With that, he had embraced his friend, then vaulted into the saddle and ridden away from Hithe. He had not looked back.
A slight, silent movement brought his mind back to the present. Beobrand peered down the path. There it was again. A slow movement, a stealthy movement. And then he raised his hand behind the rock, so that Acennan would see. For men were moving slowly through the forest towards them and the time had come to claim the blood-price for Sunniva.
And despite himself, Beobrand felt once more the thrill of death’s approach.
Chapter 36
The day was much cooler than the night had been. Clouds had boiled in the dark morning sky and a heavy rain had fallen, washing away the oppressive heat of the past days. A drizzle yet fell, but here under the dense canopy of the forest, little water reached Reaghan and Rowena as they made their way in silence towards the sacred glade. A strong wind had picked up, filling the often-silent woodland with the rustling murmur and rattle of leaves and branches high above. Reaghan pulled her cloak about her, pausing to allow the older woman to catch up. Rowena nodded an acknowledgement, but did not offer a smile. Reaghan pressed her lips together and turned once more in the direction of the clearing. She could not feel at ease in the presence of her erstwhile mistress. They had spoken briefly when they had set out together, but the conversation had dried and shrivelled quickly. They had little to speak about and neither, it seemed, knew how to bridge the gap between them.
As she turned her back on Rowena, Reaghan felt her muscles and skin twitch, as if they remembered the beatings; the sting of the hazel switch. She knew her body still bore the marks of Rowena’s punishments. No, they would likely never be friends, but she was glad of the change in Rowena that now saw her treat Reaghan with something like respect. Edlyn’s mother had even seemed content when they had met that morning. Reaghan had been surprised by the lightness of her mood that was in stark contrast to the grey turmoil of clouds in the sky and the tidings of battle and death that Cædmon had imparted. Despite all that, Rowena appeared to have found some source of secret pleasure. She walked with a bounce in her stride and Reaghan had caught her smiling quietly to herself.
They each carried a small sack with their offerings for the forest gods. Reaghan had wondered whether she should bring another animal, more blood for the goddess, but in the end she could not bear the thought of a repeat of the terrifying sacrifice when the hen had careened headless across the glade. Instead she had brought a finely-wrought cup. It was a treasure indeed, heavy with gold and gems, taken from Beobrand’s chest that was hidden beneath the floor of the hall. She had worried that he would be angry with her at losing the cup, but then she thought that if he was angry, it would mean he had returned, so she had stuffed the chalice into the sack, pushing aside the thought that she was somehow a thief. She prayed that the spirits would accept her offering and bring Beobrand back to her. She would happily face his ire, if only he would return. She did not know what Rowena brought for her own sacrifice.
A tremor of fear rippled down Reaghan’s back. What if Beobrand was dead? Since Cædmon’s words of the night before, her dread had grown inside her, dark and brooding. The sense of sadness and loss had fallen over Ubbanford, as cold and all-encompassing as the rain. She did not know what would happen should he not return. She was no longer a thrall, but what would happen to her? She had no brýdgifu, there had been no real declaration of what she was to Beobrand. He had freed her from thralldom and she had slept in his bed and shared his board and hall. The men and women of Ubbanford had slowly become accustomed to this new reality, even Rowena it seemed, and Reaghan flicked a gaze at the lady of Ubba’s hall where she laboured along the path behind her, but what if Beobrand were dead? What then?
The wind gusted, making the trees creak and crack. The rustle of the leaves grew louder, as if a warhost whispered words of doom. Reaghan shuddered, suddenly wishing she had made Bassus come with them. It was Rowena who had suggested that Bassus remain in Ubbanford.
“No ill will befall us,” Rowena had said, her voice soft and calm. “We do not need a man there, do we Reaghan? This is work for women.”
Reaghan had felt her face grow hot, despite the cool breeze and the rain. She was so accustomed to obeying the woman that she had merely nodded.
“There,” Rowena had said, with a smile, “it is decided. Bassus, you can take Octa to Maida, and Reaghan and I will go to the glade and return by midday or shortly after.” Reaghan had noticed how Rowena reached out and placed her hand on Bassus’ arm.
