“Is that you?”
That voice again. There was something familiar in the tone, but he could not place it.
Turning, he saw a stocky man striding towards him past the scattered corpses of the battle. The last rays of the setting sun fell hot and red on the man’s face. He still wore a helm with a nose guard, so Beobrand could not immediately make out the warrior’s features. And then it came to him.
“Offa!” He strode towards the older man and took his forearm in the warrior grip. He had not seen Offa since the calamity at the great ditch, but he was glad it was this thegn in charge here. He was a good man. Offa clutched Beobrand’s arm tightly as befitted a warrior of renown. Beobrand gritted his teeth against the pain, forcing himself not to wince.
“I do not know why or how you came to be here today,” said the burly thegn with a broad grin. He looked about them at the dead. “But if you had not arrived when you did, I fear the worst.”
“He is the answer to our prayers, Offa,” said a new voice. Offa turned to the newcomer. He was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. His face was handsome and angular, his hair long and held back from his eyes with a silver circlet. He wore a byrnie of polished rings, his breeches were dyed linen of dark red. Around his neck was a finely crafted torc of gold.
“Lord,” said Offa. “You are wounded and must rest.” Rounding on a shorter man, Offa snapped, “I told you to tend to the king, Guthlaf.”
The short warrior looked exhausted.
“Sorry,” Guthlaf mumbled.
“Do not pick on Guthlaf,” said the king. “Introduce me to the man who has saved us. Did I hear you correctly? Is this the great Beobrand Half-hand?”
Beobrand’s first instinct was to hide his left hand behind his body, but he forced his hand to relax, revealing the missing fingers. He did not like to be reminded of how he had lost the digits, but after all these years he was resigned to be known for that mutilation by men the length and breadth of Albion.
Offa sighed and nodded.
“It is, lord king,” he said. “Beobrand, this is King Anna, son of Eni, lord of all the East Angelfolc.”
The king smiled. His face was very pale, his eyes glowing with a febrile light in the ruddy glow of the western sky.
“It is a great pleasure to meet you, Beobrand. I have heard much of your exploits and I see they were not exaggerated.”
The king reached out his hand and stepped forward. Beobrand offered his hand, tensing his jaw against the pain he knew would come. But the king did not grip his forearm as he had expected. To Beobrand’s dismay, Anna’s eyes rolled back in his sockets and he collapsed. Without thinking, Beobrand leapt forward and caught the king as he fell, then lowered him gently to the ground.
Guthlaf dropped by his side. He took the king’s wrist in his hand, then pulled back the fine byrnie to reveal a dark stain of blood on the crimson of his breeches. Peeling back the sodden linen, he uncovered a long cut that welled with bright blood against the pallid skin.
“Well?” snapped Offa, the strain clear in his tone.
“He lives,” replied Guthlaf. “The wound does not appear that bad.”
Beobrand said nothing. It was true that the cut did not seem deep, but he had seen men die from mere scratches that had become elf-shot.
“This time,” snapped Offa, “see that you stop the bleeding. And keep him still when he wakes. You do not want our lord’s death on your hands.” Guthlaf looked as though he might puke at the prospect, but Offa did not wait for a response. Stepping away from the prostrate form of the king, he began barking orders to his men to gather up what they could.
Beobrand admired the man’s control. The men needed a leader, someone to give them commands so that they would not succumb to the fear of their uncertain future.
“I owe you my thanks,” Beobrand said.
“Me?” Offa looked confused. “Why?”
All around them the men were hurrying about the gathering gloom to strip valuables from the dead. Beobrand watched as Attor and Dreogan heaved the injured Mercian to his feet. His hands were bound behind his back and they half-dragged the man towards where Beobrand stood with Offa.
“You led my men to safety after the rout at the ditch,” Beobrand said. “When Ecgric and Sigeberht fell…” he faltered. The shame of fleeing from the battle was still a bitter memory. He pushed it aside. It was long ago now and it did not do to dwell on the past. “If not for you, Offa,” he went on, “they might well have died there along with so many others.”
Offa’s face clouded, perhaps remembering the faces of men he had not seen since the slaughter at the great ditch near Beodericsworth.
