Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "And what if Eowa has sided with Penda? What if he plans to join his brother in war against Oswald?"

  Beobrand wiped the water from his face.

  "Well, if that is so, then I fear I am leading us all into the wolf's maw."

  Chapter 7

  Coenred dipped the cloth into the water and wiped the grime from the woman's face. She was so pale and still, she could have been mistaken for dead. But heat radiated from her like a forge. They had lifted her carefully down from Cynan's horse and laid her on a blanket in the shadow of one of the great oaks. Cynan had wished to press on northward, but Coenred had flatly refused.

  "If you ride on, she will die. Is that what you want?"

  Cynan had looked abashed and offered a small shake of his head.

  "How is it you are here?" Cynan had asked after Coenred had given instructions to one of the other monks to light a fire and boil water.

  "We have been spreading the word of our Lord Jesus to the people of these parts. There is a new church at Inhrypum and there is always much work to do there."

  Cynan had nodded absently, but Coenred had seen he did not truly comprehend.

  "We give help to those in need," Coenred had offered. "In whatever way they need. We might help in the fields, if a man is too sick to plough or sow. We can help repair fences and make furniture. We are strong and some of us have skills that can be put to good use." He'd checked the temperature of the water in the pot over the fire. It had not yet been hot enough. "Have you any spare clothing in your saddlebags?" he'd asked Cynan.

  "I have a kirtle."

  "Fetch it, please." Cynan had looked bemused, but had gone to his horse and brought back the old kirtle that had been bundled in the bottom of his bag.

  Coenred sniffed it and held it up to the light.

  "Linen. Good," he'd said, "Pass me your knife. I trust it is sharp."

  Cynan had handed him his knife and Coenred had proceeded to cut the fabric into strips. He had placed the strips into the water.

  Cynan had looked as though he was going to say something, but then thought better of it.

  "One of the other ways we help our flock," Coenred had said, using a stick to stir the water and linen strips in the pot, "is to attend them when they are ill or injured. Abbot Aidan has a true gift for healing. God acts through him and I have seen wondrous feats performed by his hands. My knowledge is nothing compared to that of the abbot, but he has taught me much, and I pray fervently for those I treat."

  Once the water had boiled for some time, Coenred had removed a strip of cloth and used it to clean the wounds on Sulis' wrists. First, he'd gently removed the bandages Cynan had tied and threw them onto the fire. He'd bent down close to the woman's arms and smelt her wounds. There was no stink of corruption. He'd then taken more boiled strips and bandaged her wrists tightly once again.

  "With the grace of God, she might live," he'd said, "but she has lost much blood. We will make camp here tonight." One of the older monks, Comdhan, had nodded and signalled to the others to begin preparing the camp, even though sunset was still a long way off. For much of the day, they observed the rule of silence, but Coenred had been nominated as the monks' voice.

  "You seem to have a talent for talking," Abbot Aidan had said to him with a twinkle in his eye when they had set out from Lindisfarena.

  The woman stirred, groaning quietly, perhaps from some nightmare, or from pain. Coenred smoothed her hair away from her face. Despite the dirt and blood on her clothes, he could see she had fine features. Her cheekbones were perhaps too prominent, her lips too thin, but as he stroked her hair and wiped her face, he could not ignore the intimacy he felt with this stranger. The touch of her skin. The softness of her hair. He suppressed a shudder. Would the devil ever let him be free of such thoughts? He only wished to do the Lord's work, but whenever he was near a pretty girl his body responded to seeds of desire sown by the devil into his soul.

  "Deliver me from temptation, Lord," he whispered in Latin.

  "You said you were expecting me," said Cynan, breaking Coenred's reverie.

  Coenred dragged his gaze away from the woman's pallid face.

  "Yes. Bearn and the others of your band passed us this morning. They said you would follow with another woman. One who'd escaped."

  Cynan looked down at Sulis. She lay still now, and it seemed perhaps a little colour had returned to her cheeks. There was something in Cynan's gaze. Some hidden emotion that caused Coenred to feel a pang of jealousy.

  "What is this woman to you?" he asked, keeping his tone flat.

