Still, Cynethryth's smile seemed genuine. And, glancing around the hall, Reaghan could not deny that the feast was going well. Not that she had done much in order to make it happen.
After Bassus' announcement of the arrival of important guests, the day had gone from the usual chores, completed with a practised lack of urgency, to a frenetic rush of tasks.
Rowena had presented herself in the new hall on the hill shortly after Bassus had told Reaghan to expect visitors.
"I have come to help you arrange things, my dear," she had said. But rather than help Reaghan, she had taken over the role of lady of the hall. At first Reaghan had been resentful of the older woman taking charge, but then Bassus had come to her side. His face, as it always did, had softened when he'd looked upon Rowena.
"See how happy she is," he'd said, keeping his voice quiet and conspiratorial. "She loves to organise a good feast."
"We'll need to slaughter a sheep," Rowena had been saying, as much to herself as to anyone else in the hall, oblivious that she was being watched. The thralls bustled about the building, eager to do what the lady Rowena ordered. Reaghan recalled when she had been as quick to do Rowena's bidding. It seemed the Mercian thralls had learnt quickly enough not to cross their new mistress.
The afternoon had been a flurry of activity, with Reaghan fretting that nothing would be ready in time. Thankfully, in the end the visitors did not arrive until the sun was well past its zenith. Apparently it was impossible to travel quickly when laden with so many chests of clothes and possessions.
But looking about the hall now Reaghan could see that the extra time afforded them by the slow progress of Cynethryth's retinue had allowed Rowena and the other women of Ubbanford to lay on a welcome fit for a queen. And for the homecoming of their lord's only son.
She turned to Octa now and beamed, unable to contain the happiness that flooded through her to see him home again. Safe within this hall. As it should be.
"He has grown much these last months, has he not?"
Reaghan started. Cynethryth had set aside her small eating knife and leaned in close to Reaghan.
Reaghan smoothed her dress over her slim frame, conscious that the green woollen peplos, the best and most-prized item of clothing she possessed, seemed coarse and cheap next to the shimmering perfection of Cynethryth's gown. The Mercian wore a blue tunic of the finest wool, decorated at the sleeves with silken purple stripes. Around her slender waist was a woven hemp girdle of white, green and indigo. The ends of the girdle were finished in gold that glittered in the firelight.
Reaghan swallowed.
"Indeed he has, lady," she replied, her voice shaking.
Cynethryth seemed not to notice Reaghan's nervousness.
"He is a fine boy," she said. "He looks much like his father, but there is something softer about him." She looked sidelong at Reaghan. "Something of his mother's looks perhaps?"
Reaghan tensed. Did Cynethryth know she was not the boy's mother? Surely she did. But Reaghan saw no malice in the woman's face.
"He does have something of his mother's features," she replied. "Sunniva was beautiful."
To Reaghan's surprise, Cynethryth reached out and placed her hand on her arm.
"But you are Octa's mother now, aren't you?" she said. "Octa never stopped talking of you. He missed you terribly."
Reaghan felt her eyes suddenly brimming with tears.
"I missed him too," she said.
Cynethryth patted her arm.
"Well, I have brought him back to you."
Octa was playing with Eowa's sons, Osmod and Alweo, on the far side of the hall. They were teaching the hounds to sit and beg for scraps. As the two women watched, one of the dogs got tired of waiting for his reward and jumped up, knocking young Alweo over onto the rushes. Cynethryth and Reaghan both sprang to their feet, but before they could even utter a sound, Octa had jumped forward and pushed the dog away. He helped Alweo up and the three boys were soon laughing again.
Reaghan and Cynethryth seated themselves once more, smiling ruefully at each other.
"It is a woman's lot never to stop worrying, I fear," said Cynethryth. "First for her children, and then for her man." She took a sip of the ale from a small silver cup. Reaghan had taken it from Beobrand's hoard of treasure, keen to honour her guest.
Reaghan smiled now. Cynethryth was not aloof and distant as she had feared she would be. She was a woman. A wife. A mother.
"It seems to me that our men are often worse than the children," she said, emboldened by Cynethryth's friendly demeanour.
