Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "Yes," Fordraed smirked and Cynan wondered for a moment what it would be like to punch the thegn in the face. "You see, I then asked one of the women."

  Beobrand hesitated.

  "And how do you know she did not lie?" Cynan watched as his lord wrestled with his emotions. Beobrand's knuckles showed white where he clutched his reins in a ferocious grip. "Even if you tortured her," Beobrand said, glowering at Fordraed, "I have known many brave strong women."

  Fordraed guffawed.

  "You think too highly of women, Beobrand. You always have. And yet, I know some might prove stubborn and refuse to answer my questions. So, I did not inflict pain and torment on the wench I questioned." He pointed to one of his men, who held a slender, fair-haired woman on his saddle before him. Her hands were tied, her face soot-streaked. Her eyes looked blank and unseeing. And yet she seemed whole and unhurt.

  "What did you do, you bastard?" Beobrand asked, his voice as cold as a winter frost.

  "I did not torture the woman. She could fetch me a good price. She is not ugly. No," Fordraed paused, as if savouring the moment. He rubbed again at the blood on his face and then examined his fingernails. "No, I did not hurt her. I merely threatened her child. That always does the trick."

  Cynan thought then that Beobrand would launch himself at the plump, sneering lord. But instead Beobrand took in a long calming breath before replying. When he did so, his words were as sharp and brittle as shattered flint.

  "And when she told you what you wanted to hear?"

  "Why, I killed the little Mercian brat, of course. I didn't want to have the whelp growing up plotting my death."

  *

  "The man is an animal," Beobrand spat into the fire and stood suddenly, unable to contain his ire any longer. All that afternoon he had seethed as they rode east and north. Fordraed had said that he would travel to Eoferwic to give the king the news of the coming war, that there was no reason for Beobrand to accompany him. But Beobrand did not trust him. Besides, he wished to hear what the king said when he heard the tidings.

  "Hush, Beobrand," Acennan said, rising from where he had sat beside the fire and joining Beobrand in the darkness. In the distance they could see the shadowy shapes of the sentries Beobrand had ordered to stand watch, despite Fordraed's insistence that they were safe, that this was his land. Acennan placed a hand upon Beobrand's shoulder. "The man's a brute," he said, "of that there is no doubt. But we have known that for years. Ever since Cair Chaladain."

  A raucous peal of laughter came from one of the other fires. Fordraed's loud voice carried on the cool night air, though his words were indistinct.

  More laughter.

  Beobrand did not wish to think of Cair Chaladain. But Fordraed's harsh voice, his men's laughter and the smell of woodsmoke on the wind brought the memories of that dark day rushing into his mind like the tide flooding the sands at the island of Lindisfarena. He closed his eyes and tried to think of something else, but the nightmare of that autumn day in the land of the Picts would not relinquish its grip on him that easily. He would never forget Cair Chaladain, even if he lived for a hundred summers. He had seen much battle in his score and six years. Faced death and the screaming hatred of throngs of foe-men in numerous skirmishes and battles. But the horror of Cair Chaladain had stuck with him like no other.

  The shieldwall had been terrible. The enemy had fought with savage ferocity and many were the good men that had fallen on that drizzle-washed day. The shieldwall had pressed forward, stepping over the dead and dying, trampling bodies into the mire. Aethelwulf had been gutted by a terrible swing of a Pictish axe. It had not been till long after the fighting had finished that they had found him. Beobrand could still see in his mind's eye the ashen grey pallor of Aethelwulf's face. His gore-slick hands had been locked over his belly, trying in vain to hold in his gut rope, and to keep death from claiming him. Aethelwulf had died alone, left behind the shieldwall as the Northumbrians had pushed forward. The Northumbrians had taken the field, claiming victory, but as Beobrand and his gesithas had stood looking down at Aethelwulf's stricken form, they had all tasted the bitterness of defeat.

  The shieldwall that day had been bad, but the night that followed had been worse.

