For a long while Beobrand waited with the remainder of the men on the hilltop. They crouched in silence trying not to breathe of the foul, foetid air. Beobrand pictured in his mind how long it would take Acennan and the others to reach their position. He reached down and touched the hilt of his seax, then Hrunting's finely-wrought pommel. Lastly, he fingered the hammer amulet at his throat. Perhaps the gods were not watching, or if they were, they cared nought for Beobrand and his small band of gesithas. And yet, he offered up a silent prayer to Thunor and Woden, who loved mischief. Perhaps the All-father would appreciate what they were about to do.
Rising up, Beobrand beckoned for his men to follow him down the hill. Without a word, the men got to their feet and as quietly as they could, they slipped past the mounds of pale, rotting corpses, down the slope towards the marshy land below. Towards the campfires, the great ash tree, and their king's remains.
Beobrand felt no fear. He was glad to be leaving this doom-heavy hill. Whatever the outcome now, there was no turning back.
He thought he saw the dark shadows of Acennan and the others flitting before the fires. He increased his speed. They had left their shields with the horses. They needed stealth for this to work. With his maimed left hand he once again reached for the comforting touch of the whale-tooth hammer amulet.
As suddenly as lightning streaking from a storm cloud, the night blazed into light, making Beobrand blink at the glare. The tent furthest from the ash was aflame, and the camp was plunged into a chaos of shouting, followed shortly after by the clash of metal on metal. Acennan and the others were doing their part.
Beobrand sprinted forward, his feet squelching in the moist earth.
"For Oswald," he hissed, and his gesithas matched his pace.
He offered up a final prayer to any god who might listen. The plan was simple, he just hoped it might work.
*
Beobrand sped forward out of the darkness and into the flame-flickered night. The ash reared above him, its great branches spreading out to the moon-gilded clouds above. Beyond the shadowy form of the tree the camp was in uproar. A second tent was on fire now and men screamed and called out in the night. All was confusion, but there were too many for Acennan and the others to face for long. Beobrand cursed himself for not sending more of the men with Acennan. But he could not change the plan now.
Without warning a figure loomed before him in the gloom. It was a large man, but Beobrand had no time to discern his features. All he saw was a shadowy shape and before the man could utter a sound Beobrand drew his seax and, without slowing, plunged the blade into his chest. The man grunted and fell back to the soft earth. Fraomar, who was closest to Beobrand, quickly knelt at the man's side and sawed a blade across his throat.
They pressed on. There was no time to waste. Beobrand did not know how long Acennan and the others would be able to engage with the guards of the camp before they were either slain or forced to retreat.
"Quickly," he hissed and they rushed on.
At the base of the great tree two more warriors stood and Beobrand thanked whichever gods were looking down, for the guards had their backs to him. They must have been told not to leave their post, but were unable not to be drawn to look towards the flames and the fighting on the other side of the encampment. Cynan, as fleet of foot as a wolf, and as deadly, sprinted past Beobrand. The flame light glimmered on the seax blade he held. To Beobrand's right Beircheart leapt forward and together he and Cynan made short work of the two guards, who crumpled onto the ground with a whimper and a gurgled scream.
Beobrand slowed his pace, scanning the dancing shadows of the night for what he sought. The ash was massive and menacing in the gloom, its bark rough and moss-covered, like a rock. As old as time itself. Perhaps not a living thing at all, or maybe it had been planted by the gods themselves at the dawn of middle earth. Beobrand shook his head to free it of such thoughts. There was no time for this. They had come for one thing and if they did not retrieve it soon, it would be too late and all would be lost. It was a simple plan, but it relied on luck. For an instant Beobrand could hear the voice of Oswald himself telling him he had always been lucky. Perhaps his king had been right, for in that instant he saw the waelstengs, the great sacrificial death poles, that Penda's pagan priest had erected before the sacred ash. And there, in a mockery of the tale of the death of the Christ, was Oswald.
