“I am sorry,” he said again, but the words sounded hollow, meaningless. “I did not mean to hit you.”
She let out a mirthless laugh. “No man ever means to hit a woman.”
Beobrand could see the red welt on her face where he his knuckles had made contact.
“You once said only cowards hit women and children,” she said. “It seems there are many cowards on middle earth.”
He did not know what to say. She spoke true. He was no better than the man he had thought to be his father. He knew now that he shared blood with Hengist, who had been a man to whom the worst savagery came as easily as breathing. Death and misery had followed him wherever he walked, as they now followed Beobrand. It seemed it was his wyrd to become that which he most despised.
The horse’s crying had abated somewhat now. It had ceased struggling against its fate and now lay panting, its great chest heaving and it eyes rolling in fear and agony. Beobrand strode towards the beast, pulling his seax from its tooled leather scabbard. He placed a hand on the shaking horse’s neck, and whispered to it in his soothing voice.
“There now. Easy. Hush.” Its ears twitched at the sound of his voice, the skin quivering at his touch. He stroked the warm neck, feeling the life there, the firm muscles and the pulsing arteries. The animal was calmer now. Beobrand ran his half-hand gently along the neck. He wondered whether Sceadugenga yet lived, or perhaps the stallion had also been injured by a foolhardy rider. Beobrand sighed, drew in a deep breath, and plunged his seax into the horse’s throat.
Hot blood spurted in a great arc, washing over Beobrand’s hands and spreading across the path. The horse made a strange sound, almost like the whimper of a child, and kicked out, once more trying to stand. Beobrand leaned his weight on the beast’s neck and shoulders and soon the strength had ebbed from the animal. He watched as its chest heaved for the last time, and then it was still.
Filled with a great sadness, he pushed himself up.
Udela was helping Scrydan to his feet. The reeve stood shakily, blood dripping bright from his nose and mouth. The tang of slaughter was sharp in the air. A movement from the direction of Selwyn’s house caught Beobrand’s attention. Acennan walked towards them, raising an arm as he saw Beobrand. He was alone.
Beobrand turned to Scrydan.
“You will not be taking me to any moot, Scrydan. We were friends once, and I am sorry it has to end thus.”
Scrydan spat a great gobbet of bloody phlegm into the dust.
Beobrand reached for the silver arm-ring he wore, one of the spoils from the siege of Din Eidyn. Scrydan flinched. Beobrand tugged the silver band free of his arm and proffered it to Udela. It was finely wrought, with cunning carvings like intertwining serpents, or the threads of men’s wyrd. It glimmered in the sun. Udela made no move to take it.
“This is for you, Udela,” Beobrand said, knowing the words and the gesture would never be enough. “For the wrongs I have done you, and as thanks for your kindness to…” He was going to say, ‘my uncle’, but after a hesitation, he said, “Selwyn.”
Udela did not move. Her eyes looked as sad as he felt.
“Take it,” he said, and at last, she accepted the glittering metal ring.
“And know this, Scrydan, son of Scryda. That silver is Udela’s and not yours. It is as much hers as her brýdgifu. You have stolen my kin’s land but I hereby renounce it. It is yours. But if I hear you have stolen from Udela, or raised a hand against her, Ardith or Selwyn, I will return to this place. And I will kill you. Do you doubt my words?”
Scrydan glared at him sullenly.
“Do you?” asked Beobrand, an edge of anger creeping back into his tone. He fixed Scrydan with his stare and after a few heartbeats, the reeve shook his head.
“By all the gods,” said Acennan as he sauntered up, “what a terrible mess you have made here.”
Beobrand took in the horse’s corpse where already flies had begun to gather. Scrydan glowered at them from his deep-set eyes. Dark bruises had begun to mottle his cheeks. The swelling would start soon. Lastly, he looked at Udela, who had always been kind to him; had maybe even loved him once. Acennan was right. He had made a terrible mess of everything.
He wiped the blade of his seax on the dead horse’s saddle blanket.
“Yes,” he said to Acennan, “I fear we will not be so welcome here now. It is time for us to leave Hithe and head north.”
