"Oh." Cyneburg was silent a moment, watching her son struggle with the half-full waterskin. The boy puffed from the effort, but offered his mother a beaming smile.
"See, I am strong, aren't I, mother?"
She returned his smile and nodded.
"I saw you arrived with Lord Fordraed. How does Edlyn do?"
The obnoxious thegn had married the lady Rowena's daughter five years previously, something that had made Rowena inordinately happy and yet seemed to bring her daughter no end of sadness. Beobrand could not imagine Fordraed to be a good husband.
"I very rarely see her. Her mother said she was well, when last I asked after her health." He thought that had been at the Blotmonath feast at the beginning of winter. He cared little for Edlyn and her hateful husband.
For a few heartbeats they walked in uncomfortable silence. Then she directed the conversation in the direction she was truly interested in.
"Have you seen your son?"
He sighed. His feelings towards Octa were confused. He had never been close to the boy, and now, for the last year, his son had been taken yet further from him.
"No," he said at last, "not since Geola." He realised with a start that he was saddened by the fact. He watched Œthelwald walk before them and thought of all the time he had wasted. Octa was seven years old now. All too soon, he would be a man.
Cyneburg said something so quietly that he did not hear the words. Perhaps words of commiseration, but he knew she did not really wish to ask after his son.
They were almost at the hall now. Beobrand stooped to retrieve the waterskin from the red-cheeked boy. He ruffled his hair.
"You can help me anytime, Œthelwald atheling," he said. The boy grinned. "And now, my lady, I must bid you farewell. I would slake my thirst, for the journey has been long and hot."
Without waiting for an answer, he strode up the steps, past the door wards, and into the shade of the great hall of Eoferwic.
*
Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, king of Deira and Bernicia and Bretwalda of all of Albion swept into the hall. Beobrand was gladdened to see him. As with each time they met, Beobrand was amazed that Oswald yet lived. They had all believed he would die after the arrow wound sustained in the battle at Tatecastre against Penda of Mercia and his allies. But the monks had worked tirelessly with their poultices and potions and they had prayed for him night and day. And, after many days where his spirit had been in the balance and the slightest ill breeze could have sent it tumbling into the afterlife, he had begun to recover. And now, here he was, as full of vigour as ever; still filled with energy and ambitions for his kingdom. His long chestnut hair was pulled back from his face and held in place with a silver circlet. Save for a slight pinching around Oswald's eyes, the king seemed to have returned to his former self without a trace of his wound. His brother, Oswiu, walked at his side. The resemblance to his older brother was clear. His hair and eyes were the same hue as Oswald's, but Oswiu was stockier and shorter, with a harder edge to his features. The atheling's gaze lingered on Beobrand for a moment, but he made no show of emotion.
Beobrand too kept his face expressionless. He still bridled at the oath Oswald had forced from him on the battlefield. One day, he might need to give his allegiance to Oswiu. The idea filled him with dismay. Oswiu was a strong man, and a good leader, but Beobrand had never liked the atheling. And he knew that Oswiu despised him. He could well imagine the misery of being oath-sworn to him. All he could do was to hope for a long life for Oswiu's brother.
The men seated at the boards fell quiet, setting down their cups and knives.
"Now, what tidings are these that I must hear," Oswald said.
Fordraed leapt to his feet, eager to be the one who brought the news of war to Oswald. Beobrand pushed himself up more slowly and stepped over the bench. He followed Oswald, Fordraed and Oswiu to the rear of the hall where servants had set plates of food for Oswald and his favoured guests. Derian joined them and nodded to Beobrand.
As they helped themselves to slices of succulent roast venison and baked pike, Fordraed told his tale of missing men and what he had learnt from the women of the Mercian settlement.
"What say you, Lord Beobrand?" asked Oswald.
Beobrand took a swig of ale to wash down the pike he was chewing. Its needle-like bones scratched his throat as he swallowed, reminding him why he preferred red meat to fish.
"I did not hear what the Mercians told Fordraed, but it is true that the frontier lands are strangely quiet. I have never seen them so free of raiding parties."
