Cynan seemed set to voice another retort, but Beobrand gave him no time. Leaping forward once more, he rained blows down on the Waelisc warrior’s shield. Cynan staggered back.
More cheering from those watchers who had bet on the lord of Ubbanford. Beobrand noted there were some groans from the crowd, indicating that not a few had sided with his opponent.
Cynan recovered his balance and danced away, his feet treading lightly on the muddy grass. Beobrand did not chase him, knowing instinctively that to do so would be his undoing. He would be walking into a trap of Cynan’s making. No, he would play out this combat for a while longer. He would not be defeated by a cheap trick. He had been bested by Cynan before in such practice bouts, but the man’s arrogance rankled. Beobrand would trust him with his life, had done so many times, and he knew that Cynan loved him and was loyal. And yet, Beobrand recalled the moment when they had stood, both bloody and panting, screaming at each other over Sulis’ fate. The slave had inflicted the wound that was to kill Reaghan and her life had been forfeit. Cynan had not allowed his lord to strike her down. Ever since then, something had changed between them. Beobrand still trusted Cynan, and Cynan was yet loyal, but there was a tension, an unease. And the two men seemed to often find themselves on the opposing sides of contests of skill or games of chance that were played during the long, dark winter months.
The crowd grew silent as they realised the fight would not be decided so quickly. The outcome was still very much in the balance. The two swordsmen circled each other, shields hefted before them, wooden blades raised and ready.
Cynan gave away his intentions with a barely perceptible tightening of his eyes, but it was enough for Beobrand to anticipate the flurry of savage blows that came. He took the sting from them on his linden board, quickly countering with a low swipe of his blade. Such was the speed of Beobrand’s counterattack, coupled with the reach of his long sword arm, that Cynan was forced to retreat once more. His left foot slipped on the wet grass and he stumbled.
Seeing the sudden fear in Cynan’s eyes, Beobrand seized the moment. He pushed forward, ready to batter aside the Waelisc man’s defences. Victory would be his and he could rest, as he had intended all along. He grinned, sure that he had timed his attack perfectly to capitalise on his gesith’s loss of footing.
The crowd were hushed, not breathing, sure this was the moment where the victor would be decided.
A sudden movement behind Cynan drew Beobrand’s gaze. A flash of brilliant red and yellow, as bright as any summer flower.
“You see, my dear Godgyth,” came a clear, ringing voice, “it is Lord Beobrand.”
A ripple ran through the onlookers as they parted to allow the newcomer to view the fight. It was Eanflæd, beautiful and out of place surrounded by the grizzled warriors, with her golden hair, braided and resplendent, a cloak of the finest red-hued wool over a flowing yellow dress of soft linen. Beobrand had the briefest of glimpses of the lustre of her tresses, the bright colours of her clothes, before he hit the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth and to drive the air from his lungs.
For a moment, he lay there, dazed and blinking, the cold, damp of the grass and soil leeching into him. Noise erupted from the crowd and Beobrand understood they had their loser. A shadow fell over him and Cynan offered his hand.
Grimacing, Beobrand took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be hauled to his feet. His gaze met Cynan’s. The younger man was no longer grinning. Beobrand’s anger was legendary, and it was no small matter to tumble one’s lord onto his backside, especially before so many witnesses. For several heartbeats, Beobrand clenched Cynan’s hand in a crushing grip, their eyes locked. All around them, the men chattered about what they had seen. Someone whistled at the princess and her maidservant. Bassus’ loud laughter broke the stillness that had fallen on the two fighters.
At last, Beobrand offered Cynan a rueful smile.
“You did well,” he said. “I almost had you.”
“It seems the Sisters of Wyrd smiled on me this day.”
Beobrand dropped his shield with a clatter onto the wooden sword.
“It would seem so.”
Cynan said, “Perhaps the Sisters are repaying me.”
Beobrand frowned.
“How so?”
“Well, I once saved a woman from your sword, and now a lady saves me from your blade.”
