For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  Cynan surveyed the warriors, wondering if he had already made his decision before this moment; perhaps in the instant when Bumoth had killed Alfwold upon the tree. Or maybe even before then. Mayhap as far ago as when Sulis had come to him for help. For one so heavy with child to make the trip into danger seeking his assistance, the help that she sought could never lead to a peaceful outcome; only to slaughter. Whenever the decision had formed, his mind was now made up.

  “Ready?” he asked, hoping his companions would hear the real question behind the word.

  “We are ready to follow you, lord,” replied Ingwald, his voice flat; obdurate as granite.

  Cynan sighed with relief as he released the reins of his fury, unleashing his ire at these men who would torture and kill old men in cold blood, abuse children and threaten to murder pregnant women. With no warning, he dragged his sword across Sidrac’s throat, cutting deep and feeling hot blood spurting over his hand. The man’s lifeblood pumped in a great arc towards Hunberht, bright and hot in the light of the rising sun.

  Chapter 23

  Cuthbert rode towards the rear of the column of horsemen. A cool wind blew off the slate-dark sea to his right. The sky was spattered with clouds and dotted with gulls. He watched Beobrand riding at the head of the line of riders and wished he could be by his side. But whatever some of the black-shielded gesithas might think of him, Cuthbert was no fool. Beobrand had made it clear he did not wish to talk to him.

  Shortly after leaving the fortress of Bebbanburg, Cuthbert had nudged his mount close to the lord of Ubbanford and asked him when he thought the Black Shields would next ride to war. Cuthbert had felt dejected at having been left behind. Despite having vivid dreams where he relived the bloody clash on the causeway, often awaking drenched in sweat and choking back a scream, he yearned to be in the thick of a true battle.

  “Like one of those sung of by the scops,” he’d said to Beobrand. “Like Hefenfelth. Or Maserfelth,” he went on breathlessly. “Or the great ditch in East Angeln.” Their horses had been picking their way down the slope leading from the gates of the fortress. There were rocks and thick foliage tangled at the edges of the ramp; no sign now of the battle that had been fought against Penda’s host a few years previously. Bebbanburg had almost burnt and Beobrand had led the Black Shields to a great victory. “I wish I could have fought here at the battle before the gates.” He recalled the heat of the flames and the black smoke, the sparks flying on the wind like the screams of the dying. Cuthbert had tried to join the warriors that day, but his father had shoved him back into the hall saying it was no place for a boy.

  “You know not what you seek,” said Beobrand, sounding just like his father. “You are little more than a child.”

  Cuthbert felt his face grow hot.

  “I am not much younger than your own son,” he said, his tone petulant, “and Octa took Oswine’s banner at Corebricg, did he not?”

  Beobrand had turned in his saddle, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He had fixed Cuthbert in his icy blue gaze.

  “You are nothing like Octa,” he said after a moment.

  “I could be,” muttered Cuthbert, but he did not think his lord had heard the words. Beobrand had already touched his heels to his horse and cantered ahead, down the last part of the slope and away on the path that led through the buildings of the settlement that had been rebuilt after Penda’s attack. Cuthbert was clever enough not to try to follow Beobrand.

  “He can be a grumpy one at times,” said Eadgard, disturbing his thoughts. The massive axeman rode a tall gelding from Oswiu’s stable. He was not the most talkative of Beobrand’s gesithas, but ever since he had carried Cuthbert in the land of East Angeln from the causeway to Saeslaga, he seemed to have decided to keep an eye on the young warrior. When the warhost had returned to Bebbanburg, Eadgard had been the first of the Black Shields to find him. Cuthbert had been praying in the cool stillness of the church. It was quiet and serene there, and kneeling before the stark altar and the ornately carved whale-bone casket that rested upon it, Cuthbert found solace from the worries that swarmed in his head.

  “But why is he not happy?” Cuthbert asked Eadgard. Beobrand had been sullen and angry ever since returning from Corebricg. “You were victorious and his son even captured Oswine’s standard.”