Oswald tapped his chin with his knuckles.
"What is your opinion?" he asked. "What is Penda planning?"
"I know not, lord king. But I have sent men westward to scout. If the gods smile on us, they will find where the Mercians are amassing."
"So," said Oswald, "you think they will come from the west?" He flicked a look at Oswiu. "What say you, brother?"
Oswiu narrowed his eyes, as though in deep concentration. He looked at Beobrand sourly for a moment before answering.
"I think it is possible. If Penda is readying for war, he might well try to strike northward in the west, towards Rheged and then turn eastward. He has not attempted such a strategy before and our defences are weaker there."
"Could it be that the men of Rheged have thrown in with Penda?"
"I do not think so, brother," responded Oswiu. "My wife's father is a proud and honourable man. I believe Rhoedd mab Rhun's word is good and he is a proud grandson of the great Urien. He would not sully his name by breaking his oaths."
Oswald took a draught of wine from a green glass clawed beaker.
"And you have heard nothing of Penda's plans, Oswiu?"
Oswiu flashed Beobrand a sharp look.
"No," he said, "I still have some men I trust within Mercia, but alas, I have heard nothing. And of course, I have lost some good men."
Beobrand drank more ale and said nothing. He knew that Oswiu was referring to his killing of Wybert, who had confessed to being a spy for Oswiu before Beobrand had slain him. Wybert had not been a good man and Beobrand felt no remorse at having exacted the blood-price from him for Sunniva's defilement.
Oswald drained his glass of wine and held it out for a thrall to refill.
"Thank you for bringing me these tidings, Fordraed. We will assemble the warhost and march to meet Penda."
Fordraed smiled broadly.
"I live to serve," he said.
"Now leave us," Oswald said.
Fordraed scowled, but he had no response and so, after a moment, he stood abruptly, turned on his heel and stalked back to his men.
"So, Beobrand," said Oswald, "what is this that Derian tells me of you striking Fordraed?"
Derian sipped at his horn of mead, but offered Beobrand a wink. It seemed that word travelled fast.
"It was nothing, lord. A simple dispute. I have settled the weregild for the blow I struck."
"Truly?" Oswald sounded surprised. "Could it be that the mighty Beobrand is growing up? Paying a weregild… well, I never thought I'd see the day when you admitted you were in the wrong."
"Oh, I don't think I was wrong," said Beobrand, "but I did not wish to start a feud. Besides, I can afford it."
Oswald laughed.
"Did you hit him hard?"
"Oh yes, he fell down with a bump and sat there like a beached fish, his mouth opening and closing."
Oswald tried to look disapproving, but he could not.
"I can't say I am too surprised. Fordraed does have a way about him that can infuriate one. Isn't that right, Oswiu?"
Oswiu frowned, but said nothing.
"Now, enough of this levity," Oswald said, his expression serious once more. "If what Fordraed says is true, we are soon to be at war, and there is no time to be lost. Penda has had his eyes set on Northumbria ever since the rule of my uncle Edwin, but he shall not take my lands. I sense that this will be the end. Derian, send out riders to call on the fyrd. Have every
thegn and ealdorman bring his spear-men to a gathering place of your choosing. We are to make for the Weatende Stræt in the west and there we will stop Penda once and for all. Oswiu, you will ride with all haste to Rheged, to Rhoedd mab Rhun mab Urien, and you will call upon his oath to lend us his fighting men."
Beobrand watched the sudden change in the king's demeanour with awe. It was easy to forget when he spoke so easily to him, as to an equal, but Oswald was a great man.
Oswald turned his attention back to Beobrand.
"And you, brave Beobrand, I have something for you to do also."
"Lord, I am your man. I will do what needs to be done."
"I know," Oswald said, patting Beobrand's arm. Ever since the battle at Tatecastre, when Beobrand had saved the day by donning Oswald's helm, the king had treated Beobrand with great affection. Not only had he showered him with gifts, but it was as though the king almost looked upon Beobrand as one of his brothers. It embarrassed Beobrand and filled him with pride in equal measure.
