Not only had Beobrand lost his lord and king, for which he felt true guilt, but he had now given his word to obey Oswiu, and to stand by him unto death.
Cynan watched as Beobrand, Acennan, Attor and the others methodically chewed their food and morosely drained their cups and horns. Unbidden, the image of Sulis came to him. His mind had often turned to the thrall since he had left her at Ubbanford. He knew it was foolish, but no matter how often he told himself to forget about her, the memory of Sulis would flood his thought-cage. The feel of her arms, gripping tightly about his waist as they'd ridden north, her head leaning against his shoulder. The scent of her hair. The touch of her skin as he had bound her wounds. She despised him, he was sure, but he could not dispel the thoughts of her.
From the high table came a sudden, raucous burst of laughter. But there was no mirth for Beobrand and his men. For the lord of Ubbanford had sworn his solemn oath to a man who might well become the next king of Northumbria, and, in spite of Beobrand never having said as much within Cynan's hearing, or to anyone else as far as he was aware, it was clear to all that he loathed Oswiu. Cynan knew not if the dislike stemmed from Oswiu's contempt for the suffering inflicted by his men at the battle of Cair Chaladain, or if there was more history between the men, but of the enmity's existence, there could be no doubt.
Cynan looked at Oswald's brother. All round Oswiu, his retinue seemed content. Perhaps pleased at their lord's probable ascension to the throne left empty by Oswald's death. The thegns and ealdormen talked and riddled, and earlier a scop had sung songs of Oswald's great victories and how the Christ would take him into his bosom in heaven. But Oswiu was still and sombre. And he was staring directly at Beobrand.
Cynan shuddered. More worrying than Beobrand's dislike for his new oath-sworn lord, was the obvious hatred Oswiu felt towards Beobrand.
Chapter 35
Beobrand awoke with a start. He stifled the scream that was on his lips, looking about anxiously at the slumbering men who lay about the hall. He felt enough shame already, without Oswiu's retinue hearing him crying out in his sleep. The taint of cowardice had tarnished his name. He could see it in the eyes of the other warriors. Warriors who had never fled from a battle.
"They will think what they will," Acennan had told him the night before. "It is the truth that matters." They had both been well on the way to drunkenness on the ale of the lord of Caer Luel, but were still sombre and grim. As the night drew on, their speech had grown more adamant and harsh, despite the slurring of the words.
"Look where we sit, Acennan," Beobrand had hissed. "We are as far from the high table as it is possible to be without being out in the storm." He'd emptied his cup and held it out for Attor to fill it from a jug. "Truth matters not. Lies ruin a reputation just as well as the truth. Besides, it is not a lie that I fled from Maserfelth."
"You had no choice!"
"There is always a choice," Beobrand had replied, drinking yet more of Rhoedd mab Rhun's strong ale.
They had talked no more on the subject that night. But all the while Beobrand had been unable to pull his mind away from the thoughts of his failure to protect Oswald, from the knowledge that he had been responsible for his lord's death. And that he had then left the battlefield with his life.
Now, as he sat in the gloomy hall and listened to the wind and rain that yet buffeted the building, his dream was still as real to him as if it lay just outside in the driving rain and gusting wind. As if he had merely stepped through a door into this smoke-hazed darkness, sour with spilt ale and the body-stink of dozens of sleeping men. His breathing came in short gasps, as though he had been running. His body trembled, and his brow was beaded with sweat, though the fire had burnt to embers and the hall was cool. This was only the second night they had been in Rhoedd mab Rhun mab Urien's hall. The second chance at restful slumber. And yet, despite the bone-deep weariness of his limbs, which screamed at him to lie back down and attempt to find sleep once more, Beobrand remained seated, forcing himself to breathe more slowly. He would not find rest again this night. Men thought him a craven and perhaps it was so. For he feared to close his eyes; to step through that door from the gloomy reality of this noisome hall and into the death-filled maw of his nightmares.
So much killing. So many dead.