  “You are cleverer than I if you can unravel what is going through Beobrand’s head,” replied Eadgard with a laugh. “Grindan says it is because he dwells too much on things. And Grindan should know. He’s always thinking, that one.”

  “But your brother is not as testy as Beobrand,” observed Cuthbert.

  Eadgard scratched his head.

  “No,” he agreed. “Though I don’t think I have ever met anyone who is.”

  “Careful he does not hear you speaking thus,” interjected Fraomar who rode close by. “You do not need to understand why Beobrand is the way he is. He has much to concern him. He is our hlaford, and so must provide us with food and shelter.”

  “And silver and weapons,” added Eadgard, grinning.

  “Yes,” said Fraomar with a chuckle. “Those things too. What he shouldn’t have to worry about is his men lagging behind and gossiping about him like two goodwives at their spindles.”

  With that rebuke, Fraomar kicked his horse on and left Eadgard and Cuthbert trailing behind the rest of the men.

  Cuthbert turned in the saddle, peering back in the direction they had come. Far off now he could still make out Bebbanburg atop its rock. To the east lay the island of Lindisfarena. The Holy Island. Coenred would be there and Cuthbert wondered what the monk was doing. Would he be praying, or worshipping, reciting one of the frequent offices that the brethren had to adhere to? Perhaps he was scratching the symbols of words into the stretched calf hides the monks used as parchment.

  They had talked about all of these things and more in the days after Beobrand and the others had ridden south to war. Cuthbert had recovered quickly under the monk’s care and he had found the depth of Coenred’s knowledge of healing fascinating. He had asked him about the poultices and herbs he used, and Coenred seemed happy enough to answer all of his questions.

  He had explained to him how swelling could be treated with horehound, silverweed, fine flour, comfrey and a host of other wyrts. Coenred went on to tell him that toothache could be soothed with henbane root, boiled in strong vinegar, and that betony, wormwood and bog myrtle, infused in water, was good for diseases of the lungs. Cuthbert was quick-witted and inquisitive, with a keen memory. It was as though his mind was a bucket and Coenred’s words were water. At first they spoke of leechcraft, but they had soon moved on to God and the ways of the monks of Lindisfarena.

  “How many times a day do you pray?” he asked on the second morning when he had joined Coenred in the small stone church.

  “Hush, Cuthbert,” Coenred said. “We will speak later, but for now our words should only be for the Lord.”

  Cuthbert had bitten his lip and remained silent for the remainder of the time they spent in the shadowed interior of the church. He listened as Coenred intoned his prayers to God, his voice rising and falling in the well-practised liturgy. At times he spoke in a language Cuthbert did not comprehend. In spite of not understanding the words, he liked the music of it. He recognised other parts too, though he had seldom truly listened to the words of the Lord’s Prayer, or thought of their meaning before. It was just something the priests demanded that people repeat. Now though, after speaking to Coenred, it seemed as though each word burnt with meaning and resonance.

  When they had eventually walked out of the gloomy church and into the watery sunlight of a day that threatened rain, Cuthbert’s questions had tumbled from his lips in a torrent. What was the name of the language in which the monks spoke to God? How long did it take to learn? Did Christ listen to prayers in that tongue more than he did Anglisc prayers? Was it God who provided bread for his faithful or a man’s hlaford?

  Coenred held up his hands and laughed.

&nb
sp; “Slow down, young Cuthbert,” he said. “When amongst the brethren on the island, we are forbidden from talking most of the time. I have said more in these last days to you than in the previous year or more. You chatter like a magpie.”

  Cuthbert frowned and looked away from the monk. Why did men always take him for a fool? Coenred reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder, turning him round to face him.

  “Do not misunderstand me,” he said, smiling. “It is good that you wish to know the answers to these things, but I am but human and need time to gather my thoughts.”