Beobrand recognised his king, the long brown hair that hung in matted tendrils, the high cheeks, the strong forehead. But gone was the intelligent man whom Beobrand had served these past eight years and in his place was the mutilated corpse of Penda's blood rite to Woden. Oswald's head, gazing down from sightless, hollow eye sockets, was impaled on the central stake. To either side his arms and hands had been skewered on shorter stakes, giving the appearance that he was welcoming Beobrand into an embrace.
Beobrand shuddered. Anger swelled within him. Oswald had been a great king and had given him everything. That he should die like this, to be displayed thus by his enemy filled Beobrand with rage. Gone then was his anger at Oswiu for sending him south on this mission, which he'd believed must surely end in his death and that of his men. For now he saw that he must bring back Oswald’s remains. Oswiu had been right in this. It was he who had caused Oswald's death, and it should be him who brought back his body.
"Cut him down," he said," gently." Grindan, Eadgard and Elmer stepped forward and worked at the stakes until they brought them down and placed them with reverence on the ground beneath the ash. The flames of the tents were dying down now, and the sound of fighting had abated, replaced with the shouts of men seeking a quarry in the dark. Acennan and the others had fled into the night and were being pursued.
There was no more time. They must be gone from this place, or they would be found, and slain.
Kneeling on the wet ground Beobrand shook out the sacks they had brought for the purpose of carrying Oswald away.
"Help me," he whispered to Elmer, who nodded. Elmer gripped the stake in his large hands, and Beobrand, taking a deep breath, reached out and took hold of Oswald's head. It was cold, heavy, lifeless. The touch of it made Beobrand's stomach twist, but he clenched his teeth and pulled. The head came free from the wood easily enough and Beobrand placed it within the sack. Eadgard and Grindan, with the help of Fraomar and Beircheart, had done likewise with Oswald's arms.
"What about the rest of him?" asked Cynan, his voice jagged with tension. Oswald's torso and legs were displayed on other stakes that jutted from the ground.
Beobrand scanned the camp. The chaos and cacophony had gone now. The fires had all but died out, and the yells of those pursuing Acennan and his band were far off and faint with distance. If they lingered here a moment longer, they would be caught.
"There is no time," he said. "We have Oswald's head, and his arms. That will have to do."
He turned his back on the huge ash, still feeling its brooding presence behind him. He half expected to feel its gnarly twig fingers scratching at his back as it reached out with its limbs, to lift him up and hang him high from its branches, like a mouse left by a shrike on a thorn. He remembered the way the stallions had dangled from the branches of the giant tree in his dream. But this was no dream.
He suppressed the urge to glance over his shoulder, and ran into the night, with his men at his heels.
Chapter 39
They were all panting when they reached the forest where they had left the horses. Beobrand had shaken off the horror of his dream memory and, the further they ran from the ash, the more possible it seemed that they might actually survive the night. It had been a simple plan, and relied on luck, but it appeared that his luck had held. The sounds of pursuit were distant and growing ever fainter as Acennan led their enemies into the west.
Beobrand would not again cross the hilltop, with its charnel stench and fish-pale corpses, so he had led the small band around the base of the hill. And then they had sprinted, breathless and gasping along the tree line to their moun
ts. When they had rounded the hill, they had halted for a moment, breathing through their mouths as quietly as possible, and listened to the night. The mass of the hill almost completely cut off the noises from the camp and, save for a couple of shouts that seemed to echo from a long way off, the night was silent and still.
As they jogged into the clearing, one of the horses nickered softly. Beobrand recognised Bera's whinny, and walked to the shaggy beast.
"Easy there," he whispered in the voice he always used with animals. It was so dark beneath the trees that Bera was just a black shadow in the gloom. Beobrand stroked his half-hand through the thick mane, soothing the nervous beast with his voice. Reaching for the saddle, he cursed the lack of light as he fumbled to secure the sack he bore to the pommel. But they could not risk a flame so close to the enemy that guarded the ash and Oswald's remains. Who could say what eyes might be watching them from the dark? The sack was heavy and every time it had bumped against his leg as they'd run, Beobrand had winced. This was no way for his king to be treated. But there was nothing for it.
