For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  Carefully, Cuthbert peeled back the leather to uncover what lay within. First there was a wax tablet with its own bone carved stylus.

  “So that you can continue to practise your letters,” she said, “even when you return to Ubbanford.”

  His mouth was dry.

  “Thank you,” he muttered.

  “Look beneath,” she prompted.

  Lifting the tablet and stylus aside, Cuthbert unveiled a small leather-bound book. He had only ever seen one book before: the large Evangelion that rested on a lectern within the church of Saint Peter at Bebbanburg. A gift from Bishop Aidan to King Oswiu, Coenred had said. That Gospel Book was huge, but this tome was a miniature replica, with stiff leather covers enclosed around perfectly cut parchment pages. Gently, he opened it and looked at the first page. It was filled with exquisitely detailed and perfectly formed black letters, penned by a hand with much more skill than he could ever hope to possess. The first letter of the text was over-sized and surrounded by swirling, interlocking patterns and the many-coloured, long-necked image of a bird that seemed to be pecking at the page.

  He could not speak for a time. His breath caught in his throat. It was so beautiful. And a thing of incalculable value.

  “Cuthbert,” said Coenred, gently nudging him in the ribs, “what say you?” Cuthbert’s cheeks burnt. He was being told to offer thanks like a small child who forgets itself when one of their kin gives them a straw doll at harvest time.

  “Thank you, my lady.” His words were filled with awe. “Thank you. I will practise my writing every day with this.” He held up the tablet. “But this,” he proffered the book to her, “is too much. I cannot accept such a gift. I am not worthy of it.”

  “Nonsense,” she replied with a smile, pushing the book back towards him. “I can think of none worthier. Alas the book is not a complete Psalter, but there is much to be learnt from the Psalms therein. I can see there is a hunger for knowledge within you that must be fed.”

  “Truly, I cannot take this,” he said again, once more trying to return the book to the queen.

  She shook her head.

  “It is yours until such time as you are able to recite it and copy out all of the words within. Then you can return it to me and I will accept it gladly. Agreed?”

  Grudgingly he had accepted, but the thought of it in his bag filled him with worry. And there was something else. Having accepted the gifts from Eanflæd, he fretted that he had somehow become complicit in shifting the course of his life. For what warrior could read and write? As far as he knew, no gesithas in Beobrand’s warband, nor the lord of Ubbanford himself, knew how to make the shapes of letters and words on vellum. None of them could decipher the scratched symbols, hearing the words within their mind as he did.

  After the queen had left, Coenred had clapped him on the back.

  “That is a truly royal gift,” he said. “Take great care of it.”

  His words only made Cuthbert more nervous.

  “Of course I will,” he snapped. “I am not a fool.”

  “I never took you for one,” replied Coenred. “It seems both the queen and I see something special in you. Perhaps you have not yet found the light that we see.”

  Cuthbert pondered Coenred’s words for a long while. He turned the book over in his hands, relishing the touch of the smooth leather. Turning the pages, he marvelled at the markings there. He could barely make out one word in twenty, but his heart soared at the beauty of it; the perfection. He had never felt anything akin to this before. It was as though when he had first watched the seals and the birds, he had begun to hear God’s whispering, but now, with the weight of the Psalter in his hands, he began to imagine the Lord of heaven speaking to him in bold, loud words and sentences. Was such a thing possible?

  “Is it wrong that I feel this way?” he asked.

  “How do you feel?” replied Coenred, his voice gentle.

  “I see the beauty in this leather and vellum. The words begin to come to me.” Cuthbert paused, struggling to explain his feelings. “I long to learn more, to be able to read as you can.”

  “You are quick to learn,” said Coenred. “Soon enough you will be reading and writing no doubt faster and better than me.”

  “But I am no monk.” Cuthbert let the words hang in the cool air of the church. Outside he could hear the wall wards shouting as they trained with shield and spear. He stood, wishing to go and watch them as he did every day. Soon, he prayed, he would be strong enough to once again join his fellow warriors in practice with weapons and linden boards. “Is it wrong that I yearn to fight?”

  Coenred stared at him, frowning.

  “Nobody but you can decide what path to follow, Cuthbert. Some men are destined to fight to protect those weaker than them.”