  Cuthbert said nothing. He still had his doubts about Coenred. He was sure that an angel had come to him aboard the ship. His leg still pained him, but he could walk on it now. He had seen much lesser wounds fester and rot, causing men to lose their limbs or even perish. Surely this must be the work of an angel. He had asked Coenred about this, but the monk had insisted he was merely a man and that God sometimes answered his prayers and worked through him, aiding his skills of healing. When Cuthbert had pressed him, refusing to believe him, Coenred had conceded that perhaps an angel had come to him, but if that was so, nobody else on Saeslaga had seen him. Cuthbert’s insistence on the matter seemed to unnerve Coenred so he had decided not to mention it again. But he knew what he had seen.

  “Why do you not speak when at the minster?” Cuthbert asked.

  Coenred smiled and, without answering, he walked towards the palisade of the fortress that overlooked the North Sea. Cuthbert followed him, limping along in his wake. They climbed the ladder and stood side by side gazing out at the rippling sea and the shape of the island of Lindisfarena in the distance. Cuthbert watched the bobbing heads of seals in the dark water following a small fishing boat. Terns, gulls and guillemots flew about the boat, seeking the same fish for which the sailors cast their nets.

  “Look at the wonder of the Lord’s creation,” he said, sweeping his hand to the horizon. “Do you think that speaking brings you closer to God and His creatures?”

  Cuthbert watched as a flock of gannets flew to where there must be a teeming shoal of fish beneath the surface of the sea. One by one the birds bent their wings and descended like spears, darting into the waves with barely a splash, to return moments later into the sunlight with flashes of silver in their sharp beaks.

  “God does not always speak through words, Cuthbert,” Coenred said, watching his face closely.

  Cuthbert stared out, the wind making his eyes water as he took in the birds, the boat, the white fretting on the waves that rolled towards the shore. He listened and heard the calls of the terns and the gulls carried on the breeze. If he listened long enough, would he hear the voice of God Himself?

  “Does he speak to you?” he asked Coenred.

  “Sometimes,” he said, scratching at the stubble that grew where the front of his head was shaved in the way of the monks. He raised an eyebrow, amused at something. “When I listen.”

  “What does he sound like?”

  Coenred smiled.

  “His voice is not like yours or mine, though some have heard the Lord speak to them directly, like the voice from the angel of the burning bush that spoke to Moses.”

  Cuthbert frowned. He knew nothing of a bush on fire, but the talk of an angel caught his attention.

  “If God does not speak, then how do you hear Him?”

  Coenred thought for a moment before replying.

  “Sometimes He speaks through the words of His teachings in the Scriptures. That is why we spend so long studying the words of the apostles and the prophets. But God is everywhere and He can speak to you through the cry of a gull or the bark of a seal, or the whistle of the wind through the trees.”

  Cuthbert started at the monk’s words, thinking of the beasts of the sea and air he had been watching and the golden-haired angel that had come to him aboard Saeslaga.

  “Perhaps the Lord can speak through you,” he said, his voice small.

  “I pray that is so,” said Coenred. “For what greater joy than to be a vessel for the Holy Ghost?”

  Over the next days, whenever possible, Cuthbert had sought out Coenred, asking him all of the questions he could think of. Coenred was patient and did his best to explain all that he was able to the young man.

  “You remind me of myself when I was your age,” Coenred said one afternoon as they walked through the dunes outside of the fortress. “Though I was never as clever as you,” he added, laughing.

  Cuthbert laughed at the monk’s words, sure that he was making fun of him. He had never met any man more learned than Coenred. Angel or not, Cuthbert was in awe of the man’s depth and breadth of knowledge.

  Coenred had even begun to teach Cuthbert the rudiments of reading and writing.

  As they rode, Cuthbert reached back to touch the saddlebag that hung over his horse’s loins. He could feel the hard edges of the wax tablet that none other than the queen had gifted him. He blushed to recall how she had entered the church while Coenred and he had been talking. It had been raining and there were few places that were dry and yet not packed with people and chatter.

  “You came here with Beobrand, did you not?” Eanflæd asked. She had entered the church alone and it was the first time Cuthbert had been so close to her. His cheeks grew hot at being addressed by such an important person. And one so charming. The dim watery light spilling in from the open door did nothing to dampen her beauty. She wore a simple woollen dress of blue over a pale linen peplos. The only item that spoke of her position was her gold necklace, adorned with garnets and tiny shaped fragments of blue patterned glass. But there was no escaping her regal bearing, and the intelligence behind her eyes.

