The clamour within the hall continued.
"Come," said Reaghan. She was surprised at the firmness in her own voice. "Let's see what this noise is all about."
Cynethryth turned to Saegyth.
"See that the boys are well. If they have not woken, awaken them. And dress them. Quickly."
Reaghan led the way into the main hall, followed by Cynethryth and Sulis. There was more light here. Someone had thrown a fresh log onto the hearth and flames licked the wood, casting dancing shadows into the darkened corners. All around them was chaos. The men were all on their feet. Some were already shrugging on their byrnies, hefting shields, buckling on sword belts. Their faces were grim and blank, partway between the slack-mouths of slumber and the clenched jaws of killers of men.
More light filtered in from the open doorway. She had been right, it was close to dawn, the sky was the colour of cold iron. She moved further into the hall and the men finally noticed her and the other women. They turned to face her, expectant, awaiting her command.
For several heartbeats she said nothing. She knew not what to say. Then Cynethryth touched her shoulder lightly, awakening her from the spell of her fear. Reaghan took a deep breath, straightened her back.
By Danu, Mother of all, she told herself, you are the lady of the hall. You must lead these men.
"What is the meaning of this?" she said, raising her voice.
Several men started speaking at once, their words confused and tumbling like stones kicked down a hill. She raised her hand and they fell silent.
"You," she pointed at Lanferth, the door ward. "Speak."
"Brother Coenred has come to the hall to warn us," Lanferth said. "Ubbanford is under attack." Reaghan searched the faces of the gathered men and found that of the Christ monk. He was flushed, his face beaded with sweat. His bare feet were splattered with mud. Beyond him, through the open doors of the hall, the day was brightening. No, she corrected herself, seeing her mistake with a sickening twist of her stomach. The red light she saw came not from the rising sun, but from flames. And what she had taken for clouds tinged with the ruddy hue of dawn was thick, roiling smoke, billowing up from a conflagration. In the valley below Sunniva's hall, the houses of Ubbanford were burning.
Reaghan shivered and her words dried up in her mouth.
Fire in the darkness brought death. Unbidden came the distant memory of the night all those years before when she had been snatched from her village by the Angelfolc. She had seen her loved ones murdered on that night of terror. On another flame-riven night, the sons of Nathair had stolen her away. She had been certain that she would surely die at the hands of those brutal Picts. Beobrand had saved her then, stepping from the flame-flicker darkness and carrying her back into the light. Reaghan shivered again, despite the warmth from the freshly rekindled hearth. Beobrand was far to the south and she knew not who would save her this time.
She was paralysed with fear. Dark thoughts smothered her mind like a frantic murder of black-feathered crows. She could not speak. They would all die here.
Cynethryth stepped forward, taking charge.
"Who are they?" she asked in a steady voice. "And how many?"
Coenred turned to her. He was recovering from his run now, his breath returning. And, whilst he still had the look of fear about him, he appeared to be in control despite his obvious agitation.
"There are many of them, lady," he said, nervously running his long fingers through his hair. "It was dark and misty. I could not be sure of their number."
"Come, lad," snapped Lanferth, "that is of no use to us. Were there five or fifty? A hundred?"
Coenred swallowed and nodded.
"I cannot be sure, but I would judge them to be more than a score. Perhaps as many as two score."
The hall fell silent. With the few men left in Ubbanford, they could not hope to stand against so many. Reaghan's mind reeled. What could they do? Death was coming for them with fire and steel. A thin sound of wailing drifted through the open door. Lanferth ran over, peering down towards the houses below.
Reaghan trembled, wrapping the shawl more tightly about her shoulders, as if the wool could somehow protect her.
"Who are they?" asked Lanferth. "Picts?"
Coenred shook his head.
"I know not who they are, but they are Angelfolc. I heard them shouting to one another once the burning started…" His voice trailed off. Perhaps he was picturing in his mind what was happening to those left down in the valley. Then, as if he had suddenly recalled something, he said, "I do not know them, but I am sure I would not have forgotten them if I had seen them before."
"Why?"
