For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  The last time they had crossed paths had been at Wudeburna. Oswine of Deira had finally allowed himself to be goaded by countless border raids into amassing a host and marching on Bernicia. Oswiu had called on his most trusted thegns and met him at Wudeburna. There had been terrible slaughter. The waters of the river there had been so thick with the blood of the fallen that the men wondered whether its name, Rēade, had been some kind of omen. Beobrand and his Black Shields had stood in the centre of the shieldwall, but he had seen Octa, beneath Alhfrith’s lion standard. Octa had grown into a tall, strong warrior, just like his father and his uncle namesake. Beobrand’s heart had swollen with pride when the Bernicians had been victorious and Oswiu had named Octa personally for his valour in the battle. The king had presented him with a finely wrought sword he had taken from a fallen Deiran thegn, and the Bernician fyrd-men had cheered him. Beobrand had sought Octa out that night to congratulate him, but it became quickly clear that his son could barely stand to converse with his father. After a few stilted words from Beobrand and grunts from Octa, they had parted company and they had not seen each other since. Beobrand remembered all too clearly the stab of almost physical pain he felt as he looked into the strong young face that was so similar to both Beobrand’s beloved brother and the lad’s mother, Sunniva. Sunniva and Octa were the two people Beobrand had most loved on middle earth and all that remained of them were ashes, bones and memories. To gaze into eyes so like theirs was an exquisite agony. It was not even the disdain in his son’s eyes that hurt him, it was the lack of love.

  “You have a daughter too,” said Rowena, with a sad frown. “And yet I feel you seek in Cuthbert something else that you cannot find in Octa or Ardith.”

  “What do you think I seek?” Beobrand snapped, feeling his anger kindle into life.

  Bassus reached out his one hand and placed it on Beobrand’s shoulder.

  “Calm now, lord,” he said, his voice deep and rumbling in the shadowy gloom of the flame-licked hall. “Rowena means no harm.”

  Beobrand sighed and stared into the flames of the hearth fire, as if he would find the truth there.

  “Mayhap you are right,” he said at last. “The gods know I am not close to Octa. And Ardith…” His voice trailed off as he thought of the pretty young woman he had not known existed until a few years before. She was married now, to Brinin, who was a passable smith, and they seemed happy enough. And yet, Ardith was ever distant from Beobrand. She was thankful for everything he had done for her, but he was certain that whenever she looked at him she was reminded of her past, of the trauma of being taken by raiders and transported to Frankia, and of the horror and fear and blood that had followed. And perhaps she thought too of the years before he had known she was his; years when she suffered at the hands of an abusive father. “Ardith is not close to me,” he concluded.

  He had thought much on what they had talked about that night. He did not like to admit that Rowena might be right, but he could not deny that he enjoyed spending time with Cuthbert. The boy was thoughtful and intelligent, in spite of the streak of anger that ran through him like a vein of quartz through flint. And he was strong and quick to learn. He had the makings of a good warrior.

  Saeslaga juddered as she ploughed through a foam-crested wave, sending a shower of spray over Beobrand. Cuthbert clung on to the stay and let out a whoop of excitement.

  “Careful,” growled Beobrand, but the youth did not appear to hear him.

  “It doesn’t look as though there are any warriors aboard,” he said.

  Beobrand glanced at Attor, who confirmed what Cuthbert said with a nod. Letting out a long breath, Beobrand began to relax. Perhaps they would be able to see the day out without any bloodshed. He touched the Thunor’s hammer amulet at his neck and offered up silent thanks that their careening voyage south had seen them beat Penda to Cnobheresburg.

  Ferenbald altered their course and Saeslaga shifted slightly in the water. The sailors on the other ship hurried to adjust the sail and the oars rose and fell with increased urgency, but after a few heartbeats Beobrand could clearly see that neither the vessel, a broad-bellied wallowing trader, or the crew on the ship fleeing the minster, were a match for Ferenbald, his men and Saeslaga. In moments, Ferenbald had brought them within a spear’s throw of the other ship. Garr stepped forward, raising a light throwing spear menacingly. Few men could make that throw in the strong wind and from the pitching deck of a ship at full sail, but if anyone could, it would be Garr, who was the best spear-man Beobrand had ever seen. Beobrand held up his hand to halt the tall gesith. All along the beam of the ship they pursued, he could see pale faces beneath tonsured pates. It was as Cuthbert had said. These were no warriors.