  Cuthbert swallowed and nodded, unable to force out any words.

  Coenred smiled at the queen and appeared relaxed in her presence.

  “This is Cuthbert,” he said. “He was injured in the fighting in East Angeln. Beobrand left him here under my care.”

  “And that is the very best care,” she said with a radiant smile. “I see Coenred’s skills are not diminished, for you seem to be all healed.”

  “My leg still pains me, my lady,” stammered Cuthbert, then, embarrassed at the implication that Coenred was not a good healer, he added, “but if not for Coenred, I believe I would have lost the leg, or worse.” He trembled to think of what might have happened and also from the sudden shyness that gripped him under the queen’s bright-eyed gaze.

  “Well,” she said, “I am glad you did not lose it and that you are up and about.”

  “God is good and answered my prayers,” said Coenred, inclining his head.

  “This is the best place in Bebbanburg to pray,” she said. “You know the head of King Oswald himself rests in that casket?”

  Cuthbert glanced over at the finely carved box on the altar. On the sides of the box were engraved the likenesses of men and animals. He had imagined it to be a detailed and skilled depiction of stories from the Scriptures. He could see a bird on one side, perhaps a dove, and in the distance, a tree upon which languished a man. He had thought it must be the figure of Jesu, but now he recalled hearing tales of Oswald’s end at Maserfelth. He shuddered. He had not thought to enquire what was within. He’d thought that perhaps it housed the holy Eucharist that the priests gave to the faithful at Mass. The idea of a powerful king’s head in the darkness within the box, staring out with sightless eyes, made him dizzy.

  “I had not talked of the saintly relic,” replied Coenred. “But we were not praying.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was teaching Cuthbert his letters.” Coenred held up his own small wood-rimmed wax tablet that he had lent to the boy to scratch out the letters and words he taught him.

  “Oh that is wonderful,” Eanflæd replied. “So you plan to join the brethren on Lindisfarena? I think this is a wise choice,” she said with a smile. “You have more the aspect of a scribe than a spear-man.”

  Her words stabbed at Cuthbert.

  “I am no monk,” he replied sti
ffly. “I am a gesith in Beobrand’s warband. I carry the Black Shield and when I am fully recovered, I will stand with my brothers in the shieldwall.”

  “I meant no harm by my words,” the queen said, reaching out to touch him lightly on the arm. “There is no shame in being a monk, praying for the souls of men and women, and listening to the word of God. But if your path is to fight, then that is also noble. Though I would be saddened to see someone so clearly bright throw away his life lightly.”

  As he rode now besides Eadgard, watching the line of men walking their mounts up a rise and into the hills that swelled the land to the south of Ubbanford, he again caressed the edges of the wax tablet Eanflæd had given him the day after that first meeting. Beneath it in his saddle bag, wrapped in oiled leather, was the most precious thing he had ever owned. Shortly after that first encounter in the church, the queen had left, but she had evidently thought much about their conversation, for the next day she had found Coenred and Cuthbert once more conversing within the stillness of the stone building. Cuthbert had been distracted by the ornate casket, imagining the severed head of a saintly king within, when he heard the scrape of soft leather on the flagstones.

  Startled, he turned. His unease melted away at the sight of the slender shape of the queen sweeping into the shade of the church. He began to babble an apology for his tone the day before, but she silenced him with a raised hand.

  “No, Cuthbert,” she said, and he thrilled at hearing his name on her lips, “you were quite right. I presumed much. The path of every man’s life is his own to discover.” She hesitated and he was surprised to see that she appeared embarrassed. “I have a present for you,” she said at last, holding out a small parcel wrapped in leather. Cuthbert took it gingerly. It was not a large object, about the size of his two hands placed side by side. Rectangular and solid, he wondered what lay within the wrapping. “Go on, open it,” she said.