“Lord Beobrand,” he shouted, his voice carrying over the hubbub of men and horses. “Well met!”
Beobrand felt a surge of relief.
“Wulfstan,” he called, “it is good to see you. Though what brings you to Bebbanburg?”
Wulfstan pushed through the men to where Beobrand and Halinard stood.
“Not what, but who,” he said. He laughed at Beobrand’s quizzical expression. “I ride where my lord King Oswine commands.”
“And why come here now?” Beobrand asked.
“I thought you said you were pleased to see me,” replied Wulfstan, feigning an expression of sorrow. Unable to keep up the pretence for more than a heartbeat, he guffawed. “Oswine came to see Aidan. He wished to discuss the founding of new minsters in Deira. We have been on Lindisfarena a sennight. Today we finally were allowed a day of enjoyment. God knows we needed it after all those days cooped up with the monks.”
Beobrand nodded, trying to keep up with the Deiran thegn’s fast words.
“So what is it you have done today?” he asked.
“Why, today the king has led us all in a hunt. We brought down a stag and a hind, so there will be meat for the feast tonight.”
Even as he spoke, Beobrand saw bondsmen leading in mules laden with the carcasses of the beasts slain in the hunt.
Clearly a feast had been planned in honour of the Deiran king, before Beobrand had ridden to Bebbanburg with his dire tidings. And despite the sombre mood that had fallen on the people of Bebbanburg, the venison was soon sizzling on spits over the great firepits and the fresh meat was added to the fare that had already been prepared.
That night was a strange mixture of melancholy and joy, celebration and foreboding. The hall was packed with Deirans and Bernicians, eating and talking together. There was laughter and riddles as the night progressed and ale and mead loosened tongues and relaxed tensions. But much of the talk turned to the prospect of war with Penda and his Waelisc allies.
Beobrand sat alongside Wulfstan on one of the higher tables, but too far from Fordraed, Ethelwin and Eanflæd to hear their conversations. The queen sat beside her cousin, Oswine, and they leaned in close, talking earnestly. Eanflæd gazed raptly into her cousin’s dark eyes and whenever Beobrand glanced in their direction he felt a stab of jealousy. The emotion was foolish, he knew. Eanflæd was another’s wife and the man she talked to was her kinsman. What right did Beobrand have to feel anything? He had no claim to her, and yet he could not rid himself of the pangs of envy at her closeness to the handsome king of Deira.
The queen never once looked in his direction, which did nothing to lighten his mood. And on one of the benches further down the hall, he could not help but notice the dark glares he received from Cynan. As the night wore on, Beobrand drank more mead than was wise and found himself falling into a gloomy humour.
He was not the only one to be so afflicted. There were many serious faces amongst the diners that night. And none seemed more downcast than the usually placid and kindly Bishop of Lindisfarena. The old Hibernian, Aidan, had walked across the mudflats from the holy island at low tide with a small contingent of monks, including Beobrand’s old friend, Coenred. They had come for the planned feast, to share in the abundance of the land and to bid farewell to the pious king of Deira, whom men knew Aidan favoured highly.
Beobrand liked Aidan. The old monk had always been good to him, treating his folk with kindness and offering practical, as well as spiritual, support. It was Aidan who had convinced Beobrand to build a church at Ubbanford for the people to shelter in when the monks and priests came to preach there. The bishop was a good man, and it pained Beobrand to see him so disheartened. He watched as Coenred moved close to the bishop and for a long while they whispered. Coenred frowned, shaking his head, but it seemed to Beobrand that the older man would weep. His mouth was downturned, his eyes glistening.
Sweat beaded Beobrand’s brow, and he swiped at it with his forearm. The hall was sweltering. The doors were yet open, but the cool of the night did little to bring down the temperature inside.
“It is warm enough that we will manage without anyone to warm our beds tonight, eh, Beobrand?” Wulfstan laughed before draining his horn of ale and holding it out to a young thrall, who promptly refilled it from an earthenware jug. The girl was young and comely, and Wulfstan watched her appreciatively as she hurried away to fill another thegn’s cup. “Still, I can think of some things worth sweating a little for. Am I right?”
