Beobrand took a deep breath. Across the moor, the last vestiges of the morning mists had been burnt away by the rising sun. The frost sparkled like jewels scattered upon the ground. As if they had been waiting for him to take his place, the enemy host let out a huge clamour, hammering their spears and blades into shields and roaring their defiance.
"For Oswald," started the chant around him, rising in intensity as ever more of the Northumbrians took up the battle-cry. "For Oswald! For Oswald!"
By Woden and all the gods he hoped that he was as lucky as Oswald believed. For he must lead these men into battle.
And he must be victorious.
Beobrand drew Hrunting from its finely tooled scabbard and held it aloft to catch the bright rays of the rising sun.
"For Oswald!" he screamed, lending his voice to the tumult. Then, slashing the sword down to point at the enemy shieldwall, he ran forward.
And the men of Northumbria, believing they followed their king, surged forward with him.
Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi
In the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ
642
Part One
Gathering Storm
Chapter 1
"No good will come of this," said Acennan, absently patting his mare's neck.
Beobrand did not answer. Acennan was probably right. Good seldom came from a dark column of smoke on the horizon.
He raised his hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the summer sun and peered into the southern distance. Hills rose there. Craggy and windswept in the summer, when a few peasants grazed their sheep and goats on the dales. In winter they were snow-bound and treacherous. They were home to few men, and fewer still would seek to travel into that tortuous terrain. Especially not Northumbrians. For the hills lay within the northern marches of Mercia.
The sky was clear of clouds, which made the smudge of smoke on the horizon stand out as starkly as a splash of blood on snow.
Beobrand looked back at the men who awaited his orders. They numbered two dozen. All mounted men, bedecked in byrnies and carrying black shields, sharp spears and swords. Spear-men. Warriors. Men of Bernicia. Men of his warband. His gesithas.
Beobrand's mount aimed a bite at Acennan's mare. Beobrand had come to refer to the large shaggy brown beast as Bera, for it more resembled a bear than a horse. Beobrand tugged hard at Bera's reins. It lowered its ears and snorted. It was a strong horse, stalwart and scared of nothing, but it was as cantankerous as an old woman. For a moment he thought longingly of his great stallion, Sceadugenga. He had lost the horse when fleeing the battle of the great ditch in East Angeln some six years before. The gods alone knew if the stallion yet lived, but Beobrand still missed the animal. He had never known a horse like Sceadugenga. It had been fearless and strong, but more than that, it had seemed to understand its rider in a way unlike any other mount Beobrand had ridden.
Another horse whinnied. The men sat quietly, but Beobrand knew they were waiting for his decision. They had ridden these frontier lands these past two weeks, as they had for a month every year since the great uprising three years previously. Oswald had been caught unprepared then. The forces of the East Lindesege and Mercians had congregated in the lands of Beda of Lindesege and, without warning they had struck north, attempting to destroy Oswald while he celebrated the Christ feast of Eostremonath at Eoferwic. They had clashed at Tatecastre, only a short distance from the ancient capital of Deira. Beobrand still remembered that cold morning when he had donned the king's battle-helm and led the Northumbrians to victory. He remembered the weight of the helm and the pressure of the fateful oath his king had forced him to swear. He had believed they were doomed, but as Oswald had said, Beobrand had again proven his luck. For they had carried the day.
Ever since that day, Beobrand and the other thegns of Northumbria spent a month each year patrolling the borderlands of Deira and Mercia. They would not be caught unawares a second time.
"Whatever burns, it is not our concern," said Acennan, clearly tired of awaiting a response from Beobrand.
Beobrand grunted. Acennan was right, and yet something prickled at Beobrand's mind. He turned to Acennan.
"The weather has been fine these past weeks, has it not?"
"Aye," Acennan smiled, "better than riding through rain and mud, shivering without a fire at night." They both recalled the misery of the year before when it had rained almost every day of their month of riding along this southern border of Northumbria. All of them had been ill by the end of it, and their clothes had rotted on their backs from being constantly sodden.
