"Many were the ravens, their beaks red with gore, and I had to be wary not to send them flying into the night sky, for surely then the warriors below would see someone disturbed the feast of those birds of Woden. I wanted to be gone from the place, to run, north or east, anywhere but that place of slaughter. And yet something drew me down the hill, towards the bonfire and the great ash where Penda's men celebrated their victory. Perhaps the blow upon my head had made me mad, I do not know. Maybe I was moon-struck, or maybe the one true God led me, guiding my steps, so that I might see and bring you these dire tidings." Ástígend closed his eyes then rubbed dirt-stained hands across his face. Unbidden, the warrior who had brought him there picked up a pitcher of ale from a board nearby, poured it into a cup, and handed it to Ástígend. Ástígend started, surprised by the gesture. But he nodded his thanks and drained the cup in one huge gulp. Nobody spoke for a time, all eyes upon Ástígend.
At last, Oswiu could bear it no longer.
"What did you see there?" he asked. His voice was no longer contemptuous.
Ástígend focused his gaze once more upon the atheling and yet he hesitated, as if, having reached this moment in his tale, he now felt unsure about how to proceed. He drew in a deep breath and continued.
"I do not think I was mad, Oswiu atheling. I believe that God led me down onto that marshy plain. For had I been mad, would I not have been seen by one of the many warriors that roamed there? But no, I walked in a daze, drawn inexorably towards the fire, towards the giant ash tree. I was as Daniel walking amongst the lions, and no Waelisc nor Mercian halted my progress. They were drunk on mead, ale and the dark magic that Penda and his pagan priest had wrought."
"The stallion sacrifice?" Oswiu asked, his voice as expectant as a child's now. Gone was all his earlier belligerence.
"I am sure they gorged themselves upon the flesh of that poor beast," Ástígend said. "The blood of the stallion is a thing of power to the old gods, we all know this. But there is other blood that brings greater strength to the magics of Woden."
Beobrand felt the cold fingers of dread scratch down his back. He feared he knew what Ástígend had beheld there, in that flame-filled night.
"The blood of a king is the ultimate sacrifice," said Ástígend. He did not break his gaze with Oswiu now and the atheling could not look away, like a vole caught in the stare of a swooping night owl. "My path led me all the way to the base of that great tree and there, upon sharpened death poles, waelstengs for Woden, I saw Oswald. His eyes looked down upon me, those clever brown eyes of his, sightless now in death. Penda had taken his head and placed it upon the central waelsteng. And on the other stakes he had placed Oswald's limbs."
A ripple of unease ran through the hall. This was evil magic indeed.
"How did you escape?" Oswiu asked. Were those tears on his cheeks that Beobrand could see?
"I turned away from that evil site," said Ástígend. "And once again the great Lord God was watching over me, for I found my way to the edge of their encampment, where their horses were corralled."
"And you merely mounted one of their steeds and rode from that place unhindered?" The incredulity in Oswiu's voice was clear.
Ástígend nodded.
"Yes, lord," he said. "It was as though none could see me, and so I took a horse and then rode away into the night. I knew not where you were lord, but again God led me. I headed north, to where your men found me. There," again he rubbed his hands across his face, "I have said my piece."
Ástígend, having imparted his tidings, seemed to wither and crumple. He had been injured and was exhausted, and now, it seemed his strength left him. The warrior at his side reached out and helped him to a stool, where he sat heavily.
For several heartbeats nobody spoke, and then all those gathered began to whisper and murmur at the news they had heard.
"Beobrand, son of Grimgundi," shouted Oswiu, his voice slicing through the hubbub like a knife to the throat.
Silence once more.
Beobrand did not wait for Oswiu to repeat his name. He would not have men believe he was too cowardly to face his lord. He stepped forward, elbowing his way past the onlooking warriors. Oswiu saw him, and turned his tear-streaked face towards him.
"Beobrand," he said, showing his teeth in a broad, mirthless grin, "my newly oath-sworn man, I have a task for you."
Beobrand clenched his fists, but made no other movement.
"Lord?"