The Deiran slapped Beobrand on the shoulder. Beobrand regarded him sharply. Had Wulfstan seen the way he looked at Eanflæd? But there was no indication of a hidden meaning in his words. The Deiran’s face was open and guileless. Beobrand forced a smile and sipped at his mead.
Seeing Coenred rising from his place beside the morose Aidan, Beobrand pushed himself up and intercepted his friend.
“How do you fare, Beo?” Coenred asked. “Those wounds giving you any trouble?” He was referring to the injuries he had treated in Eoferwic the year before.
Beobrand shook his head.
“The scars are a bit tight. They sometimes hurt when I stretch, but the wounds have healed well. Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to the Lord,” Coenred corrected.
“Heading outside?” Beobrand asked.
Coenred nodded.
“I’ll join you,” Beobrand said. “I need a piss.”
The night air was still warm, but the relative coolness after the fug of the interior was welcome. The sweat on his neck began to cool and Beobrand shuddered. The stars above Bebbanburg glimmered like pearls cast on a silken cloak of darkest purple.
“What ails Aidan?” he asked.
Coenred gave him a sidelong look before answering.
“The bishop is hale. He is old, but he suffers from no illness. Thank the Lord.”
“He seemed content when he arrived, but his mood has soured and I thought he might weep earlier when he was talking to you. He appeared as one grieving.”
“Well, he does grieve for those soon to be slain in battle with the heathen Penda.” Coenred’s voice trailed off.
“There is something else?”
Coenred sighed.
“I fear you would not comprehend that which has upset the bishop.”
Beobrand smiled in the gloom.
“I think you of all people know that I am not incapable of feelings, Coenred.”
They walked on in silence towards the midden.
In the distance before them, the sound of waves rolling in wafted to them on the light breeze. The rumble of conversations from the hall filled the darkness behind them.
“I am sorry, Beo,” Coenred said, his voice quiet. “I meant nothing by my words. It is just that it concerns King Oswine and Bishop Aidan. The Bishop has become filled with sadness.”
“But I thought he had been cheered by Oswine’s words earlier.”
Beobrand had witnessed the conversation between the two shortly after the monks had arrived from Lindisfarena. Seeing that Aidan, white-haired and bowed with age, had walked across the mudflats from the island and then trudged up the steep steps to the fortress, the king of Deira had been outraged.
“Why did you not ride the fine horse that I gave you last Eostremonath? I gifted you the beast so that you could ride it rather than muddy your own feet and tire your legs with journeys.”
Aidan had smiled.
“The gift was thoughtful and I welcomed it, but I no longer possess the stallion.” Aidan’s voice was heavily accented with the music of his native Hibernia, but he had learnt the tongue of the Anglisc well these last years.
“What happened to the beast?” asked Oswine. “What sickness or accident befell it? It was one of my finest horses. I selected him myself, so that he would serve you well.”
“Indeed, indeed,” said Aidan, nodding. “It is a fine animal, with a good temperament and a pleasant gait. But there was one who had need for him more than I.”
“Who was this man who n
eeded your horse?”
“I do not recall the man’s name,” replied the bishop. “I find my memory is not what it once was. But he was a wretch and his need was great. He was standing by the road begging for alms to feed himself and his family. How could I ride by when this ceorl was so desperately poor?”
Beobrand recalled clearly seeing Oswine’s features become clouded. To give away such a gift was a terrible insult. As Beobrand had watched, Oswine had wrestled with his mounting anger, breathing deeply to calm himself.
“My lord bishop,” he said at last, “why did you give away the royal horse that was necessary for your own use? Have we not many less valuable horses which would have been good enough for beggars, without giving away a horse that I had specially selected for your personal use?”
Aidan did not hesitate in his answer.
“What are you saying, lord king? Is this foal born of a mare more valuable to you than a child of God?”
Oswine fell silent, a frown wrinkling his handsome features. After several heartbeats, the king’s face cleared. He unbuckled his sword, handing it to Wulfstan. And then, to everybody’s surprise, the king of Deira dropped to his knees before Aidan.
