Acennan grabbed Wybert’s bindings and pulled him up. Wybert whimpered around the leather wedged into his mouth. Tears streaked through the blood and grime on his cheeks. Beobrand stepped forward, raising his sword. Wybert’s eyes grew wide with terror. Death was in this vale. They could all sense its presence. A silence fell upon them.
“You will die now,” said Beobrand. Wybert’s eyes were locked on his. Fear rolled off him like the stench from a rotting carcass.
Beobrand lifted Hrunting above Wybert. Its shadow fell upon Alric’s son and again Beobrand was reminded of Wybert’s father and brother, both good men. Both true friends.
“If I kill you now,” Beobrand said, “with no weapon in your hand, what will happen when your spirit departs middle earth? Woden will not take you into his corpse hall. You will be lost. A nithing in this life and in the next.” Wybert shook and moaned, his eyes rolling with his anguish. Beobrand leaned down close to Wybert’s face. “But what if I were to allow you to clasp the hilt of your sword at the time of your death? Would you wish that?”
Wybert’s eyes burnt with a loathing almost as great as his terror. For several heartbeats he scowled at Beobrand, and then, with the smallest of movements, he nodded.
Beobrand picked up Wybert’s sword from the earth with his left hand.
“Very well,” he said, “I will let you hold your blade. But I would hear something from you first.”
“Gods, man,” said Grimbold, “I do not wish to hear more of the worm-tongue’s jabberings.”
Beobrand ignored Grimbold.
“Ungag him,” he said to Acennan. Acennan frowned, but after a moment’s hesitation began fumbling with the belt.
“Scream again, and I will kill you before the sound reaches Lord Grimbold’s ears.”
Acennan removed the belt. Wybert groaned, and spat a great gobbet of bloody spittle into the earth. He stared up at Beobrand, a flicker of defiance in his eye now, at the end.
“All I want from you in exchange for your sword is the name,” said Beobrand, his voice hushed. Gone was the battle-fury. Fled was the fear of being caught here in Mercia. All that remained now was a bitter calm.
The men gathered around that forest path seemed to hold their breaths. The wind ceased its rustling in the leaves, as if the gods themselves listened.
“What name?” asked Wybert. His voice cracked and he spat again.
“The name of the one who offered you riches to betray your oath and,” Beobrand hesitated. It was all he could do not to strike the man dead at the thought of the things he had done. “And,” he continued, “to murder children in the name of my king, Oswald of Northumbria.”
Wybert glowered. Beobrand lifted his sword, showing it to him, reminding him of what was at stake.
“I will tell you,” Wybert said at last.
Beobrand leaned close. Wybert whispered a name. Acennan might have been close enough to hear, but none of the other warriors would have been able to discern the word Wybert uttered. Beobrand let out a long breath. He shoved the hilt of Wybert’s sword into the man’s hand and stood tall once more, wincing at the stabbing pain in his thigh. Without pause he turned Hrunting’s point downwards and instantly plunged the blade into Wybert’s chest, beneath his upturned face. The sword slid down, between bones, piercing organs and slicing veins and arteries. Wybert’s eyes widened with the terrible shock of staring at death. Beobrand pushed the sword deeper and Wybert shuddered. For a moment, Beobrand held the sword still, watching as the light faded from Wybert’s eyes. Wybert’s sword fell from his grasp, and his head lolled back. Beobrand pulled Hrunting free from Wybert’s corpse, which slumped over and lay still atop his fallen blade. Blood welled from the wound and pumped into the mud.
Beobrand took a long deep breath. The air carried the sharp tang of death. He closed his eyes for a moment, searching his feelings. Apart from the aching in his head and the throb of the bite on his leg, he felt nothing but an overwhelming tiredness. What had he expected? He smiled grimly to himself. It was said that revenge was best served cold, but it seemed to him vengeance was never a satisfying dish. But just as a drunkard is drawn to drink, despite knowing it will do him no good, so the call of vengeance was ever loud and Beobrand was powerless to ignore it. He hoped that the spirits of Sunniva and Anhaga at least found some peace from Wybert’s death.