In his sleep he saw them all. He was running down the slope from the hill overlooking Maserfelth. Behind him, on the marshy land north of the Maerse, he had watched in horror as Penda and his men butchered dozens of horses that screamed like children as they were slaughtered beneath the huge ash tree. In his dream the tree was so massive that it could have been Woden's Gallows, the Earth Tree itself. It towered over the hill, so that even when he was far down the northern slope, he could still see its huge spreading branches hung with the dripping carcasses of the sacrificed steeds. He had stumbled on something, a root perhaps, but he regained his balance and ran on. He could not remain in that place, to see Penda bathing in the blood of the stallions, to witness the Mercian horde gorging themselves on the raw, blood-streaming flesh of the beasts.
Again something snagged at his leg and he almost fell. Looking down, his stomach lurched and bile flooded his mouth. It was not a root that had impeded him. The grasping fingers of the fallen warriors reached for him as he passed. They stared up with vacant eyes and blood-filled mouths, reaching out with their dead, clutching claws. Panicking, Beobrand brushed the hands away, pushing them aside, desperate to escape this place of doom.
A hand grasped his ankle, and with rising terror Beobrand tugged to free himself.
"I thought you were my friend," gurgled a voice and Beobrand stared down into the pallid, scarred face of Eowa.
"I'm sorry," Beobrand said then, pulling away. He turned quickly. But where the way had been clear a moment before, now his path was blocked by dozens of corpse-warriors, weapons bloodied and battle-harness beaded with gore and gobbets of flesh.
At their centre, he recognised Oswald. The king of Northumbria walked towards him on stiff, unbending legs, arms outstretched to embrace Beobrand. His great helm had fallen from his head and his blood-wet hair was slathered to his scalp.
"You should not run, Beobrand," the dead king said, his voice rasping against the corruption that clogged his throat. Beobrand had been transfixed by the horror before him. Eowa's hands scratched at his legs.
"You said you were my friend," bubbled up the voice of the atheling of Mercia.
Oswald tottered forward, his mouth pulling open into a horrific grimace.
"Come to me," he held his arms open, "embrace your king." Something moved in Oswald's mouth. With a twist of his guts, Beobrand saw it was a worm, that wriggled, long and slime-slick, to fall from his king's lips.
That was when he had awoken. He had dreamt the same dream for the last two nights. He had hoped that drinking himself to oblivion might help, but, if anything, the night shades had seemed more vivid.
The wind whistled under the eaves, rattling the clay tiles of the roof. The sound made Beobrand think of the gnashing teeth of the corpses of his dream. He shuddered, and stood. No, he would sleep no more.
Somewhere in the darkness of the hall someone coughed. Another man, his sleep disturbed by the noise, rolled over with a curse. The sounds reminded Beobrand of the ghosts that clawed at him in his dream. His stomach was in turmoil and he feared he might puke. He needed air. Pushing himself up, Beobrand picked his way over the sleeping men towards the hall doors. The guards there eyed him suspiciously, but after a moment, the shorter of the two removed the bar from the door and, without a word, pulled it ajar, allowing Beobrand out into the windswept night.
The rain did not fall as vehemently as it had the evening before, but the wind gusted, slapping his cloak about him, as the drizzle cooled his face. All around him loomed the shadows of the buildings of Caer Luel. Weeds grew from cracks in the cobblestones, and the roofs of some of the buildings had collapsed completely, leaving wall-shells heaped with the smashed remains of tiles and timber
. The wind rustled the bushes that grew in the empty buildings, and the branches of a hawthorn, that rose from the crumbling courtyard, creaked above him.
Beobrand gulped down fresh air, willing himself to calm. Try as he might, he could not shake the terror of his dream.
A hand touched his shoulder and he cried out, leaping away and drawing the seax from his belt. Gods, did he yet dream? Or were the denizens of the otherworld here, crawling amongst these stone bones of the Roman city?
"Easy there, Beobrand," said a familiar voice.
Beobrand felt a renewed shame. It was only Acennan. His stocky friend stepped from the hall behind him. This was no night-stalker to haunt his dreams.
"There is nothing to fear here," said Acennan.
Beobrand sheathed his seax and clenched his fist at his side. He felt foolish to be shaking, like a child frightened of the dark. Turning, he walked away from the hall. Acennan followed.