"You it was who caused my brother's death," said Oswiu. Beobrand said nothing, but his jaw hurt with the force of his bunching muscles there. "Because of you, Oswald…" Oswiu took in a shuddering breath. "Oswald… My brother… His body has been defiled by that pagan bastard, Penda. The Mercian scum has taken my brother from me, but he cannot keep his body. The land of Northumbria will be mine. I will ride to Bebbanburg and I will summon the wise men of the Witena Ġemōt. They will pronounce me King of Bernicia. And then I shall summon my warriors once more to me, and I will ride against Penda."
Oswiu's retinue let out a ragged cheer. Beobrand made no sound.
"Penda may have taken my brother's life," Oswiu said, "but I will not allow his head, his limbs, his body, to be used in his pagan sorcery. No, Oswald's heart belonged to Bernicia and to God, and his body shall be interred on Bernician soil. You will take a dozen of your gesithas, Beobrand of Ubbanford, and you will ride to Maserfelth, and you will retrieve my brother's remains. Oswald died because of you, now you will bring him home."
Part Three
A Saint’s Journey
Chapter 37
They rode south under louring skies. The rain held off, but the clouds were grey and heavy, reflecting the mood of the men. When they had heard of Oswiu's orders Fraomar and Bearn had come to Beobrand.
"To do this thing is madness," Fraomar had said. "For surely Oswald's body will no longer be there, or if it is, Penda will have left men to guard it."
But Beobrand had merely shrugged. There seemed to be no fight left in him.
"Oswiu has my oath," he'd said.
Cynan watched him now as he dismounted. Beobrand, never a strong rider, rode stiffly now, his body evidently not yet recovered from the battle of Maserfelth and the long ride. Most of the other warriors were also weary, having stood in the shieldwall atop the hill. When Acennan had asked Oswiu why they could only ride with a dozen men, the atheling had replied that the rest of Beobrand's warband were to join the lord of Caer Luel's men. Acennan had protested, but Beobrand had pulled him back, cutting off his retorts with a harsh word. Beobrand had selected eleven men from his comitatus to ride with him. When Bearn was not chosen he had turned angrily to his lord.
"Have I not proven myself worthy?" he had asked.
"Of course, brave Bearn," Beobrand had said. "But I have another task for you. I entrust to you the rest of the men. You will lead them with my voice."
Mollified, Bearn had nodded his thanks and acceptance of the honour bestowed upon him. Beobrand had clapped him on the shoulder and led him away from the men. Cynan had watched intently as they'd spoken at some length out of earshot. Beobrand's face had been grave and serious. They had gripped each other's forearms in the warrior grip and Beobrand had returned to the men he had gathered about him for the seemingly impossible quest.
"And what of the twelfth man," Cynan had asked. He had counted the heads as Beobrand had named the men: Fraomar, Attor, Acennan, Beircheart, Dreogan, Eadgard and Grindan, Elmer, Garr, Gram and Cynan himself. "I count only eleven."
"If he would join us," said Beobrand, "I would have Ástígend."
"But we were at Maserfelth," said Attor, "We know where the great ash tree lies. Can we not give Ástígend some peace now? I fear he has suffered enough."
"We have all suffered," said Beobrand, "but if we are to dispel this dark magic of Penda's, I would take with us one whose steps are led by the Christ god. I believe it is Ástígend's wyrd to come with us."
And so it was the dozen were complete. Cynan marvelled at t
he resilience Ástígend displayed. The man's face had been sallow, his eyes sunken and dark, but with each day in the saddle Ástígend's strength returned. He seemed pleased for this opportunity to retrieve that which he'd left behind.
That morning as they'd ridden through the dim light of dawn they'd spotted a lone figure on a hillside. The man didn't see them until they emerged from the shade of the trees where they rode, but when he did, he turned and hastened from their path, clearly terrified of a group of armed horsemen. Cynan and Ástígend had kicked their heels to their mounts and galloped after him. His pitiful flock of sheep had scattered before them and the man had cried out in dismay, cursing at them for frightening his animals, defiant yet at the same time fawning in fear as the riders had run him down. They brought the man back to where Beobrand led the rest of the warriors and there they had questioned him. They had been pushing their mounts hard and in the three days since they'd left Caer Luel they had traversed the rugged country of lakes and rock-strewn crags. The land was softer here, wooded with rolling slopes and meandering rivers. They were close to the hill where Beobrand had faced Mynyddog. Within the day they would reach Maserfelth.