The huge warrior had put up a brief struggle, protesting that he should watch over them, but at Rowena’s soothing voice and the soft caress of her fingers on his hand, he had quickly backed down.
Now, with the wind making the trees talk above them and the damp, cool gloom of the forest all around them, Reaghan felt foolish. She should have insisted that Bassus accompany them. There were brigands and bandits in these woods; Picts who hated Beobrand and the Angelfolc of Ubbanford. What would two women be able to do should they stumble across a band of such men? Why had Rowena insisted on going alone?
The wind seemed to hold its breath, a sudden silence falling on the forest. Reaghan shivered. They were close now. Reaghan’s skin crawled as she scurried past the rotting, insect-writhing tree trunk. Were they being watched? She spun around, but the only movement was Rowena. Ubba’s widow was pale-faced, her pace no longer sprightly across the forest loam.
“Do you feel it too?” Reaghan asked, as Rowena drew close.
“Feel what?” Rowena replied. “All I feel is cold and damp. I wish I had worn a thicker cloak.” She offered a thin smile, but there was no warmth in it. Her words sounded hollow. False.
“You feel it, don’t you? The eyes of the forest. We are being watched.”
Rowena cast her gaze around them, peering into shadows beneath the trees.
“Nonsense,” she said, but her words lacked conviction. “Come, girl, let us get to this place and leave our offering. Perhaps we might be back to Ubbanford before the rains fall again in earnest.” She glanced about them again before setting out once more on the overgrown path towards the glade.
Reaghan watched her pass. The hair on her arms and neck bristled. There was somebody out there. Or something. They should not have come alone. She clutched the sack tightly and wondered again whether the sacrifice she brought would be enough for the dark spirits of the forest.
The heavy stillness that had engulfed the forest was pierced by a shrill, cackling cry somewhere up ahead. A bird, surely. As if awoken by the shriek, the wind began to moan through the tree limbs again. Reaghan pulled her cloak close to her body with a trembling hand. To think she often wished to come here alone, with nothing but her thoughts for company. Never before had the woods seemed so full of malice. The twisted shapes of the moss-clad boles seemed to loom towards her.
Rowena was well ahead of her now. Reaghan had thought she had not known the way to the clearing. Another gust of wind shook the trees. The trees were waiting for her, she could hear it in the sibilant susurrus of their leafy voice. Again she heard the shrieking call. Whether bird or spirit, she knew she did not wish to face it alone. She ran after Rowena.
“Wait for me,” she cried out, but her words were pulled from her mouth by the wind so that Rowena did not hear. Terrified now, frightened beyond all reason, Reaghan sprinted forward, her feet slipping in the leaf mould. “Wait,” she panted, “wait.” But still Rowena did not appear to hear her, for she did not turn or pause. And then Rowena was at the opening to the sacred glade. She did not pause, but vanished from Reaghan’s sight for a moment. Panicked at being left alone, Reaghan ran on and followed the older woman into the clearing.
Reaghan skidded to a halt, her terrified mind trying to make sense of what she saw before her.
Amidst the totems and offerings, the ribbons and straw dolls that danced and dangled from the branches of the sacred alder stood not the single figure of Rowena, as Reaghan had expected.
Before Rowena there stood another woman, her white-streaked black hair wind-tossed and flowing about her face as her long dress billowed and flapped around her lithesome body. For a heartbeat, Reaghan was certain that this was the goddess herself, Danu, stepped from the gloom of the forest to listen to the two women who had come to offer her sacrifice. But then, with a stabbing of terror and confusion she realised this was no goddess.
She knew this woman.
The woman turned her face towards Reaghan and grinned. Her face twisted into a mask of beauty and disfigurement, half untouched smooth skin, the other side broken and scarred from some terrible blow, teeth gleaming white from behind split lips.
“Oh, you have done well, Rowena,” Nelda said.
Reaghan flinched as a jackdaw flapped past her and landed upon the cunning woman’s shoulder. The bird glowered at Reaghan with its pallid eye and let out a cry.
Tchack. Tchack.
Nelda reached up and stroked its feathers.
