Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "I do not believe he would," he said, his voice soft now, unable to hold on to his anger at their actions. Would he not have done the same, if he were Eowa? "No," he said. "She is the mother of his son. She is a good queen. I think Oswald would not hurt her."

  Eowa nodded.

  "How does she fare? Is she well?"

  Beobrand pictured Cyneburg's shimmering gold locks. Her slender form. Her sad eyes.

  "She is well enough."

  Eowa ran his fingers through his hair and let out a long breath.

  "So, you will call your men to arms?" asked Beobrand. "You will march with Oswald to face Penda?"

  "What else can I do?" Eowa looked Beobrand in the eye and offered him a twisted, sad smirk. "I gave my oath."

  A man's word was everything. Beobrand understood this. The words of an oath for a warrior were links in a chain that bound him to his lord.

  Beobrand nodded. Eowa was powerless in the face of the vow he had sworn to Oswald in Din Eidyn.

  "And so it comes to this," Eowa said, his voice desolate. "I must bear arms against my brother."

  "You will not be the first to stand against kinfolk." Beobrand thought of Hrunting's blade sliding into Hengist's throat. He could still feel the bristling of Hengist's beard against his hand after the sword had cut through flesh, sinew and bone. He had not known then that they were half-brothers. And none save Acennan knew the truth now. Hengist was long dead. But it seemed he would never be free of Hengist's shade. Beobrand placed a hand on Eowa's shoulder. "Many a man before you has slain his own brother."

  Eowa shrugged off his touch and turned back the way they had walked. Back towards his hall. The men who had been following them halted, waiting for them to pass.

  "That is true," Eowa called back to Beobrand over his shoulder. "But I would not be remembered as one of those men."

  *

  "This boar meat is tender," Eowa said in a loud voice to carry over the throng in the hall. "I had thought that such a grizzled old warrior would have been as tough as chewing belt leather."

  Beobrand took a slice of the dripping meat from a serving thrall and placed it on his trencher.

  "No meat tastes better than that which you have hunted and killed yourself," he said.

  Eowa nodded.

  "It is a shame you did not arrive yesterday, for that is when we hunted this monster of a beast. It was a savage animal. Gutted one of my favourite hounds before we managed to bring him down."

  "Did you join the hunt?" Beobrand said in a quiet voice to the boy seated at his side. Octa's eyes were wide. He listened much and seldom spoke, unless asked a direct question. Beobrand felt awkward with his son. He wished they were closer, but he knew not how to speak to the child.

  "No, father," Octa said. "I asked to, but the lady Cynethryth said I was too young."

  Beobrand looked over at Eowa's wife. She was gazing directly at him, as if listening to his conversation with Octa, but he knew they were too distant and the hall was too noisy for that.

  "Well," Beobrand said, cutting a strip of meat with his knife, "I suppose she's right. Hunting boar can be a dangerous business. If you had been there, it might have been you and not the hound that the beast had chosen to gut. But you will be old enough soon. You have grown since I saw you last. And your shoulders are wider." He offered Octa the piece of boar meat. The boy took a bite. "Well, what do you think?" asked Beobrand. "The crispy fat is the best part of a boar."

  Octa smiled around the meat he chewed and nodded.

  Beobrand shouted to Eowa over the hubbub of the feast.

  "The meat is good. I would have liked to join you on the hunt."

  He raised his drinking horn and Eowa returned the gesture.

  "There will be other hunts," he said.

  They both drank deeply. The ale was strong and richly flavoured. A heady brew. Beobrand watched Eowa where he sat with his two sons, Alweo and Osmod, at his side. Neither Eowa nor Beobrand had spoken on the return to the hall, but Beobrand had seen Eowa pull some of his hearth-warriors into a corner of the hall, where they had talked earnestly for some time. The warriors had all glanced in his direction, so Beobrand assumed Eowa had told them of his tidings.