Cynethryth offered her a sad smile.
"Unfortunately, the games that men play are oftentimes deadly."
They fell silent then. Reaghan thought of Beobrand. Seeing Octa made her miss him all the more keenly. She said a silent prayer that he would be safe. When he returned, she would make it all the way it had been before. Too long had she allowed the cold distance to build between them.
The boys had grown tired of tormenting the dogs. The other children from Ubbanford had joined them, forgetting their initial shyness, and they were all now engrossed in defining some complex rules to a game they appeared to be inventing. One of them evidently said something humorous, for the throng of children suddenly erupted into gales of laughter.
"We may be very different, you and I," Cynethryth said. "But we are sisters. We have a shared bond. Our men are away, and there is nothing we can do but wait and see that their children are cared for."
Reaghan could scarcely believe she had feared this woman.
"I am glad Beobrand sent you to our hall, Cynethryth," she said, realising with a start that it was true. She had been lonely for so long. Perhaps Cynethryth would truly be her friend.
A sudden angry shout sawed savagely into Reaghan's soft, contented thoughts.
"By all the gods, I can listen no more!"
The furious shriek came from Sulis, who had been standing all the while behind her mistress, ready to attend her when needed. Reaghan had almost forgotten that the woman was there. She was not accustomed to having her own house thrall to serve her, and Sulis had been still and silent.
Until now.
Her scream cut through the warm conviviality of the hall like a sword blade slicing into the plump stomach of an unsuspecting foe. All eyes turned in her direction. Conversation and laughter died on ale-wet lips.
"I am a woman of Mercia!" she shouted, spittle flying from her mouth. Her ire was directed at Cynethryth and for a moment Reaghan thought that Sulis would launch herself at the lady. Sulis' fists bunched and she looked set to throw herself at Cynethryth. "Would you eat and talk with this Waelisc slut while I am held a slave?"
Sulis panted, seemingly shocked at her own outburst. Bassus rose from his seat, his huge presence bringing with it a sense of control to the hall.
Cynethryth gave Sulis a long appraising look.
"I am a guest in this hall," she said, her voice clear and steady. This was not a woman to be cowed by a thrall's anger. "I am sorry for your plight, but it is not of my concern."
"Not your concern?" spluttered Sulis. "You eat and drink here, a guest of these Bernicians. Your sons yet live. Where is my son?" she sobbed. "Where is he?" Tears flowed down her cheeks and it seemed she would speak no more, that the fire of her anger had burnt out. But then she screamed, "I am no slave!"
Bassus strode towards the thrall. His great bulk looming over her. He lifted his one hand menacingly.
"Watch your tongue, girl," he bellowed.
Reaghan surged up, placing herself between Bassus and Sulis. Her neck prickled. Behind her, she could sense Sulis' rage emanating from her like the heat from a forge.
"Hold, Bassus," she said, surprised that her voice did not quaver.
"She needs a good beating," roared Bassus. "I have told you before that this one needs to feel the lash if you are to ever trust her."
"Nobody is going to be beaten tonight," she replied, her tone calm and soothing. The same voice sh
e used when speaking to Octa when he was tired and angry.
She turned to face Sulis.
"Leave now," Reaghan said. "Go to my sleeping quarters and remain there."
Sulis glared at her. Her anger was almost palpable, but Reaghan did not recoil from the strength of Sulis' ire. She held her gaze until, at last, the slave stalked out of the hall through the partition that led to the private chambers beyond.
Chapter 34
Cynan took a deep draught of ale. Usually the warmth of a hall and the rich, heady brew would relax him. But now, as he sat amongst so many warriors in the hall of a stranger in Caer Luel, he could not shake the feeling of anxiety that had settled upon him like a bad odour. He had hoped to be rid of the nagging sensation of doom that had clung to him ever since riding to Ubbanford with Sulis and the other Mercian thralls. And yet it still clung to him, heavy and brooding, like the dark clouds that now covered the land.
