Acennan had not been able to contain his mirth.
“For the best warrior in the land, he often seems to leave battle limping or carried.”
“And yet he lives and his enemies no longer walk this middle earth,” replied the boy, as quickly as a whip-crack.
Beobrand had stared at him for a long while, before finally pushing himself to his feet with a grunt at the pain in his thigh. Watching this boy puffing out his chest like a cockerel and hearing the confidence in his tone, Beobrand saw a reflection of himself, heard the echo of his own voice as he had stood before Edwin and Eanfrith.
“Well, if you are to be my oath-sworn man,” he’d said, keeping his expression stern, “I would know your name.”
The boy’s grin had grown even wider.
“I am Cynan.”
And so it was that Cynan swore his oath to Beobrand in a forest glade in Mercia. Acennan had later said to Beobrand that it was madness. The boy was surely fled from Grimbold. Why accept his oath? He knew nothing of war, he would slow them down. All of this was true, but Beobrand liked the lad. And so, it seemed, did Acennan, for he did not protest for long or with much passion.
The very next morning, Beobrand had smiled to see Acennan begin to train Cynan in the correct stances for shield and spear. And each day had been the same. Acennan would train Cynan for a while before they continued their journey north. Cynan was a fast learner, and again Beobrand was reminded of his early days in Bernicia, when Bassus had worked with him in a desperate attempt to give him enough weapon-skill to survive his first battle. With luck, Cynan would have longer than he had been allowed to hone his skill before he was called upon to take up shield and spear for his lord.
Cynan finally caught up to where Acennan and Beobrand waited astride their mounts. He trotted up, jolting and ungainly upon his small horse.
“I do not believe I have ever witnessed a worse rider,” said Acennan. “I am sure you were faster when we made you run.”
Cynan grinned.
“I can’t be good at everything,” he said. “It wouldn’t be fair to everybody else.”
They were approaching the path that led up through the wooded slopes to Ubbanford now. For a moment, Beobrand thought of galloping up the last hills, as he had done many times on Sceadugenga, but his foul-tempered mare would just as likely unseat him if he tried to push it now, after a long day of riding. Besides, he feared its blade-like spine would cause him more injury than the hound in Mercia. Nevertheless, he did kick the beast into a trot. The scent of woodsmoke was in the air. The sound of logs being chopped drifted to them on the breeze. They were so close. Beobrand was suddenly struck by the strength of his desire to be back at Ubbanford. He thought back to Hithe, to Selwyn, Udela, Alwin and Scrydan. Cantware was like a bad dream to him. There was nothing for him there. This was his home now.
They emerged from a stand of birch, out of the dry gloom and into the watery light of the afternoon. Some way ahead he could see a small group of men. The dull sun brushed the head of an axe as it fell. A heartbeat later, the thud of the cut reached him.
There were four of them. Beobrand squinted. Who were they? A chill of dread prickled his neck. He did not recognise any of these men.
“They look like fighters,” Acennan said, his tone low. “But they wear no metal shirts. They have no shields.”
Beobrand scanned the men who had clearly seen them riding towards them. They stepped away from their work and formed a line across the path. The meaning was clear. One of them was a beast of a man, perhaps as tall as Halga. The axe in his hands seemed tiny. Who were these men?
“How is your leg?” Acennan asked. “Do you think the two of us can take them?”
“The three of us,” said Cynan, his words shrill, nervous.
Acennan flashed him a scornful look. Beobrand frowned. His leg was not yet strong. They could probably kill these woodsmen, whoever they were, but he did not wish to see Cynan die in some forest brawl.
“Let us speak with them first,” he said.
Acennan nodded. They rode on.
One of the waiting group raised a horn to his lips and blew three long, piercing blasts. The sound echoed through the trees. Several crows flapped into the slate sky croaking angrily, disturbed by the sudden noise.
Beobrand glanced at Acennan. There could be only one reason to sound a horn. Four men they might be able to defeat; if more came to the aid of these, their chances of victory would be slim.
“If I give the word,” Beobrand whispered, “we flee. Understood?”