  By the gods he was tired. He wished for nothing more than to eat and drink his fill and then sleep comfortably beside the hearth fire. But Eowa had called a feast and Beobrand knew there would be no peace in the hall for a long while yet. He ate a piece of the boar. It was good. He had tasted finer, but after days in the saddle eating sparingly from the provisions they carried, it was a delicacy indeed. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the hall. Men and women talked and laughed. Knives, cups and plates clattered on the boards. Two dogs growled and snapped at a morsel that had been dropped to the rushes. Beobrand swallowed the boar meat and took a deep breath of the air. It was heavy with smoke and redolent of the roasting boar. Beneath that he could make out the scent of wool and leather, the green, lively smell of the rushes that had been freshly cut and laid. The tang of ale…

  "Father?" Octa's hesitant voice brought him back. "Are you well?" Beobrand opened his eyes and smiled at his son.

  "I am fine." Yes, he was well, but his tiredness washed over him in waves. He had been drifting into sleep. The sounds and smells of the hall had soothed him. This was the atmosphere of safety and the warmth of home. He wondered when next he would know the peace of a safe hall after they left Snodengaham and travelled west.

  "How are you finding living in Eowa's hall, son?" he asked, pulling himself upright and taking another bite of meat in an effort to shake the drowsiness from his head.

  "Lord Eowa and Lady Cynethryth treat me well."

  Beobrand glanced over at Eowa's two sons.

  "And Osmod? And Alweo?"

  Octa said nothing for a time.

  "They do not treat me so well."

  "You fight them?"

  Octa looked down at his lap.

  "Sometimes. But only when they say or do mean things."

  Beobrand snorted and ruffled Octa's hair. His fair hair was long and soft under Beobrand's huge, rough hand.

  "There comes a time when fighting is the only way," he said. "The secret is not to fight when you don't need to."

  "But it is craven to run away," said Octa. "I am no coward. You never run away, do you?"

  Beobrand felt a surge of love for his son. He had not seen him for months and the boy had changed so much in that time. He could not recall when they had exchanged so many words before.

  "I know you are no craven," he said. "Neither am I. But sometimes a wise man needs to leave a battle so that he can return to face his enemies again. For there is nothing to be gained from dying quickly."

  "How will I know when to fight and when to flee?"

  "Ah, now that is the real question, Octa." Beobrand reached for the jug of ale, refilled his horn and then poured some into Octa's wooden cup. "You are my son and you and I are alike in many ways, I think. You, too, have a temper that can flare suddenly. And you do not back down when you are pushed. Use this when a fight finds you. Many men will ponder too much before entering a fray. Some would call them wise, but a quick decision can win the day. If you act with speed, you can oftentimes defeat your foe before he is even certain he wants to fight."

  "And when should I run?"

  "Well, I am not the best person to answer such things, but I pray that you are wiser than me. For I always attack. I do not run from a fight, it is not in my nature." Beobrand gazed into Octa's blue eyes. He saw much of himself looking back at him, but also there was much of his mother's beauty in the shape of his nose, his brow and his lips. "I wish your mother yet lived, Octa," he said, "for she would have counselled you with more thought."

  "What would she have said, do you think?"

  Beobrand thought for a moment.

  "She would have told you never to seek out a fight, but not to shy away from one. Protect those who are weaker than you and be true to your word, for it is the most val
uable thing you possess." Beobrand savoured the words he had just uttered, turning them around in his mind. "Yes, she would have said that, and I would have agreed with her."

  There was a sudden commotion at the great doors of the hall. One of the door wards stepped into the hall and hammered the haft of his spear four times against one of the great oaken beams that supported the roof. The sound stilled the room and all eyes turned to the doorway.

  Eowa rose, placing his hands on the board before him.

  "What is this? Who seeks entry into my hall in the dark of night?"

  The door ward spoke with a clear voice that carried around the hall.

  "My lord," he said, "there is a man here who says he is a messenger. He says he has urgent news he must share with you, and you alone."

  Eowa frowned.

  "Who is this messenger? And who sends him?"

  The warden turned and whispered a few words to the shadowed figure in the doorway who was being prevented from entering the hall by another of Eowa's guards.

  "He says his name is Eumer. And he brings a message from your brother, Penda."

