"Fraomar," he said, his tone brusque, "fetch my helm and shield. Those Mercians are not going to let us dawdle up here all day."
The younger man nodded and rushed back to where they had slept to bring his lord's gear.
Beobrand spat and again surveyed the host of warriors on the field of Maserfelth.
Eowa had come and mayhap they could take the day.
The movement of the priest butchering the horse caught his eye and Beobrand reached up with his half-hand and grasped his whale-tooth hammer amulet. He shivered, but the morning was already warming.
Everyone knew there was great power in the sacrifice of a stallion under a sacred ash.
Chapter 25
That morning, the Mercians attacked even more ferociously than the previous day. There were fewer moments for Beobrand and the others to rest as Penda's wolves pressed up the hill, trampling the corpses of their fallen and assaulting the seemingly unbreakable Northumbrian shieldwall. But like hounds that could scent the imminent death of a stag, so the Mercians sensed the end of Oswald's defence on the hill. Perhaps emboldened by the horse sacrifice, or urged on to finish the defenders quickly now that Eowa's reinforcements had arrived, the Mercians flung themselves upon the Northumbrian shields and spears in a furious and prolonged onslaught that added many more to the heaps of dead and dying. And those who yet survived, reeled, close to exhaustion in the forge-swelter of the hot day.
Beobrand's body ached from the constant fighting. His face was drenched in sweat and he longed to remove his helm, but he would not. Too often had it protected him. Acennan and Dreogan stood at his shoulders and together they slew countless foe-men with an economy of movement that was uncanny, should any have been able to pause to behold it. But all who stood before them died too quickly to marvel at the speed of their killing.
As so many times before that day, the Mercians came again, screaming and spitting their ire. And once more, they were pushed back, tumbling and sliding down the gore-soaked slope towards their waiting shield-brothers. But there would be little respite. Beobrand plunged Hrunting into the earth at his feet and watched as the bulky warlord, Grimbold, erstwhile lord of Beobrand's sworn enemy Wybert, cuffed the fleeing men, bullying them with shouts and curses to return to their task of unseating the defenders from their hilltop perch.
"Water," Beobrand said. His mouth was dry and sour. Attor handed him a flask that one of the camp thralls had filled from a stream in the forest that morning. He filled his mouth and poured some of the liquid onto his face, caring nought now for getting his byrnie wet, heedless of the iron-rot that would set to eating the metal. The rings of his shirt were caked in congealing blood. If they survived this day, there would be time enough to clean the links then with sand and oil.
"Look," said Acennan, pointing to where Eowa's host was sorely pressed by the Waelisc, "there in the vanguard, where the fighting is fiercest. That is Hyfeidd the Tall, champion of Cyndallan ap Cynddylan of Powys. It is said he has never been bested in combat."
For a moment, they all stared into the seething morass of the press below them. Sunlight glinted from the burnished helm of a man who stood at least a head taller than those who surrounded him. This impression of huge height was increased by the jutting plume of white swan feathers that bedecked his helm. Hyfeidd the Tall's sword shone as it slashed in savage sweeps and all those who stood before him fell back.
The champion of Powys had almost made his way to Eowa's boar's head banner. Eowa's fyrd had fought well, but Beobrand could see now that they would be slaughtered. The Waelisc host was pushing them ever back, wholly intent on crushing the newcomers to this battle. They had been unblooded on the first day and it seemed to Beobrand they wished to prove to Penda that they deserved an equal share of the spoils.
He could not bear to watch as Eowa's force was destroyed. He recalled the words of Cynethryth. He would not merely stand by and see the Mercian atheling cut down. A small band of warriors would be able to rush down the hill and assail the Waelisc from the flank. If they were quick about it, they would not be halted by the Mercians. He glanced down the slope to the Mercian warriors. They had yet to regroup and Grimbold and the other lords were still berating them, exhorting them to attack.
"My gesithas," Beobrand bellowed, suddenly filled with a certainty of what he must do. "My brave hearth-warriors, follow me. There is not a moment to waste. We must descend upon those Waelisc dogs and smite them hard before they know what we are about."
