She jumped up. Beobrand felt a stab of loss as her hand left his. “I have to get back home,” she said. “I’ve been gone far too long. My father will be furious.”
Beobrand didn’t protest. He knew she was right. “When can I see you again?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. I don’t think my father will allow me to come down to the river for water again tomorrow. Not now that I’ve been late back twice.” She stooped to the river and filled the two buckets she had brought with her. “Don’t walk back with me today. If he sees you, he’ll only be angrier.”
“Can you get away tonight?” Beobrand asked.
Sunniva bit her lip, calculating. “Maybe. He often falls asleep soon after sundown. I could sneak out then.”
“Very well then. I’ll wait here for you after dusk. Try and get away. If you can’t, I’ll visit you tomorrow at the forge.”
“Oh no, father would be so angry.”
“Well, you’d better make sure you get out tonight then,” Beobrand grinned.
Despite her nervousness at the prospect of her father’s anger when she was late back and the possibility of being caught in the evening, Sunniva found herself smiling too. She leant in quickly to Beobrand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll bring a blanket. It will be cold down here at night,” she whispered huskily, her breath warm against his ear.
Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away as quickly as she could while balancing the weight of the two buckets.
Beobrand watched her leave. The sway of her hips and the ghost of her kiss on his cheek made him ache for her.
CHAPTER 14
“Well don’t just stand there. Tell me where he is,” thundered Eanfrith. It was important to keep up a show of strength in front of his men.
The messenger bowed his head, unsure what to say.
“Cadwallon, you fool! Where is he and is he on the move?”
The man was awestruck at talking to a king. He swallowed deeply. He had not been offered a drink before having to talk to Eanfrith. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice cracked in his throat. He swallowed again and finally managed to utter the message he’d been sent to deliver.
“My lord, and your humble servant, Bebeodan, would inform you that Cadwallon, may God cast his soul into hell, has camped south of the great Wall and is amassing his troops there. When I left my lord’s hall, two days hence, they were not moving. It is hard to know when they will. But it was clear they were readying for war again.”
A murmur ran through the men assembled in the great hall. They all knew that war was almost a certainty, but to have it confirmed, brought the truth of it closer to reality.
A grizzled, grey-bearded warrior who stood close to the king said, “Cadwallon can be upon us in a matter of days. We should fall back to Bebbanburg. It is impregnable.”
“I shall not retreat from this upstart,” answered Eanfrith. Scand had once been a warrior of renown, but Eanfrith found him to be cautious almost to the point of cowardice. “Bernicia will not be cowed by a rabble of Waelisc. I do not fear Cadwallon.”
There was another ripple of murmured comments, but nobody wanted to point out the obvious to the king. Cadwallon, with Penda’s aid, had already defeated Edwin, who had called himself Bretwalda, King of all Albion. After that the Waelisc king of Gwynedd had gone on to kill Osric, heir to the throne of Deira.
Scand set his shoulders. “We will of course stand with you against Cadwallon, but we should not throw away any chance of advantage we may have. Gefrin is exposed. This place is not built to defend, it is built for leisure, and for making speeches in that ludicrous stepped contraption.” Scand spoke with obvious disdain of the tiered, wooden auditorium that stood at the centre of the royal township. Apparently, Paulinus, Edwin’s priest, had preached to masses of people there. Scand thought it an extravagant waste of good timber which would have been better spent creating defences. “If we stay here, we are vulnerable. We should join your brother at Bebbanburg.”
“Nonsense,” replied Eanfrith, an edge of anger entering his tone at having his authority challenged in front of his men. The thought of having to spend time with his righteous brother, cramped atop the crag of Bebbanburg was more than he could bear. He had told Oswald to hold the rocky fortress to keep him away. His brother had his uses, but he was not enjoyable company. Besides, Eanfrith preferred the open land about Gefrin to the rocky outcrop of the cliff-top stronghold.