  Beobrand opened his eyes, staring out into the gloom. He was accustomed to the darkness now, and he could just make out the afterglow of the sunset over the hills that loomed in the west. To the south, beyond the silhouettes of the guards, there rose a great forest of oak, elm and hazel. They had skirted along its northern edge as the sun had dropped in the sky and now the woodland was utterly black, lacking the light of moon, stars and the last vestiges of sun-glow that lit the heavens.

  Another great guffaw of laughter came from Fordraed's men. Beobrand's head snapped around at the sound and he saw a shower of sparks rise up into the dark sky as one of Fordraed's men threw a log onto the blaze.

  "I can still remember the burning and the screams," said Acennan. "It reminded me of when we burnt Nathair's hall."

  Beobrand nodded. That had been another night of fire and terror and death.

  "But Nathair's kin had taken Reaghan," he said, "and killed Tobrytan.” He remembered the fury he had felt when learning of the old warrior’s murder at the hands of his Pictish neighbours. When he had heard they had carried Reaghan away with them, his rage had been absolute and terrible. “The sons of Nathair brought it on themselves.”

  "And we fought the warriors,” said Acennan. “Not the women."

  Beobrand said nothing. He recalled with a pang the ruined face of the woman who had rushed at him outside Nathair's hall. He had slain her without thinking, and the memory of it always shamed him. It was not right for a warrior to raise his hand to women or children.

  "You tried to stop it that night at Cair Chaladain, Beobrand," Acennan said. "There was nothing more you could have done."

  The night after the battle Fordraed had led the men on a rampage into the settlement of Cair Chaladain. The warriors had been filled with rage and the terrible lust for life that comes of surviving a battle. The darkness had been a welter of blood-letting, flames, torture and rape. If the music of the shieldwall had been the sword-song of battle-play, the tune of that night had been the screams of nightmares.

  "I should have prevented it," Beobrand said, picking at the scabs of old memories that he had never allowed to heal.

  "You held the men back. And you beseeched Oswiu to order the men to retreat from the village."

  When Beobrand had confronted Fordraed, he had scoffed.

  "For one with your battle-fame, you are as soft as a woman," Fordraed had said.

  Beobrand had seen from the gleam in the man's eyes that he would not pull his men back. This was the part of battle that he truly enjoyed. And so Beobrand had gone to Lord Oswiu, atheling of Bernicia and leader of the warhost.

  Beobrand remembered all too well Oswiu's reply.

  "Let the men have their reward for their victory. It is the way of warriors, Beobrand. You should understand that."

  "It may be the way of some, lord," Beobrand had snapped. "But it is not my way, and it will not be the way of my men. And," he had paused before stalking off back to his men, away from the smoke and screams of the village, "I do not think it would be your brother's way."

  Oswiu had bridled at that, an edge entering his tone, as if his voice had drawn a knife.

  "But Oswald is not here, is he? I lead here, and I say let the men have their sport."

  Beobrand had not been able to sleep that night. The flames from the village had lit up the sky and each shriek of torment had been like a seax in his heart. At first light, he had ordered his warband to ready themselves and they had left that place of death. Some of the men had been disappointed, he knew, to leave before Oswiu could bestow treasure on the thegns who had heeded his call to face the Picts at Cair Chaladain, but Beobrand had not been able to face Fordraed and the others in the light of day. He had been concerned that he would not have been able to contain
his anger, if he had seen what the Northumbrians had left of the Pictish village. And so he had returned to Ubbanford with nothing to show but the corpse of Aethelwulf and bad dreams to last him a lifetime.

  He sighed. He had enough treasure already.

  "I should have prevented it," Beobrand said again, quietly.

  Acennan stood close to him.

  "You tried, and the men love you the more for it."

  Beobrand rubbed at the tension in his neck.

  "War should be between warriors," he said. "Women should be no part of it."

  As if in answer to his words, the high-pitched screech of a woman's anguish pierced the night.

  Beobrand started at the sound.

  "No," he said, a terrible finality in his tone.

  "Easy, lord," said Acennan. "Fordraed is Oswiu's man."

  Beobrand said nothing. His hand fell to Hrunting's hilt and he strode towards Fordraed's warband's fire.