Some of the men looked confused, but Acennan, Dreogan and Attor all stepped forward instantly, hefting their black shields and raising their gore-slathered blades. But before Beobrand could lead them down the hill, Derian, Oswald's warmaster shouted, "Halt!"
Beobrand spun to face the older man.
"There is no time to speak of this," he snapped.
"No, Beobrand," said Derian, his tone as sharp as the bloody blade he held unsheathed at his side, "this is no time to speak. And no time to run."
"I do not mean to run!" Beobrand yelled, his anger sudden and hot. "I am no craven. See there," he gestured with Hrunting at where the Waelisc battered their way in a bloody swathe through Eowa's fyrd-men. "Eowa needs our aid. He will not hold without it."
Beobrand made to turn, to lead his gesithas down the slope towards the Waelisc. Acennan, Attor, Dreogan and the others were all poised, awaiting his command. Derian strode forward and grasped Beobrand's shoulder.
"No, Beobrand," he repeated, his voice softer now, but no less firm.
"They will not hold!" Beobrand shouted, his frustration turning to fury.
Derian nodded, his calm expression infuriating. His grey-streaked beard was black and glistening with the blood of his foes.
"You must hold the line here, Beobrand," he said. "You must protect the king."
"But Eowa will fall."
"If Eowa falls is in the hands of the Sisters who spin his life thread. It is his wyrd, not yours. You must stay."
Derian fixed him with a stern gaze. After what seemed a long while, but was merely a few heartbeats, he released his grasp on Beobrand with a nod.
"Come, form the shieldwall again," he said, taking up his shield from where he had let it fall, "the Mercians attack once more."
Beobrand swallowed back the bitter words that formed in his mind. Eowa had come to fulfil his oath, to defend the land of the man who had married the woman he loved. Eowa had lost his love to Oswald. Now he would give his life for him.
"Shields!" yelled Beobrand. His gesithas said nothing, but obeyed their hlaford without complaint. With well-trained speed, they fell into formation once more to face the Mercians that again swarmed up the slaughter-strewn slope.
As the enemy warriors reached the lip of the hill, Beobrand saw the man he would next kill. A portly warrior, red cheeks shining above a full long moustache. He came towards Beobrand, puffing and clumsy after the climb. The man was slow and Beobrand stole a quick glance over at Eowa's fyrd. The white feathers of Hyfeidd the Tall's helm had reached Eowa's black and blood-red boar's head banner.
And then Beobrand had to shift his attention back to the chubby Mercian before him. He caught the man's spear on his shield, twisted his body, and with a savage blow of Hrunting's blade, cut the haft. The man's eyes opened wide in terror and he fumbled at his belt for the seax that hung there in a tooled-leather sheath. But Beobrand did not give him time to rearm himself. Taking two quick steps forward, he buried Hrunting into the man's fat neck. Blood splattered and the Mercian fell. Beobrand moved rapidly back into the shieldwall without thinking, the motion as natural to him as walking.
Another Mercian stumbled on the body of his rotund comrade and hesitated there, fear gripping him in the face of the huge, blood-painted Northumbrian thegn. Beobrand again flicked a furtive glance down towards the road and Eowa's warband. Still he could see the feathers atop the gleaming helm, but with a sinking feeling in his stomach, he saw that the boar standard had fallen.
With a grimace, Beobra
nd turned back to the Mercian warrior who now faced him. The man yet hesitated, still unsure whether he had the courage to attack the tall lord, bedecked in the finest war gear and with the battle-sweat of many Mercians splashed all about him.
Beobrand made the decision for him. Roaring, he sprang forward. Startled, the Mercian raised his shield and sword. Beobrand beat the man's defences away as if he were a child, and hammered Hrunting's notched blade across his knees. The man howled and collapsed. With barely a thought Beobrand sent him on his way to the afterlife with a downward swipe of his sword.
For a moment, there was no enemy to slay. Once again, the Northumbrians had proven stalwart defenders and pushed the Mercians back down the slope.
But from the distance, the sound of cheering reached Beobrand. Down by the old road, men were fleeing back into the forest. Eowa, son of Pybba had fallen, and his fyrd was routed. Behind them, the Waelisc, led by their champion, Hyfeidd, pursued them and made great slaughter.
