Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  And then he saw them.

  Dark shapes of men flitted between the buildings. They did not speak, and they made no sound. The shades bore shields and Coenred spied the dull glow of steel reflecting the dawn sky.

  He did not move; did not breathe. They had not seen him. He was in the dawn-shadow of the church and he must be invisible to them there, in the darkness. He had a sudden urge to piss. He began to shake, but clenched his fists and willed himself to remain still.

  He began to recite the Paternoster silently, offering up the calming words to God. The Lord would protect him. But what of Tata? What of the countless dead all over middle earth? Did God truly care for any of his flock? Coenred raised his right hand to his mouth and bit into his finger, hard, dispelling the dark thoughts of doubt with the pain. He must have faith. For without it, what would matter then?

  He did not count how many men passed, but there were enough that he knew this day would end in bloodshed. Almost all of Beobrand's gesithas were far away in the war with Mercia. The few warriors in Ubbanford would not be able to stand against so many intruders. And if these men who skulked in the dawn had their wish, Coenred was sure the men of Ubbanford would be killed where they slept.

  When the last man had passed, Coenred moved quickly and quietly back into the church. He ran to Dalston's side and shook him awake. He placed his hand over Dalston's mouth as the monk awoke, struggling, eyes wide in the darkness.

  "Quiet," he hissed, "don't ask questions. There are men here in Ubbanford. Warriors. You must run to Bassus. Silently." Dalston ceased his fighting. His eyes bright in the gloom. Coenred removed the hand from Dalston's mouth. "They looked to be going towards the river. You should be able to reach Bassus in Ubba's hall, if you run now."

  Gothfraidh was awake now too. He sat groggily, but appeared to have heard enough of what Coenred had said to understand.

  "But what do they want?" asked Dalston, his whispering voice tremulous with fear.

  "There is no time for questions," said Coenred. "Run to Bassus. The attackers expect to surprise us. But if they see you, flee from them and raise the alarm."

  Coenred stood and ran to the door.

  "And you?" asked Gothfraidh. "Where do you go?"

  Coenred thought for a moment of Tata, his sister, and the horrific fate she had suffered at the hands of the Waelisc raiders. And then he thought of Sulis, fragile and beautiful, slumbering in the great hall atop the hill.

  "I will go to Sunniva's hall. Reaghan and the Lady of Mercia must be warned."

  Without waiting for a response, Coenred slipped into the cool, mist-filled morning and sprinted towards the hill. His bare feet squelched on the dew-soaked grass and wet mud of the path. He gasped for breath, as he pushed himself faster, faster. He would not allow anyone else to die as Tata had.

  He left the main settlement behind him, his breath ragged. Again, he wondered whether he was being foolish. The night seemed yet still and quiet behind him. He began to labour up the steep incline towards Sunniva's hall. Could it be that he had imagined these things? Was it possible that Gothfraidh was right about him and this was a fancy; a waking dream?

  And then, with a sickening realisation, he knew his fears had been all too real. For the mist behind him was suddenly aglow with the flare of flames. And the silence of the dawn was shattered with the first screams of that horror-filled day.

  Chapter 46

  Beobrand stared down at the dead horse. His men did not speak. He spat and looked to the north. The great peaks were hidden in a dark mass of clouds. As he watched, light flared within the clouds, as if two mountains had been struck together to produce a spark. He took a deep breath and listened. A long while after the lightning flash came the muffled rumble of thunder. The gods were speaking, but he was no priest who could decipher their meaning. If there were words being spoken in the distant storm, Beobrand could not hear them.

  He cast a glance at his gesithas. They were downcast and tired. They may not be able to hear the words of the gods, but as they stood around the stiffening body of the horse, it was clear to them all that the gods did not smile upon them.

  The sack that was tied to Bera's saddle was dark, damp from the rain as much as from what oozed within. And to think you called me lucky, Beobrand said silently to Oswald's head. A cold wind rustled the pines under which they had rested for the night. Rain spattered Beobrand's face, bitter and chill. Whatever luck he may once have possessed, it seemed to have vanished like morning mist with the death of Oswald.