The sky had darkened, ushering in angry, gloom-laden clouds from the north as they had ridden northward from Beobrand's duel with Mynyddog. Cynan had been jubilant to find his lord and most of his shield-brothers hale, and he had thanked all the gods that he had pressed on south after meeting Oswiu's host on the road. Oswiu had been taken ill with the sweating sickness and so his comitatus, and the warriors of Rheged who had joined his banner, had lingered at the hall of Rhoedd mab Rhun mab Urien. Rhoedd carried himself with the bearing of a great man, tall and proud, wearing the finest of clothing. But just as the crumbing remains of Caer Luel were a pale shadow of their former glory, so too the grandson of Urien knew that his kingdom's power had waned. Rheged had aligned itself to Bernicia and Northumbria, and the sons of Æthelfrith were now Rhoedd's masters.
Oswiu's men had urged Cynan and the men who had ridden with him from Ubbanford to wait with them at Caer Luel and later ride south when Oswiu recovered, thus swelling their ranks yet further. But the tugging worry would not leave him and Cynan had firmly refused, leading Beobrand's gesithas away before Oswiu could be roused from his sickbed. He had feared the atheling might order them to remain with him, and once such an order was given, it would take a very brave man or a fool to ignore it. And so he had told the men to mount in haste and they had galloped south, leaving the crumbling walls and cracked, dry fountains of Caer Luel behind.
Cynan glanced at the atheling now. Oswiu had made a speedy recovery and sat at the high table beside Rhoedd mab Rhun, surrounded by his closest thegns and ealdormen. As Cynan watched, Lord Fordraed, drinking horn sloshing its contents carelessly in his left hand, leaned in close to Oswiu. The atheling listened intently, nodding his approval at the words of the plump thegn. Cynan drained his cup and cursed, sure that Fordraed dripped yet more poison into Oswiu's ear about Beobrand.
Beobrand and all his warband, including Cynan, sat at the far end of the boards, in the place of least prestige. Such a thing was unheard of for a thegn of Beobrand's worth, who had served Oswald with dedication for many years.
But of course, Oswald was dead.
A few other survivors from Maserfelth, including Fordraed and a handful of his warband, had straggled into the hall in the day since Beobrand's arrival, but Beobrand had been the first, and the only lord to travel with a substantially intact band of warriors. Cynan had seen the looks and heard the whispers. How could it be that the great Beobrand could ride free from a battle so terrible that the mighty King Oswald, the Christ-anointed lord of all Northumbria and much of Albion, had been slain, along with most of his warhost? They knew the answer, for Beobrand had spoken of what had transpired before them all, as Oswiu slouched in Rhoedd's intricately carved gift-stool. Beobrand had recounted everything in a voice devoid of feeling; the savagery of the battle, the sacrifice to Woden under the great ash tree, the forced march of Eowa's host, the doomed stand upon the hill, and then, how Eowa had fallen, and later seeing Oswald's banner fall, and Derian's order to flee north.
The hall had been silent as men listened to the tale of defeat and sacrifice. Beobrand was no storyteller, no scop. But even those men with little in the way of imagination could picture the scene as it had been on that hill overlooking the marshy field north of the Maerse. The pain of the defeat was plain to see on the faces of Beobrand and his warriors. They were all dirt-streaked, stiff from battle and hard riding, and their eyes were grim and dark. They were exhausted, their bodies had been battered, and they had lost their king. Worst of all, Cynan knew that Beobrand blamed himself for Oswald's demise.
Oswiu had sat as quietly as the rest of them as Beobrand had spoken in his dull monotone of the events to the south, but when he spoke of running from the battle, the atheling's face had clouded and he'd pushed himself upright on the gift-stool and spoken.
"You fled from the battle, brave Beobrand?" he'd asked, his tone dripping with contempt.
Cynan had wanted to scream out in his lord's defence. At least Beobrand had stood in the shieldwall, had taken many men from Mercia and his own warband into danger and death. Oswiu had been convalescing all the while in this comfortable hall, no doubt being fed the choicest of foods and sating his other hungers with the prettiest of the house thralls. Beobrand's gesithas had all bridled at Oswiu's tone, but Cynan had taken a step forward. He could not allow such injustice.