He was sure that the king's favour merely antagonised Oswiu further, making him dislike Beobrand more than he already did. Oswiu watched the two men now over the rim of his cup, his eyes deep, his emotions hidden.
"It is time," said Oswald, seemingly oblivious of his brother, "to call in other oaths and favours, for I feel we will need all the aid we can muster if we are to defeat Penda."
"Lord?"
"The time has come, Beobrand, for you to visit your son."
Chapter 5
"Cynan," the voice hissed, "wake up." A hand roughly shook his shoulder and Cynan opened his eyes, groaning. He felt as though he had only just wrapped himself in his cloak by the fire. Surely he had not slept enough to be woken yet. All around him, figures were stirring in the gloom. It was not yet dawn. Cynan sat up, clutching his cloak around his shoulders against the predawn chill. His breath steamed in the air.
"By the gods, Bearn. What is it that cannot wait till dawn?" His head was still clouded with sleep, but they were far into Northumbria. He couldn't imagine they might be under attack. Maybe there were brigands, lordless men who lived in these hills and had decided to slink down into the camp, drawn by the light of the campfire. Perhaps they had watched them during the day and had seen their precious cargo.
"Sulis has gone," Bearn said.
"What?" Cynan was suddenly fully awake. Beobrand had given him just one command – get the women to Ubbanford. Was he truly going to fail such a simple task? He stood, peering into the shadows surrounding the camp, as if he might be able to see the woman where Bearn and the others had failed. Sulis was the Mercian who had been riding with him. The other women had told them her name. It was her child that Fordraed had tortured and killed. She had ridden these last three days in silence, barely eating and not responding to the Northumbrians or the other women. It was as though her body walked and functioned, but her soul had died when Fordraed had taken her son's life. Cynan had ceased attempting to speak to her, but he had grown accustomed to her warm body pressed against his back as his mount carried them northwards.
"Where could she have gone?" he asked.
Bearn shrugged.
Cynan cursed.
They were far from any settlement and days' travel from Mercia. He conjured in his mind the land that he remembered from when they had set up camp. A dense forest lay to the east and north. To the west, the land rose into hills and moors, dotted with trees and outcrops of rock. Cynan looked up at the sky and saw light in the east.
"How long has she been gone?" he snapped.
Again, Bearn shrugged and held up his hands.
"By Christ's bones, man," Cynan spat. "Do you know nothing?"
He drew in a deep breath of the cool morning air, forcing himself to calm.
"Very well, as soon as it is light, I will try to find her tracks. I'll follow her and bring her back. The rest of you, strike camp and continue north. I will catch up with you. And, Bearn," he said, the jagged edge of ice entering his tone, "do not lose another one."
*
Cynan was not the best tracker in Beobrand's gesithas, but he was able to follow the tracks of a woman who had traipsed through knee-high, dew-damp grass. As the sun had filled the cloudless sky with light, Cynan had walked the perimeter of the camp, looking for sign, while the men were saddling the horses and packing away their things. The thralls had remained huddled in their whispering group, watching him. Probably each plotting their own bid for freedom.
It had not taken long to find Sulis' tracks. The wet grass had been crushed by her passing, leaving a clear path that led towards the woodland in the east. Where she was hoping to go, he had no idea. Her home lay south and west.
He swung himself onto his mount's back. Around him, the rest of the men were ready to ride and were helping to lift the women onto the saddles. None of them seemed ready to attempt an escape, but he had warned Bearn again to be careful.
"I will find you on the road north," Cynan said, touching his heels to his horse's sides and trotting eastward, into the bright summer sun.
He followed the tracks all the way to the edge of the woods. Sulis had walked as straight as a spear-throw, never once deviating from her path. Wherever her final destination, she seemed set on reaching the trees as quickly as possible. She probably wanted to be within the shelter of the trees before light. Mayhap she hoped she could hide from pursuit in the shadows. Well, she could hide, but she would not remain hidden for long.