  Chapter 10

  Sulis muttered and cried out in the night. Sweat beaded her face and she shivered, despite Cynan placing his cloak and blanket over her and moving her close to the fire. He sat with her, unable to sleep, but unsure what he could do to help her. He tossed another branch on the small fire, watching as the sparks drifted into the night, like lost dreams. Coenred had returned to minister to Sulis several times during the warm afternoon as the shadows lengthened and the monks prepared food.

  The holy men travelled light, with each carrying a meagre amount of vittles and utensils. But they were well-accustomed to outdoor living and they made the campsite more comfortable than Cynan had expected. The pottage they produced, as the sun dipped to the horizon, was simple, yet warm and filling. Cynan had nodded his thanks to the elderly monk who had proffered a steaming bowl to him. The man had nodded in reply, but had not spoken. The men's silence unnerved Cynan at first. He was used to the banter and conversation of warriors. But after sitting at Sulis' side all afternoon in the tranquillity of the Christ monks' camp, he understood how the calm allowed more time for thinking. For much of the day the only sounds, apart from those Sulis made in her troubled sleep, were birdsong and the whisper of the breeze through the leaves of the oak they were using for shelter. All the while Cynan had sat beside Sulis as she shook and whimpered. From time to time he found the stillness and inactivity too much and he would stand and pace around the campsite. Then he would feel foolish in the face of the silent Christ followers and return to sit and brood beside the young woman.

  By Tiw's balls, he should be halfway to Ubbanford by now. Not sitting under a tree with a sickly woman who, even if she recovered, would as like as not kill herself at the first opportunity. He was a warrior, not a nursemaid. Many times he contemplated leaving Sulis with the monks and riding north. They would care for her and bring her to Ubbanford.

  If she lived.

  But then he would glance down at the pallid, sweat-drenched face and something would twist inside him. The feelings he had were not familiar to him. They riled him and he poked angrily at the fire. There was war coming. And his place was at his lord's side. Not tending to this woman. But he did not leave. Instead, he took up the cloth and tenderly wiped the sweat from Sulis' forehead.

  At sunset, the monks had broken him out of his tangle of thoughts of impending war and frustration. They all stood and began to chant in their strange tongue. The trees were silent and still now. There was no breeze. The monks' voices soared into the quiet dusk. Theirs was a haunting sound. Cynan did not understand the words, but he could sense the power of the Christ magic in the rise and fall of the voices.

  When they had concluded the ceremony, Coenred had come to Cynan and Sulis. He had touched her forehead and nodded.

  "I hope Vespers did not disturb you," he'd said.

  "No," Cynan had replied. "What did the chanting mean?"

  "We prayed to God that when the blackness of night falls, our faith would not know such darkness, but that our faith should be a light in the dark."

  "It was beautiful," Cynan had said, surprised at his own words and the truth in them.

  Coenred had given a small nod and smiled.

  "I am glad that you thought our voices gave glory to the Lord. It is all we seek to do. To honour Him and to spread the good word of His love."

  Cynan had said nothing. He knew nought of the Christ god's love. He had seen little in his life to make him believe in love and goodness. But he could not deny that Coenred and these monks were doing their best to save Sulis.

  "God's love is endless," Coenred had said. "He loves each and every one of us."

  This talk of love made Cynan uncomfortable.

  "Is she any better?" he'd asked, keen to move away from talk of gods and love.

  "Raise her head," Coenred had said. Cynan had done as he was told and Coenred had picked up the water skin, dribbling a little liquid into Sulis' mouth. She'd swallowed and he'd poured a few more drops. Again, she'd swallowed. Cynan had placed her head gently back on the rolled cloak he had fashioned into a pillow for her.

  "That she is drinking is a good sign," Coenred had said. "If it is God's will, and she survives the night, I believe she may live. But she is in God's hands now."

  And so Cynan had remained awake by Sulis' side, even as the monks wrapped themselves in their robes and blankets and fell asleep. For a long while, their snoring and Sulis' moaning were the only sounds.

  The moon rose and a cool breeze rustled the oaks leaves. Staring up at the great expanse of darkness above them, Cynan saw clouds, gilded with silver light, scudding across the sky. The night was growing cool and dew was forming on the ground. He shivered and yawned.