Anger flashed within Beobrand, hot and deadly. There was nothing to be compared in not taking the blood-price from a murderous, mad slave, and him being distracted by the arrival of a lady of noble birth.
Beobrand had to resist the urge to lash out, to scream at the Waelisc man. But this was Cynan’s way. He meant nothing by it. And yet Beobrand felt his ire roil within him like a living thing. He clamped his jaw shut, his teeth grinding and turned away without a word.
Eanflæd stood before him. Her smiling eyes, glistening in the sunlight, made her appear even more delightful than she had at the feast.
“I was looking for you, Lord Beobrand,” she said, the smile in her voice too. “I was prepared to wait until you finished your training, you did not have to let your adversary beat you quite so quickly.”
Her laughter washed over him like a balm. Beobrand felt his ire melting away, like blood being scrubbed from battle harness.
“Well,” he said, raising his voice for all those gathered to hear, “I would rather trade words with one of your beauty than have to deal with the clumsy blows of this Waelisc butcher who thinks himself skilled in battle-play.” Laughter from the company. “Besides,” he said, leading her away from the men, but allowing his voice to still carry to them, “I need a rest after all that wine you plied me with last night.”
The sounds of laughter followed them.
Chapter 9
They had only taken a few paces when Beobrand shivered, his skin prickling with the sweat drying in the cool air.
Gods, he had stripped off his kirtle before crossing blades with Cynan! Without a word, he hurried back to retrieve the garment. Bassus, clearly waiting for him to realise his state of undress, was holding the kirtle out to him. Beobrand snatched it from his friend’s grasp and tugged it over his sweat-drenched hair and wriggled his arms into the sleeves. Bassus shook his head.
“Be careful,” he whispered. Beobrand met his gaze but said nothing.
The gathered men grinned at Beobrand. He growled at them to cover his embarrassment. Without a word, he jogged back to where Eanflæd waited patiently with her gemæcce. His face was hot now, gone the feeling of chill in the air.
Laughter followed him again, and he saw the princess bite her lip to avoid sniggering. Angrily, Beobrand strode off. After a moment Eanflæd caught up with him, matching his pace. Godgyth, her maid servant, did not rush, but followed several paces behind them, a disapproving expression on her face.
Beobrand and Eanflæd walked in silence for a while.
He felt foolish and diminished before his men. Cynan was ever testing his strength, his resolve, his leadership. To lead men was a lonely task. Success did not merely rely on oaths, but on reputation and respect. Each were built over years, but could be lost in an instant. This meant nothing to his gesithas, he told himself. They were the most loyal of men. He glanced at the slender beauty at his side. By Woden All-father, he had run to her like a puppy. The men would think him weak to be so easily controlled by a girl.
For a moment, he thought of Eowa, and how he had almost lost his life and plunged Albion into war over just such a girl. Eowa, gone now, but he would surely not be the last man to have his head turned by a pretty girl, or the last to act stupidly whilst in love’s thrall.
What was he thinking? This was not love. He could never have Eanflæd. Beobrand shuddered.
To avoid the shade of the buildings, he led them towards a row of old box trees. Beobrand had noticed the lifelike marble statues that stood there, gazing blindly at a world their creators had long since departed. In the distance Beobrand could make out the huge vau
lted walls of the amphitheatre. Crumbling and overgrown with weeds, it was seldom used now, and never for the purpose for which it was built.
Beobrand remembered coming to Cantwareburh with his uncle Selwyn. He winced at the memory. He had believed him to be his uncle then, now he knew the truth. The father he had wished for but had never had. He recalled Selwyn bringing him and his older brother, Octa, all the way to this place, a day’s journey from their steading on the coast. On one such trip, the strangely semi-circular building he could now see rising above the walls of the courtyard had housed a slave market. He had begged Selwyn to take them, but his uncle had refused. “We have no money for slaves,” he had said and had led them away from the huge building and the raucous shouts of the vendors hawking their wares.