  Taking a deep breath, Beobrand bellowed across the waves.

  “We mean you no harm!” he shouted. “We have come from Bernicia.”

  He paused, but there was no reply, no change to the sail. The oars still rose and fell quickly, clumsily pulling the ship away from the beach.

  “I am Beobrand of Ubbanford, Thegn of Bernicia,” he yelled, using the huge battle-voice that could cut through the clamour and screams of the shieldwall. “We are not your enemy.” When again there was no response, he filled his lungs once more. “I come from Bebbanburg in the name of my lord Oswiu, King of Bernicia,” he lied.

  Oswiu did not know that he had travelled south. There had been no time to tell him, even if Beobrand had wanted to speak with the king. When Ferenbald had brought the tidings of Penda’s imminent attack on Cnobheresburg in East Angeln, Beobrand had known he had to act. He would not ordinarily have been moved to action by the plight of the East Angelfolc. He cared little for Anna, their king. And while Beobrand had many reasons to despise Penda of Mercia, whom Ferenbald had told him was marching into the south-east, Beobrand would not have travelled there to confront him. They had stood on the opposite sides of shieldwalls many times before and Beobrand had the scars and nightmare memories to prove it. One day he hoped to put an end to the vicious killer of kings, but Beobrand was not fool enough to believe his warband had the strength to tackle the warlord of Mercia’s host alone. Penda’s end would come in a great battle of warhosts led by kings, not in a skirmish.

  And yet, when Ferenbald mentioned that he had heard from a trader in Eoferwic that Penda meant to punish Anna, king of the East Angelfolc, for harbouring King Cenwalh of Wessex, Beobrand had grown suddenly cold, despite the roaring fire and the great press of men in his great hall. The hall on the hill at Ubbanford was filled with light, warmth, laughter and good cheer as it always was when Ferenbald visited. The skipper of the Saeslaga often travelled north from Cantware to trade. When he did, he made sure to sail up the broad Tuidi to visit his old friends in Ubbanford. He usually stayed for a few days while they talked of the news in Albion, Frankia and even far-off Hibernia. But this time, they had set out at first light the morning after his arrival. And where usually Ferenbald would leave laden with bales of wool, casks of strong mead and barrels of smoked salmon, instead of such goods, Beobrand and several of his comitatus were aboard the ship.

  Beobrand would not travel south to confront Penda or to aid King Anna. But he would put to sea and risk everything to help a friend. For he knew that one of his oldest friends was at the minster of Cnobheresburg.

  Chapter 2

  Beobrand sighed with relief as the heavy ship they pursued let the wind slip from its sail. The urgent pace of the rowing slowed and the broad-bellied merchant ship began to wallow and rock on the surf. He knew that Ferenbald would have easily overhauled the other vessel, but it was good that his words had done enough to cause her skipper to slow and allow them to close without the need for a lengthy chase.

  Ferenbald shouted a couple of commands and his men rushed to obey. Their course adjusted so that Saeslaga would slide alongside the other ship at a safe distance where they could converse, but would not be at risk of crashing together.

  “Is Coenred of Lindisfarena aboard your ship?” shouted Beob
rand as they slipped closer.

  When there was no reply, he raised his voice to a bellow, allowing an edge of anger to creep into his tone.

  “I seek Coenred, brother of the brethren of Lindisfarena! Is he aboard your ship?”

  He spat the words across the expanse of surf between them, the anger he so often fought to control lending them a hard, dangerous quality. It was not difficult to loosen the leash on the ire within him. Beobrand gripped the rope that supported the mast so tightly that his knuckles showed white. It was quite another thing to calm his fury if it broke free. He could not count the times he had saved Coenred’s life over the years. But the monk was a stalwart friend and had in turn saved Beobrand and often risked much for him. When Ferenbald told him of the imminent attack on the minster of Cnobheresburg, Beobrand had immediately recalled the news he had heard from old Aart a fortnight before. The peddler, knowing they were friends, had told Beobrand how Coenred had accompanied a young novice called Wilfrid south to Cantware. After leaving the young man in the court of King Eorcenberht, Coenred had headed to Cnobheresburg, where he planned to study under the holy brother Fursa, known throughout the land for his Christian piety.