“To retreat would be to appear craven in the eyes of our enemies and the people of Bernicia. Gefrin is the most majestic of halls and should be my base. I must be seen to be strong.”
Scand clenched his jaw, but nodded, resigned to losing the argument. He glanced to the shadowy edges of the hall, where Eanfrith’s queen, Finola, sat with their son, Talorcan. She was almost childlike in size, tiny and fragile. Her finely-brushed tresses of flame-red hair fell down her back, a shimmering sheen in the moving light from the fire. Finola looked back at Scand, but her face was expressionless, resigned. Talorcan’s eyes twinkled with interest, but he knew to keep quiet in the presence of his father.
“You are right, my lord,” said Scand. “But think of your queen and the atheling. We should at least be prepared to defend ourselves if the moment arises. Would you send some men out to keep watch on Cadwallon and to bring us news when he moves northward?”
Eanfrith waved his hand magnanimously. He cared nothing for Finola; he had married her to build an alliance with the people of her Pictish tribe, and he found her boring and unappealing. At least she had given him a son. But Scand doted on her as a father and his gesithas seemed to enjoy her presence in the hall. Talorcan frequently angered him by speaking out of turn, but he saw much of himself in the boy and could not help feeling proud as he grew into a handsome child.
“Very well, send out some riders. And you,” Eanfrith turned back to the cowering messenger, “have done well and have our thanks. After you have eaten and rested, you must take my men south with you and show them where Cadwallon is camped.”
The messenger bowed nervously before leaving.
Eanfrith returned to the game of tafl he had been playing with some of his thegns. Conversations started in the hall as the news was discussed.
Scand watched as the messenger left the hall and then looked at the king. Eanfrith was laughing at the predicament of his opponent. His pieces were surrounded by the king’s and he looked set to lose all of the stake he had bet in the next turn of the game.
Scand frowned. He loved Eanfrith. In many ways he was a good king. He had served him for many years. Stood by him in exile and fought in the shieldwall at his side. He was brave in battle, and was a good strategist and planner. This translated into making him a formidable tafl opponent. He always seemed two moves ahead.
Scand hoped that Eanfrith knew what his next moves were in the deadly game he was playing with Cadwallon. Staying at Gefrin made no sense to Scand and the Waelisc king was not someone to be taken lightly. But Eanfrith was a stubborn as he was skilled at Tafl. His mind would not be changed.
Eanfrith made his final move, winning the game. The beaten thegn angrily swept the pieces off of the board onto the rush-strewn floor. The watching men jeered and laughed as the man handed over an arm ring to his king.
Scand smiled too, despite himself, before remembering his misgivings. He prayed they would win the real game as easily. They all stood to lose a lot more than scyllings or silver arm rings if they lost.
The messenger’s news of Cadwallon amassing troops in the south and King Eanfrith’s response rapidly spread through the small township’s populace. By noon everyone in Gefrin knew that the Waelisc warlord was once again threatening their land. Edwin, a great leader of men, had faced Cadwallon in open battle and been defeated. Many were the voices that whispered about the wisdom of this new king’s decision to remain at Gefrin. The place had already lost many of its inhabitants in the last few months, as they’d drifted away to seek a safer place to live. Those
who had stayed were hardy and not easily frightened, but most took the precaution of ensuring they had their important belongings packed and ready to carry with them should they need to leave suddenly. That night some would sneak into the darkness to bury items of worth that they could not easily carry.
Beobrand heard the news at midday. He met with Leofwine to share food.
“Cadwallon prepares to invade,” said Leofwine, his face flushed with excitement.
“Why so happy? Death and sorrow will come when Cadwallon marches.”
“And glory too,” retorted Leofwine. “I will have tales to tell and songs to sing.”
The bard’s high spirits were infectious and Beobrand smiled despite himself. “I have seen nothing to suggest the men prepare for battle.”