“Forgive me, father,” he said. “I will speak of this matter no more, nor will I ask you how much of our treasure you give away to God’s children.”
The bishop beamed at the king’s words and raised him to his feet.
“Have no regrets, lord king,” he said. “I know you to be a holy man and I hold you in the highest regard. Now, come sit at the feast and worry yourself no more over these things.”
They reached the midden and the stench caught in their throats, so Beobrand and Coenred relieved themselves in silence. When they had drawn some distance from the latrine, Coenred spoke in a quiet voice.
“Like you, I did not understand why my bishop was so forlorn. For he had said that he was pleased with Oswine’s words and had raised him up and told him to eat with no regrets. And so I asked him.”
“What did he say to you?”
“You will not like the words he spoke. I fear that the bishop of Lindisfarena may have heard the word of God. He is the holiest of men, and if any were to hear the Lord God’s voice, it would be Aidan.”
The talk of gods speaking to men made Beobrand shiver, despite the warmth of the night. Looking up at the bright stars, he wondered what gods looked down upon them even now as they spoke atop this crag that jutted into the sky above the cold shifting wastes of the North Sea.
“What did he say?” he asked.
“He said, ‘I know that the king will not live very long, for I have never seen so humble a king as he. I feel that he will be taken from us, because this middle earth is not worthy of such a king.’”
Beobrand thought back to the voyage south when they had travelled to fetch Eanflæd from Cantware. Aidan had foreseen there would be a great storm and had given the priest, Utta, a flask of oil to pour upon the waves to calm them. For a moment, Beobrand swayed, remembering how the ship had rolled in the torment, men wailing and bailing out water from the bilge. He had thought he would die that night. Coenred reached out a slender hand to him.
“Are you well?”
Beobrand brushed the offered hand away, more roughly than was needed.
“It is just the mead. It is a potent brew.”
Coenred said nothing for a time, turning his face away from Beobrand as they walked back to the hall. The smells and noises rolling out of the opened doors assaulted their senses as they approached. The door wards, grim and silent, as impassive as oaks, watched them from beside the entrance. The tips of their spears burnt and gleamed with the firelight spilling from the hall. A servant bustled from one of the cookhouses, holding a platter heaped with fresh bread.
A touch on Beobrand’s arm halted him. Coenred pulled him to one side.
“There will be war?” the monk said, sadness in his tone. “Truly?”
Beobrand sighed. He knew his friend abhorred the violence of men.
“You heard Ethelwin and Oswine. I am no seer like Aidan, but I tell you the future holds war. With luck,” he hesitated, “and help from the gods and our allies, we will prevail against Penda. We have done so before.”
Earlier in the evening, Ethelwin had addressed the gathered thegns of Bernicia and Deira, informing them of the news Beobrand had brought from the west. The mood had grown sombre, but Oswine had lifted the spirits of all those gathered when he had stood and spoken to them in his quiet, clear voice. He reminded Beobrand of Oswald. He too had commanded men without the need of raising his voice. It seemed the quieter he’d spoken, the more men had held their breath and leaned in to better hear his words. So it was with Oswine too.
“Brothers of Northumbria,” Oswine had said and everyone in the hall had fallen still. “We are two kingdoms, Deira and Bernicia, but we are friends and we share much. We share mead, and meat in great feasts.” He lifted the green glass goblet he drank from with a smirk. This received a ripple of applause. The men were enjoying the food and drink before them. “We share a love of the one true God and the Christ, His son. We even share the holy men, such as the wise Aidan and Coenred here, who minister to all Northumbrians, from the shores of the Humber in the south to the banks of the Sea of Giudan in the north. I even share kin with your queen.” The hall was silent now, with ealdormen, thegns, gesithas, slaves and servants all listening intently. “All of this shared destiny means that when it comes to times of trouble and woe, we do not stand by and watch as our neighbours are attacked. No. We share many things, but most importantly, we share enemies!”
Oswine bellowed these last words, making some of the listeners gasp and start. A couple of the hounds, awoken from where they lounged by the hearth, leapt up and began barking furiously.