"Their leader is a giant. I looked back as I ran and saw him…" Again his voice drifted into silence. He swallowed. "He is bigger even than Bassus or Eadgard. And he has a great beard and head of flame-red hair."
Cynethryth paled.
"I know this man," she said, her voice small now. Her face was as pale as the linen sleeping kirtle she wore.
"His name is Halga, son of Grimbold. He is one of Penda's men. He must have come for me…" Her face crumpled at the realisation of who the red-bearded giant must seek. "My sons!"
Reaghan knew she must act. To stand like this, silent and unmoving, served no purpose. She may as well welcome these death-bringers that had come with the dawn into the hall with open arms.
"We cannot face them, lady," said Lanferth. He spoke his words to both Reaghan and Cynethryth, unsure who was in command.
Reaghan took a long, ragged breath. This was her hall. Her home. She was the lady of Ubbanford and she must lead the people from danger.
"We will run," she said. "Lanferth take everyone to the ford as quickly as possible. Go around behind the hall where we won't be seen from the valley. The rest of you," she turned to the gesithas, both Beobrand's and Cynethryth's, "you will protect us as we flee. We will cross the Tuidi and make our way to Stagga. Let us pray that there we will find enough people amongst Acennan's folk to stand with us against these Mercians."
Glad of firm guidance, Lanferth nodded and began shouting orders. The hall was once again filled with noise and motion.
Reaghan turned to her thrall.
"Sulis, go and help Saegyth with the boys. There is no time to waste."
Sulis did not move. Cynethryth frowned.
"Go on, girl," snapped Reaghan, "this is no time for your insolence."
"I will not," said Sulis. She spoke in a quiet tone, but the words were clear enough.
"We cannot tarry here. The men will be upon us soon. We must flee." Reaghan's voice was tinged with despair.
Sulis shook her head. Her face was as cold as stone.
"No," she said. "I am Mercian and I will be a thrall to you no longer."
All around them the men were donning their battle-harness. None save Cynethryth and Coenred seemed to notice the exchange between Reaghan and Sulis.
Reaghan reached for Sulis. She meant to take her by the shoulders and turn her towards the sleeping quarters.
"There is no time for this, Sulis," she pleaded, desperation entering her tone. "Come now, we must run. Think of the boys. They will be killed." Sulis winced at the words.
Cynethryth let out a small cry and pushed past Sulis, running back towards the sleeping chambers. Reaghan could feel her body shaking like a tree caught in a great storm now.
"And think how we will suffer at the hands of those warriors. We both know what will befall us. Please…" she implored.
"No!" screamed Sulis, her ire sudden and searing. The warriors around them glanced over at the sound.
Reaghan recoiled from the heat of that rage. And yet she felt her own anger ignite.
"Sulis," she shouted back at the thrall, "do what I say now." Again she reached for Sulis, to push her towards the rear of the hall.
"No!" shrieked Sulis once more, shoving Reaghan hard.
For a moment, Reaghan staggered back. Anger and outrage flared within her. Then, she gasped as a seari
ng agony filled her belly. Confused, she glanced down. Blood was blossoming beneath a ragged tear in the cloth of her kirtle. She pressed a hand to her stomach. It came back hot and wet with blood. Wide-eyed and shaking, she looked at Sulis in amazement.
At her side, clutched in her white-knuckled fist, Sulis held a blood-slick knife. Absently, Reaghan wondered where she had got the blade from. The room seemed to shift around her, and Reaghan stumbled. Coenred gripped her arms, held her upright. His face was as white as whey, his eyes reflected the horror she felt.
"No," Sulis said for a third time, but now her voice was small, as if she was shocked at what she had done.
"Sulis…" stammered Coenred.
The Mercian ignored him.
"Bassus was right," she hissed at Reaghan. She pushed past Coenred, who watched her go, open-mouthed and staring. Sulis ran quickly towards the doors of the hall. Lanferth seemed bemused at what was happening, but, recognising that something was amiss, he made to grab the thrall before she could flee. Sulis dodged his outstretched hands, lashing out with her bloody knife. Lanferth cursed and retreated, blood welling from a deep cut to his right palm.