Acennan smiled broadly. Beobrand noted that there was a smear of blood on his friend’s chin. Other than that, there was no sign Acennan had been involved in a skirmish.
“At last,” Acennan said, “I would see Eadgyth. We have been apart for too long.”
“Sorry, my friend. But there is something we must do before we return to Bernicia.”
Acennan frowned.
“What?”
Beobrand turned and strode away from Scrydan and Udela without looking back. His head ached and dark thoughts battered his thought-cage. Acennan caught up with him, matching his stride.
“What must we do?” he repeated.
Beobrand did not slow his pace.
“We must kill someone who long since should have been a corpse.”
Part Four
Blood-Price
Chapter 33
“What are you doing?” hissed Acennan, trying to pull Beobrand back as his lord rose to his feet.
They had been watching the hall for three days and they were both short-tempered. They had not brought much in the way of provisions, having left Cantware in a hurry and they could not light a fire for fear of being spotted. And whilst it was summer, the nights were cold. A light drizzle had fallen the night before, chilling them both and making them fear the weapon-rot would soon begin to gnaw at their blades and armour. But it was more than the discomfort that made them irritable. Both Beobrand and Acennan were men of action, not thieves who skulked in the shadows, and although they knew they must employ some guile if they were to succeed in their endeavour, the inactivity did not sit well with either of them.
It seemed Beobrand’s patience had finally snapped.
They were hidden amongst a dense copse of beech. From their vantage point, they could see the hall and its outbuildings, but so far no opportunity had presented itself. They had spotted their quarry once on the first day when he had beaten a thrall mercilessly. The slave, a skinny boy, had fallen to the ground and the man they hunted had kicked and stamped on him until one of the other warriors had pulled him away. The men had returned to the hall, the raucous sound of their laughter drifting to the two watchers in the damp copse. The slave boy had lain still on the earth for a long while and Beobrand had begun to think that perhaps he had been slain. But eventually the boy had struggled to his feet and carefully made his way to the stables. They had not seen him again that day or the next.
“Perhaps he died from his wounds,” Acennan had offered. Such things did happen, as if the body continues to bleed inside after a fight. The beating the boy had taken had been savage, and Beobrand had cringed to watch it. For grown men – warriors – to hit and kick a defenceless boy turned his stomach. It reminded him of the blood that ran in his own veins. The blood of cravens who would torture and kill for pleasure. He had shuddered, watching from the shadow of the trees, gripping Hrunting’s hilt with such strength that his fingers ached. He had wished to rush down the hill and smite the thrall’s tormentor. But Acennan had placed a hand on his shoulder, as if he could hear Beobrand’s thoughts. If they attacked now, so close to the hall, where strong hearth-warriors sat at the benches, they would both be killed. Worse, they might not manage to kill the object of their hate first.
But the thrall had not succumbed to his wounds, for now, as the dawn’s fingers just began to caress the darkness in the sky, they saw him. He carried two heavy buckets. They had watched him for a moment until they were sure where he was heading and then Beobrand had made a decision. At this early time of the day, few people were abroad in the settlement. And fewer still would a
pproach the boy’s destination, which was one of the reasons Beobrand and Acennan had chosen their hiding place.
The boy walked stiffly, holding the buckets as far from his body as possible, lest they splash upon him. They were brimming full of slops and night-soil ready to be tossed into the midden. When the wind shifted, the stench of the place reached them in the copse, making them gag. Thankfully the cool and the drizzle of the previous night had softened the acrid smell somewhat.
Now Beobrand seized the only opportunity that might come to them. He stepped from the gloom beneath the trees just as the boy poured the contents of the first bucket into the stinking pit of refuse. Cursing quietly, Acennan struggled up and followed a few paces behind Beobrand.
The boy did not see them at first. It was yet the time of wolf-light, when men can appear as wraiths and sounds seem louder than they are when heard in the bright light of day. They were still several paces from him when the thrall saw them. His eyes grew wide and his face became as white as curds. He dropped the bucket he held, oblivious now of its offensive contents and whether it might splatter him. He turned, ready to run back to the safety of the hall and its buildings.