  He heard Acennan behind him getting the men to their feet. The sound of battle gear being readied was loud in the flame-licked darkness of the camp. He took in a deep breath of the cool night air as he walked towards Fordraed's men. He would have to be careful here, or he would start something that would only be finished with blood spilt. That way lay bloodfeud and death. The girl screamed again and then Fordraed's men laughed.

  Beobrand's anger raged within him now, sudden and bright like oil thrown onto a forge fire. He struggled to keep the beast of his ire in check. He could feel it straining at its chains. He stepped into the firelight. Off to one side half a dozen women huddled, tied and cowering. But none of Fordraed's men paid them any mind. They all looked to where a seventh girl lay on the ground. Her clothes had been ripped, revealing the milky skin of her breasts and belly. Two men held her down and a third was loosening his breeches.

  The madness of battle tore at Beobrand's control. He would not allow this. He could not stand by and see another woman defiled. Not since Cathryn, all those years before in the icy forest. Or Tata, murdered in Engelmynster. Or Sunniva. Reaghan. He could not lie in the darkness listening to the howls of torment of another woman. He may share the blood of Hengist, but he would never be like that twisted killer, who had enjoyed inflicting pain on those weaker than him.

  "Halt!" he bellowed. All of the men turned their gaze from the object of their passions to the tall warrior lord who was suddenly in their midst. The light from the flames glinted from his eyes and the fine pommel of his sword. That sword was known to them all. Beobrand's hand rested upon Hrunting and they all knew that death would be upon them should that blade be drawn. "Leave the woman be," Beobrand said. His tone rang with the authority borne of leading men in battle.

  Nobody moved.

  Behind him, Beobrand's warband were hastily forming a shieldwall. He did not turn to see them, he knew their worth and was certain of their mettle. He bared his teeth.

  "No woman will be hurt here," he snarled.

  Fordraed surged to his feet. His face was flushed, and sweat sheened his forehead. He came towards Beobrand, shouting a torrent of abuse. Beobrand was surprised by the man's rash bravery, but perhaps Fordraed felt sure of the protection afforded him as one of Oswiu's closest thegns. Whether he was brave, believed himself safe, or he was blind to the danger that rolled off Beobrand the way smoke billows from a green log on a hearth, Fordraed rushed at Beobrand.

  "How dare you?" he yelled, his voice cracking. "You have no right!" Spittle flew from his mouth like sparks in the gloom. "These are my men. My lands. And my thralls. We will do with them what—"

  Beobrand punched him in the mouth. Hard. Fordraed fell back, to sit on the grass, dazed and blinking in disbelief.

  A couple of his gesithas leapt to their feet, reaching for their weapons.

  "Hold!" said Beobrand. "No weapon has been unsheathed here. None of us wish for bloodshed this night. There is war coming, and we will need all the hale men we can muster."

  One of Fordraed's men, a burly man with plaited beard, made to pull a huge langseax from its scabbard.

  "Put up your weapon, Heremod," said Beobrand. "If steel is drawn, there will be death before the dawn. Do not doubt that. I know you are a brave man, but do you truly believe that you could best me?" Beobrand let the words hang in the air. Heremod hesitated, clearly weighing up his chances. After a moment, he let his hand fall away from the seax.

  "Why, you son of a whore," said Fordraed, his words slurred like a man who has drunk too much strong mead. He spat to clear his mouth of blood. "I will see you before the king for this," he continued, the incredulity at what had occurred replaced by rage. "You will pay me weregild for striking me. You will—"

  "How much?" Beobrand interrupted Fordraed's tirade.

  Fordraed blinked stupidly. Beobrand towered over him. Fordraed spat again and then heaved himself to his feet.

  "What?" he said, his tone dripping with venom.

  "How much?" Beobrand repeated. He could feel the tension draining from the camp. The beast within him was retreating once more until a worthy adversary stood before him. "How much weregild? For striking you."

  Fordraed's mouth opened and closed, as if he could not find air to breath.

  "No matter," said Beobrand reaching for a solid gold arm-ring he wore. He tugged it down over the bulging muscles of his shield arm. He weighed it in his hand. It was heavy. He threw it at Fordraed. It was not a gentle throw and Fordraed had not expected it. The golden band gleamed for an instant before it struck the portly thegn in the chest. He tried to catch it, but it fell to the earth. He bent and retrieved it as quickly as a heron dipping its beak for fish.