Without hesitation, Sulis dashed past him and out into the dawn.
Chapter 48
The sun was low in the west when at last Beobrand saw their destination before them. They had ridden for two more days, plodding northward beneath the low, brooding skies. After the storm and the death of Elmer's horse, the weather had remained cool and overcast. The leaden skies suited Beobrand's mood and most of the time they'd ridden in silence. Only Cynan and Beobrand had their own steeds now and so, for much of the journey, they'd found themselves riding at the front of the small band of horsemen.
Beobrand reined in his mount and pointed.
"There is the peak I spoke of," he said. "Ástígend told me its name is Carrec Dún. There are walls up there, broken and old now, and earthworks too. We rested there on the journey to Caer Luel. It is a castle of the old folk who lived here before the Angelfolc. Before the men of Roma even."
Beobrand glanced over his shoulder. The remaining riders of the group were not far away now and Beobrand gave silent thanks that none of the horses had grown lame from bearing two riders. Still, they had not been able to keep up a fast pace. He had hoped to have arrived at this place sooner. He turned his attention back to the looming hill and the old earth mounds, ditches and walls that adorned its summit. The clouds were heavy, dark and brooding. And low in the sky. They were draped about the hills like a bearskin made of mist. The dense fog on the hilltop obscured the earthworks from view.
"You think they will come?" asked Cynan.
"Bearn will not let me down. He will come." He spoke in a firm, self-assured voice. Now was not the time to show his doubts. They had suffered too many setbacks already.
Again Beobrand scanned the hills but saw no sign of Bearn and his gesithas. He wondered for a moment whether perhaps Bearn had decided to camp elsewhere within sight of Carrec Dún rather than within the crumbled remains of the ancient fortification. He looked east, but saw no sign of movement save for the small shapes of sheep and goats that dotted a far hillside. He could see no shepherd, but he was sure they were being watched as they sat there astride their horses in the dreary valley. Turning to the west once more he saw no indication of a campsite, no telltale smudge of smoke and no sign of Bearn and the rest of his warband. Still, it was no matter. Despite the loss of the horses, they had reached this place without further incident. Acennan too knew where they were to meet. Perhaps he and the others were already there on that bleak hilltop, hidden from view by the low-lying cloud. The thought cheered Beobrand. He hoped that soon they would all be seated around a fire, exchanging tales of how they had stolen Oswald's remains in the dark of night. He would hear tell of Acennan's exploits and how he had led Gwalchmei and the Waelisc away. It would be good to see his friend soon. He missed him.
"Come, men," he shouted to Eadgard, Grindan, Gram, Elmer, Fraomar and Dreogan, who approached slowly on their three mounts, "soon we will be at the agreed meeting place. There, at Carrec Dún is where we are to meet Bearn and the others. You have done well, and we bring with us something of the greatest value…" Beobrand's words faltered and he fell silent. A movement had drawn his gaze. His heart clenched and he felt a lurching sensation in his gut.
To the south, cantering over the brow of the hill they had just crossed, came a warband of some twenty men. At their head rode a warrior on a great black steed. The leader's white cloak fluttered behind him.
Gwalchmei.
For a heartbeat Beobrand's thoughts swirled like leaves caught in a storm. Was it possible? Was Gwalchmei riding Sceadugenga?
Beside him Cynan cursed. Beobrand watched as the six remaining riders of his band lumbered on their three horses towards them. The horses were tired. There was no way they could outrun the Waelisc who, having spotted their quarry, had kicked their mounts into a gallop and pounded down the hill towards them. Beobrand quickly looked around them. There was nowhere where they could easily defend themselves. The land was open, dotted with stunted trees, but there was nothing that could provide them shelter. If they could have reached the old earthworks on the hilltop to the north, perhaps they might have been able to make a stand, but here, in the open, Beobrand could see no way they could prevail against so many.
And yet was he not Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford, thegn of Bernicia? And were his men not the famed warriors of the black shields, feared throughout Albion? He would not despair so soon.