“You owe me nothing, Beobrand,” he said, his tone gruff. “But if you ever did, you have repaid me today. Things would not have gone well for us here, I fear.”
“Perhaps I have something else I can give you as a sign of my gratitude.”
“What is that?” asked Offa.
Beobrand turned to Attor and Dreogan, beckoning them forward. They pulled the Mercian along with them, his scalp still flapping obscenely over his blood-drenched face.
“I thought you might like to question this one.”
Offa frowned as he looked at the Mercian, but he nodded his thanks.
“I would know the whereabouts of your pagan king, Mercian,” he snarled. The injured man recoiled from Offa’s ire, but Dreogan and Attor held him firmly. “Where is Penda?”
“I… I don’t know,” stammered the Mercian.
“Tell me all that you do know,” said Offa, his face in shadow as the last of the light bled from the sky.
Before Beobrand could hear the man’s answer, a raised voice called his name.
Coenred!
He scanned the gloaming.
“Beobrand!” came the call again. Coenred was at the west end of the causeway, where the wounded Mercians had made their futile stand. Beobrand sprinted towards the monk, past the fallen and the stooped warriors looting the corpses. As he grew closer he could make out Coenred kneeling in the dust beside a crumpled figure.
“I told you to wait for us back at the alders,” said Beobrand, his voice harsh.
“And yet I did not wait,” replied Coenred. “I heard the fighting was over. It seems you had forgotten me.” Beobrand was about to reply, when Coenred cut him off. “No matter. We need to get this boy back to the monastery, if he is to have any hope of living.”
Beobrand reeled. For a heartbeat his head swam, as if with too much mead.
“Cuthbert’s alive?”
Coenred looked up at him from where he knelt. He nodded.
“I am a skilled healer, Beobrand, and the Almighty in His wisdom often answers my prayers, but I cannot raise men from the dead.”
“I thought no man could survive such a wound,” muttered Beobrand, aghast that he had left the boy for dead.
“Well, Cuthbert is no man,” replied Coenred, an edge of anger creeping into his tone. Beobrand frowned, but said nothing. “He is a boy,” finished the monk. “And he has the strength of youth. Now, I have bound the wound as best I can. It has staunched the bleeding, but I need to clean the cut or it will take on the wound-rot. There is no time to be wasted, if we wish to rescue him.”
Beobrand looked down at the inert form. Gods, he hoped the boy would live. He should never have brought him south.
“Help me lift him,” he said.
Coenred hesitated.
“Be careful not to open his wound.”
Beobrand grunted, but saw no reason to reply. Bending down, he got hold of Cuthbert’s arm and, with Coenred’s aid, lifted him and stood upright. By Woden, the boy was light. Holding Cuthbert in his arms reminded him of carrying his son’s sleeping form to bed. The last time he had done that had been years before. Octa had been much younger and lighter than Cuthbert, but the recollection of his son’s relaxed slumbering body was suddenly fresh, Beobrand’s senses full of the shadows of memory.
“Pick up that sw
ord,” Beobrand said, nodding at the fallen Mercian’s blade that lay in the dirt near Cuthbert.
Coenred curled his lip in disdain.
“If the boy lives,” said Beobrand, “he will want that blade. It is his now. And, as you said, we have no time to waste.”
Coenred gave him a sidelong look that was heavy with judgement, but the monk held his tongue and retrieved the weapon.
Beobrand strode back along the causeway. A drawn-out wail of pain drifted to them, but Beobrand could not make out any details from this distance. There was a compact group of figures surrounding the wounded Mercian, but what they were doing was obscured by their bodies and the gathering darkness. Another howling cry rent the dusk air. Coenred made the sign of the Christ cross over his chest. No more sounds came from the group and when Beobrand and Coenred arrived, the throng of warriors was dispersing, the excitement over.
Beobrand glanced at the ground between Attor and Dreogan. The Mercian was sprawled in a growing pool of dark blood pumping from a deep cut to his throat. The man’s eyes had been put out. Attor stooped to wipe his seax blades on the dead man’s clothes. Coenred made a small sound in the back of his throat at the sight of the tortured Mercian and turned away.
