed to hurry, but was always the fastest in foot races. Bassus wondered how he would fare against Attor, who ran as fast as a wolf.
Bassus looked over at Bearn now. Despite the warmth of the morning, where the others’ faces were all sheened with sweat, Bearn appeared not to have exerted himself. When asked where he came from, Bearn had waved a hand vaguely.
“I have no lord now,” he had said. Of all the men, he was the only one who rode his own horse, and wore a sword at his hip. He was a dangerous man, that was clear, and Bassus would know more of his past. Secrets unnerved him and in Bassus’ experience they always led to trouble. But when pressed, neither Bearn nor Fraomar would speak of whence they had come.
He would ensure Beobrand got the truth from them before countenancing hearing their oaths.
For now, he had told them they could remain in Ubbanford until Beobrand’s return. Strong arms were always needed and he had set all the men to chores around the settlement.
But today they would spend the day playing at war.
The two shieldwalls were unmoving now, every man leaning his weight behind the linden-board and iron boss of his shield.
Bassus’ line shifted slightly, taking a hesitant step back as the unsworn men gave a great heave.
Fraomar seemed to scent victory, his eyes gleaming in the early-morning sunlight.
“We have them now!” he screamed. “Push! Push! Let us show these old men what we can do!”
With a great roar, the four men gave an almighty shove on their shields.
“Now!” shouted Bassus, his voice cutting through the din.
As one, Bassus and the others in his line stepped back and to the side, angling their shields as they did so, allowing the would-be gesithas to surge forward. Fraomar tried to catch his balance as the shield that had been as immovable as a boulder, now slid past. But before he could halt his forward rush, Bassus lifted his shield high in his strong right hand and brought it down on Fraomar’s back. The young man sprawled onto the mud-churned grass.
Similarly, Beircheart sent Eadgard to the earth with an outstretched foot and a well-timed push of his free hand.
Bearn and Grindan both managed to stay on their feet, jumping back from the trap and avoiding the embarrassment of being laid low before Beobrand’s hearth-warriors.
“Old men are we?” laughed Bassus. “At least we do not need to lie down to regain our strength.” Garr, Beircheart and Renweard laughed.
The younger men did not smile.
Eadgard leapt to his feet and lumbered towards Beircheart bellowing with rage. He had discarded his shield but raised his meaty fists to pummel the man who had tricked him into falling in the mud.
Beircheart skipped back, holding his shield before him to ward off the burly man.
“Easy now, Eadgard,” Beircheart said, a broad grin on his face, “we are but playing today. Besides, you are unarmed and I would not wish to hurt you.”
Eadgard seemed not to hear Beircheart, instead with a great scream, he rushed on swinging his great fists into the hide-covered wood of Beircheart’s shield. It was as if he felt no pain. He rained hammer blows down on the board, forcing Beircheart back. Eadgard’s knuckles split, blood splattering the shield and Beircheart’s face.
“Hey,” shouted Beircheart, “enough! I do not wish you harm, but so help me, if you do not back away now, I will spill your guts on the grass.”
He reached a hand to the long seax scabbarded at his belt.
Bassus had watched for a moment, believing the young brawler would come to his senses, but now the morning air was suddenly filled with the menace of bloodshed and death.
“Enough of this!” he shouted, but still Eadgard stormed on.
Beircheart slid his wicked-looking blade from its sheath and crouched behind his shield, ready to pounce when he saw an opening. This was no game now. Eadgard would die here.
There was no time to think and it was clear that words meant nothing to Eadgard. Bassus dropped his shield and leapt at the young man from behind. Eadgard was completely unaware of the huge warrior’s approach and the first inkling he had was when Bassus’ muscular arm wrapped around his throat. Eadgard raged and screamed, trying to claw at the man who had him in his iron-like grip. But Bassus was a giant amongst men and his arm was as strong as any man’s. He clung to Eadgard’s throat, using his weight to bring him down, as one might wrestle a calf to the ground for slaughter.
They fell together to the dew-damp earth and Bassus could feel the fight draining from Eadgard. The young man was gasping like a fish and his face was crimson. Bassus relaxed his grip on the man’s throat, letting him draw in a great shuddering breath.
At that moment, they were both drenched in water that felt as cold as ice-melt. Grindan had fetched a bucket of water from the great barrel by the hall. Eadgard spat and spluttered. Bassus sensed that his madness had passed. Rolling away, he heaved himself up from the ground. Water dripped from his hair and beard. He cuffed the worst of it from his eyes.
Grindan let the bucket fall and crouched beside his brother.
“Eadgard, it is I, Grindan. We are with friends, brother. You need not fight them.”