  "Just a thrall," replied Cynan, but his eyes lingered on her face for several heartbeats before he looked away. "Just a thrall. I am glad we found you. It was lucky for us that we did."

  Coenred stood abruptly, keen to be away from this injured woman whom the devil would use to beguile and tempt him.

  "No," he said. "It was not luck that brought us together. It was Christ's will."

  He walked away, leaving Cynan staring after him.

  Chapter 8

  As they rode south, the sky grew muddled with clouds. It remained dry, but the air became dense and thick. Beobrand wondered whether there would be a storm, but none came.

  They rode on unimpeded into Mercia until they were less than a day's travel from their destination. Beobrand and his band of gesithas crested a small hill and saw in the valley below a group of riders cantering towards them. Beobrand raised his hand and reined in Bera. His men halted behind him on the brow of the rise. The sun was high overhead and its glare glinted from the harness, weapons and armour of the dozen men who rode up the hill to meet them. These men of Mercia bore spears, but most of their helms were tied to their saddles, their shields slung from their backs.

  "Looks like they do not mean to attack," whispered Acennan.

  Beobrand said nothing, but nodded. He forced himself to appear at ease. The men who approached were not ready for battle. Besides, his own band, depleted as it was, numbered but thirteen men, so any open fight between the two groups would be hard-won, with no sure victor.

  He watched intently as the warriors' steeds carried them lumbering up the slope. Squinting against the sun-sparkle from the burnished iron and steel, Beobrand scanned the men's faces.

  They slowed and came to a halt less than a spear's throw from where Beobrand waited with his men. The horses' hooves threw up a cloud of dust in the sultry afternoon air.

  Beobrand nudged Bera forward, lifting his right hand in greeting. Without comment, Acennan joined him, easing his own horse out in front of the men.

  "Scur," Beobrand said, having recognised one of Eowa's hearth-warriors who rode at the head of the group. "Well met. I trust your lord is well."

  Scur glowered. Beobrand knew the man still blamed him for Eowa's treatment at the hands of Oswald and Oswiu. Beobrand clenched his jaw, trying to push from his mind the memories of that dark winter's night in Din Eidyn. That was long ago, and Eowa had told Beobrand that he did not hold him responsible. To judge from the grim expression of Scur, Eowa's gesithas were not so forgiving.

  Scur leaned from his saddle, hawked and spat a great gobbet of phlegm onto the path.

  "My lord Eowa is as well as ever," he said, his voice as hard and cold as iron. He stared at Beobrand, unblinking.

  The few times he had seen Scur, it was ever thus. Eowa's man would attempt to kindle the flame of Beobrand's infamous anger. He longed for Beobrand to break the peace that had been agreed between Eowa and Oswald. Scur's fury had simmered all these years and he would like nothing more than for Beobrand to respond. But Beobrand knew he could not allow himself to be goaded.

  He took a slow deep breath.

  "I rejoice to hear of Eowa's health, Scur," he said, his tone flat and calm. "What of his good wife, the lady Cynethryth? And Osmod and Alweo?"

  Scur scowled, as if trying to think of some response that might cause offence without provoking his lord's ire when later he would hear of it. Apparently, he could think of non
e, for, after a frowning pause, he said simply, "They are all well."

  "And my son?"

  "Your brat is as hale as a pig in shit," he said, sneering.

  Beobrand gripped his reins tightly. Gods, but he wished he could just charge this man from his horse and fight him, here and now in the dust in front of the men. But Beobrand did not move.

  "Well, I suppose you would know what it feels like to be a swine," he said. Then, quickly, before Scur could respond, "I must see your lord, Eowa, immediately. There is no time for this foolishness, much as I would love to trade insults with you until the sun sets."

  Scur loured for a long moment, first at Beobrand, then passing his gaze over the dust-grimed riders behind the Northumbrian thegn. The silence became awkward before Scur eventually nodded.

  "Follow us. We will lead you back to Snodengaham."

  Eowa's gesithas turned their mounts at Scur's order. Beobrand dug his heels into Bera's sides and rode quickly to Scur's side before he could wheel his horse around. Beobrand's left hand lashed out and grabbed the horse's bridle. Scur instantly grasped at Beobrand's wrist, attempting to dislodge his grip. But Beobrand's arm did not move, his half-hand remained clutched on the leather of the horse's harness. His eyes flashed with a cold fire.