Beobrand looked up at the sky. Clouds roiled there, grey in the wolf-light of dawn. The rain had almost completely stopped. For a time the two friends stood in silence, each seemingly content to listen to the dying of the storm. Birds began to chitter and sing in the hawthorn in the courtyard. The birdsong was echoed from other trees around the city. Morning would be upon them soon. The sky brightened, picking out the details of the crumbling stones that the Romans had left so many years before. Acennan stooped, picked up a rock and threw it into a circular pond, which was surrounded by a low wall. The lord of Caer Luel had said that once water had spouted into the air from this pond, somehow controlled by the ingenuity of the long-forgotten Romans. Beobrand could scarcely believe it. It served as a water trough for the animals now. Acennan's pebble splashed into the brown water.
"I cannot stop thinking about those we left behind," said Beobrand, not looking at Acennan.
For a time Acennan did not respond. He picked up another stone, tossing it into the water and watching the ripples that formed there, reflecting the lightening sky.
"It is as you told Oswiu," Acennan said. "You gave your oath to Oswald. You could not stay. Do you remember after the battle at the great ditch?"
"Of course I remember." Beobrand snapped. He would never forget the shame he had felt at fleeing then. He had been injured, and Acennan had dragged him from the battle, saving his life. But there, as now, he had believed it was his duty to have given his life in battle.
"You were furious with me then. But it was my oath to protect you, Beobrand. I had no other choice. We are bound by our oaths. It is all we can do to fulfil them. And your word has ever been true. Acennan placed his hand once more upon Beobrand's shoulder. This time Beobrand did not flinch. "And you fulfilled more than one of your oaths at Maserfelth."
"Which oath?" Beobrand felt as though his oaths were of little value.
"You fulfilled your oath to Oswald, and you fulfilled your oath to your men. For did you not lead them safely from that place?"
Beobrand took in a deep shuddering breath.
"To safety," he said, his voice hollow. "Do you believe we are safe now that I have sworn myself to Oswiu?"
"I do not know, lord. But what else could you do?"
Beobrand snorted.
"If only I knew the answer to that," he said.
The rain had ceased now, and the wind had subsided somewhat. A tinge of salmon pink touched the clouds in the east. The birds had grown quiet in the trees. A dog barked furiously somewhere off to the south. And then a new noise came to them in the still of the morning air. The clatter of many hooves on the cobbled streets.
And the shouting of men.
Chapter 36
"I have a bad feeling about this," Acennan said.
On hearing the arrival of the horsemen they'd hurried back through the ruins of Caer Luel and had found a half-dozen of Oswiu's warriors, dismounting and rushing into the hall. Oswiu was no fool and he had sent many such small groups of riders out into the lands to the south to watch for sign of the enemy.
Beobrand and Acennan stood at the back of the hall and all was chaos around them. Men, groggy from the night's excesses, groaned to be awoken abruptly from their sleep. Thralls and bondsmen did their best to bring order, coaxing the hearth fire back to life, setting up boards on which to place food and drink, righting overturned chairs.
"Do you think they have spotted Penda's men?" asked Acennan.
"The gods alone know," said Beobrand. "But it seems doubtful. To march an army through the mountains towards Caer Luel would make little sense. Perhaps a small raiding party. Some of those Powys or Gwynedd Waelisc may have decided to chance their luck." They shouldered their way through the gathered men to get a better view of what was taking place. After the fresh, cool air outside, the atmosphere in the hall was thick and pungent, redolent of wet wool, stale sweat and sour ale. Beobrand's stomach churned. At the far end of the hall a door swung open and there stood Oswiu, hair tousled from sleep and face blotchy.
"Where is he?" he shouted, his voice cracking. He coughed and spat into the damp rushes.
One of the riders that had recently entered the hall stepped forward. Beside him stood a slim man. Dried blood and dirt smeared his face, his cloak was ripped and tattered. With a start Beobrand recognised Ástígend, the messenger who had led them to Maserfelth.
"We found him some way to the south," said the warrior, "his horse was almost dead, and he seemed close to death himself. He says he has come from Maserfelth. We tried to make him rest before coming here, but he would have none of it. Said he had to speak to you, lord. To Oswald's brother."