He opened his eyes, turning from Wybert’s still, crumpled form. Acennan stepped close, slapping him on the shoulder.
“It was well done, Beobrand,” he said.
Beobrand nodded his thanks to his friend before addressing Grimbold, who yet stood in silence with his men, respectful of the sombre moment they had witnessed.
“I thank you, Lord Grimbold. I have long sought vengeance. Even if it meant my own death.” He indicated around him. “Surrounded as we are by your men, I fear that has come to pass. But again, I offer you thanks for allowing me to claim the blood-price from one oath-sworn to you.”
Before Grimbold could reply, a groan from one of the fallen drew their attention. It was the red-bearded giant. He moaned twice and then sprang to his feet with a roar. Blinking, he looked about him, dazed and surprised at the mass of men in the forest clearing.
“Easy there, Halga,” Grimbold said. “There is no fighting left to do here.” The huge man glowered at Beobrand and Acennan, taking in the corpses that lay strewn along the path. Grimbold turned to one of his men. “See to Halga’s wounds,” he said.
“Until this moment, I was unsure what to do with you, Beobrand of Ubbanford. But now my way is easier.”
“Lord?”
“I had thought that Halga here was slain. It is not an easy thing to forgive the death of one’s son.”
By all the gods, the red-haired beast was Grimbold’s son!
Grimbold glanced over at where the huge man now sat, leaning against a beech tree whilst one of Grimbold’s gesithas bound his arm. Halga was pale, but he looked full of life yet.
“Now that I see he yet lives, my decision is easier.” He paused, seeming to relish the anticipation of his audience. “You may ride free from this place.”
“Lord?” Beobrand said again, his tone incredulous. Was Grimbold toying with them, as a cat will play with a mouse?
“I am Grimbold, son of Grim, and I take care of those who protect my kin.”
Beobrand was speechless. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. It was true the man’s son yet breathed, but his arm was gravely wounded. To say he had protected him was madness. He would have killed him if his aim had been true. Seeing the bemused look on Beobrand’s face, Grimbold laughed.
“I do not speak of my foolish son. He can take care of himself. I speak of my daughter.”
“Your daughter, lord?” Beobrand had no inkling of who Grimbold spoke of.
“Yes. Word has reached me that you saved her life.”
“I did?” Beobrand felt stupid hearing his own words. He did not even know this man had a daughter.
Grimbold laughed again.
“Yes, she was always a wayward one, but I love her dearly. What father doesn’t love his daughters? Still, she has always been so headstrong. Just like her mother. I couldn’t stop her following that new god, the Christ.”
Beobrand frowned. At last Grimbold’s words sparked recognition in his mind. Could it be?
“Who is your daughter, Lord Grimbold?”
Grimbold beamed, pleased with himself, like a scop at the conclusion of a fine riddle.
“My youngest daughter is named Edmonda.”
Chapter 42
“Gods, but I will be glad to reach Ubbanford,” Beobrand said. “This mount’s back is as sharp as a seax blade.” The horse flattened its ears and snorted as if it understood his words. It was not a bad steed, carrying him all the way from the coast of the Narrow Sea at Hithe to the river Tuidi in Bernicia, but it was not a pleasant creature. On more than one occasion it had taken a bite at him when he had been distracted. He was now wary not to turn his back on the mare.
He missed Sceadugenga. The anger at the stallion’s loss still simmered within him. From time to time he would find his mind turning to the black horse’s fate, the way one might pick at a scab that itched, only to crack the skin and cause more pain and bleeding. Still, it was a less painful thought than when he remembered the men he had lost at the great ditch. That was a scab he would have been best to leave alone altogether he told himself. But of course, he could not. He had forgiven Acennan for his part in dragging him from the battle. He well understood his friend’s reasons and they were sound. But he had not forgiven himself. Perhaps he never would.
Instead he worried at the aching memories, picking and probing them with his mind. And, as with a scab, so this constant scratching of his thoughts would leave its own scar.