  After losing Eadgard's and Grindan's horses they had made slower progress than he would have liked. And yet, for a time, as they'd ridden northward towards the mountains of Rheged, things had gone well. There had been no sign of pursuit and the clouds that brooded before them had not brought the rain they promised. Beobrand had dared to believe they might ride free of this western land and deliver Oswald's remains without further difficulties. They had pushed the horses as hard as they could throughout the day. They had spoken little, but Beobrand had noticed he was not the only one who turned in his saddle to scan the horizon behind them. They saw no warriors. No Waelisc galloping behind them. And Acennan and the others were nowhere to be seen. Beobrand worried for his friend, but there was nothing he could do but hope Acennan fared well.

  As that long muggy day drew to a close, the wind had picked up, whipping their cloaks about them and throwing grit and dust into their faces. The dark clouds had finally released their burden of rain and in moments the small band had been drenched by the pelting downpour. They had sought shelter in a small stand of pines, where they had cowered beneath the rage of the storm. Lightning and thunder had filled the night and at some point, when the storm was at its height, Elmer's horse had broken its tether in fright and careened madly into the darkness. Such was the ferocity of the wind and driving rain that there had been no point in going after the animal. And so they had waited, cold and wet, until Thunor's chariot had rolled over them and the storm rumbled and flickered into the distance.

  In the morning, the watery light of dawn showed them a sodden landscape. Leaves had been ripped from the trees and the long grass of the valley had been flattened. They had set out after Elmer's frightened horse only to find it no further than a spear's throw from their camp. It lay, solid, still and unmoving, in the shadow of an ash tree. Its neck was twisted, distorted and unnatural. It had galloped headlong into the tree's thick trunk. Beobrand shuddered. It was as though the beast itself had offered its own fateful sacrifice to Woden beneath the god's sacred tree. Like so many times before Beobrand wondered whether Nelda's words yet held sway over him.

  Could he be cursed? He spat again, this time onto the horse's head. Curse or no curse, he must lead them from this place.

  "Well," he said, forcing any trace of anxiety from his voice, "there's nothing to be gained from standing here. We have yet far to travel. Elmer, you will ride with Gram. But first butcher that horse. Cut enough meat for us to carry, but be quick about it." He fixed Elmer with a stern gaze and the older man nodded, pulling his seax from its sheath and kneeling beside the dead animal.

  Beobrand climbed into his saddle and surveyed the land to the south and west. Black specks, the distant forms of crows, flecked the iron-grey western sky. There was no sign of any man. And yet his skin prickled. The Waelisc were out there somewhere.

  Beobrand waited until Elmer had cut enough meat from the carcass with Gram's help. Without speaking, he tugged his horse's head to the north and kicked the beast into motion. His gesithas were quiet, sombre and subdued. They mounted their horses and followed him into the north.

  After a while, Beobrand looked back at the ash tree beside the path. There could be no denying that any lucky he had once had was now gone. If they were indeed being followed, it would be impossible for their hunters not to find their tracks. For there could be no clearer indication of their passing than the bulky horse corpse that rested beneath the tree for any that travelled this way to see.

&n
bsp; Chapter 47

  Reaghan awoke slowly. She stretched her fingers out, caressing the thick bearskin that covered her. Her sleeping chamber was dark and cool, but she was warm beneath the furs, her body languid and relaxed. She listened to the night and wondered why she had awoken. All was silent and she sighed with contentment. She ran her hand over the side of the bed which was empty, cold. With a dull pang she thought of Beobrand. It had been so long since he had slept at her side. She missed him, but gone was the sharp agony of loss she used to feel whenever he rode away from Ubbanford. Now his absences produced a blunted ache, a small pain that could be easily pushed aside, buried. Forgotten.