  "Do not forget who I am, Scur," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I am in haste, and I respect your lord. But know this. I am Beobrand of Ubbanford and you would do well to recall all the tales of my battles. I beat you and your lord once before in the mud by the Afen and I let you both live then. But I tire of your taunting and I have slain men for less. Eowa's man or no, if you continue to cross me, I will cut out your heart and feed it to the ravens."

  Scur opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, with no word uttered.

  Beobrand shoved Scur's horse's head away and rode past him towards Snodengaham.

  Chapter 9

  "Beobrand," said Eowa in a voice filled with warmth, "this is an unexpected pleasure."

  Beobrand stood from where he had been sitting by the fire. It was not cold, but he enjoyed watching the flames flicker and dance in the gathering darkness of the hall. Around them thralls and servants were preparing the boards for the evening meal. Beobrand had contented himself with sipping the ale he had been given on arrival at Eowa's hall and allowing the normal activities of life to wash over him. Acennan, sensing his mood, had not offered much in the way of conversation. Beobrand's mind had been wandering, thinking of Ubbanford. They would be preparing food there too. He thought fleetingly of Reaghan. He missed her. But gods, she vexed him with her moods. He was tired. He felt as though he had been in the saddle for months, and he was not a gifted horseman.

  His back ached as he stood to meet Eowa. The tall atheling of Mercia strode towards him, a broad smile shining from his dark beard. There was a conspicuous dark gap in the fine line of teeth in Eowa's grin. Beobrand remembered when the Mercian lord had spat the tooth out along with a mouthful of blood onto a hard, earthen floor. The firelight caught the scars on Eowa's cheeks and nose. A pang of guilt stabbed Beobrand. Eowa's full beard went someway to hiding the puckered skin, but both sides of the man's nose bore the jagged reminder of that snow-swept night in the land of the Picts, where, in a cold, dank storeroom, Beobrand had helped to beat and disfigure him.

  Eowa's smiled broadened. He reached out his right hand and Beobrand grasped his wrist, forearm to forearm.

  "Always so glum, Beobrand," Eowa said. "Do you never smile?"

  Beobrand frowned.

  "I seldom see a reason to," replied Beobrand, which only made Eowa laugh and slap him on the back.

  That Eowa had never voiced any anger or resentment at the treatment he had received at the hands of Beobrand, Derian and Oswiu, only served to make Beobrand feel all the more guilty. If only he had raged and raved at Beobrand when they had met again after that wyrd-laden night when Oswald had discovered the truth and forced Eowa to swear allegiance to the king of Northumbria. But Eowa had offered Beobrand no recriminations, and Beobrand knew he never would. Eowa was a man of honour, and he believed he had deserved the punishment meted out to him.

  Eowa stared him in the eye for a moment, before lowering his tone.

  "But I see you are more solemn than normal, my friend." Eowa took in his dust-streaked skin and travel-stained clothes. "And you have ridden hard. I take it you have not merely come to see Octa."

  Beobrand nodded, glad that Eowa had led the conversation straight to the point of his visit.

  "The time has come—" he said, but Eowa cut him off with a raised hand.

  "I would hear your tidings, Beobrand," he said, glancing around the hall furtively at the thralls and bondsmen, the warriors lounging on the benches. "But," he said, his voice now a whisper, "I would not have your words overheard. Let us walk outside awhile. The food is not yet ready, and we can be sure we speak in private there."

  Beobrand felt a sliver of unease, but gave a nod by way of answer and drained his cup of ale. Setting it down on the board, he followed Eowa from the hall and into the twilit land beyond. Acennan rose, but Beobrand shook his head and signalled for him to remain in the hall.

  Outside, the air was clear and still warm. The jumble of clouds were painted with vivid reds and pinks as though the sun was a forge, heating the clouds until they could be hammered by the gods. Beobrand stretched his back, letting out a groan as it made a series of popping sounds.

  "You sound like an old man," Eowa said, smiling.

  Beobrand grimaced.

  "After all that time in the saddle, I feel like a greybeard."