“Well, that is the thing. They aren’t. Eanfrith said he is not frightened of Cadwallon and he will not retreat, or march south. Old Scand was furious.”
“The greybeard?” asked Beobrand. He had seen him sitting at the high table and walking with the king and queen.
“Aye. In the end, they sent some men south to watch the Waelisc.”
“Hardly the stuff of legends for your songs then.”
“Not yet, but battle will come and I will have my stories and songs. It is wonderful, Beobrand.” Leofwine realised what he had said and continued quickly. “That sounded wrong to my own ears. I mean it is wonderful to have a good king who allows me to spend my days musing over tunes and rhymes and then to perform them every night. That is the stuff of legends! I never thought I would be able to do this.” He waved his hands animatedly.
“It gladdens me to see you content. I give you joy, Leofwine.”
“A few days ago I was working with my father in Engelmynster and now I am attended by slaves and fed delicacies I had not even heard of before, let alone tasted.”
Beobrand laughed aloud at his friend’s happiness.
“Wyrd is a strange thing, Beobrand,” the scop continued. “I followed you here with no idea what would come of it, and now look at me. Singing to a king and pampered like an atheling.” He clapped his hands. “I will write a song about it.
“The good news for you is that Eanfrith will need all the warriors he can find. I’ll make sure I mention some of your exploits tonight.”
“Some warrior I am, I haven’t even got my sword back,” complained Beobrand, but with little vehemence. As far as he knew, Hrunting still rested in the storeroom where he had relinquished it on first entering the king’s great hall. He would retrieve it when he needed it, but it seemed as safe a place as any for the time being. He was more concerned with how much longer it would be until nightfall and he could meet Sunniva again.
“You should seek an audience with the king tomorrow. Ask to have your sword returned to you so that you can use it in the service of Eanfrith and Bernicia. Hopefully, I’ll have convinced him of your worth with my stories and songs by then.” Leofwine smiled broadly and Beobrand nodded, absentmindedly.
“I’ll do that.”
Leofwine clapped him on the shoulder and rose. “Well, I had better get started on a song about you for tonight,” he said, smiling broadly.
Left to himself, Beobrand decided to scout around the environs of Gefrin in an effort to keep himself busy and to make time pass more quickly. He walked past the fenced off enclosure where the cattle were safely housed. He noticed for the first time the mound at one side of the enclosure. He had seen such barrows before and paused, wondering who was buried there.
He headed towards the great hall and decided to investigate the strange structure that was in the middle of the royal buildings. Leofwine said it was especially designed for speeches and preaching and hoped that Eanfrith would allow him to perform there to all the occupants of Gefrin.
It was triangular, narrow at the end where Beobrand presumed the speaker would stand on a small raised dais and broadening out to seat an ever increasing number of witnesses. Each row of benches was wider than the next as you moved away from the dais and also each bench was raised up higher than the one before. This would allow those seated to all see over the heads of the people in front. It was ingenious and Beobrand wondered at the person who had come up with the idea. Leofwine seemed to think it was the brainchild of the Christian priest who had served Edwin. It was said he had come from a land far to the south, close to where the Christ was born and lived.
Beobrand was not interested in the Christ or his priests, but he was moved by the cleverness of the design of the structure.
With the news of Cadwallon’s movements still fresh in his mind, as he walked through the township he looked at the whole of Gefrin from the point of view of battle and how it could be defended. The royal buildings were surrounded by the smaller houses of craftsmen and bondsmen. The whole township nestled contentedly on a flat piece of lush grassland, overlooked on three sides by towering hills. To the south, the land dropped away gently to trees and the river.
He was not knowledgeable in the ways of warfare, but he could see that this place was not made for defending. It seemed designed for leisure and as a focal point for people from all around to come and petition the king. And to pay tribute, of course.
“Hey, you!” a harsh voice called out. He looked over and saw three men lounging by the side of the path. He recognised two of them as the door wards of the great hall. The men he had almost fought on his arrival in Gefrin.