“It seems the whoreson’s memory just needed some coaxing,” said Offa, his tone brittle and hard. “Penda is on the march with his full host. This small warband was sent ahead to try to pin King Anna here at the coast.”
“How long?”
Offa shrugged.
“A day. Perhaps two. But who can say the Mercian told the truth?”
“And the fyrd of the East Angelfolc?”
“Amassed to the south to hold Penda’s host at bay.” Offa let out a long breath. In that moment, his face shrouded in shadows, he looked old and exhausted. “I fear the fyrd will once again prove no match for Penda and his wolves.”
“We cannot hope to stand here against Penda,” Beobrand said. “Not with so few men and the king wounded.” Cuthbert moaned quietly in his arms, but did not awaken. They could not remain here. “I have a ship at the minster. We will take Anna north to Bernicia. He will be safe there in the court of King Oswiu.”
Offa scowled and rubbed at his beard.
“Nobody will be safe when Penda finds the king of Bernicia is giving refuge to the object of his anger.”
Beobrand hawked and spat to clear the sour taste from his mouth. His arms were beginning to ache from Cuthbert’s unconscious weight.
“I don’t think Penda could wish more harm on Bernicia than he already does. Penda is filled with so much hatred for the sons of Æthelfrith. And Oswiu has been his sworn enemy for years.” Beobrand thought of the flames at Bebbanburg and how Penda had come close to defeating the Bernician stronghold. He saw in his mind’s eye, Oswald’s dismembered corpse at Maserfelth. No, the enmity between Oswiu and Penda was absolute. “I doubt this will change anything,” he said, his tone sombre.
“Still,” said Offa, looking down at his unconscious king, “Penda will not take kindly to the king of East Angeln escaping with his life to live in comfort in the north.”
Beobrand peered at the fallen form of Anna. Guthlaf was cradling the king’s head. Anna’s skin was as pale as moonlight in the encroaching dusk. Beobrand leaned in close to Offa so that none of the gathered men would overhear.
“He has to live first,” he whispered. “What chance has he here?”
For a heartbeat, Offa was silent. Beobrand wondered if he was going to rebuke him for doubting his king’s survival, but a moment later, the gruff thegn nodded and turned to face the warriors of East Angeln.
“Collect the king’s standard, and the banner of our enemies. Take no more than you can carry. We return to the minster.” In a lower voice, he said to Beobrand, “Very well, my friend. Let us take my king to the safety of Bebbanburg.”
Chapter 7
Cynan drained the mead from his drinking horn. Domhnulla, the pretty Pictish thrall he had often bedded in the past, quickly stepped forward and refilled the vessel. Cynan made no acknowledgement of the young woman and did not notice the scowl that passed across her features. He rubbed his hands over his face, feeling the rough stubble of his unshaven cheeks. Letting out a long sigh, he stared into the fire that burnt in the centre of the hall. The day had been warm, but there was a chill in the evening air and so a fire had been lit on the hearthstone.
“Careful, lad,” said Bassus in a low whisper.
Cynan turned to him, wondering what the huge man was warning him of. He had enough concerns already. His mind swirled with worries. When he had left Stagga that morning he had been uneasy about the conversation with Eadgyth. Had he upset her? Should he marry her? Was marriage even what she wanted, or had he misinterpreted her meaning?
Now those things seemed trivial. Sulis had returned, and the instant he saw her again, everything had changed. He had dared not even admit it to himself, but he had never truly let her out of his mind. He would often find himself dreaming of what might have been if he had turned away from his duty all those years before and wandered into the west with her. Would they have been happy? Would they have had children?
“Careful?” he asked Bassus absently, his mind still focused on Sulis and the past.
Bassus chuckled.
“By Tiw’s cock,” he said, “you are a foolish one.” Cynan frowned, unsure what Bassus was talking about. This only made the one-armed giant’s smile widen. “She may be a thrall, but she is still a woman. They are strange cattle, women. But even a fool knows they do not like to be spurned. I’d keep a close eye on your manhood when you sleep tonight.”