Later, Selwyn had entered into a deep conversation with an old friend of his, a burly smith who had welcomed Selwyn like a lost brother. The two men had sat by the warmth of the banked forge talking of old times, better times as old men always believe. The smith had produced a flask of strong mead and they had not noticed when Octa and Beobrand had slipped away. The boys had run back through the streets of Cantwareburh, drawn towards the noise, smells and excitement of the slave market the way wasps are attracted to rotting apples. When they had arrived, their senses had been assaulted. The stench of shit mingled with that of ale and roasting meat. The slavers led their captive thralls onto the platform beneath the tiered ranks of seated prospective buyers. They screamed out the good qualities of the enslaved Waelisc they sought to sell.
Beobrand had not thought of that day for many years, but the sight of the amphitheatre brought it all tumbling back into his mind. The building had been a cacophony of noise, but it was the silence that had stayed with Beobrand. The stillness of the slaves. They would shuffle forward when their owners tugged their ropes, but they did not move unless forced to do so. They did not speak. Some of the thralls were tall, strong, muscled and scarred with the reminders of sharp blades and battles. Warriors, no doubt. Proud men. Men who had served a lord once, sworn oaths, riddled and laughed with their spear-brothers whilst basking in the heat of a great hall’s hearth fire. And yet these men did not fight for their freedom now. All around them echoed jeering yells and shouts, the slave masters prodded their flesh, pulled open their mouths to show the strength of their teeth. And yet these once proud men had stood, shoulders slumped and heads down, as placid as kine. All of the slaves there had one thing that united them, a trait that made them seem to be of one kindred: their eyes. No tears, no defiance. The eyes had been empty; the people broken.
Beobrand did not know what he had expected to find there in that great, bustling edifice, but the shuffling, still, broken men, women and children had filled him with dismay. He had not mentioned how he’d felt to Octa, but they had not been there long when, as if by unspoken agreement, they had turned and left the noisome market behind them.
Looking up at one of the statues, a bearded, well-muscled man, Beobrand snorted. It reminded him of Selwyn. When Octa and he had returned to Selwyn at the forge, their uncle and the smith had still been talking, laughing and drinking, recounting tales of the old days, the better days when they had been young and had raided foreign lands. And made thralls of their defeated enemies. The brothers had settled down to wait for their uncle to finish. If Selwyn had known they had disobeyed him that day, he never spoke of it.
“You are deep in thought,” said Eanflæd, her soft voice breaking his reverie. A light breeze whispered through the boughs of the trees above them.
“I was thinking of my brother,” Beobrand said, his voice more gruff than he had intended.
“I often come here and look at the statues,” she said.
They walked on. The next stone figure was of an older man, slimmer, with a sharp nose like a seax blade. Both the arms had been snapped from the statue, leaving nothing but rocky stumps. Beobrand thought of Bassus.
“I wonder about the people who made these images,” she said. “The features of these men live for eternity, and yet we know not who they were. Did they have children? Were they honourable? How did they die? We will never know. But it saddens me that we have lost the skill to carve stone in this way.” She reached out long, sensuous fingers and caressed the cold, unyielding cheek of the statue. “You and I have both lost many loved ones,” she said and sighed wistfully. “I can barely remember what my brothers or my father looked like. I come here and I imagine them to resemble these long-forgotten men from far-off Roma.”
She strode along the line of statues. It was Beobrand’s turn to hurry after her. She halted at a bust of a bald, square-jawed patrician. It conjured up the impression of King Edwin’s features; the same bold glare, strong forehead and broad, corded neck.
“I would like to have statues of those I have lost,” she said, gazing up at the bust’s face. “My memories are weak.”
“Memories are all we have,” said Beobrand. “A carved face would change nothing. Do these men yet live?”
“No,” she whispered, subdued by his harsh tone. “But their faces can be seen. That is something, is it not?”
Beobrand looked at the unmoving, frozen faces, captured in stone by the skill of some long-dead craftsman. He searched the statues for features to remind him of Octa. Or Acennan. He saw none.
“Dead is dead,” he intoned, the words like a curse. “No stone will change that.”
She turned away from him. The maid servant glowered at him and Beobrand felt sorry for his words. The girl sought comfort and he gave her the hard truths of a warrior.