"I am sorry, Oswald King," he whispered, as he finally managed to tie the precious burden to his saddle. He hoped the son of Æthelfrith could hear him from the afterlife. For he truly was sorry. For so much.
Around him, the others were mounting up. There was no time for regrets now. Beobrand swung himself up onto Bera's back.
But before he could urge the steed forward, someone tugged at his foot.
"Lord," said the voice of Grindan. It was too dark to make out the face.
"What?" hissed Beobrand. "We must ride hard. We can talk when we are far from this place."
A hesitation.
"We cannot ride."
"Speak sense, man," Beobrand snapped. There was no time for this.
Another pause. Silence in the dark. One of the horses stamped and snorted.
"My horse," Grindan said, his voice flat, "and Eadgard's. They're not here."
"What do you mean?"
For a brief moment, Beobrand had believed he might truly be lucky. How the gods must be laughing.
"They have pulled their reins free of the tree and they have gone." Grindan sounded desolate. He knew their success lay in their ability to flee at speed.
Beobrand took a calming breath. Suddenly he knew what had occurred.
"Did you leave the task of tethering the horses to your brother?" he asked in a hard, hushed tone. Eadgard was good for many things. Lifting enormous weights, breaking a shieldwall with his great axe, but not those tasks that relied on wits and dexterity.
"Aye," answered Grindan. "Sorry, lord."
"If we escape from this with our lives, I will make you sorry."
Eadgard did not respond. Beobrand's mind was racing. Without the horses they would not be able to make up the distance they had hoped for before the sun came up. He peered into the gloom, but all was as dark as his mood. The horses might be very close. It was unlikely they would have wandered far from the rest of the animals, but it was too dark. They had no time for thrashing about in the undergrowth. Besides, any noise they made would just as likely scare the horses further as well as attract any of the Waelisc that might be pursuing them. There was nothing for it.
"Bera is the strongest of the mounts," he said swinging his leg over the pommel of the saddle and sliding to the ground. "You and Grindan will share my horse." He had been whispering, keeping his voice as quiet as possible, but now he spoke more loudly, so that the others would hear him. "Grindan and Eadgard have lost their horses."
"How can any one man be so stupid?" said Dreogan from the darkness.
"Enough," snapped Beobrand, his voice sibilant and sharp. "There is no time now. We must ride. The brothers are sharing Bera. I will take Fraomar's mount. Fraomar, you will ride behind Dreogan."
He heard Dreogan spit. But he said no more. Fraomar, a slim shade in the gloom, slipped from his saddle without a word and pulled himself up behind Dreogan. Beobrand mounted Fraomar's chestnut mare. The horse was much smaller than Bera, but he was sure it would bear him well. Fraomar was the lightest of the gesithas and Beobrand calculated that Dreogan's dappled stallion would cope with the two of them. At least for a time.
"Now, come men," said Beobrand in a firm but hushed voice, "we have far to ride before the dawn. We will walk the horses for some time until we are sure that those Waelisc bastards will not hear us, and then we will push the horses as fast as we can."
He touched his heels to the mare's flanks and was surprised at how quickly she responded. He was used to Bera's lumbering gait. The mare trotted forward out of the clearing and into the cool, silvered darkness beyond the trees. He tugged on her reins, conscious of riding too fast and betraying their position with the noise of their passing. The men followed him out into the night, the hooves and the jangle of their harness loud in the dark stillness. Beobrand swung the mare's head to the north. He strained to hear any indication that they were being followed, or whether Acennan had been captured, but he heard nothing. When they reached the stream that ran some way to the north of Maserfelth he would increase the pace. It would be risky to push the horses in the dark, for an uneven piece of ground, a tree root or a badger's set, could break a leg. But with any luck the horses would remain hale, and they would put some distance between them and Gwalchmei's men.