Cynan was pale, but nodded without dissent. He had learnt the value of obedience as a thrall it seemed.
Beobrand halted his horse a spear’s throw from the line of men.
One of them, a dark-haired young man with a confident air, took a pace forward and yelled in a clear voice.
“Who are you that ride in these lands?”
Beobrand frowned.
“Can you tell us whose land’s we are travelling through?” he asked.
“These are the lands of our lord, Beobrand.”
“Your lord, eh?” he said, looking askance at Acennan, who shrugged. “And where is this Beobrand?”
“That is none of your concern,” the man shouted back. “Now state your business and your name or turn away from here.”
Beobrand kicked his mare’s flanks, so that it bounded forward with a shake of its head and a snort. He pulled at its reins savagely, causing it to sidestep and prance.
“I will tell you my business and my name,” he said, raking the men with a gaze as cold as the first meltwater of spring. “I have been abroad these many weeks, far to the south. I have stood in the shieldwall with the East Angelfolc against the might of Penda of Mercia and a horde of Waelisc from Gwynedd. I have waded through the guts of my enemies to be here and I would now go to my hall. To warm myself by my hearth. To drink my mead.” He paused, allowing the men time to comprehend his words. “I am Beobrand of Ubbanford, thegn of Bernicia, servant of Oswald, King of Northumbria. Now,” he said, meeting the wide-eyed stare of each man in turn, “who are you?”
Chapter 43
Reaghan watched Beobrand raise another horn of ale, the flame-flicker from the hearth fire lighting his hard, scarred face. His teeth flashed in a wide grin and he shouted something to the gathered gesithas. His words were drowned out by their raucous laughter. Acennan looked to where she sat at the high table and caught her eye. He nodded to her, as if he could hear her thoughts. I have brought him home alive, he seemed to be saying to her. She offered him a small smile, then quickly dropped her gaze.
Emotions buffeted her the way winter storms hammer at a hut, making it creak and shake.
The goddess had finally heard her plea. Her man had returned. She reached for her cup, but found it empty. Rowena, smiling, lifted the jug of mead and refilled it for her. Reaghan nodded her thanks. Perhaps they would never be friends, but so much had changed, who could say? To think that Rowena would sit with her willingly in the new hall would have struck her as impossible only days before. Sometimes, at night, she saw Nelda’s snarling face in the instant of her death. The memory of that afternoon in the sacred glade would never leave her. Rowena had clung to Bassus for a long while, but the warrior had soon turned to what they must do next.
“We must ensure that the witch can cause us no more harm,” he’d said. He had been pale, shaken by Nelda’s words perhaps, or at having struck dead a woman. Or mayhap he had been frightened by how close the cunning woman had come to slaying Rowena.
Bassus had decapitated the body with one mighty hack of his sword, and then he had gone about the grisly task of disposing of the witch’s body. Reaghan shuddered when she recalled how he had chopped off Nelda’s legs, so that she might not rise from death and walk in the night. The sound had reminded Reaghan of when the pigs were butchered at Blotmonath. She had helped Rowena dig a shallow grave in the glade for Nelda’s torso and arms, scratching with sticks in the loam. It had taken a lon
g time and when they had finished they were both slick with sweat and streaked with dirt. Bassus had rolled the head into the sack that had contained Rowena’s seax. He had thrown the sack into the stream, so that the flowing water would carry away any ill magic. The witch’s legs, he dragged into the forest in opposite directions and left them there, for the wolves and foxes. They had returned late in the afternoon to Ubbanford, exhausted and shaken. They had been silent as they’d walked back and none of them had spoken of what had occurred since. But from that day, it had felt as though the cloud of a curse had been lifted from Ubbanford.
The following day, the remnants of the warband who had ridden south with Beobrand had trudged into Ubbanford. They were sombre and sorrowful, but the women and children of the settlement rejoiced at their return. The men did not wish to celebrate with a feast, feeling keenly the loss of their lord, but there had been no refusing the womenfolk, who had slaughtered a sheep and prepared fine ale with a heather gruit.