  "We can find somewhere to sit, if you would like."

  Beobrand snorted.

  "I am not old yet, Eowa. Besides, I have been sitting all day on the back of my beast of a mount. I can stand a while."

  They walked away from the hall and the buildings that surrounded it. Men and women nodded respectfully to Eowa as they passed. The two men walked in companionable silence for a time, through meadows where downy birch grew along the path's edge. Looking up at the darkening sky, Beobrand saw the flitting shapes of bats diving and wheeling as they fed on the midges and moths.

  Some way behind them, he noticed four men. They carried shields and long scabbards hung from their belts. Beobrand tensed, uneasy. They had walked some way from the hall and he had not brought Hrunting with him. He had believed them safe here, in Eowa's lands. Stupid. His hand dropped to the seax sheathed at his belt. It would have to do. Peering back into the dying light of the day he watched as the men slowly approached. He glanced at Eowa and saw the Mercian was unarmed. Gods, he knew Eowa to be a brave man and a skilled warrior, but they would be lucky to survive a fight against four swordsmen. Flicking his gaze back to the warriors, Beobrand's nervousness fled as quickly as it had come. He recognised two of them. They were Acennan and Fraomar. Of the other two, he now recognised one as Scur. Beobrand smiled at his own anxiety.

  Eowa raised his eyebrows.

  "It seems you do smile after all," he said, following Beobrand's gaze. Eowa offered a lopsided grin and a shrug. "I said I wished for privacy. This is the nearest thing to alone that an atheling is allowed. Scur has taken it upon himself to guard my person. He does worry so."

  Beobrand frowned.

  "My men also seem to fret," he said. "Though what they think might happen to us, I am not sure."

  Eowa was suddenly serious.

  "My men fear treachery."

  In the distance, the reflection of the crimson glow of the sky turned the broad River Trent to blood.

  "You know I would never cause you ill," said Beobrand. As soon as he has spoken, he felt the hollowness of his words.

  Eowa said nothing for a moment. There was no need. The scars on his cheeks and nose spoke more loudly than any words.

  "You are oath-sworn, Beobrand," Eowa said at last, his voice tinged with sadness. "As am I. Neither of us is free to make such promises."

  Behind them, their silent guards followed at
a distance.

  For a long while they walked on in silence. The fire from the sun made Eowa's eyes glow.

  "Now," Eowa said at last, "before we return to feast and drink, and for you to see how Octa has grown in the months since Geola, you must tell me what has brought you to my hall unannounced."

  Beobrand did not wish to speak the words. It felt like a new betrayal. Eowa deserved better. But Eowa had known this day would come, ever since he had chosen to spirit away Oswald's queen from Anwealda's hall one rain-washed night years before. Beobrand thought of the days of pursuit and the shieldwalls in the mud by the ford of the Afen. He saw anew the deathly pallid face of Athelstan, frozen in a roar of defiance as he had attempted to defend Cyneburg, the queen. Their queen. His queen. As sudden as the wind shifts direction in a spring storm, Beobrand was angry. He liked Eowa; considered him a friend now. But the Mercian had brought this on himself. Good men had died for his actions. It was time for him to pay their blood-price.

  "You must answer the call of your oath-sworn lord," Beobrand said, his tone sharp.

  Eowa sighed, as if he had known the words Beobrand would utter.

  "What does Oswald want of me?"

  "You are to summon your spear-men and bring your host to battle."

  "Who are we to fight? Why call on me to pay my debt now?"

  "We will join Oswald and Oswiu and we will face Penda and his allies."

  "Penda marches? I have heard nothing…"

  "We believe he is amassing a great host in the west. If we are right, he plans to strike northward from the west of his lands."

  Eowa ceased walking and stared into the west. The sun had fallen below the horizon now, but the sky was as red as the fires of war. Despite Eowa's thick beard, Beobrand could see the muscles along his jaw tense and bulge.

  "Do you…" Eowa hesitated. "Do you think Oswald would harm her, if I did not answer his call?"

  Beobrand remembered how Cyneburg had sought him out as he left Eoferwic. The years had not dimmed the love between these two it seemed. It was a madness that time could not heal.