Chapter 26
"I think your famous luck may have finally run out," yelled Acennan over the tumultuous crash of the battle. His face was smeared in a thick mask of mud and blood, but despite the despair and death all about them, he offered Beobrand a broad grin.
A Waelisc warrior, chest bare and screaming in an ecstasy of violence, leapt towards Beobrand. His eyes burnt with hatred, spittle flew from his lips as he spat curses in his own tongue. Beobrand barely registered the man's presence. With the slightest of movements, he swayed to the left, parrying the man's blade with Hrunting, oblivious now of the damage to the sword's already battered edge. With seemingly casual speed and skill he then reversed the direction of Hrunting's movement, slicing into the Waelisc attacker's throat. Fresh blood fountained, crimson and hot, smothering him in yet more gore. The Waelisc halted, still and shocked for a heartbeat, eyes blinking and wide now, perhaps the better to see death's approach. Beobrand smashed his tattered shield forward into the man's face, sending him away and reeling. But the Waelisc warrior did not tumble down the slope, for the Northumbrians had been pushed back and now fought on the hill's summit. The sheer number of attackers, with the men of Powys and Gwynedd adding their weight to the Mercians, was taking its toll on the defenders.
Defeat seemed inevitable. But still they fought on, and the hill above Maserfelth was soaked in the lifeblood of the fallen. The brave and the cowardly bled the same hue and, as that hot day wore on, it became impossible to distinguish the one from the other in the tangle of corpses that riddled the slope and the hilltop.
No new enemy was before Beobrand now, so he took a moment to regain some of his strength. The breath rasped in his lungs. His head throbbed and his chest ached from old injuries. The pungent stink of death, the metal tang of blood and the acrid reek of spilt guts filled his nostrils, making his gorge rise. His arms and legs were as heavy as if they'd been carved from stone, such was his weariness.
"I never was lucky," he shouted to Acennan, spitting up a gobbet of bloody phlegm, "but if we are to die here, there is something I must do first."
Acennan hacked his blade into the head of a man even shorter then him. The man's simple helm dented with a great clang and blood streamed over his brows, nose and cheeks.
"What is that?" Acennan asked, dispatching the short warrior with a savage thrust into his throat.
"I would avenge Eowa before I depart this life."
Ever since he had known that the atheling had fallen, Beobrand had felt the pressure of the anger within him grow. Despite the tiredness that wrapped his every sinew like a sodden cloak, and in spite of the ever-increasing likelihood of his own doom, he burnt at the injustice of Eowa's death. The man had been honourable and steadfast. He had known great love, which he had cruelly lost. But he had kept his word, been a good hlaford to his people, a good husband and father. Eowa had cared for and protected Octa as if he were his own son these last months and he had been repaid with battle and death. Gods, the man's own brother had attempted to slay him.
"And how do you plan to do that, lord?" Acennan called in a loud voice, to make himself heard through the chaotic cacophony of the battle-play.
Beobrand rolled his shoulders in an attempt to free up the seizing muscles.
"You said that Hyfeidd the Tall has never known defeat?"
"That is what they say."
"Well, I will face him this day, and he will know defeat. For he has slain my friend."
"With his height and those ridiculous plumes it shouldn't be hard to find him."
Beobrand nodded. He'd had the same thought. He must see where the champion attacked the shieldwall, so that he might manoeuvre himself into his path. Raising himself to his full height, he scanned the enemy force. There was no sign of the burnished helm with its white feathers standing above the mass of shorter men.
Another Waelisc man rushed towards him screaming. Beobrand deflected the spear thrust and lunged forward, disembowelling the enraged warrior.
Along the line his gesithas were slaughtering the Waelisc, who were lightly armoured at best. The black shields of his warband were scarred and splintered, but his men stood strong, their training and skill making them formidable. As he watched, Grindan and Fraomar parted, allowing mighty Eadgard to step from the line. With three massive strokes of his axe, three more Waelisc collapsed, adding their flesh to the charnel heap before them. Eadgard bellowed and raved, laughing as he killed, but when Grindan called him back, he returned to the shieldwall. Now, after years of drills, he was able to control the madness that came upon him in battle.