"You are not wrong there, my friend," said Beobrand. "But do you remember last year, even when the sky was filled with rain and storms raged in the heavens day after day, even then, we caught some of the Mercian brigands raiding into the lands of our king? Remember, there was that fool we caught when he tried to ride Theomund's stud stallion?"
Attor and Cynan, who were near to Beobrand and Acennan, laughed at the memory.
"We were hardly needed then," said Acennan. "That Mercian boy was made to regret stealing a proud Northumbrian horse!"
More men laughed at the memory. One of the few moments of that rain-drenched month that they were happy to remember. The huge stallion had not been pleased to be ridden out of its warm stable and it had thrown the Mercian youth from its back and then, when the boy sought to drag him away by pulling on the horse's reins, the beast had attacked him. The horse had trotted back to its master's stable. The stallion had reminded him of Sceadugenga. Beobrand and his warband had found the Mercian lad trampled and bleeding in the mud.
The boy had still been dazed when they had hanged him.
"There was not much need of us then, you are right," said Beobrand. "That horse was well able to look after itself, it seems. But even then, with the constant rain, men raided from Mercia, seeking to steal what they could. How many men have we seen raiding this past fortnight?"
"We have seen none," replied Acennan, "but I for one am happy of the peace and the good weather. Perhaps I am getting old."
"Perhaps you are at that," laughed Beobrand. "Eadgyth has tamed you when you are at your hall, of that there is no doubt."
Acennan blushed.
"Well, she has her ways of keeping me quiet."
Beobrand smiled.
"I am sure she does."
Acennan was happier than ever. His land prospered, as did his family. Eadgyth had borne him two fine children and Acennan doted on them all. But there was little that could be described as old or tame about him when he rode with Beobrand's warband.
Beobrand stared at the smear of smoke in the pale sky over the southern hills.
"But does it not strike you as strange that this year, when the weather has been fair, and there has been a full moon and clear skies, we have neither seen nor heard of any bands of Mercians striking into Deira?"
Acennan frowned.
"Perhaps you are right, lord," he said. "But what do you think is the cause of the calm over the land?"
"I do not know, my friend," Beobrand answered, smiling to himself at Acennan's use of the term “lord”. He only called him thus when he was angry or nervous. "But something is not right and south of here I would wager a hall is burning."
He straightened his back and stretched his shoulders and arms in preparation for a hard ride.
"Attor and Cynan, you are to ride ahead as scouts. Gallop back to warn us if you smell a trap. This could be bait for an ambush." Beobrand raised his voice so that all could hear. "The rest of you, prepare to ride. We will seek out what is the cause of this smoke and mayhap we will find what has kept the Mercians so quiet these past weeks."
Cynan and Attor nodded and kicked their steeds into a canter that took them down the slope of the hill and quickly into the shade of a stand of elm.
Acennan frowned at Beobrand, but touched his spurs to his horse's flanks, trotting forward with the remainder of Beobrand's gesithas.
Beobrand understood his frie
nd's concern and he acknowledged that he was probably right in his appraisal of the situation. Surely no good could come of this.
For Beobrand led his warband into Mercia.
Chapter 2
Cynan kicked his mount into a gallop as he saw Beobrand and the warband in the valley below.
"Come on, Attor, our lord is close." He grinned as his horse sped forward, surging further ahead from Attor. He knew that the older Seaxon warrior hated to be beaten at anything and he prided himself on being the best scout amongst Beobrand's gesithas. And it was true that Attor's eyes were keener and his tracking-craft better than any other's.
But Attor was no match for Cynan when it came to riding. The Waelisc warrior laughed with the joy of freedom as he urged his horse ever faster. When Beobrand had first given Cynan a mount, the erstwhile thrall had been ungainly and unsure of himself. It had been all he could do to stay astride the beast at walking pace. None then would have imagined he would have displayed any ability on horseback. But now, six years later, he was without doubt the best rider in Beobrand's warband and arguably one of the finest riders in Northumbria. He had won many a race with thegns from other halls. The men would bet on the contests and Cynan had become something of a legend in the northern kingdom, with few men now daring to ride against him and risk losing their dignity and their gold.