Attor had told of Ceawlin’s heroic death in the savage steel-storm of the great ditch, while Aethelwulf had wept into his horn of mead for his lost friend. Dreogan and Gram had been subdued, drinking deeply of the ale and mead, but never smiling. Gram limped and had aged years in only a few weeks, but he did offer some hope, when he told of seeing a horseman riding from the battlefield leading another steed that seemed to carry a wounded warrior. He had thought the injured man might have been Beobrand, but he could not be certain. They had clung to that hope all through their long journey northward. They had wondered who might have rescued their lord from the fray, or if perhaps Gram had been mistaken. Or worse, that he had seen true, but their lord had not been injured, but slain.
The first thing Gram had asked when they had walked into Ubbanford had been, “Is our lord Beobrand returned?”
At seeing the response in the faces of the women, children and old folk who had gathered to welcome them, Gram had spat and trudged away, limping down to the river’s edge. Bassus had gone after him later and brought him back to the hall, but there had been no gaiety in the men’s mood, just a resignation that they had failed to protect their hlaford and they were now lordless men. And worse, men who had survived their lord, for such are not respected.
One who had brimmed with delight at the returning men had been Maida. Reaghan suspected that Maida had long given up hope of being reunited with her husband. Her moods had grown sour, her tone terse, and she seemed to find no happiness in her children. But at the sight of Elmer, gingerly stepping towards her, Maida had let out a shriek of pure joy and had flung her arms around his neck, almost knocking him to the ground. He had winced.
“Easy, woman,” he had laughed, “would you finish the job of that bastard Mercian who near split me in twain?” With care, he had prised her arms from his neck. They had heard then how a giant of a man had broken several of Elmer’s ribs with a great axe, leaving him for dead.
On the way northward, the Northumbrians, who included in their number Wynhelm and two of his gesithas, had sheltered in the fens, at the steading of a man named Offa. He had led them from the battle by paths few would know of, and the marauding Mercians and Waelisc had passed them by, either not caring to hunt for treasure in the fens, or having no idea of how to find firm trails through the meres, streams and lakes.
Maida had fussed over her man, tending to his wounds, cleaning and mending his clothes, and serving him the choicest slices of mutton at the feast. All the while with a glowing happiness about her that had given her the look of a young maid. Reaghan had been pleased for her, but she had been unable to enjoy the feast.
Another who had shared Reaghan’s sorrow was Ceawlin’s wife. She was a small woman, quiet and dour like her husband, but she had always seemed strong and determined to Reaghan’s eyes. Sombre and steadfast, like a rock in a storm. Yet when she had seen that Ceawlin had not returned to her, she had sagged as if all her strength had fled. Aethelwulf had tried to console her, recounting her husband’s bravery, but she had shrugged him off and staggered away as one in a dream. Or a nightmare. Reaghan, uncomfortable to be surrounded by so much joy, would have liked her company at the feast, but Ceawlin’s wife did not come. She had wished to be alone with her grief. Reaghan had not begrudged her that. She too would have preferred to have been left to weep for her loss alone.
But now, not five days later, the goddess had responded to the blood sacrifice and sent Beobrand back to her. Reaghan felt as though a weight had been removed from her shoulders. She was lighter, free of the sadness that had clung to her like a sodden cloak, heavy and cold.
And Beobrand had been overjoyed to find that his men had lived through the battle of the ditch. He heard how, after he had disappeared in the confusion of the rout, the Northumbrians had managed to hold together under Wynhelm’s command. Finding Elmer, blood-soaked and staggering across the corpse-strewn ditch, they had formed a small shieldwall, and had hacked and sliced their way from the killing ground. Penda’s victorious warriors had soon left them alone; there were far easier pickings than the snarling, deadly Northumbrian warband once the East Angeln army had fallen apart. It was then that they had fallen in with Offa, who had led them into the sanctuary of the fens.
When Beobrand had seen the warriors in his hall, he had gazed upon them for a long while before smiling broadly. His pale blue eyes had glimmered in the firelight.