Cynan dismounted. He would need to lead his horse under the tree canopy. There was no trail or path here, and the low branches would impede his progress if he rode. Besides, the sign would not be as clear, without the furrow she had cut through the long grass.
The horse nickered quietly and lay its ears against its head as they walked into the quiet cool shade of the forest. The trees soaked up the light and warmth of the day. The jangle of the horse's harness and the clump of its hooves on the loam were loud in the stillness beneath the leaves. Cynan led the horse further into the dappled darkness. The signs of Sulis' passing were still clear. She had snapped twigs, leaving the pale, fresh wood exposed, and trampled the bracken that grew thick around the base of the oak, hazel, elm and ash. The forest was eerie. Oppressive and still, as if it was holding its breath. Or perhaps it was waiting for him. Suddenly, he became sure that someone was watching him. He shuddered and dropped his hand to the seax he wore at his belt. The seax Acennan and Beobrand had given him the first time he had met them, all those years before in Mercia.
His hand fell on empty air.
He looked down and cursed. The seax was gone. Gods, how had he been so stupid? Sulis may have been quiet and still, easy to deal with, but she was yet alive and a prisoner. A thrall. He had all but stopped thinking about her as a woman with a mind, she had just become a burden to place on his saddle; a warm body that pushed against his back. But now he recalled how the day before he had been surprised when she had wrapped her arms around him. It had not been unpleasant, and he had been snoozing as they rode. He cursed himself for a fool. She must have been planning her escape and taken the chance to steal his seax.
He loved that weapon. It had become a symbol of his freedom. It reminded him of who he had been before meeting Beobrand beside that midden outside Grimbold's hall. Thralls were not permitted to carry blades, and yet Beobrand had given him that fine seax, with its garnet inlay and golden adornments, and in that act, a spark within Cynan had been fanned into life. He would be a thrall no longer. He would be a great warrior and he would carve his own destiny. It had not been his wyrd to be beaten and abused at the hands of Grimbold's household. No, his wyrd was that of a warrior of legend. A free man. And he had been free ever since.
He must find Sulis now. It would be bad enough to have to admit to Beobrand that he had lost one of the women, but he could not bear the thought of losing that seax.
Cynan paused, breathing silently through his mouth and listening.
Silence.
His hor
se snorted and scraped a hoof against the soft leaf-mould of the forest floor. Cynan absently stroked its neck, quietening the beast. He closed his eyes for a moment and strained his ears for any sound. There was no birdsong. No buzz of insects. The day was still. No breeze rustled the leaves above him. Opening his eyes, he spat and continued into the hush of the forest. Wary now, half-expecting an ambush, he walked with one hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt, the other on the horse's reins. The path was still easy to follow. Bright heartwood where a branch had been snapped by Sulis' clumsy progress. Flattened bracken. There ahead something caught his attention. Reaching out he pulled a thread from the bark of a gnarled hazel. He held it up to catch a shaft of light that sliced through the foliage. It had a sandy yellow hue. The colour of Sulis' peplos.
A sudden cackling cry made him start. Looking up at the sound he spied the white-and-black of a magpie. The bird stared down and scolded the interloper in its domain. Cynan let out a long breath. Gods, but he was wound as taut as a bow string. The forest was warming up now in the light of day. A trickle of sweat slid down his neck. He shuddered.
He wiped the moisture from his brow with his sleeve. She can't have gone far. But he listened again and heard no sound of movement in the forest. Perhaps she was far ahead of him. He cursed silently, as much at his own foolishness as at his fear of the strange atmosphere of the wood.
There was light ahead. A glade where a fallen tree had created a clearing. Was that a splash of yellow? He edged closer to the light and saw that on the other side of the clearing sat Sulis. Her back was propped against the bole of an old ash. She was unmoving.
The horse snorted and pulled back, shying from the glade. Cynan looped the reins around a low branch and left the mount. There was something wrong here. For a moment he believed that Sulis was sleeping, but then he saw that her peplos was stained red. Her skin was as grey as ash.
"Sulis?" he said, his voice hesitant and timid, and yet loud in the still of the forest.
Warrior of Woden Page 5