What was he speaking about? Sulis was still Beobrand’s thrall, he supposed, but it seemed strange to refer to her as such. She had told them much about her life since then, how she was a respectable goodwife now, married to a freeman in the west of Bernicia, in the mountains of the old kingdom of Rheged. And he had not spurned Sulis, he had helped her. If not for him, the women of Ubbanford would have slain her more quickly than wringing the neck of a hen for the pot. The womenfolk had been incensed and saw no reason for a trial. And the worst thing was that Cynan knew Beobrand would agree with them. The fact that Cynan had convinced the women that they must wait for their hlaford’s return had merely delayed Sulis’ death. For when Beobrand returned to find Reaghan’s killer locked in one of Ubbanford’s barns, he would not tarry long in taking her life as payment for the death of his woman. The thought of this roiled in Cynan’s head.
Bassus clicked his fingers in front of Cynan’s face.
“Wake up, boy,” he said. “Don’t look so confounded.” He lowered his tone and nodded towards Domhnulla who was now serving some of the other men from the pitcher she carried. “I am speaking of Domhnulla, not that murderous vixen, Sulis.”
“Oh,” replied Cynan stupidly.
“Last time you were here you took her to your bed, and judging from the squeals we all heard that night and the grin on her face the next morning, the wee thing had a good time. Now you act as though you’ve never seen her before.” He shook his head and Cynan noticed that most of his hair was now the grey of old ashes. When had Bassus grown old? “I’d say you have enough trouble with women at the moment,” Bassus went on, “without angering the thralls too.”
Cynan offered him a thin smile. The coupling with Domhnulla had been pleasurable and vigorous, it was true, but she did not occupy his mind in the same way as Eadgyth and Sulis. He sighed and took another sip of the mead. He sat at the high table in Beobrand’s absence. To his left sat Bassus and beyond him, Udela, Ardith’s mother, was eating quietly. She had offered him the Waes Hael cup and ordered food to be prepared, but as ever, she was subdued when Beobrand was away. Cynan did not understand their relationship. For a time he had believed they were lovers, but then he had begun to question that assumption. For the most part the two of them were friendly enough, and Beobrand was happy to allow Udela to run his household, but there was no passion that Cynan could see. Much like
Eadgyth and himself, he pondered ruefully. He pushed the thought away, preferring to think about Beobrand’s problems, rather than his own.
Cynan knew that many of Beobrand’s oath-sworn men suspected their lord’s attraction to Oswiu’s queen, Eanflæd. Cynan was sure of it. And worse still, he thought the feelings were mutual. He had seen how the queen looked at Beobrand when she believed nobody was paying attention. Cynan never spoke of it, choosing to change the subject whenever it came up amongst the gesithas. Nothing could ever come of such a doomed love. To even think of such a thing was madness. Such a union could spawn nothing but pain.
And what of his feelings for Sulis? Wasn’t that also madness? Years before, he had stood before Beobrand, preventing him from killing her. That had been before they had known that Sulis’ knife had slain Reaghan. Beobrand had never mentioned that dark day to him, but Cynan knew that because of his actions, Sulis yet lived. Ever since that moment, there had been a coolness, a shadow, over his friendship with Beobrand. Now he had intervened on her behalf once more, but to what end? There was no doubt that she was guilty of Reaghan’s death. Beobrand would slit Sulis’ throat for what she had done; for what she had taken from him.
Cynan was not often fearful. He was brave and would stand in the centre of any shieldwall, no matter the odds against them. But the thought of seeing Sulis killed filled him with dread. His stomach twisted to imagine Beobrand’s wrath when he saw her in Ubbanford.
Picking up his small eating knife, Cynan began scratching at his fingernails, cleaning the dirt from under them. Eanflæd, Eadgyth, Reaghan, Udela, Sulis. How had the women in their lives tangled the threads of their wyrds so? He could still not truly believe that Sulis had walked back into his life after all this time, bringing with her a storm of doubts and yearnings he had long since pushed deep into the darkest recesses of his being, far from the light of his thoughts.
Without truly seeing, his eyes followed Domhnulla’s progress as she poured mead for the men at the long benches along the length of the hall. These were the gesithas who remained in Ubbanford. Some of their women were there too, though Rowena was conspicuously absent. She had been furious with Cynan’s intervention earlier in the afternoon, and Bassus had looked harried and dejected when he arrived at the new hall without Rowena at his side.
For Lord and Land Page 7