The wounds on his body were easier to deal with. After the fight, Grimbold had ordered one of his men to tend to Beobrand. The warrior had been gruff and none too gentle, but he had known his craft. He had cleaned the puncture marks on Beobrand’s thigh, then he had daubed them with thick honey, that he carried in a small clay pot, before binding the leg tightly. Beobrand reached down and pressed his hand against the wounds. There was still pain, but not much now and when he had replaced the bandage three days before there had been no sign or smell of the wound-rot.
His head also felt better. When he grew tired it still ached, but the headaches were ever less frequent and severe.
Beside him, Acennan looked up at the sky. The sun was low, but they were close to Ubbanford now. They would reach their destination well before nightfall. The day was dull with low, leaden clouds and a smirr of drizzle that seemed to hang in the air rather than fall from above.
“It will be good to share a cup of ale with the men,” Acennan said. Seeing Beobrand’s scowl, he continued quickly, “And of course, you will see Octa. And Reaghan.”
Beobrand grunted. He was unsure how he felt at the prospect of seeing either. He had long been far from his hall. Would Octa remember him? The boy must have grown in the months since he had last seen him. The thought of Reaghan often came to him as he lay wrapped in his blanket at night. Yes, he was looking forward to sharing his bed with her once more, but after that? He had freed her. Now he must learn to live with her. He pushed the worries from his mind. Could he never allow himself to be content?
“With your leave,” said Acennan, “I will go on to old Nathair’s hall in the morning. I would see how it fairs. There is much to do if I am to be wed before Blotmonath.” Acennan grinned broadly and Beobrand could not help but return his smile. Happiness was not so elusive for his friend.
Acennan had been in ebullient spirits ever since they had visited Eoferwic. Beobrand had wished to head straight for Ubbanford. He had no desire to see Oswald, or his brother, Oswiu. He had been as tired as he had ever been and the thought of the hustle and bustle of the walled town made him irritable and short-tempered. All he had wanted was to return to his hall and be able to rest and allow his wounds to fully heal. And perhaps even to know peace for a few months. But they had instead gone to the royal hall at Eoferwic. He had owed it to Acennan.
As they had entered the busy hall, grime-smeared and travel-sore from their long journey, Beobrand had a sudden chilling sense of foreboding, as if something terrible was about to occur. He had swallowed the lump in his throat as they had strode towards the hearth fire where the queen and her ladies sat weaving. He was certain that they were going to hear the worst tidings, news of death or sickness. And yet he said nothing of his fears, and nothing untoward came to pass. Eadgyth had welcomed them with a curtsy and the queen had offered them mead. It was not long before Acennan had given the joyful news of Eadgyth’s father’s agreement to their betrothal. Beobrand frowned at the memory of the sudden raucous twittering of the ladies at hearing the tidings. Eadgyth had glowed with happiness and Acennan had beamed with pleasure.
That night, Queen Cyneburg had arranged a celebration feast, and there had been choice cuts of beef accompanied by cunningly decorated loaves and pastries, the like of which Beobrand had never seen before. The queen’s cooks further showed off their skills by serving a thick fish paste which they had sculpted into the form of a great sea creature. As the tray was carried to the high table, the guests had broken into applause and Cyneburg had beamed at the reaction. There were riddles and tales told by a talented young scop called Cædmon. He reminded Beobrand of Leofwine.
Beobrand had been happy for Acennan, and yet he found no joy in the feast. The mead and ale dulled his senses as the night went on, but he had been as an island of rock surrounded by a sea of swirling merriment.
Since Wybert’s death he had found no contentment. Perhaps peace was this hollow emptiness he felt, but he did not believe so. His nights were yet filled with dreams of blood and death, leaving him sweat-drenched and shaking. Wybert’s face now joined those of the others he had killed. For how long would these wraiths plague his slumber?
Although he did not enjoy the feasting, he had been pleased not to have to confront his fear of facing the king or his brother. Oswald and Oswiu were far to the north, meeting with Bridei, the new king of the Picts. Beobrand was glad not to see them. He did not know how he would react when he did, with the knowledge he now held following Wybert’s last words.
Once, on the journey from Mercia, before they had reached Eoferwic, Beobrand had tried to broach the subject with Acennan, but his friend had brushed it away with a sweep of his hand.