After a moment of hesitation, the hall erupted in a cacophony of cheering. Men nodded approval, turning to their bench-fellows, smiling. Beobrand marvelled at the change in the throng. It always amazed him how one man’s words could alter what was in men’s hearts. This was the true power of a great king. It was not a strong arm or a sharp sword. It was not even gold and silver and a powerful warband. No. It was the ability to inspire, to make men believe that you were the bearer of the truth and that to follow you was not only wise, it was your wyrd to do so.
“At first light,” the king of Deira went on, “I will leave with my comitatus.” There was a murmur from the audience. “But we do not abandon you. We will hurry south to call our own fyrd to arms and we will join you on the battlefield to face Penda and his heathen brethren. The united men of Northumbria will destroy Penda and his wolves. For are we not followers of the Christ, the truest shepherd? And a shepherd would not allow a pack of wolves amongst his flock.”
The mood in the hall had lifted after Oswine’s words, the men buoyed by his passion and certainty.
But out here in the darkness of the star-pricked night, Coenred was pale and his nervousness and fear were palpable.
“Be careful, Beo,” the monk whispered.
“Do not fear for me, Coenred,” Beobrand replied and made to brush past him into the hall.
But the monk snagged his sleeve and pulled him back.
“No, Beo. I do fear for you. I fear for all of us.” He held his gaze and Beobrand felt himself growing irritated. He shook off Coenred’s grip.
“Penda will not slay me.”
“I talk not of battle,” Coenred said, his voice low. When Beobrand did not respond, the monk continued. “You know what I speak of.”
Angry now, as much with himself as with Coenred for voicing his own worries, Beobrand shoved past him.
“Do not fear for me, monk,” he snapped over his shoulder.
Stepping into the flame-licked warmth of the hall, he blinked, and collided with someone making their way out of the doorway. It was a solid, heavily muscled man, almost as tall as Beobrand. Strong hands gripped Beobrand’s shoulders and he pushed the man away.
“Easy, lord,�
� the obstacle replied. The lilting sing-song of the accent was immediately recognisable to Beobrand.
“Out of my way, Cynan,” he snapped.
Cynan stepped aside.
“Of course, lord.”
How Beobrand wished the man would stop calling him that. Every time he did, it reminded him of Acennan. How he missed the stocky warrior. Gods, how he had failed him.
“But Coenred is right, lord,” Cynan continued as Beobrand passed. “And I too fear for you. You must be careful.”
Beobrand spun to face him, his ire flashing into searing flame. But Cynan stopped his retort with raised hands.
“I know, I know,” he said, a twisted smile on his lips. “You are always careful.”
Beobrand, struggling to control his rage, opened his mouth to reply. Cynan cut him off.
“I am tired and I must ride far tomorrow. Good night, lord.”
Without waiting for a reply, Cynan turned and left the hall.
Returning to his place at the mead bench, Beobrand’s head began to throb. Wulfstan nodded to him as he sat, but the Deiran was focused on a riddle being told by a fresh-faced young gesith called Cuthbert. Beobrand listened absently to the solutions being shouted out by the warriors. The riddler, who looked about the same age as Octa and filled with the same youthful arrogance, laughed, shaking his head and wiping tears of mirth from his eyes at some of the more outlandish guesses.
Beobrand cared nothing for riddles. Life was complicated enough. He reached for his drinking horn and found it empty. Casting about for a thrall to refill it, he noticed that there was a gap at the high table to Oswine’s right. Eanflæd had left the feast.
Beobrand looked the length of the hall, but saw no sign of the queen. Perhaps she had seen his place empty and so had decided to retire. And yet, had she not ignored him all night, never once meeting his gaze through the feast’s smoky air?
The thrall girl from earlier spotted him searching for mead and hurried to his side. She filled his horn and he took a deep draught of the sweet liquid. His head ached. You should stop drinking, a small voice whispered to him. He knew he would not listen. Not tonight. His mind was a chaos of thoughts, memories and desires. Mead would help him to quieten the tumbling maelstrom in his thought-cage.
Fortress of Fury Page 6