Beobrand frowned in the darkness at the thought of luck. Within the coarse sack tied to Bera's saddle rested the rotting head of the man who had always claimed Beobrand had been lucky. Oswald had also believed that Beobrand was the hand of God on middle earth. He felt neither like the hand of God nor lucky. He wondered, as he rode into the dark, whether whatever luck he possessed had been given to him by capricious gods who revelled in watching his failures.
Chapter 40
Acennan cursed silently and placed his arm around Ástígend's shoulders.
"Come on," he hissed, "lean on me. It's not much further. But we cannot stop."
Ástígend grunted, but did not reply. He clung to Acennan and matched his pace, running clumsily, feet squelching in the marshy earth. He had taken a deep cut to the side, and before they had fled into the darkness, Acennan had seen that Ástígend's leg was slick with blood. And yet the wiry messenger pushed on without complaint.
Behind them, the shouts, cries and heavy footfalls of their pursuers were loud in the still night air. Acennan did not know how many followed them, but it sounded like at least a dozen. Too many for them to face.
They had rushed out of the night and hit them hard. Attor had managed to torch one of the tents, scooping up a brand from the campfire and tossing it into the shelter. Acennan had no idea what the burning wood had landed on, but perhaps some of Beobrand's fabled luck was with them that night, for the tent had burst into flames in a matter of moments. Like a pine cone thrown into a hearth fire, it had blazed, sending a sheet of fire into the night and lighting up the camp in an instant. In the confusion that followed Acennan and the others had added to the chaos, leaping this way and that in the dancing light to strike down any man who showed his face. They must have slain half a dozen that way, perhaps more, before the Waelisc formed a defence. Once their enemies had brought their shields to bear in a rudimentary shieldwall there had been nothing for it but to hope that Beobrand had been successful in his mission and that they had bought him enough time. They had turned and sprinted into the night, swallowed once more by the darkness like nihtgengas returning to their dank, tomblike caverns.
It was when they had run that Ástígend had taken the unlucky blow from a spear flung after them.
Ástígend stumbled and would have fallen if Acennan had not been gripping him tightly. He heaved him to his feet.
"Not much further," he said. "We'll have you in the saddle in no time and you can rest."
Ástígend did not reply. He pulled himself upright using Acennan's shoulder, and pressed on. Acennan hoped he would make it to where they'd left the horses. If they didn't bind his wounds soon, he feared Ástígend w
ould lose too much blood.
The sounds of pursuit were growing louder. A torch flared in the gloom. It was very close.
"Get him to the horses," whispered a voice in Acennan's ear.
Attor.
The man was as silent as a ghost.
"I will slow them down, and catch you up." The slender scout did not wait for a reply but disappeared into the darkness. Acennan was sure he saw the flame light of the distant torch glimmer on Attor's grin before he was gone. The man seemed to know no fear, relishing the thrill of this night-time attack.
Acennan increased his pace, pulling Ástígend with him. Garr, whose long legs had carried him further than Acennan and the wounded messenger, returned to them now. He positioned himself on the other side of Ástígend and helped half carry the ailing man forward.
"We are almost there," he whispered. His breath came in gasps. "The horses are where we left them."
Back in the darkness came a sudden ululating scream, followed by the familiar voice of Attor.
"Death awaits you in the darkness, you dog-fucking Waelisc pigs!" he roared.
Acennan smiled grimly. Once Attor's blood ran hot, there was no holding him back. Acennan hoped Attor would make it to the horses to join them as they fled, but there was nothing he could do. It was in the hands of the gods now.
Another scream, this time further away. Several men shouting angrily words that Acennan could not comprehend. Whatever Attor was doing, it did not please the Waelisc.
Before them loomed the shadow of the woodland where they had left their mounts. The shouts and cries of the Waelisc were still clear, but there was no doubt, they were further behind them now than they had been.
"Find some cloth to bind this wound," Acennan said. There was nothing for it. Ástígend was barely conscious. If they did not staunch the flow of blood, he would be dead long before the dawn.
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