  “Do we stop at Bebbanburg?” Ferenbald had asked as they had set sail from the mist-shrouded shingle on the river Tuidi in the shadow of the tall hill and the great hall atop it.

  Beobrand shook his head. For a moment his mind had been filled with the vision of Eanflæd, the scent of her golden hair, the softness of her flesh pressed against his, the taste of her lips… He had seldom visited Bebbanburg these past years. It was better that way. He did his duty when called upon by the king who had his oath, but he could not bear to spend time in the presence of the man. Or his queen. There were too many questions Beobrand could not answer.

  And too many temptations.

  When he saw Eanflæd, he was filled with a terrible longing; the call of a desire he knew they could never answer. When she looked upon him he saw his own passion reflected there, but there was fear in her eyes too. Fear of what would occur if they should ever succumb to their mutual attraction. He longed to see her, but he was not such a fool that he believed the glances that passed between them would go unnoticed for long. To be near the queen placed her in danger, so he stayed away.

  The only good to come of this was that by avoiding Eanflæd, he also evaded Oswiu.

  “Do you not need to seek leave from the king?” Ferenbald had asked as he had effortlessly guided the sleek ship out into the deepest part of the river. His crew expertly pulled on the oars as one, rowing Saeslaga almost silently into the dawn haze; the only sounds the quiet fish-splash of the oar blades and the creaking of the tholes.

  “Oswiu is a good Christ follower,” Beobrand said, making the words sound like an accusation. “His God loves to forgive. So I would rather seek forgiveness from him than permission.” He stared along the wide watery path of the Tuidi as it led them towards Berewic and the North Sea. “Besides, the weather is favourable and there is no time to waste. We cannot dally at Bebbanburg.”

  And so they had hurried south. The weather had held and the winds had been friendly and in only two days they had reached their goal. All the while Beobrand’s nerves had been stretched almost to breaking. He pictured what would happen to the monastery and the monks there should Penda, the savage pagan king of Mercia, reach Cnobheresburg before them. He had witnessed what befell innocents in the face of warriors allowed to give free rein to their basest desires. The screams and visions of murder and violation frequently disturbed his sleep. He tried not to imagine Coenred caught at the monastery between Penda’s warriors and the sea. But like scratching at an itching scab, his mind kept on returning to scenes of violence and death. The relief he had felt at seeing the monks readying the ships to sail had been welcome after the nerve-fraying voyage. All he wanted now was to be sure his friend was safe.

  “Do not make me ask you again,” Beobrand shouted across the waves. “If you do not answer, I will be forced to think the worst and we will board.” Ferenbald had turned Saeslaga now, so Beobrand stepped down from the prow and called out from the belly of the ship.

  Either Beobrand’s threat or the mention of the king of Bernicia was enough to coax a response from the laden ship. One of the pale-faced men stepped up to the wale. His hair was flame-red and his pallid eyes were wide with shock and fear.

  “Lord Beobrand,” he said. “I am Foillan, abbot of the brethren here.” The abbot’s voice carried the lilt of the Hibernian tongue. It reminded Beobrand of old Aidan, Bishop of Lindisfarena.

  “I thought Fursa ruled here,” said Beobrand.

  Foillan shook his head.

  “Fursa is my brother. He has gone ahead of us to pave the way in Neustria across the Narrow Sea.”

  “So you are fleeing to Frankia? You know of Penda’s attack?”

  Foillan made the sign of the Christ rood in the air over his chest.