“These are the problems of kings and athelings. And lords,” he had said, continuing to whittle a stick he intended to use to skewer a piece of hare meat over their campfire. “I am none of those things, Beobrand. I am but a warrior, nothing more.”
Beobrand had nodded. He had no right to burden his friend with his concerns.
“You may not be a lord, but you will be needing a hall and land if you are to keep your fine lady happy.”
“Aye, I suppose that is true.” Acennan had ceased cutting at his twig for a moment and gazed into the flames, perhaps imagining his meeting with Eadgyth and what her reaction would be to his news.
“I know of a hall that was destroyed by fire,” Beobrand had said. Acennan had glanced over at him, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. Beobrand had grinned at the look on his friend’s face. “I would give you Nathair’s lands to tend. You can build a new hall. I would like to have you as my oath-sworn man and my neighbour.”
“I will accept and gladly, lord. And I will always be your oath-sworn man.”
“And friend too?” Beobrand had said, feeling foolish for asking.
“Of course,” replied Acennan. “Always.”
Beobrand smiled at the memory. He had known the answer before it had been spoken. Acennan had proven his friendship and loyalty time and again.
Looking over now at where the stocky warrior trotted beside him, Beobrand felt a surge of gratitude for Acennan’s friendship. Beobrand trusted few men, but of Acennan he had no doubts. He was not so certain of the third rider in their band. Reining in his saw-backed steed, Beobrand twisted in the saddle to watch as the skinny youth kicked his pony’s flanks in an effort to keep up. The boy was not a good rider, never having learnt the skill prior to Beobrand buying him a mount at Eoferwic. Before that, he had jogged along behind them as they had ridden. Despite riding until the sun was dipping low in the sky, the boy had seemed not to tire and had still helped each night with the usual chores around the camp. Watching him now, bouncing and gangling on his mount like a sack of parsnips, Beobrand wondered whether he should have saved the silver he had parted with for the pony.
Neither Acennan nor Beobrand had expected to ride out of Mercia with their lives, they certainly did not think they would bring a new companion with them in their wake. But as they had prepared to strike camp on the day after Wybert’s death, the boy had stepped from the shadow of the trees.
He was the slave from Grimbold’s hall.
Beobrand had started, noting the fine seax he had given the thrall now
hanging openly at his belt. The boy had come upon them as silent as thought and if he had meant mischief, he would have had the advantage of surprise. For his part Acennan had acted as though he’d expected the youth. But Beobrand could not believe he had heard the boy’s approach any more than he had.
“So,” Acennan had said, tightening his horse’s girth and scarcely glancing at the Waelisc boy, “what would you be wanting?”
“I would travel north with you, lord,” the boy had said, addressing himself to Beobrand.
“I have thralls already. And you are another man’s.” Beobrand had rubbed gently at the bandage on his leg. The dog bites had throbbed. “I am no thief.”
The boy had raised himself to his full height.
“And I am no man’s property. And I am no thrall.”
Acennan had snorted, picking up a bag to tie it behind his saddle.
“Is that right? So you chose to carry shit for Grimbold and to allow Wybert to beat you like a cur?”
The boy bristled, his eyes flashing with hot anger.
“I said I am no thrall and no man’s property. I do not lie.” He took a deep breath and his hand moved absently to his side. His ribs must still have troubled him. “Wybert was my master.” He spat onto the leaf-strewn earth. “Now he is food for the ravens.”
“And just like that, Grimbold freed you?” Beobrand had asked.
The boy’s dirt-smeared face cracked into a wide grin. If he were clean and fattened up with good food, he would be a handsome youth.
“I did not wait to ask.”
Acennan had laughed.
“Well, I can’t say I blame you. So why come with us?”
“I would be a warrior, a hearth-warrior of the great Beobrand.”
Beobrand had raised his eyebrows, giving the youth another look up and down. He was slim, but strong, and clearly quick-witted.
“Indeed? What know you of fighting?”
“I know little, it is true, but,” he had grinned again, “I have a good seax and I would be taught by the best warrior in all of Albion.”
Killer of Kings Page 29