His transformation from thrall to warrior had happened quickly in that first year after Beobrand had accepted his oath. Acennan had trained him in the use of weapons and Cynan had practised hard and long, becoming adept at spear and sword. No longer resigned to eating the scraps given to a thrall in a mean lord's hall, he had grown strong and hale on the rich diet of meat and mead served to the warriors of Ubbanford. The only thing preventing him from winning every race on horseback was his size. He had grown broad of shoulder and back, and he was taller than most men. A year after coming to Bernicia Cynan had flourished into a strong gesith. When he had first ridden into battle, a skirmish with a scruffy band of Picts who had threatened some of Acennan's folk north of the Tuidi, Cynan had found that he was one of that rare breed of men who seemed more alive in the shieldwall than at any other time.
He was thankful to Beobrand for accepting him and giving him his freedom. He loved him for making him a warrior.
The day was warm, the sun yet hot in the sky and Cynan revelled in the cool breeze made from the speed of his ride. His sweat cooled on his forehead.
Before him, Beobrand raised his hand, halting the column of riders.
Cynan flicked a glance over his shoulder. Attor was some way behind him. Cynan galloped on until it seemed he would clatter headlong into the group of warriors on the valley path. He smiled to see that none of them flinched or made to move aside. They knew him and his horse-skill.
At the last possible moment, he pulled on his reins, bringing his steed to a skidding halt. Then, gripping tightly with his thighs, he made the horse rear up, pawing the air with its hooves. Behind him, Attor slowed his mount and then trotted up to Beobrand.
"What news?" snapped Beobrand, ignoring Cynan's antics.
"You were right, lord," said Attor, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "It is a Mercian steading that burns."
Cynan stilled his horse, then nudged it forward.
"There was much slaughter there," he said.
Beobrand frowned.
"Who has done such a thing? Did you see who had attacked the place?"
"We saw," said Attor, "and you too will see them soon, for they ride this way with their spoils."
"How many?" snapped Beobrand.
"Do not fear, lord," said Cynan with a grim smile, "there are fewer of them than us, and besides, they are no match for us if it should come to a fight. Which it won't."
Beobrand's face grew dark.
"Speak clearly, man," he said, "Who rides hence?"
Cynan forced his features into a serious scowl. He had grown used to his lord's moods and had learnt it did not do to ignore the signs of an impending storm.
"Lord Fordraed and his gesithas ride some way behind us, lord," Cynan said.
Beobrand's brow furrowed yet further.
"I see," he said. "Then let us rest the horses. We will await him here and he can explain himself to me."
Some of the men dismounted, stretching and stamping, pleased to be out of the saddle for a few moments. A few wandered off the path to piss into the nettles that grew there.
Beobrand swung himself down from Bera and Acennan also dismounted. Cynan remained mounted, feeling equally at home in the saddle as on foot. He watched as Beobrand and Acennan conversed in hushed tones. He could not hear the words, but could imagine Acennan warning their lord to be cautious, and not to allow his temper to get the better of him. It was no secret that Beobrand despised Fordraed. The man was wealthy and influential, one of Oswiu atheling's favourite thegns. But Fordraed had a vicious streak that had angered Beobrand on more than one occasion.
Ever since Cair Chaladain, Beobrand had loathed him.
It was not long before Fordraed and his men rode into view. They came at a canter, reining in their mounts a spear's throw away from Beobrand's warband. Those warriors who were on foot clambered quickly into their saddles.
Beobrand ordered his men to remain where they were and he and Acennan spurred their horses forward. Cynan joined them. Acennan gave him a sidelong look, but Cynan just smiled. Beobrand ignored him, instead fixing his icy gaze on Fordraed, who rode to meet them, flanked by two of his gesithas.