"Indeed?" Oswiu stepped into the hall, peering with interest at the newcomer.
"And what is it you would say to me, Ástígend?"
Ástígend looked shocked that Oswiu had remembered his name, but he raised himself up before the atheling.
Beobrand, Acennan and the other men at the doorway pushed forward, the better to hear what was said. All around the hall, men and women, servants and freemen, set aside their tasks, and turned to witness the exchange.
"My lord Oswiu," said Ástígend in a ringing voice that belied his injured and exhausted aspect. "I grieve with you at the loss of your brother. Oswald was the best of lords, and the best of kings."
There was a murmur through the hall. Oswiu frowned.
"And yet, faithful Ástígend," he said, his tone sharp, "you stand before me, alive. While my brother is dead."
Ástígend dropped his gaze and Beobrand thought he saw the man shudder.
"I fought to the last," he said, his words caught in his throat, "I saw my king fall." The hall was still and quiet. For a time it seemed Ástígend would speak no more, but then he raised his head and looked directly at Oswiu. "We fought then to avenge our lord," he said, "Derian raged and screamed, leading us forward, hacking and smashing into the enemy line. But alas Derian was lost to his rage." Ástígend hesitated. "God did not see fit to grant us vengeance." He sighed. "We fought with the strength and ire of wild boars, but in the end it was all for nought."
"Yes, others have already told me of how my brother fell," Oswiu said, his voice as harsh as a seax blade. "I thought you had something to tell me that I did not already know."
Ástígend licked his lips.
"I was wounded in that final furious fight. A Waelisc axe smote my helm and I was knocked senseless. When I awoke, night had fallen and all around me lay the bodies," Ástígend let out a small sob, but continued quickly, "the hacked meat of my countrymen. The hill was strewn with corpses."
"And yet here you are. Alive." Oswiu sneered.
"Yes, lord," said Ástígend, fixing Oswiu with a hard stare, "the Lord God delivered me from that evil place. But not before I witnessed the horror of it."
"I am sure we would all enjoy hearing the tale of your escape from the battlefield, brave Ástígend," said Oswiu, "but I fear we have more pressing matters to attend."
One of Oswiu's retainers let out a harsh barking laugh. Nobody else joined in.
"I do not come to recount my escape, Lord Oswiu, but to speak of your brother's death."
"I have already heard tell of his passing. I would not be reminded of it now."
"But lord," said Ástígend, "as a man of God, I know you will wish to hear this. It will pain you to hear the words I speak, but they must be spoken." Ástígend paused, as if expecting to be interrupted again, but Oswiu was silent now. "When I awoke, all around me was death. Men had been stripped of byrnies, helms and weapons. Why I yet lived I do not know, but I beheld such a sight then that I can never forget. You have heard perhaps of Penda's sacrifice the day before the battle."
Beobrand suppressed a shudder, his dream still fresh in his memory. Around the hall men nodded, for the tale of the stallion's sacrifice had been told to them by the survivors of Maserfelth.
"Penda is a pagan king," Ástígend said, his tone hard and cold as he thought back to what he had witnessed on that hill. "He is a pagan and he chose to rejoice in the victory the old gods had given him. A great fire burnt in Penda's camp and all around it his men and the warriors of Powys and Gwynedd cavorted and caroused.
"It seemed to me as a scene from hell itself. My skin yet crawls to think of those heathen devils and their celebrations in the firelight." All those gathered in the hall were rapt now, entranced by the tale Ástígend told, and the pictures his words drew in their minds. This was not the solemn, flat telling of Beobrand, Ástígend brought to his tale the gift of the scop. Oswiu too stared on, wide-eyed, hanging on every word.
"As I stood up, the bodies of my shield-brothers all around me moved and twitched. And yet they were truly dead." He let out a ragged breath. "The movement was from the birds and the beasts of the land who gnawed and chewed the flesh of those brave warriors." There was not a sound in the hall and Beobrand wondered whether anyone there yet breathed or if, like him, they held their breath waiting for Ástígend's next words.
Warrior of Woden Page 22