  “Like Beobrand.”

  “Yes,” said Coenred with a tinge of sadness in his voice, “like Beobrand.” He sighed. “But such a calling is not for all men. Many cannot stomach the taking of another’s life. And even for those such as Beobrand to whom killing comes easily, the death of others is a heavy burden.”

  “You think I am not suited to that life? You think I should join the brethren of Lindisfarena?”

  Coenred shook his head.

  “We would be lucky to have you. You are intelligent, kind and thoughtful. But you are yet young and only you can decide.”

  Cuthbert had left him there and gone out into the noisy courtyard to watch the wardens shove each other, shield to shield. The crack of spears against wood and the clang of iron bosses colliding drowned out his thoughts for a time.

  Now, Cuthbert noticed that Eadgard had ridden ahead, leaving him to bring up the rear of Beobrand’s warband alone. The axeman must have grown tired of his sullen silence, for he now chatted and joked with Fraomar and his brother, Grindan, some way further off.

  Cuthbert thought of Coenred’s last words to him as he had left the church that day, clutching the queen’s gift close to his chest for fear he might let it drop into the mud.

  “Do one thing for me,” Coenred had said.

  “What?”

  “Do not ignore the voice of God. He can guide you along the right path, but only if you listen.” He had held Cuthbert’s gaze for a few heartbeats. “Do not shut Him out. If He speaks to you, Cuthbert, listen.”

  Cuthbert looked over the land to his right and left. The still of the day had been shattered by the passing of the mounted warriors, but now that most of them were far away, the chaffinches, song thrushes and sparrows began to chirp and trill once more in the hedges. The drone of bees settling on the clover was loud enough to be heard over the clop of his horse’s hooves. The wind rustled through the boughs of the beech and hazel that grew near the road. A movement caught his eye and he turned to see a hare, raised up on its haunches, staring at him. Its long ears stretched above its head and it seemed to nod at him as he passed, making no effort to hide itself in the undergrowth.

  Cuthbert stared at it, craning his head around until it was lost in the distance. All the while the animal did not blink or take its gaze from Cuthbert’s. He wondered at the meaning of that. Was it judging him? What did it see in the face of the young man who rode at the rear of the column of warriors?

  Did the animal see another killer of men, a hard-faced gesith, or did he see something softer. Could it be that the hare saw in him what Eanflæd and Coenred had noticed?

  Shaking his head, Cuthbert kicked his mount into a canter to catch up with the others. As he rode, he listened to the breeze rushing past and the thump of his horse’s hooves on the turf, and listened for the voice of God.

  Chapter 24

  Sidrac’s blood was still pumping from the severed arteries in his neck as Cynan pushed him aside.

  Hunberht’s eyes widened and a cold smile spread across his face.

  “I am going to enjoy killing you,” he sneered, assured of his own ability despite his right arm hanging useless in a sling. He leapt forward to meet Cynan, and his agility, swo
rd-skill and courage were all obvious in his actions and lithe movements. His blade flicked out with snake-like speed and Cynan barely managed to parry the blow. As it was, Hunberht’s sword scored a long cut down his forearm. Blood welled there, but Cynan did not feel the wound immediately. Cynan was tall, strong and battle-skilled and, without thinking, he rotated his wrist, turning his parry into a counter-strike that pierced Hunberht’s left shoulder. The blade buried deep into muscles and sinews and the swordsman’s left arm lost its strength. His sword dropped to the earth and for the briefest of moments, Hunberht’s eyes were filled with the knowledge of his death. All about them, the other men were fighting and Cynan did not pause. He raised his sword and hammered it into Hunberht’s head. The man’s skull was smashed and he collapsed instantly.

  It was then that the cut on his arm began to burn and Cynan wondered for a heartbeat how he might have fared against Hunberht if the sneering swordsman had had the use of his right arm. But there was no time to ponder such questions. Halinard was locked in a struggle against a stocky, bandy-legged brute, while Brinin and Ingwald had both dispatched the men who stood before them.