“My brave, loyal, gesithas,” he had said, his voice catching in his throat, “I had thought I had lost you all. I had cursed myself for living when you lay slain in the mud of that gods’ forsaken ditch. I berated Acennan here for pulling me from the ground where I would surely have perished. And, as I know you all, I know you too will have been full of sorrow, fearing you had left me for dead. Well, my friends, it seems the gods have had their fun with us these last few weeks, all believing the others slain. But it is our wyrd to stand together again. And I see the ranks of my warband are swelling. I think I have oaths to hear,” he had swept his gaze across Fraomar, Eadgard, Grindan and Bearn, “and I would share meat and drink with these fine men who claim they are my warriors to unsuspecting travellers when they have never met me.” He had laughed then, and the men had laughed with him.
“We will eat and drink tonight,” Beobrand had said. “And tell the tales of how we came to be here, for I would hear those stories. Mayhap we will tell riddles and sing songs. But tomorrow we will be up with the dawn and we will practise with blade and shield.” He had looked then to Bassus, who had grinned and nodded. “For I would see that my warband is the most feared in the whole of Albion. I have drunk too deeply from the bitter cup of defeat and I do not mean to lose a battle again.”
The men had cheered.
Happiness filled the hall like the heat and smoke from the hearth.
Beobrand had sat with them, choosing not to come to the high table. Reaghan sat, content to watch him as he laughed and drank with his men, for a time with little Octa, red-cheeked and beaming, sitting upon his father’s knee. She felt Rowena’s eyes upon her. Judging her perhaps. But she cared not. Beobrand was safe and all was well.
The night drew on. She carried tired Octa to his cot. Other children were taken away to their beds. The men grew drunker and the tales bawdier. Reaghan sipped at her mead and watched. Ever more frequently Beobrand’s eyes turned to her and she felt the thrill of anticipation as their gaze met over the crackling, dancing flames of the hearth. At last, Beobrand pushed himself to his feet and drained his horn of ale. With jeering shouts from his men, he walked purposefully towards her.
She watched his approach, a welcome warmth flooding her body. He reached out a hand to her. She took it, shivering at his touch after so long. He pulled her to her feet.
“I have spent the evening hearing tell of my gesithas’ exploits,” he said, his words slightly blurred by drink. “Now I would hear your tale, Reaghan. Let us go to our chamber and you can tell me of your summer.”
She allowed him to lead her from the main hall. His hand was
large, callused and hot against her skin. She thought of the hot days of the last months. Of the fear. The pain. The ever-present terror he would never return. The sacrifices and Nelda’s savage, bloody death.
They reached the bed chamber, where she had lain alone these past months. He began to fumble at his belt, but she pushed his hands away.
“Let me, lord,” she whispered in the darkness. She undressed him with her small hands. He groaned with pleasure as her fingers caressed his body. With growing eagerness, she pulled off her peplos, letting the dress fall to the rushes on the floor. Her mouth found his in the gloom and they both moaned.
Perhaps she would tell him her tale tomorrow, in the light of day. Now was not the time to speak of those smothering, fear-filled days of summer.
They lay upon the bed, stroking, kissing, panting. And in moments, all thoughts of speaking had fled from her mind.
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The fifth novel in the Bernicia Chronicles, Warrior of Woden, will be released in summer 2018
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Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About Matthew Harffy
About The Bernicia Chronicles
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Historical Note
The idea for this book came while I was researching Blood and Blade. When reading about King Sigeberht of East Anglia (also known later as Saint Sigeberht, following his martyrdom), I discovered the tale of how he renounced warfare and abdicated his throne to be able to focus the rest of his days on prayer and the teachings of Christ. He was largely responsible for bringing Christianity to the East Angles, inviting Bishop Felix to found churches and a school for the education of boys there. This was interesting enough to include in the story, but when I then read in Bede’s ‘History of the English Church and People’ that East Anglia was later attacked by that most successful of pagan warlords of the age, Penda of Mercia, and that Sigeberht refused to fight, but was forced onto the battlefield unarmed and unarmoured to lead his people, I could not resist telling that story. And, as ever, Beobrand is at the thick of it.
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