Beobrand searched again for the white feathers and the tall champion of Powys. Surely if this flank was where the Powys men attacked, Hyfeidd must be here too. But there was no sign. Could he have fallen? Perhaps. Even the bravest and most battle-skilled met their end at some time. But Beobrand did not believe it was so for Hyfeidd. Not just yet. When he had last seen the man it had been from afar, as he chased Eowa's fleeing Mercians into the forest.
Ever since then, the attack on the hill had been ferocious and terrible, scarcely giving the Northumbrians time for breath or a moment to think. And then it struck him.
By all the gods, could it be? He was suddenly certain.
"My gesithas," he screamed in his battle-voice, "to me!"
Without hesitation, his comitatus disengaged from the battle and formed around their leader in a well-practised movement.
Beobrand saw Derian flash him a scowling glare from where he stood with the king and his hearth-warriors. But there was no time to answer to the warmaster now. Not if Beobrand was right.
"By Tiw's cock," Acennan said, panting, "what are you doing?"
"Saving the day and taking my revenge," Beobrand replied, and without waiting for a reply, he turned and ran, away from the battle.
Chapter 27
Beobrand did not look back. Either Derian, Fordraed and the other thegns would be able to rally the troops to plug the gap left by Beobrand and his warband's departure, or they would not. Derian was a doughty fighter and knew which end of a seax was sharp. Beobrand was confident he would manage to organise the men and remain strong.
There were screams and shouts from the hilltop, but still Beobrand did not turn. He shoved his way through the ranks of men. Some were injured, some taking a moment's hasty rest after having stood long in the wall. Some, no doubt, were cowards, holding back from the fighting in the hope that death would not seek them out.
"To the front!" yelled Beobrand. "To the shieldwall!"
Some of the men, grim-faced and already bloody, obeyed him, heading back to the churning steel-storm of the front line. Those warriors knew their place and knew him. He was Beobrand of Ubbanford, half-handed slayer of Hengist. His bravery and battle-skill were things of legend and scops' tales, and they knew not to question his orders. Others, younger men, some unmarked by war, despite the battle having raged all the previous afternoon and much of this day, saw Beobrand and his black-shielded warband as a possible means of escape. They
perceived the Bernicians to be fleeing, having scented that the battle was already lost, and so they fell into step with them, trusting that the tall half-handed thegn had a plan to lead them to safety.
If it was safety they sought, they would be sorely disappointed, for Beobrand did not run from battle. He had merely chosen a new battle in which to fight. One that was yet to begin.
"God's blood, Beobrand," shouted Acennan, as they ran down the slope, leaving the tumult of the shieldwall behind them, "where are we going?"
For a heartbeat, Beobrand wondered whether he had made a mistake. Could it be that he had been wrong? He slowed to a jog, casting his gaze across the slope from the tethered horses to his left then over to the shade of the forest to the east. No, he had been right. There, where Derian had positioned a handful of men for just this eventuality, Beobrand spotted a flash of white, a glint of sun from a polished helm.
"There," he said, pointing with Hrunting's bloody blade and renewing his pace into a run.
From beneath the trees came more than a score of men. These were Hyfeidd the Tall's warriors. Their shields, once bright white, were now daubed with the red of their fallen foe-men; the blood of the Mercians who had come with Eowa. At their centre strode Hyfeidd, champion of Powys, resplendent in his battle gear, bedecked with fine armour. His sword was slick with slaughter, his shield scored and blood-splattered. But his helm seemed untouched by the fierce fighting. It still shone in the bright sunlight, its swan feathers yet proud, waving and taunting his enemies.
The men of Powys pushed the few warriors who guarded the forest path before them. They were outnumbered and outmatched and so retreated.
"Hyfeidd!" bellowed Beobrand, his voice loud enough to tear his throat.
The tall champion paused, looking beyond the men at the forest's edge and spying Beobrand and his warband descending the slope at a sprint. At the sight of Beobrand and his gesithas, battle-hardened, grim and gore-soaked, the few remaining defenders of the forest fled.
Warrior of Woden Page 17