  The two of them moved to help the Frank. Together they would make quick work of Halinard’s opponent. Cynan fixed his eyes on the last enemy standing. It was the tall youth, Raedmund, the lad who had taken the dogs away to be tethered in the barn. Stepping over Hunberht’s still form, Cynan swung his sword in a great arc, testing his hold on the grip and the strength of his wounded arm. Blood flicked from the blade, splattering Raedmund’s appalled face. The boy’s eyes were wide and terrified. He held a spear before him, pointing it towards the approaching Waelisc warrior. Cynan clenched his jaw against the throbbing pain in his arm and jumped forward. Raedmund gasped and stumbled backwards, raising the spear to ward off the impending attack.

  “Please, no,” he said. “I do not want to die.”

  The boy’s words were as wind to a fire within Cynan. His rage soared, its flames fanned to a new intensity.

  “What about Alfwold?” he spat, recalling the look of horror on the old bondsman’s face as he had died hanging on the oak. “Do you think he wanted death? What about Leofman? You were going to kill him,” he shouted, as all his anger coalesced on the terrified young man before him. “And what of his wife, and their son?”

  Raedmund took another step backward, shaking his head. He tried to speak, perhaps to justify and explain himself, but Cynan did not listen to his words. They were lost in the rush of his blood and the roaring fires of his wrath.

  Effortlessly, Cynan batted the ash haft of the spear aside with his left hand and stepped inside the reach of the spear-point. Raising his sword, he prepared to slam it into this frightened youth when a shout from behind cut through his anger. This was a higher-pitched voice. Like that of a woman.

  Or a child.

  It took great effort to halt the blade’s descent, but at the last possible moment Cynan checked his sword’s swing. The steel ended up quivering a mere hand’s breadth before Raedmund’s wide eyes. The young man dropped his spear and raised his hands, cowering before Cynan, who kicked the spear away and surveyed the scene around him. Everyone from the hall, apart from the terrified Raedmund, who now knelt before him with his head bowed, was dead or dying. With a wave of relief Cynan saw that all of his companions yet stood.

  Eadwig ran up to him then, his father limping behind and shouting for the boy to come back. The little boy flung his arms around Raedmund’s neck and clung to him, sobbing. Begging Cynan not to kill him. From the barn came the sound of the dogs barking once more.

  As Cynan took stock of the situation, faces cautiously peered out of the open door of the hall. Cynan’s breathing was ragged from the sprint and the combat. His arm throbbed with each beat of his heart, and looking down he saw the sleeve of his kirtle was stained red. On seeing the figures in the doorway, he raised his gore-slick blade, ready for another attack.

  “Show yourselves,” he said.

  An elderly man, with deep wrinkles on his brow and wisps of white hair on the sides of his head, stepped gingerly into the early morning light, looking about him with wide, sad eyes.

  “What have you done?” he asked, though it seemed to Cynan there was no need to answer him. The old man walked towards the slumped corpse of Sidrac with tears in his eyes. “What have you done to the master?”

  A younger man followed him outside, looking about warily at the armed men.

  “Don’t hurt him,” he said to Cynan. “Please.”

  Cynan took in the man’s drab attire and noted the music of his voice, so replied in his mother’s tongue.

  “You are thralls?”

  The younger man met his gaze and Cynan liked the defiance he saw there.

  “My name is Bleddyn,” the man said, “and that is my father, Cadoc.” He glanced over at the old man.

  Cynan followed Bleddyn’s gaze and watched as Cadoc knelt beside Sidrac. Tears tumbled down the old man’s cheeks as he muttered to himself or perhaps to Sidrac’s still form. Or mayhap he whispered to the man’s shade.

  “We served that bastard,” said Bleddyn.

  “Are there more of you?” asked Cynan, moving to one of the fallen men and wiping his sword blade on the dead man’s breeches.

  “Two more men inside,” Bleddyn replied after a brief hesitation. “And eight women. They are too scared to come out.”

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” Cynan said, and Bleddyn looked at him as if he had told him butter was made from gold. “I have not come in search of thralls. Your master is dead. You are free.”

  Bleddyn still looked unconvinced.

  “Four of the women are not thralls. They have children too.”

  Cynan frowned. Nothing was ever simple.

  “They need not fear us either.”