Eadgard shook his head, as if awakening from a dream. He looked about him, blinking in the bright light.
“Gods, your brother has a temper to rival Tiw’s,” Bassus said, unable to keep a grin from his face. Gods, but he’d missed a good fight. He felt more alive than he had in months.
Grindan rose, ashen-faced.
“Eadgard is a good lad,” he said, his voice full of anguish. Bassus thought Grindan must have been in this situation before, having to speak in his brother’s defence. “There is nobody better in a scrap.” Bassus wondered at that, for what use would an untamed bear be in a shieldwall. He knew what the brothers were thinking, it was clear in the abject sorrow on Eadgard’s scarred face and in Grindan’s slumped shoulders and down-turned gaze. The fear in them was as obvious as Eadgard’s great broken nose. But the brothers were too proud to beg.
“Do not fear, boys,” Bassus said, “I will not send you away.” Grindan looked up, hope in his eyes. Eadgard still looked like a hound that has been caught eating its master’s best meat. “We can use your strength and ire in battle, Eadgard, but we’ll need to make sure you direct that anger of yours at our enemies.” If they could control the lad, he would make a terrifying addition to Beobrand’s warband.
“You have our thanks, Bassus,” said Grindan, face still sombre. “I would ask for your pardon for the cold bath, but I think you can consider that payment for the low cunning trick you played on us with the shieldwall.” His eyes twinkled then, and his mouth twitched into a smile.
Bassus returned the smirk.
“Cunning is a better weapon than a sharp blade,” he replied. “Do not forget that.”
Before Grindan could reply, a shrill voice cut through the calm that had descended on the gathered warriors.
“Beircheart!”
Turning, Bassus saw the Lady Rowena, fine dress pressed agains
t the contours of her body as she strode rapidly up the hill towards them. By Frige, she was a handsome woman, that one. Proud and bitter too. He would not wish to be Beircheart. All the warriors turned to the man, whose face had grown milk-white. Bassus suppressed a snort of laughter. The vain warrior could stand in a shieldwall and fight against the brute Eadgard without losing his smile or ruffling his hair, but in the face of a girl’s angry mother, he was unmanned.
The men parted at Rowena’s approach. They all knew what this was about, and there was no man there who would seek to prevent a mother from defending her daughter’s virtue. She halted before Beircheart, ignoring the others. She placed her hands on her hips, planted her feet and glared at him. Beircheart withered under that stare, looking at his feet, unable to return Rowena’s gaze.
“Beircheart,” she said, voice clipped and cold as shards of ice, “look at me.”
With an effort, he raised his head and their eyes met. He flushed red, but said nothing.
“I will not waste my breath or spit on long words,” she said, eyes blazing. “I know you have been spending time with my daughter, Edlyn.” One of the younger men sniggered. Bassus cast them a warning look, but he was not sure who it was who had laughed. Rowena ignored the sound, her eyes fixed on Beircheart’s, who seemed trapped there. Again, Bassus wondered at how a stern word and look from a woman could render a killer of men such as Beircheart as meek as a scolded child.
“Know this,” she continued, “Edlyn is meant for a better man than you. She will be wed to a thegn, or even an ealdorman, and not some poor house-warrior. Do you understand?”
Beircheart nodded. Bassus almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.
“And know this,” Rowena said, spitting the words at Beircheart now, such was her fury. “If I find you have taken my daughter’s maidenhead, I will seek weregild for the act.” Another suppressed giggle from one of the onlookers. This time Rowena spun to rake the men with her fiery glower.
“And the same goes for any of you men who think they might wish to bed my daughter.” None of them laughed now. “If I find that any of you has touched her, I will come for payment. But I will not come to your lord asking for silver or gold. No, I will come in the night while you are sleeping. Like a nihtgenga I will stalk into the hall in the shadows of the night and I will take that which you value most.” She stared at each man in turn then, letting her words settle in their ears like stones dropped into deep ponds. “I will come in the darkest march of the night, when not even the owls are abroad, and I will take my sharp seax,” she pulled a big knife from where it had hung sheathed at her back. The blade caught the morning sun with a flash. It was a large seax, a man’s killing blade, meant for the shieldwall, for ripping the guts from enemies. For feeding the ravens. It looked huge in Rowena’s small hands. Huge, and sharp and deadly. “I will take my husband’s seax and I will take that which can never be returned, just as a girl’s maidenhead can only be taken once.” The men stared at her now; mouths agape, faces pallid. “I will take the blood-price, for my daughter’s maidenhead. Your manhood.” She mimicked holding something in her left hand and brought the seax across and under her hand in a savage slicing motion.
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