But Gram had placed his hand on Cynan's shoulder and whispered, "You cannot win a fight with an atheling, Cynan."
Cynan had stepped back, but his anger yet simmered to remember the scene.
Beobrand had taken a deep breath and merely nodded, seemingly unable to utter the words that would brand him a coward in the eyes of all the gathered men.
Oswiu had frowned.
"Was it not your duty to defend the king?" he had spat the words. "Were you not oath-bound to give up your life in his defence and if he fell, to take the blood-price from his slayers until you too were killed?"
Again Beobrand had simply nodded assent.
"Then why," Oswiu had screamed, a sudden fury coming over him, "are you not feeding the wolves at Maserfelth?" A hound that had been resting quietly at Oswiu's feet, had leapt up in alarm and slunk off into the shadows. All about the hall, men had shifted uncomfortably. Gram had tightened his grip on Cynan's shoulder.
Beobrand had met Oswiu's gaze then. There was yet flint in those eyes. He had ridden from Maserfelth, and that clearly weighed heavily upon him, but those were not the eyes of a craven. He glared at Oswiu, and something like his usual fire kindled in his stare.
"I did not break my oath, Lord Oswiu," he made the title sound like an insult. "I did not remain at Maserfelth because it was not my king's will."
Oswiu had forced himself to sit back with a visible effort. He ran his fingers through his hair and then brushed invisible dust from the shoulder of his kirtle.
"Explain yourself," he had said, holding Beobrand's gaze, but visibly uncomfortable.
"Derian, son of Isen, reminded me of my oath to your brother." For several heartbeats, neither had spoken further, but then Oswiu's eyes had opened wide in understanding.
"The pledge you swore when he was struck down at Tatecastre," Oswiu had said, his voice small now, disbelieving and surprised at this twist of their wyrd that would see them linked together.
Beobrand nodded once more. There were no more words needed. Whether they had all been there or not, there was no-one in the hall who did not know of the tale of the battle of Tatecastre, the battle where he had donned the king's helm and led them to victory; where Beobrand swore to plight his oath to Oswiu upon Oswald's death.
And so it was that Oswiu had stood before them all, an unfathomable expression upon his face. And there, in Rhoedd mab Rhun's leaking hall of Caer Luel, with the smoke billowing from the hearth fire and the driving rain pounding the tiled roof, Beobrand of Ubbanford had knelt in the damp rushes and sworn his oath to yet another son of Æthelfrith. He had spoken the words clearly, but each syllable fell brittle and sharp from his mouth like hammer scale chipped upon a smith's anvil.
"I will to
Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith," Beobrand had said, "be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it."
Oswiu had stared at Beobrand for a long while after Beobrand had spoken the oath. It was usual for a lord, upon receiving a man's oath, to raise him up, embrace him, and often to proffer a gift as a token of the treasures they would bestow in the future. Oswiu did none of these things. He merely stared and the silence grew uncomfortable. Rain hammered the roof, and water trickled onto the rushes in several places where tiles had been lost and never replaced. Beobrand, motionless and unflinching, returned his new lord's gaze.
When it had seemed neither man would break the silent battle of wills, Oswiu had lowered his eyes and returned to his gift-stool.
"I accept your oath, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi," he had said carelessly over his shoulder.
Cynan poured more ale into his cup but did not drink. It was good, but he had no appetite for it. And his muscle-clenching anxiety still gripped him. For how could he relax when so much was wrong in the world? After his initial happiness at finding Beobrand and his gesithas alive and riding north, their pervading mood of gloom had settled upon him too. The weather had drawn in, and a cold spiteful rain had pounded them as they had ridden betwixt the huge peaks of that farthest western reach of Rheged.
When they had camped, the men had told him the story of Maserfelth and he had believed he had understood their mood. They were weary, and sorrowful at the loss of their king. But now, thinking back to the previous day when Beobrand had been forced to give his oath to Oswiu, Cynan thought he truly comprehended the full extent of his lord's woe.
Warrior of Woden Page 21