"There was a great battle to the south of here," the man said, tugging at his forelock and bowing before Beobrand. "A warhost led from Mercia. Penda it was. He killed the king." The man sucked at his teeth, seemingly unsure whether to be happy or sorrowful at the death of a king. He looked at the grim faces of the mounted warriors and swallowed deeply. "It was a terrible thing. Killed the king," he repeated, licking his lips. "Dunstan, the Christ priest, said the king is a martyr now. A saint. Hung upon the tree, just like the Christ."
"You have seen him?" asked Beobrand. "You have seen where Oswald has been placed upon the tree?"
The man nodded.
"Yes, lord, they did not mind the likes of me. I was afeared to go there, but Dunstan said the blood in the soil could cure any ill, and my wife has had a terrible cough these past months. So, I made my way there, down beside the Maerse. There is a huge ash and that is where he is."
"You said 'they'," asked Acennan. "Who do you mean?"
The man's eyes darted this way and that. Like a frightened animal, Cynan thought. The man wet his lips, spat to ward off evil, then made the sign of the Christ rood over his chest.
"Men like you, lord," he said.
"Like us?"
"Warriors."
"Whose warriors?"
"Penda's," the man frowned. "At least I think they served the king of Mercia," he said. "But they were men of Gwynedd."
"You are sure?"
"I'd swear that on the life of my best sheep. Their lord was a haughty one. Rode a great black stallion and had a white cloak." The old man shook his head. "I could hardly believe he had kept that cloak so clean. The ground around there was all mud and muck. I suppose that is why he stayed up on that big horse of his."
When they had pressed him for how many men there were at the ash tree by the river, he'd scratched his head, frowning. But then he'd closed his eyes, tallying up the men he had seen on his fingers, as he would count sheep. After what seemed a long time and many muttered grunts, his eyes had flickered open and he'd said, "There were somewhere between one and a half score to two score, when I was there not three days ago."
Beobrand had tossed him a hunk of hack silver for his help and the man's eyes had grown wide.
"Perhaps you can trade it for something for your wife," said Beobrand.
The man had looked bemused.
"You think a trader might heal her?"
Beobrand had looked into the distance where a flock of starlings swooped and swarmed in a shifting cloud.
"Perhaps," he'd said at last, "if the magic earth doesn't work."
Cynan had frowned. He wondered whether the soil from beneath the tree really was magical. Whether the earth there could cure sickness, as the man's Christ priest had said it could. Without warning, he thought of Sulis. Perhaps he could bring back some of the earth from the tree for her. Maybe this magic could cure the pain she felt. He cursed silently then at his foolishness. The Mercian slave wanted nothing from him. And yet he could not dispel her from his mind. Whenever they had ridden in silence, his thoughts would stray to Sulis. He wondered what it was she did back in Ubbanford. Was Reaghan keeping watch on her? Had Sulis softened, or did she still brood and dwell on her dark past? How could she not? Such a thing could not be forgotten in weeks or months. The loss of a son would never be healed.
In the end Beobrand sent the old man on his way. They watched as he hurried back to his sheep, whistling at his dog to herd them together. He cast a glance back at them, raising a hand. Then he turned and led the sheep and his dog away from the armed men, up the slope of a hill that was topped with a copse of beech.
"You think he spoke of Gwalchmei?" asked Acennan.
Beobrand looked up at the sky, thinking.
"I know not," he replied at last, his face stern. "But if Gwalchmei ap Gwyar is back at Maserfelth and stands between us and our king's body, we will settle our scores once and for all."
"From the sounds of it, he still rides Sceadugenga," said Acennan.
"If he does, I will slay him and take back what is mine," replied Beobrand, his voice as hard as the rocks of the crags of Rheged behind them.
"Well, it was his horse first," said Acennan with a smirk.