  He reached for another branch. In the sudden flare of light as the dry timber began to flame, he noticed with a start that Sulis was awake. Her eyes were dark pools reflecting the firelight. She stared at him, unblinking.

  Cynan felt a sudden wave of relief, but pushed it away as if it had never been. This woman was nothing to him.

  Just a thrall. And a stupid one at that.

  "Are you thirsty?" he asked, keeping his voice quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering monks.

  She did not answer for a long while, then gave a small nod. He reached for the skin and held it for her. She raised herself up, wincing against the pain in her wrists.

  "Careful," Cynan said. "Do not open your wounds again."

  She stared at him with her dark eyes, and then opened her mouth to drink thirstily from the skin. Before she had drunk her fill, Cynan pulled it away.

  "If you drink too quickly, you will puke it up."

  Sulis ignored him and lay back down.

  "Why should I not wish to open my wounds again?" she whispered. Her voice was almost lost amongst the murmur of the leaves above them.

  Cynan swallowed.

  "I know you are in great pain," he said.

  "What can you know of my pain?" Sulis spat the words. "Have you carried a child in your womb? Raised it with love? Seen your son grow into a fine boy…" Her voice cracked. "Only to see him… To see him…" She sobbed, unable to utter the words that told the story of her anguish.

  Cynan sighed.

  "And now I am to be a thrall," Sulis said, her voice rasping and ragged, like a chipped blade. "Someone for men like you to do with as they wish."

  "I am truly sorry for what happened to you," Cynan said. "You are right. I cannot imagine the pain you feel. But I had no hand in that."

  "Did you not?" she snapped, anger colouring her tone. "Are you not a gesith of a Northumbrian lord? Are you not enemies of my people?"

  "It was my lord who saved you from violation at the hands of those who attacked your steading."

  "And I suppose you believe I should thank you and your lord for that? For making me a thrall?"

  A branch shifted in the fire, falling into
the embers and sending sparks wafting upwards. Cynan stared for a moment at the flickering dance of the flames. He could feel Sulis' glare on him.

  "No," he said at last, "I do not expect your thanks. But I would not see you die."

  "What is it to you? It was your lord's silver that bought me, not yours."

  Cynan rubbed a hand over his eyes.

  "I don't know," he said. "Gods knows it would be easier for me if I'd let you die."

  "Why did you stop me then?" she asked, her tone pleading. Tears glistened on her cheeks. Her suffering stabbed at Cynan like a blade under a shieldwall, getting past his defences all too easily. His eyes prickled and his throat felt thick.

  "I know what it is to be a thrall," he said.

  Around them he was suddenly aware of the sleeping men rousing themselves quietly. Their shadowy forms rose like wraiths from barrows. Cynan shivered again.

  "What would you know? You are a warrior…" Her voice trailed off as she noticed the shapes of the men awakening all around them. Her eyes were huge in the gloom. "What…?" she said, unable to find the right words for her question.

  "They are friends," Cynan whispered. He did not wish to draw attention to them. Perhaps the holy men meant to perform some rite in the dark of night. Tiny fingers of fear stroked the back of his neck. "They're holy men of the Christ god. They've helped you."

  For a time they were both silent, watching as the monks gathered and moved some distance from where they rested beside the campfire.

  "I was a slave once," Cynan said. "I was beaten and treated worse than my lord's dogs."

  Sulis turned her gaze back to him.

  "And how come you to be a sword-man now?" Her voice cracked and broke. He held out the water skin once more and she drank.

  "Lord Beobrand took me in. Heard the oath of a thrall. He is a great man."

  "And now he adds me to his household. Another thrall."

  "It is not Beobrand, nor I, who weaves your wyrd, Sulis. But Beobrand is a good lord, and fair. You will be treated well at Ubbanford. But please don't try to run again. Or to take your life."

  The monks began to chant in the darkness, their voices eerie and otherworldly in the still of the night. Cynan and Sulis fell silent and listened to the magic song of the Christ followers, each lost in their own thoughts.