“Wait,” said Beobrand in that soothing tone he used on horses and nervous animals. “We mean you no harm.”
He could tell from the boy’s expression he did not believe him. And yet the boy was curious. And brave. For he halted and turned to inspect these men who approached him from the forest’s gloaming. Beobrand tried to imagine what the thrall saw – two killers, scarred, grim-faced, bedecked as for war, stepping menacingly from the cover of the woods. He must have thought they were come to attack his lord’s hall. Beobrand stared into the eyes of the grime-smeared boy for a long while, weighing him up, thinking what his life must be like.
“We do not come with a warband,” Beobrand said. The stench from the midden caught in his throat, threatening to make him retch. “We are not seeking to burn the hall, or to attack the lord here.” The boy stared at him. Beobrand noticed he was poised on the balls of his feet, ready to run at the slightest sign the warriors might give that they meant him ill. The thrall said nothing.
“We seek one man who serves Grimbold.”
“What man?” the boy spoke at last.
“Wybert, son of Alric.”
The slave spat into the midden. He absently raised a hand to his side, to the ribs that must have been cracked when Wybert kicked him while they had watched from the trees.
“I know him,” the boy said. “What do you want with him?”
Beobrand hesitated. He fixed the boy with his pale blue gaze. He hoped he had the measure of this thrall. If he was mistaken, the boy could raise the alarm and all would be lost. Every heartbeat they remained here in the open, the more chance they would be discovered. The sky was lightening. Somewhere down by the huts and the hall, a cockerel crowed loudly.
Beobrand took a steadying breath, immediately regretting it as he tasted the midden-stink anew.
“I mean to slay him. I have sworn the bloodfeud with him.”
The boy spat again. His gaze flicked down to Beobrand’s half-hand.
“You are Beobrand,” he said. It was not a question.
“Yes,” Beobrand replied. He could see no reason to deny it.
“He speaks of you when he’s drunk,” the boy said. “He hates you.”
Beobrand said nothing.
“What do you want from me?” the boy asked. His eyes sparkled then, with a keen intelligence.
“I seek a place where I can face him, sword against sword, shield against shield. I do not bring a warband, so I must separate him from Grimbold’s retinue if I am to have my revenge on him.”
The boy nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment and scratched his head, as if that would help thoughts come to him. He clicked his fingers and grinned. He looked very pleased with himself. Beobrand found himself liking this strange thrall.
“You can help?” he asked.
“What’s in it for me?” asked the boy.
Beobrand had thought of this already. He pulled a seax from his belt. Acennan had taken it from one of Scrydan’s men. It was a fine weapon, sharp-edged with no spots of iron-rot. Its hilt was polished antler and the scabbard was tooled with intricate patterns. It was the weapon of a warrior, not a thrall. Slaves were forbidden to bear arms, but Beobrand noted how the boy’s eyes lit up at the sight of the seax.
“If you give me that blade,” the boy said, “I will see to it that you meet Wybert away from the hall. Somewhere where you may make him pay his debt to you in blood.” Again, his hand touched gently to his side and he winced.
“How?” asked Beobrand, looking up impatiently at the brightening sky.
And the boy told him.
Chapter 34
“Odelyna tells me you have been leaving gifts for the forest spirits these last weeks,” Rowena said, reaching for another honey-cake.
The shift in conversation came unexpectedly and Reaghan blinked. She was still reeling from having Rowena sitting at the high table with her, alongside Edlyn and Bassus. The night was warm and muggy, the doors and shutters of the hall thrown open in an attempt to draw a cooling breeze through the great building. But despite the flutter of a draught now that the sun had set, Reaghan could feel sweat prickling her neck. Rowena unnerved her. The older woman had been silent to her for so long, and before that, she had shown her nothing but spite, so it had been with shock that Reaghan had welcomed her to Beobrand’s hall that evening.