Leaping from his horse, he bellowed at his men.
"Our enemy is upon us. To me! Shieldwall!"
Beobrand felt a sliver of pride as his men did not falter. They urged their horses forward and, with only the merest glance back at the approaching horsemen, his gesithas jumped from their mounts and readied themselves for battle. In moments, the eight of them had pulled shields and helms from their saddles. They let their horses scatter. There was no time to tether the animals before the Waelisc would be upon them. Beobrand cursed to himself. Oswald's remains were yet attached to those horses. He pushed the concern from his mind. If they survived this fight, there would be plenty of time to worry.
Beobrand pulled his great helm onto his head and was enveloped by the false calm and quiet of its protection. The thunder of the approaching horses' hooves was suddenly muted, the wind no longer caught at his hair.
With the ease that comes from countless days of hard practise, his warriors fell into position beside their lord, forming a strong wall of linden and iron. Not all of them bore spears, but half of them carried long ash hafts tipped with wicked steel points. These they brandished menacingly, pointing them towards the galloping riders. The message was clear. Any horse that got too close would feel the savage sting of the spear-tips. All men knew that a horse would not ride into a strongly formed shieldwall, and so it was no surprise to them when the Waelisc reined in their mounts some distance away.
The distance was well-judged. It was further than even Garr could throw a spear, had he been with them.
"When they decide to surround us, things will get interesting," said Cynan, the Waelisc lilt of his words making it sound as though he were laughing. Beobrand glanced at him. There was no mirth there. The young man's face was hard, his mouth and jaw set firm beneath his open-faced helm. Beobrand said nothing. Cynan was right. Given the numbers of their foe, it was only a matter of time before they were surrounded and cut down.
The last of the Waelisc riders pulled their horses to a halt and sat in a wide line. They slid weapons from scabbards and untied helms that had been hanging from saddles. Beobrand fixed his gaze on their leader. There was no mistaking the Waelisc lord now. Gwalchmei ap Gwyar met his stare for a moment, and then turned to his own saddlebags. And now there was no doubt in Beobrand's mind. Gwalchmei was mounted on Sceadugenga, the great stallion with skin as black and sleek as a raven's claws.
In a matter of moments, the Waelisc who had followed them
north from Maserfelth would dismount and form their own shieldwall. Or perhaps they had other plans. Beobrand drew Hrunting slowly into the grey daylight, tugging against the gentle resistance where its nicked blade caught the fur that lined the leather-bound wooden scabbard.
"Forward," he said, and stepped decisively towards the waiting horsemen. He would give them no time to make plans.
He felt his mouth twist into a savage grin as his gesithas fell into step with him as if they were controlled by his own thoughts.
"Do not forget who you are," he said. "You are the bearers of the black shields. Bringers of death. Feeders of the wolf and the raven. You are men of Bernicia. You are my gesithas!" He raised his voice, and quickened his pace. His men surged forward with him. "Do you fear the likes of these goat-swiving Waelisc?"
"No!" his gesithas shouted.
"And what do we bring them?"
"Death!" his warriors roared.
The mounted men before them jostled nervously, uncertain perhaps in the face of the approaching warriors. One horse shied away from the noise of the marching Bernicians.
Gwalchmei however, seemed calm. He nudged Sceadugenga forward a few steps and then halted. He held up his hand. The men behind him did not move.
Beobrand and his gesithas were still some distance from Gwalchmei. Perhaps close enough for a spear-throw, but it would be no certain thing.
Beobrand raised Hrunting and halted. Without need for a word of command, his gesithas stopped as one.
For a long while they stood like that, the Bernician shieldwall glowering silently at the score of mounted Waelisc. Beobrand was about to urge his men forward once more, when Gwalchmei kicked Sceadugenga another few steps on, towards him. Beobrand tensed. Did the lord from Gwynedd plan on leading his men in a charge against their small shieldwall?
But before Beobrand could react, Gwalchmei reined in once more. His warband had not moved. He held something in his left hand that hung at his side. It was partially hidden by Sceadugenga's broad neck and Beobrand could not discern what the object was.
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