  Fordraed licked his lips and wiped his hand across his face. All there knew that the arm ring was worth many times more than the weregild for a single punch when no weapon had been unsheathed.

  "Very well," Fordraed said at last, grudgingly accepting the payment. He made to place the ring on his own arm, but quickly realised it was too large for his limb. Frowning, he made to turn and walk back to his men.

  "Wait," said Beobrand, halting him. "I think that ring is worth enough to buy me the women too."

  Fordraed spun on his heel, his bluster and anger rekindled.

  "You go too far," he said. "These thralls will fetch me a better price than this bauble."

  "Very well," said Beobrand. "Name your price."

  Fordraed's eyes narrowed.

  "Three pounds of silver."

  There were gasps from some of the watching men.

  Acennan stepped forward into the light of Fordraed's campfire.

  "That is madness," he said. "We could buy twenty thralls for that much."

  Beobrand raised a hand for quiet.

  "Very well," said Beobrand. "Three pounds of silver it is. I will pay you as soon as I am able to fetch treasure from my hall. Do we have a deal?"

  Fordraed swallowed. This was a fortune. He nodded.

  "Yes, we have a deal." He stepped forward, hand outstretched to seal the agreement.

  Beobrand fixed him in a stony glare for a moment, ignoring the proffered hand. How easy it would be to pull his seax from its sheath and stab the fat fool. Or to drag Hrunting from its scabbard and take Fordraed's head from his shoulders. With his men arrayed behind him in a shieldwall, they could storm into Fordraed's warband, slaughtering them all. The idea of it sang to him.

  But Beobrand held his arms rigid at his sides. The moment passed.

  "Acennan," he said at last, turning away from Fordraed, "bring all the women to our campfires and see that they are given food, drink and blankets."

  Acennan nodded.

  Beobrand clenched his fists tightly against the trembling that always came after a confrontation. The knuckles of his right hand stung. He felt the gaze of all those gathered there. Gods, he needed a drink.

  He walked back to his campfire, the shieldwall parting, allowing him to pass.

  *

  "You should have let me haggle," said Acennan, whittling at a stick furiousl
y. The twig snapped and he tossed it into the flames of the campfire. Reaching for another piece of wood, he began shaving slivers of bark from it. "Three pounds of silver! It is madness! Fordraed knows you are rich, that is what it is."

  Beobrand watched the flames dance and begin to consume the broken twig. He loathed how he was so often referred to as rich. It was almost as bad as being thought to be lucky. He did not consider himself a man of good fortune. And yet, despite his annoyance, it was true that he had more treasure than most men. He had won battles and been rewarded for it and now he had three chests filled with all manner of silver, gold and jewels. He supposed that men could consider that to be luck. But like all things, his wealth had grown in the telling. The more men spoke of the treasure he had amassed, the greater that treasure had become until now it was believed his hall at Ubbanford rested on a veritable dragon's hoard.

  The year before, when he had been visiting Lindisfarena to see his friend, Coenred, one of the other monks had asked him if it were true that his hall's pillars were forged from silver and the roof was thatched with gold thread. Beobrand had thought the man had been jesting, but it had soon become clear he was in earnest. Beobrand had laughed and told him his hall was like any other, made simply of stout timber. The monk had nodded as if understanding, but then had surprised Beobrand by offering him a conspiratorial wink. However much Beobrand had denied his hall was made of precious metals, the man had simply tapped his nose and smiled.

  Acennan continued hacking at the wood in his hand.

  "Fordraed knows of your wealth and so seeks to rob you," he said, barely containing his anger at his lord being cheated.

  "It was I, not he, who sought to purchase those women." Beobrand glanced over to where the women now lay by their own fire. He had ordered men to guard them in the night. More for their protection than to prevent them running. "And it was I who struck him."

  Acennan snorted.

  "You've been wanting to do that since Cair Chaladain."

  "You are not wrong there."

  "And," said Acennan, throwing this latest piece of wood into the fire and scooping up another, "what are we to do with seven thralls?"