  “We were warned by our good and most humble king, Anna.” He glanced back at the minster buildings, the beach and the distant figures still loading the other ship on the shore. “But we must not tarry here. By the grace of God we have been spared and now we must carry the holy relics and artefacts away to safety. I thank you for coming to our aid. I have heard many tales of your exploits.” He hesitated, perhaps searching for the right words. “I now see you are a good man, Beobrand of Ubbanford. Christ will reward you in heaven.”

  Beobrand hawked and spat into the sea. He was not a good man and cared nought for what this pasty priest had heard about him.

  “Do not speak to me of the Christ,” he shouted. Foillan crossed himself again. Beobrand noticed several of the other monks did the same. Beside him, Attor too made the symbol of the four points of the cross over his chest. Beobrand ignored them all. “I have not come to your aid. I come to help my friend, Coenred. Is he here?”

  Foillan’s cheeks flushed and he did not answer. Beobrand wished they had boarded the ship. Then he could shake the holy man by the throat. He glowered at the Hibernian, sensing that his hesitation could only mean one thing.

  “He is not on your ship, is he?” he asked, his tone as sharp as a blade.

  Tight-lipped, Foillan shook his head.

  “The blessed brother Coenred is at the beach, helping to load the other ship.” Beobrand looked back to where the other ship still rested on the shore. There were many monks there. He wondered if they would all fit aboard a single ship. As if he could hear Beobrand’s doubts, Foillan continued. “With the Good Lord’s providence they will all be able to float away to sanctuary soon enough. The Almighty is wise and all powerful and will surely give Anna the strength to hold Penda’s forces at bay for long enough for the remainder of the brethren to escape.”

  “King Anna is here?” asked Beobrand.

  “Oh, yes. He sent a messenger with word that we were to take all of value and flee. He has led his warband to our defence and they now stand before Penda, close by on the road to Norwic.”

  “How far are they?”

  “If you hurried, you could march there before nightfall. It is very near, which is why we cannot delay any longer. Master,” Foillan said, turning to a dark-skinned, weathered-looking man with a bandy-legged gait, “take us to sea with all speed. To safety. To Frankia.”

  The skipper began shouting orders and though the ship was still sluggish from being so laden, the crew knew what they were about. Soon the merchant vessel’s sail was full of wind again and the ceapscip was pulling away.

  Beobrand cursed silently. By the gods, Anna, King of the East Angelfolc, ally of Oswiu and friend of Bernicia, was fighting against Penda barely out of sight of the minster buildings.

  “You want me to follow them?” shouted Ferenbald from the stern. “Or perhaps bring us alongside so that you can board her?” He grinned, seemingly pleased at the idea of attacking the slower ship.

  Beobrand shook his head.

  “Take us in to the beach. Coenred is there.”


  Without a word of reply, Ferenbald snapped his orders. Saeslaga quickly swung away from the lumbering trader and tacked against the wind, back towards the land.

  “Cuthbert,” Beobrand said, “fetch my byrnie, helm and shield.”

  The boy’s eyes were wide and his cheeks ruddy from the excitement as he jumped down from the bow and hurried to obey his lord. Moments later he returned, staggering under the bulk of the iron-knit shirt, the black-painted shield and, atop it all, Beobrand’s great helm, with its boar-carved cheek-guards.

  With practised ease, Beobrand wriggled into his byrnie and quickly tightened his sword belt about his waist to take some of the armour’s familiar weight from his shoulders. Placing the helm on his head, he looked back at his men. They were grim-faced and sombre now, ready for what they must do. Only Cuthbert was smiling, though Beobrand noticed that the colour had drained from his face as his excitement changed to the uncertainty of growing anticipation.

  “Get your shield,” murmured Beobrand. Cuthbert started, then rushed to retrieve his newly painted linden board and the bright-bladed spear that, like its owner, was untested in combat.

  “You think there will be a fight, lord?” Cuthbert asked breathlessly.

  Beobrand sighed and scanned the mass of black-shielded warriors in the belly of the ship. They had all been ready for battle for some time. Were they merely cautious or had they travelled with him for so long that they had foreseen how this day would end? He knew not, but there were no finer warriors in all of Albion. As ever, the sight of them filled him with pride.

  The ship cut through the waves, flinging spray into the faces of the men as they all turned towards the approaching sand.