“Yes,” Nelda said, her smile broadening, grotesque and savage, “you have done very well.”
Rowena did not speak, but her hand reached into the sack she carried. Reaghan watched, transfixed like a mouse before a swooping hawk, powerless to move. Rowena brought forth from the sack a large scabbarded seax. A warrior’s blade, as long as Reaghan’s thin forearm.
And, as sudden as lightning from a summer storm, it was clear what offering Rowena had brought to the glade for sacrifice.
The goddess would have blood after all.
Chapter 37
Beobrand smiled grimly. Oswald said he was lucky above all things. Such talk always angered Beobrand. His life had seen so much misery, how could anyone consider him lucky? But now, looking down the sun-dappled path at the men who approached he had to admit it. This was luck indeed.
There were only three of them, and one of the men who walked stealthily along the track was the object of his hatred.
Wybert.
The plan they had laid out with the thrall back at the midden had been simple. So simple in fact that both he and Acennan had fretted. Would it work? Would Wybert take the bait that the thrall would set before him? And would he come with few enough men that Beobrand and Acennan would be able to defeat them?
There were many things that might have gone wrong. The boy could have betrayed them, or perhaps he might fail to entice Wybert with his tales of a great boar in these parts. But for once, it seemed the gods smiled on Beobrand. His wyrd was to kill Wybert here. For Acennan and he could defeat three men. Especially as they would take them by surprise.
A light breeze sighed in the treetops. It was a soothing sound, but Beobrand’s blood thrilled in his veins. He heard its rush in his ears. He had awaited this moment for so long. Now he must only wait a few more heartbeats until the men were at the place Acennan and he had decided upon. He took a calming breath, reaching his hand to grip Hrunting’s hilt. Soon the great blade, his brother’s sword, would once more drink the blood of an enemy. Beobrand felt his lips peel back from his teeth in a feral grin. A small voice within him whispered that he was no different from his half-brother. He too revelled in maiming and killing. He pushed the dark thought away. He was not like Hengist. Wybert deserved to die. It was justice for what he had done.
Beobrand cautiously peered around the rock, hoping that the sun would not glint from his helm. The men were almost at the designated spot for the ambush. They each carried a stout boar spear, with a forged crossbar to prevent an injured beast doing that which Ceawlin had done at the battle of the great ditch. For such was the bravery and strength of boars that they were known to push themselves down a spear haft and gore a careless hunter; killing their killer whilst taking their dying breath.
They were walking slowly, cautiously, placing each foot down carefully to avoid making a sound in the forest mould. They must believe there to be a boar nearby. None of the men were armoured, but they did carry shields upon their backs. They advanced. A few more steps and they would be ready for the trap to be sprung.
Beobrand closed his eyes and drew a long breath of the rich woodland air into his lungs.
This is for you, Sunniva.
Beobrand stepped onto the path and dragged Hrunting from its scabbard.
The men, alert to the hunt, saw him instantly and halted.
For a moment, all was silent save for the breath of the wind through the trees. The three men looked about them for sign of others around Beobrand, but, seeing none, they stared up the path at him. He was arrayed in all his battle gear. He knew what they saw before them. A great warrior, tall and broad in heavy byrnie and helm. His linden shield was strapped to his left arm, the splints of metal and rings on his right arm caught the light that sliced through the forest gloom. And, finally there was the snake-skinned patterned blade of Hrunting. The sword seemed to shine with its own light, such was the quality of the metal.
For such a warrior as this, three unarmoured opponents might not prove too much of a challenge, and yet, Wybert and his companions did not appear nervous. They each shifted their stance slightly, gripping their spears, ready to fight. There was no trace of panic in their eyes. Beobrand quickly appraised the men. They looked competent enough, young, strong and fit. But with no armour, they would stand little chance against Acennan and him.
His gaze finally rested on Wybert. When he had last seen him, they had both been in the tumult of battle, but now he had time to see the man that Wybert had become. Wybert had broadened and had the shoulders and strong hands of a fighter. At his belt hung a fine ring-hilted sword, such as would be gifted by a lord to his trusted gesithas. Their eyes met and Wybert smiled. How confident he had become! Gone was the angry youth filled with petty hatred. This was a man to be reckoned with.