  *

  Cynan had half-expected the hall to be dirty and slovenly within; a reflection of the character of its owner. But it was a comfortable enough building, with clean rushes on the floor and a small fire on the hearthstone.

  As they followed Bleddyn inside, Cynan enquired after the lady of the hall, feeling a pang of guilt at killing Sidrac. He remembered vividly Eadgyth’s grief when she had learnt of Acennan’s death. Cynan loathed the idea of being confronted with the effects of his actions. The thought of Eadgyth, too, made him wonder once again what had made him so willing to answer Sulis’ call for aid. He could have been safe within his own hall now, not about to confront the wailing widows of men whose blood was still drying on his hands.

  But he was spared at least one confrontation that he had feared.

  Bleddyn shook his head.

  “The lady Herelufu was taken to Our Heavenly Father just after Eostremonath.” He had a haunted look about him and he glanced over at his father, who peered at the floor. “She was thrown while riding.”

  Cynan nodded, glad not to have to answer to Sidrac’s wife.

  Then, anticipating his next question in the way of the best servants, Bleddyn said, “They had no children.”

  The other women were too frightened to approach Cynan. They cowered at the rear of the hall with their wide-eyed weeping children. Cynan made no effort to speak with them. What was there to say?

  It seemed that since the lady of the hall’s death, it had been Cadoc who’d kept a close eye on the running of the household. Once he had recovered from his shock and spoken quietly to his son, he appeared to revert to his usual role of keeping the hall tidy and its inhabitants fed and comfortable. He ordered the women thralls, two of whom were as young as Raedmund, to prepare food for their guests. The women scurried off to do his bidding, looking at Cynan and the others with frightened eyes. They whispered to each other and, once the men had sat down, keeping their swords close, the two girls brought bowls of porridge for each of them. Cadoc poured them ale and they fell to eating and drinking. They had not eaten since the previous day, before riding through the night and then clashing with Sidrac and his men in the morning.
They were ravenous and they did not speak until they had emptied their bowls. As they ate, Cynan looked at the men. Their eyes were encircled in shadows.

  “We cannot tarry here,” said Leofman, when he had finished eating. Eadwig sat close to his side, but did not eat. His face was pale and he stared at Cynan in fear. He had pleaded for Raedmund to be spared and Cynan had complied with the boy’s wish, but clearly, seeing so many men hacked down had filled Eadwig with terror at these strangers. He had been through much these last days, but Cynan marvelled at the small boy’s bravery. To rush to Raedmund’s defence had taken true grit. To run towards men with blooded swords in their hands was something many men several times Eadwig’s age would have baulked at. “We must ride now,” went on Leofman. “We cannot allow Bumoth and Ludeca to find Sulis.” He shuddered at the thought.

  Cynan nodded. The man was right, but they could not leave immediately. Halinard was pallid and the bandage they had wrapped about him had already soaked through. The Frank had taken the deepest wound in the fight; a gash to his side. It was deep and painful, and bled profusely, but Cynan had seen enough wounds to know that unless it grew elf-shot and festered, Halinard would live.

  “Raedmund,” Cynan said, “place one of the seax blades in the embers and see that it is glowing hot.” The young man nodded and set about his task.

  Cynan clenched his fist, testing the bandage on his forearm. It ached, but the bandage was tight, his grip still strong.

  “We will go as soon as we are able,” he said. “First we must tend to Halinard. He is in no state to ride until that wound is sealed. Besides,” he said, glancing over at the open door, “we wait for Ingwald and Brinin to return with the horses.” He had sent them to collect their mounts and they should be back soon.

  “How do you fare, Halinard?”

  “By Tiw’s cock!” hissed Halinard through gritted teeth. “It hurts!” His face was pale and sweat-streaked.

  Despite Halinard’s obvious pain, Cynan couldn’t help but smile. To hear Bassus’ favourite expletive spoken with the softness and lilt of the Frank’s accent went some way to dispelling the darkness of their situation. They were far from home and there were still enemies to confront. Bumoth, Ludeca and the others were half a day ahead of them and Cynan could not push from his mind the thought of Sidrac’s men reaching Sulis before them. And yet he knew he should be pleased with how events had transpired. With only a few bruises and cuts to show for it, they had prevailed.