Of course, Rowena’s presence almost certainly had nothing to do with Reaghan, but more to do with her wayward daughter. Since Rowena’s now infamous confrontation with Beircheart, Edlyn had become more brazen in her displays of affection. Rowena had probably decided that coming to the new hall was the only way she could seek to prevent her daughter from spending time alone with the young gesith. Reaghan couldn’t blame her for trying, though she wondered how much a mother could change the course of her daughter’s will when that daughter was already a woman, and a headstrong one at that.
Still, Edlyn had been the perfect daughter all evening, scarcely making eye contact with Beircheart where he sat with the hearth-warriors on the benches. The young woman had sat, straight-backed and serious at her mother’s side, sipping her mead and listening intently to the scop, a young man, by the name of Cædmon, who had never been to Ubbanford before. The mood in the hall was buoyant, for it was not often that a tale-teller would come to their small settlement on the Tuidi. And Cædmon was talented. “As fine-voiced as Leofwine,” Bassus had said. Reaghan had nodded, but had not thought to ask who Leofwine was. She had been too preoccupied with Rowena.
“Well,” Rowena asked, raising her eyebrows inquisitively, “is it so, or does Odelyna lie?”
Reaghan shook her head. Beneath the table, she dug her nails into her palms.
“No, she speaks true,” she said, her voice as meek as if she were still Rowena’s thrall. “I have been leaving tokens and praying for the return of the men.”
Rowena frowned, her face dark for a moment, as if a cloud had passed before the sun. Reaghan cursed silently. To remind the woman of her lost husband and sons was stupid. Rowena would think she did so with the intention of wounding her.
But Rowena assented slowly with a nod of her head.
“It is as it should be. We need the men to return. The harvest will be hard without them.”
Now it was Reaghan’s turn to frown. The harvest was months away.
“Surely the men will return before then,” she said, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice.
“I am sure of it,” said Bassus, his bluff tone blowing away the tension as a strong wind disperses fog. “Beobrand will be back soon. More mead, lady?” He proffered the flask to Rowena, who offered him a bright smile and lifted her cup.
“Thank you, Bassus.”
When he had poured enough for her liking she placed a hand upon his wrist. Reaghan was surprised to see Bassus’ face flush. Afte
r a moment, Rowena lowered her gaze and pulled her hand back.
“What tidings from the south, Cædmon,” Bassus called out. The scop had just finished part of a tale about a nihtgenga who came to a lord’s hall, killing thegns as if they were nothing more than children. The creature was slain in the end by a great warrior, who pulled off its arm and hung it from the beams of the hall. Bassus had grumbled at the tale, often interrupting the bard, who had forged ahead manfully, drawing most of his audience into his tale of stagnant meres, night-walkers and heroes. The scop had paused to drink ale and take a morsel from the board, but his story was not complete.
“Lord,” he said, perhaps seeking to flatter Bassus by elevating his status to that of hlaford of the hall, “I have yet much to tell of the saga of Beowulf.”
But Bassus seemed to have had enough of the tale.
“I know that story,” he said, in a tone that would broach no argument. “I would hear tidings of the lands to the south. Has word come to you of Wessex, Mercia, the lands of the East Angelfolc and Cantware?” Some of the gesithas groaned. They would hear more of the saga Cædmon had been recounting, but a glance at Bassus told them not to push the matter.
Cædmon did not seem flustered to be interrupted. He ran his long fingers through his hair and set down his cup.
“For the great hospitality shown to me here in Ubbanford, I will of course tell you all I know of the southern kingdoms.” He bowed, sweeping his right hand low to brush the rushes in an extravagant gesture. “In fact, I had intended to give you tidings of great import. Tidings that I heard not two days hence from the lips of a sea-travelling trader who had put in at Berewic.”
Men settled down, taking up their drinking horns and cups, leaning forward to hear the words of the scop. Tales of monsters and bawdy riddles were entertaining, but news of the shifting tides of power amongst the kingdoms of Albion could give them an inkling into what their wyrds might hold in store. There had been no campaigning this summer and they had only been required to defend the land from small bands of ruffians, Picts mostly, who stole the odd sheep. The thieves would never stand and fight, instead slipping away into the mountains and forests before the warriors of Bernicia could close with them. Perhaps they could glean from Cædmon whether they would be called to battle soon.
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