The thegn wore a fine warrior coat of leather. He was about the same age as Beobrand, perhaps a year or two older, but where Beobrand was clearly a warrior, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, Fordraed's belly swelled above his breeches, pushing the leather of his jacket taut. His head was uncovered, his long dark hair brushed back from his face, and his thick moustache framed a tooth-filled grin. He was aglow with excitement and Cynan noticed a smear of something reddish-brown on his cheek. Most likely dried blood.
"Well met, Beobrand of Ubbanford," Fordraed said. "What brings you to Mercia?"
"I might well ask you the same thing, Fordraed. I am tasked with protecting the borderlands until the new moon. You know this. I saw the smoke yonder and thought to investigate."
"Oh, that," Fordraed waved a hand carelessly in the direction he had come from. "Don't worry about that, Beobrand."
"What happened there?"
"There is nothing to tell. Truly," he smiled broadly to his men, who chuckled in return, "there is nobody left to tell any tale anyway."
Beobrand took a deep breath, and Cynan noticed Acennan tensing, as if for a fight. Looking behind Fordraed to where the bulk of his men rode, Cynan could see that some of the warriors had women on their steeds.
"What of those womenfolk?" Cynan asked. "Will they not speak of whence they come and what occurred there?"
Fordraed's eyes flashed with anger.
"Do not address me, Waelisc scum. You should not allow your Waelisc dog to bark so, Beobrand."
Cynan dropped his hand to the hilt of the sword that hung from his belt.
"And you would do well not to allow your tongue to flap like an old man's prick," Cynan said, his voice soft but deadly, like the whisper of a blade being drawn from a scabbard.
Fordraed bristled, but Cynan noted that the man did not offer to fight him, keeping his hands firmly on his reins so as not to start a clash of weapons. Cynan was not only known for his prowess as a horseman.
"I am warning you, Cynan," Fordraed said.
Cynan fixed him with a withering, unblinking gaze, daring the thegn to back up his words with metal. Fordraed didn't make a move.
"Enough of this," snapped Beobrand. "Silence yourself, Cynan." Fordraed grinned. "We are in Mercia and this is no place for us to be fighting each other. But Cynan is right, what were you thinking and what of those women you bring from the hall you have burnt? You will start the bloodfeud with the kin of these Mercians. And you are risking destroying the t
ruce. The king will not thank you for breaking the peace."
"Peace?" Fordraed let out a snort of laughter. "The truce is blown away like that smoke on the wind. We are at war, Beobrand. Those women are thralls. Spoils of war."
Beobrand frowned. Something in Fordraed's words gave him pause. Cynan felt the shift in the air, as if a cloud had rolled before the sun, plunging them into shadow at the mention of war.
"War?" said Beobrand. "Why do you speak thus? The borderlands have been quiet for weeks. There is no sign of war. We have heard nothing. Not even a raiding party stealing a goat."
Fordraed's mouth twisted.
"And did that not strike you as strange?" he asked. "I knew something was afoot, which is why I rode into Mercia. And the king will thank me well enough when I bring him the tidings I now bear to Eoferwic."
"Tidings of war? How can you be so sure?" asked Beobrand.
"First, I know why there have been no raids. There were no men of fighting age back at that hall, just women, children and greybeards. No spear-men. No shields. They are all gathering under Penda's banner. He means to strike north with a great host. He has set his eyes on Northumbria again, and this time he means to see the task to its end."
"But how do you know these things?"
"We asked the people of that hall," Fordraed flicked a hand towards the brooding hills and the smoke.
"They might have lied to you," said Beobrand.
"Oh, they did at first," Fordraed scratched absently at the dried blood on his cheek, his eyes glazing as he thought back to what he had witnessed that afternoon. "I asked one of the old men, but he was a tough old nut and would tell us nothing. Even as we pulled out his entrails, he swore and spat at us. Gods, but the old goat was a true fighter. Must have been formidable in his day." Fordraed spat and grinned at Beobrand. "He reminded me of you."
"And yet you are sure of the tidings of war that you now bring?"
Warrior of Woden Page 2