He was about to apologise when a commotion from the direction of the great hall caught his attention. A small group of people were rushing towards them. Beobrand’s hand fell to his belt, fingers seeking out the reassuring hilt of Hrunting or the bone handle of his seax, but they were guests in Eorcenberht’s hall, and none of the Northumbrians bore weapons within the grounds of the royal vill.
Some of the men who were hurrying across the grass carried long spears, the thin autumn light flickering from the sharp points. Unease scratched at his neck and he moved to stand before Eanflæd. She halted, looked to him quizzically. She had not seen the approaching figures. But Beobrand’s gesithas, who had continued their weapon-play, were not so oblivious to the possible danger. The snap of Cynan’s warning reached Beobrand and he watched as they ceased their practice and, armed only with the oaken practice blades and their black-daubed shields, his men sped to intercept the spear-men who came from the hall.
Cynan led the men at a run and met the approaching warriors a few dozen paces from Beobrand, Eanflæd and her gemæcce. Beobrand’s pride in them swelled. Even unarmoured, they sought to protect their lord.
“Wait there,” Beobrand snapped to Eanflæd and strode forward. Eanflæd followed close behind and he shot her an angry look. She ignored him, taking control.
“What is the meaning of this, Thurstan?” she asked, her voice steady and loud. Despite himself, Beobrand smiled. Who was he to order her? This was her cousin’s land. She was the daughter of Edwin, Bretwalda of all Albion, and she would answer to no man.
“I am sorry, my lady,” one of the three spear-bearing guards said. He was a thickset man, with a fighter’s lithe gait and broad shoulders. His face was red and sweat beaded his forehead. “We told her she would need to wait,” the man panted. “We said we would see to it that your guest received the message, but she was past us as quick as a stoat.”
The red-faced man stepped forward then, and grabbed at the shoulder of a figure that Beobrand had failed to notice before. It was a woman, shoulders heaving from exertion, the hem of her dress mud-stained. Now she was trapped between the door wards and the ragged shieldwall formed by Beobrand’s gesithas.
Thurstan pulled the woman back roughly, but she shook off his grip and wheeled on him, a desperate fury upon her.
“Unhand me,” she yelled. Thurstan hesitated, then released her.
There was something in that voice, in th
at tone of contempt. Something familiar.
“Who are you?” Eanflæd asked, and as the woman swung to face the princess, Beobrand knew the answer.
Chapter 10
“My name is Udela, wife of Scrydan of Hithe,” the woman said.
Beobrand could make no sense of this. Udela was a childhood friend and he had not seen her in years. Their last encounter had been some six years before and it had not ended well. Beobrand had given her husband, Scrydan, the reeve of Hithe, a beating and left Udela tending to his wounds. He had not thought to see her again.
Gods, what was she doing here?
Eanflæd asked the question for him.
“What business do you have here?” she asked.
“Pardon, Lady Eanflæd,” Udela said, her breath coming more easily now. “I am sorry for disturbing you, but I must speak with Beobrand.”
“And what would you say to Lord Beobrand?” Eanflæd asked.
“I would speak with him of an urgent matter, lady.”
Udela was much as Beobrand remembered her. Perhaps her face was a little less plump and her eyes bore a certain strained expression he could not place, but she was still the Udela he had known, comely, wide-hipped and heavy-breasted.
Eanflæd turned to Beobrand.
“You know this woman?”
“I do.”
Eanflæd fixed him with a lingering gaze.
“I see.”
Eanflæd assessed the situation and waved the guards away.
“This woman poses us no threat.”
“Let her pass,” Beobrand said to his men. They lowered their black shields and Udela approached hesitantly. All the while she stared at Beobrand as if she was searching for something in his face. Though what she sought, Beobrand had no idea.
Beobrand’s gesithas followed her passing with undisguised interest, their gaze tracking the sway of her shapely hips and the ample curve of her chest. Beobrand scowled at them.
“Away with you. Back to your sword practice.”
Storm of Steel Page 7