“You look all lost now your friends have gone,” the short, stocky one said. His name was Acennan. Beobrand had learnt this during the first night in the hall. He was loud and outspoken, but seemed popular. “Poor little boy.” He feigned crying like a baby. His companions laughed.
Beobrand ignored them and walked on, but Acennan stepped into his path, blocking it. The other two also stood.
“Don’t be so rude. Aren’t you the mighty Beobrand, who defeats men twice his size with a single blow of his majestic sword?” He looked around him in exaggerated movements as if searching for something. “But wait a moment. Where is your wonderful sword? Oh, that’s right, you had to give it up to enter the hall. Pity. It is a fine weapon.”
Beobrand could feel his face grow hot. His hands clenched into fists at his side. But he remembered Gram and Leofwine’s words. He must control his anger. He should not let this fool bait him.
“I think you would not be so brave were I to have my sword in my hand, Acennan. I have heard tell you too are a mighty warrior. It would do you good to remember that, and act as such. You demean yourself.” He took a step to the side and made to walk past. The short warrior moved again to block his path. His companions had stopped laughing now. The encounter took on a hard edge. Acennan placed his hand on Beobrand’s chest.
“Watch your tongue, boy,” he hissed.
“No, watch your own,” retorted Beobrand, his voice full of ice. He looked down pointedly at Acennan’s hand, then stared him directly in the eyes. He had to lower his gaze to do so. “Do not start something you do not mean to finish, Acennan. The next time you touch me in anger, I will make you regret it.”
The two stared at each other for a long time. Acennan could see no give in those frosty blue eyes. Eventually he removed his hand and let the younger man pass. But he could not resist having the last word. “You’d better watch yourself, boy. You don’t have any friends here. Nobody to go crying to.” The men with him guffawed and slapped him on the back in an attempt to take the sting out of the meeting but they all knew that Acennan had lost face.
Beobrand walked out of the town and made his way north and east, to higher ground. Gradually, his heart slowed and the anger that Acennan had provoked in him subsided. It was a beautiful day and he refused to have his mood soured by a bully.
He passed a shepherd with a small flock of scrawny looking sheep. He nodded to the boy, who just stared back at him, eyes wide and unblinking.
The day was warm and Beobrand walked until he had worked up a sweat. He sat in the shade of an aspen, wishing he had had the
foresight to bring some water with him. It was peaceful under the tree. Bees droned over the heather and a soft zephyr rustled the leaves above him.
When Beobrand opened his eyes he was at first unsure where he was. He could make no sense of the light. The shadows were long on the ground and the sky was red in the west. He had not meant to sleep, and now it was almost dark. He leapt up. He was supposed to meet Sunniva by the river far to the south.
He started running. He knew there was no way he could get there before sundown, but she would not be able to leave her house until Strang was asleep. Beobrand consoled himself that he would probably get there before her, or soon after, if she was able to get away as soon as it was dark. His breath quickened with the pace and he grimaced at the ache from his scars. But he thanked the gods that, having walked mainly uphill on the way northward, he now had the benefit of a downhill trip back to Gefrin.
He slowed his pace as the sun set and darkness made it hard to find his footing. He had covered much of the distance while it was still light and now felt less concerned that he would miss Sunniva, or leave her waiting for him alone by the river.
In the night air, he could smell the cooking fires from Gefrin before he was able to see the houses. A full moon began to rise, casting a silver glow over the buildings in the distance. With the added light, and his goal in sight, he quickened his pace once more, deciding to head straight down the main track through the town towards the river, rather than attempting to conceal his destination. There would be few people out at night so it was unlikely he would be seen.
Drawing close to the great hall, the smells of roasting meat were strong and the hubbub of the people inside filtered through the wood and daub of the building. Beobrand smiled as he caught the timbre of Leofwine’s fine voice, rising over the noise of the feasters. Perhaps he was singing about him.
The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) Page 20