“I have awaited this moment for a long time, Wybert, son of Alric,” said Beobrand. “Too long have you walked this earth. I swore the bloodfeud with you and now I mean to reclaim the blood-price you owe me.”
“Indeed?” said Wybert with a sneer. “And what price would that be? I did not think I needed to pay for your whore, I thought she was a house thrall, free for any man who visited your hall.”
Beobrand felt his face grow hot. The torrent of hatred that flooded him was shocking in its intensity. His fingers clutched tightly about Hrunting’s grip. He would not be able to control his ire for long in the face of Wybert’s jibes and taunts. But he must not listen to Wybert’s words. He must allow Acennan time to get into position. Despite the urge to leap forward and lay about him with Hrunting, Beobrand held himself as still as one of the great oaks that surrounded them.
“Do not speak of her,” Beobrand said. “You will pay for what you did with your life.” Each word fell from his mouth like a shard of ice.
Wybert held out his arms in mock innocence and cast a glance at his friends to either side.
“I had thought we came to hunt a fine Mercian boar and all we find is this Cantware pig.”
One of the men laughed; a harsh, too-quick braying cackle that hinted at his hidden nervousness.
The man was still laughing when Acennan stepped silently from behind a thicket of brambles, took four quick steps and swung the blade of his sword into his shoulder, at the point where it met the neck. The steel-edged iron blade shattered the collarbone and ribs below and carried on into the man’s flesh, ripping and tearing until it came to rest halfway down his chest.
His laughter died at the same moment he did. Wide-eyed, he stared down at the gore-smirched blade that protruded from his body. Then Acennan gave it a savage twist, pulling it free with a sucking sound and a gush of blood, as he jumped back from the two remaining men, out of the range of a spear thrust.
“This is no time for laughing, you horse-turds,” Acennan said, his teeth gleaming white from his beard. “You are going to die here, Wybert, and if your friend stands with you, he too will soon feed the wolves like you and this one here.”
Wybert gawped at the twitching corpse of his companion. The man w
ho had been laughing until a few heartbeats before lay slumped and broken on the mud of the forest floor. His lifeblood pumped silently into the dark earth. After a time, Wybert sucked in a deep breath and drew himself up, squaring his shoulders. His face was pale, but his jaw was set in defiance. His smile had vanished. He raised his spear and pointed the iron tip at Acennan.
“I will kill you for that,” he said, his voice clipped, as if his throat was tight.
Acennan smirked.
“So you mean to fight, do you? Good.”
“Aye, we’ll fight you, and willingly.”
Wybert and his friend crouched into the warrior stance, poised, ready for the death-dealing. Gone was the time for talk.
Beobrand glared at Wybert, allowing all his pain and anger to fill him. Wybert became the focus not only for his vengeance for Sunniva’s defilement, but also for her death, for the loss of the love he had found so fleetingly. And for lost friendships. If not for Wybert, Anhaga, that poor faithful cripple, would yet live. He had died trying to avenge Sunniva, and Beobrand had given Anhaga his oath that he would slay Wybert.
Now was the time to make good his oath.
Beobrand’s head had started to throb. He could feel a presence here in this forest; the eyes of the gods upon him perhaps. Could it be that they watched this woodland path? Acennan had spilt first blood, and the gods would see more.
For a merest moment, Beobrand saw in Wybert’s dark features a semblance of his fair brother, Leofwine, the scop. Leofwine, who had fallen in the battle at Gefrin’s ford. The wrong brother lay dead these past years. He felt a pang at the thought. Leofwine had been his friend, as had his father, Alric. How could those good men have been kin to one such as Wybert?
Then, as Beobrand stepped towards his enemy, Wybert’s shock of black hair reminded him of Hengist. Leofwine could no more choose his brother than could Beobrand. How the gods must be laughing. Beobrand could feel the beast of his rage straining within him. Was it the same beast that had driven Hengist? Did a similar dark animal gnaw at Wybert’s insides? Perhaps they were all the same.
Killer of Kings Page 26