  She held her breath for a moment. She thought she had heard a sound. A dog yapping far in the distance perhaps. But no, all was still. Judging from the pressure of her full bladder, it must be close to dawn. Though she had drunk more than was good for her the night before. She had sat up late talking to Cynethryth, long after the Lady of Mercia's gesithas had wrapped themselves in their blankets beside the hearth. In Cynethryth, Reaghan had found the friend she had longed for. Despite their differences, they understood each other as well as any sisters. Where Reaghan's days had previously been filled with monotonous chores and a yearning for Beobrand's return, now the long summer days were times of merriment and laughter. There was still work to do. The hall needed to be swept, bread baked and pottage prepared, but she had Sulis to help her now, and Cynethryth had chided her that it was not the lady of the hall's place to clean or cook or to brew ale. Cynethryth was talented at weaving and sewing, tasks which had never come easily to Reaghan. Cynethryth had laughed at Reaghan's clumsy efforts but Reaghan had not been offended as she had been whenever Rowena had criticised her in the same way over the years. She watched Cynethryth's dainty fingers as they worked the threads and she sought to copy her. Cynethryth was a patient teacher and whilst Reaghan had no natural talent, her weaving improved. Rowena would often come to the hall, sitting with them both, clearly relishing the proximity to Mercian royalty. Reaghan was happy to listen to the old woman's chatter and Cynethryth was ever gracious.

  Some days, when the weather was warm, Reaghan and Cynethryth would take the children down to the river's edge where they would splash and play in the shallows of the ford. Cynethryth would talk of her own hall in Snodengaham. There was always a sadness about Cynethryth, a shadow on the edge of her words as she recalled her home. For weeks had gone by without word of Eowa. Reaghan knew that her new friend fretted over the fate of her husband. It was a bond between them. They had both married strong men whose lives were governed by war, power and battle-play. It was their lot to watch their children grow, to tend to their halls and to see that their husbands' lands were well governed.

  One day, when the sun was warm and high in the sky, setting the Tuidi flickering like polished steel, they had spoken of their fears. Cynethryth had surprised Reaghan by saying that sometimes she wished that she were a man, that she could take up spear and shield and join her husband in battle.

  "Would that not be better than these endless days of worry and fear?" Cynethryth had asked.

  "But it must be terrifying," replied Reaghan. She'd thought of the night that Nathair's sons had taken her. Of the horror and the fear. And of how Beobrand had come to her through the flames, gore-drenched and wounded, surrounded by death. "Waiting for our men is torture," she said, "but I would not wish to fight as they do."

  The boys had shrieked with laughter, drawing both the women's gaze. As they'd watched, Octa scooped up a pebble from the beach and flung it as hard as he could towards the far bank. It landed some way short, vanishing with a plop into the slow-moving waters. Alweo picked up a stone and threw it with all his strength. It too landed short of the bank, but a movement there showed Reaghan what the boys were aiming at. There, like a grey shade amongst the shadows of the bushes at the water’s edge, stood a heron. Perhaps the very same bird that Beobrand used to talk about. Reaghan watched as Osmod picked up a stone and threw it at the bird. For a third time, the stone fell far short and disappeared beneath the waters of the Tuidi. Reaghan was glad. She did not wish to see the bird harmed. And a smile had played upon her lips as the heron, clearly deciding that fishing would be better elsewhere, spread its huge wings and flapped noisily into the air.

  The boys had screamed and yelled, throwing stones after the huge bird, but they were yet children and their throws were weak. None of their stones struck home. And the heron had soon been lost to sight behind the trees and the curve of the river as it flew towards the west.

  "Perhaps you are right," said Cynethryth, who had watched the boys in silence, her face impassive, "men are not that much different from boys. Everything for them is about strength. How far can I throw a pebble? How much land can I conquer? How many men can I kill? We womenfolk have more power than the men, do we not?"

  "How so?" Reaghan had asked.

  "Men send others to their deaths. We bring life into the world. Surely there is more power in creating life than in destroying it."

  Reaghan had grown sombre and silent then. She remembered all too clearly the terrible, griping pains, as her body had voided her unborn child. Cynethryth, ever sensitive to Reaghan's moods, had reached out a hand to gently touch her arm.

  "Octa may not be your flesh," she had said quietly. "But are you not his mother? Do you not love him, nurture him, feed him and clothe him?"

  Reaghan had said nothing, merely nodding in agreement.