Anger flashed across Beobrand's features and, for a moment, Cynan thought he would strike Acennan. But instead Beobrand shook his head and sighed.
The starlings still murmured in the distance. The sun was low, the cloud tinged a bruised green and yellow.
"Come, men," Beobrand said at last, pointedly ignoring Acennan. "If we ride hard, we can be at the forest that rests at the foot of the hill of Maserfelth before nightfall. There we will hide the horses, and we will see whether the shepherd speaks the truth about the men who guard our king's remains." Beobrand kicked his heels into Bera's flanks and the huge, shaggy horse started off once more at a lumbering canter.
With a last glance at the shepherd, who was now almost lost in the shade of the beech woods on the rise, Cynan kicked his own mount into motion and followed his lord south.
Chapter 38
Darkness pressed about them like a shroud. Beobrand shuddered. They had tethered the horses beneath the canopy of the trees that lapped against the skirts of the hill. The hill where they had stood in the shieldwall against Penda's horde. The night was dark, the cloud, low in the sky, hid the sliver of moon and only a thin silver light permeated to the dark earth below. Beneath their position, where they crouched on the hilltop, they could see the great ash tree and there beside it, just as the shepherd had said, huddled a cluster of tents. Flamelight flickered there from the campfires. From this distance they could see no more detail, but Beobrand could think of no reason for changing the plan. He shuffled forward, trying to get a better view of the tree and those who guarded it. Peering into the gloom he strained his eyes to pick out more, but the night was too dark.
As he shuffled forward his hand touched something cold and pliant. Looking down, he saw with a shock that his hand rested upon the mottled, corrupt flesh of a corpse. He jerked his hand back, as if he had placed it on the glowing hot metal pulled from a smith's forge. The hillside was strewn with the scattered remains of those who had fallen in the great battle that had taken place there. When they had ascended the slope from the forest below, Beobrand had not looked at the pallid shapes that lay there. Now he could not draw his gaze from the corpse before him. The gaping maw of the gash in the dead man's throat was black in the thin moonlight. Beobrand shivered. Whether the dead warrior was Waelisc, Mercian or Northumbrian, he could not tell. The unfortunate man was stripped of any war gear, and his features were bloated. His eyes were dark, open voids where the ravens had pecked at the tender morsels.
Beobrand backed away from the corpse.
Despite not having had the dream again since they had set off southward, the nightmare was as
vivid and real to him as any memory. He frowned at his foolishness. The dead did not rise from the earth to assail the living. They did not stagger up from the cold ground, reaching for the warm flesh of those who yet walked under the sun, gurgling their recriminations at those who had forsaken them. And yet, who knew what power, what dark magic, may have been woven from the blood of a fallen king hung from a sacred ash? The stench on the hill was overpowering, pungent with the sickly corruption of death.
"We stick to the plan," he whispered. He feared he would gag, shaming himself before the men.
Acennan, Attor, Ástígend and Garr all stood silently. They had tethered their own mounts someway off to the west and had then crept up this slaughter-strewn hill to meet their lord. There had been some debate on where best to commence the plan, but in the end they all agreed that nobody else would be out amongst so many corpses. It seemed they had been proven right. Beobrand spat in an attempt to free his mouth of the taste of death that hung in the cool air. Breathing shallowly, mouth open, he rose and gripped Acennan's forearm in the warrior grip.
"May the gods smile on you," he said.
But which gods held sway here? Woden had accepted the gory offering of a king's blood that Penda had offered at the sacred ash. And the Christ god had turned away from Oswald, his faithful servant. And yet had not the Christ guided the steps of Ástígend as he had descended to gaze at the tree? Had he not kept the lean messenger safe, as he had beheld the grisly totem on the waelstengs, and brought him safely northward to Oswiu?
"Good luck, my friend," Beobrand said. They would need to rely on their wits, their luck, and hope that their wyrd would see them through.
"And to you lord," said Acennan, his teeth flashing white in the darkness. "We will meet you at the place we agreed." And with that, the four of them were gone, descending the hill until they were lost to the night. The four men were silent as shadows and Beobrand strained to hear their movements. But all was quiet in the still of the night.
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