  Behind them Sulis and Saegyth, Cynethryth's gemæcce, had watched in silence. Reaghan had almost forgotten they were there at all, so engrossed had she become in her conversation with Cynethryth and in the boys' antics.

  But in that moment, she had suddenly become aware of Sulis' presence. It was as though the Mercian thrall's gaze had a weight of its own.

  Now, lying snug under the bearskin and staring into the impenetrable gloom of her sleeping quarters, she clearly recalled the expression on Sulis' face when she had turned to look upon her. Her eyes had brimmed with tears, and her mouth had been set, lips pressed firmly together. There was sorrow there. Sorrow at her plight and a consuming sadness for her loss. And yet there was more, and Reaghan was not blind to it. Sulis' delicate features had been twisted by simmering anger.

  Reaghan shivered in the darkness of her chamber, pulling the furs up close under her chin. It always saddened her to think of Sulis. The woman's pain was always evident in her haunted eyes and down-turned mouth. Reaghan pitied her. She hated to see suffering and, despite Bassus urging her to have Sulis thrashed for her insolence, Reaghan was pleased that she had resisted. She did not wish to inflict more pain upon the woman. She doubted the thrall would ever love her, but she hoped that Sulis would come to look upon her as a fair and just mistress.

  After the thrall's terrible outburst at Cynethryth's welcoming feast, Reaghan had been shocked and furious. But when she had gone to her chambers that night and confronted Sulis she had been pleasantly surprised to find her contrite. Sulis had begged her forgiveness. She would never again speak to her mistress in that way, she had said. Reaghan had allowed herself to be easily mollified, but before her anger had fully burnt away, she had snapped at Sulis, "You know that Bassus would have me beat you? He says you should never be trusted."

  Sulis had lowered her gaze and mumbled another apology.

  After that night, Sulis had performed her duties well and without complaint. The summer days had been warm and peaceful. It had been easy for Reaghan to push the thoughts of war far into the recesses of her mind; to dark places where her thoughts seldom ventured.

  A sudden harsh noise ruptured the stillness of the night. Something pounded repeatedly on the doors of the hall and, outside in the dark, someone was shouting breathlessly. A man's voice raised in anguish, high-pitched.

  Terrified.

  Reaghan leapt from the warm bed, shuddering as her feet touched the cold rushes. In the dark she fumbled with the latch of the door. The shouting grew louder, more insis
tent. The hammering on the hall's door suddenly ceased. More voices joined the first. Urgent, questioning. Dread prickled Reaghan's skin. The hairs on her arms rose in the cool air.

  What was happening? Could it be that Picts had crossed the Tuidi to attack the hall? Word would have travelled that Beobrand was far from home with his warband. Maybe the tidings of his absence had reached the ears of his enemies in the north. He was no friend of the Picts.

  "Sulis," Reaghan said, her voice shrill and sharp, small against the loud voices of Cynethryth's gesithas and the door wards within the hall. "Sulis, wake up, girl." Sulis slept on a small pallet outside Reaghan's chamber. Reaghan peered at the crumpled blankets there, trying to make sense of the shapes in the darkness. But there was no sign of the thrall.

  A pale shape loomed in the gloom.

  Reaghan started, terrified to think that perhaps a Pict may have reached her chamber. She recoiled from the hand that reached for her. Beyond the partition the voices continued to shout. Something crashed, hollow and booming, and a man cursed.

  "Mistress," said a familiar voice in the darkness, "it is I, Sulis."

  Reaghan let out a shuddering breath, cursing her own terror. She must not forget that she was the lady of the hall. She pulled her shawl about her. Her hands trembled, but she was sure that Sulis would not be able to see her fear in the gloom. Reaghan forced herself to speak calmly, imagining how Cynethryth would talk to her maid servant.

  "We must see that the lady Cynethryth and the children are well," she said.

  Before Sulis could reply Cynethryth stepped from behind the partition that led to her own chamber. She had struck a light and carried a taper. The guttering flame distorted her fine features. Her hair was tousled with sleep, wreathing her shadowed face. The rush taper threw enough light to show that Cynethryth's face was drawn and pinched with the same fear that gripped Reaghan.