Paths of Exile

by Carla Nayland

  Eadwine sighed, hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to keep the stinging sleet out of his face. It still did not quite make sense. Something was still missing, and he could not see what. If only he could have talked it over with someone! Someone intelligent, someone who would challenge his reasoning, help him see it in a new light. Someone like Severa.

  He shook his head impatiently, as if to shake the thought out of his mind. Nearly three months since they had parted, and still he found himself thinking of her far too often. Why should he miss her so much? He had never missed Aethelind like this during their lengthy separations. It had better pass. In the meantime, finding Beortred had become both more important and much more difficult. Eadwine was reluctant to go searching for him in Bernicia. A few months ago, shattered by grief at Eadric’s loss, dying honourably in a futile attempt at vengeance would have been a welcome prospect – indeed, dying in any way at all had been a welcome prospect. Now, though he was still prepared to die in the attempt, he was determined above all that it should be a successful attempt. Which was unlikely if he went blundering into Bernicia, where any stranger remotely fitting his description would be immediately taken to Aethelferth. It would be possible to travel across enemy territory quickly and secretly, moving by night, but only if he knew exactly where Beortred was. Heledd’s spies seemed to be confined to Deira, possibly even to Eboracum, and would be no help at all. But the man who lived at the other end of this cold and wet tramp down the river might be.

  Unfortunately the slave trader, a cheerful Frisian who had married a local girl and built himself a commodious hall and a wharf where the great north-south army-path forded the Aire, had never been near Eboracum or Bernicia in his life. But he had cannily offloaded all his stock before the winter storms closed the ocean, and was happy to recommend his brother, who was back in Frisia for the winter but who had a partner in Elmet who would be delighted to sell the bard a slave girl to do his cooking and keep him warm at night. The partner lived twenty weary miles in the other direction, had one girl that he wasn’t selling until he had finished with her himself, but was readily drawn into talking shop with a sympathetic listener. Yes, there had been some slaves taken after Eboracum, but only those fugitives found long after the battle when the fighting frenzy had died down. There followed a lengthy diatribe on Aethelferth’s lack of business sense – such a waste, corpses were no good to anyone, didn’t he know that strong healthy men fetched good prices these days, and good-looking youths even more, Rome and Byzantium couldn’t get enough, and how was a poor honest man to make an honest living if kings went round killing their enemies – Eadwine listened patiently, and when he could get a word in edgeways mentioned casually that he had heard that Lady Heledd of Wharfedale was interested in ransoming men of her late husband’s warband.

  At which the slaver brightened up considerably. Ransoms were a good deal, because friends and family could be expected to pay far more than the going rate, plus the extra benefit that there was no need to fund transport to Rome. He scratched his head. Well, now you come to mention it, he had another partner – a purely informal arrangement, you understand, a cousin of his wife’s best friend – who dabbled in the trade and who had moved down from Eboracum just this winter, and still had some stock he was stuck with until the spring came, and who would be most interested to help the Lady Heledd if he could. What was the late husband’s name again? Prince Eadric of Deira? Oh, a very rich widow, then? He brightened a bit more, mentally calculating his commission for introducing a more than usually profitable sale. Funnily enough, he had one or two other acquaintances who might be able to help the lady –

  Poor Heledd, Eadwine thought, as he tramped the roads for a week assiduously spreading this rumour through the trading communities on both sides of the river, she would be swamped with slavers chasing after the prospect of a fat ransom, but she would just have to cope. She – or at least Cousin Constantine – could afford to pay a few ransoms, and nobody searched more efficiently than a merchant anticipating a profit. Between them the traders knew everyone and went everywhere, and now they and their news would filter back to Heledd. If any of Eadric’s warband had survived and been captured, a few good men might be freed into the bargain. And some of them might be able to tell him more about Eadric’s death and Beortred’s involvement, for either no-one had told him the details at the time or he had been too grief-stricken to hear.

  He was well pleased with himself when he forded the Aire for the last time, on a bitterly cold and clear day that was, annoyingly, cold enough to scatter the river with ice floes but not cold enough to freeze it solid, and ran up the steep slope of the army-path to get warm again. There was a longer, easier way round on tracks and droveways that was much less exposed to bad weather than this high windswept road over the watershed dividing the Aire from the Wharfe, but the direct route would take less than half a day back to Heledd’s hall. It was over a month after Yule, the days were noticeably longer already, and there would be three-quarters of a waxing moon to light his way in the early part of the night if he ran out of daylight. Besides, he was young and fit and carrying only the harp, and he could run for the sheer pleasure of it. As he climbed higher the road became puddled with ice, not water, and the moor on both sides was freckled with snow. A hare, also patched with white, shot from cover almost under his feet and tore across the moor into the distance. Drust would have grabbed for his spear. Eadwine was content to watch, marvelling at the animal’s speed and at the way it blended instantly into its background as soon as it stopped. Overhead in the peculiar limpid blue that only comes in a winter sky, a kestrel hovered, balanced on the breeze with brindled tail spread and bright eyes scouring the wintry ground. The hare was too big to tackle, and the voles were lying low. With a shrug of one shoulder – so slight a movement – the hawk slid away on the breeze to try its luck elsewhere. Eadwine pulled a fold of his cloak up around his ears, grateful for the warmth, and left the ice-glazed road to walk on the peat alongside. It was frozen not quite solid and crunched just a little at each footfall, neither jarring nor sinking under his feet. Extraordinarily pleasant to walk on. Severa had said that the moors were at their best in winter. She was right. He hugged the cloak closer round his shoulders, thinking of her weaving it and wondering what she was doing now and if she was thinking of him – and then remembering, impatiently, that he was betrothed to Aethelind and had no business daydreaming of anyone else. Somehow he found it impossible to daydream about Aethelind, so he ran the rest of the way across the moor and bounded down into Heledd’s valley just before the sun set behind the hills.

  “You’ve got a rival,” one of the kitchen girls greeted him, smiling her thanks as he held the woodshed door open for her and helped her carry a log basket across the yard.

  “Rival?”

  The girl jerked her head in the direction of Heledd’s chamber. “She’s got a new bard. Arrived today.” A dreamy sigh. “Such a dear young man.”

  Before Eadwine reached the hall, he had gleaned the further information that the dear young man had hair like spun sunlight – a poetic image that he stored away for future use – and wonderful bright sparkling blue eyes, that he was tall as a tree and strong as a bull, that he could probably have laid every woman in the household end to end if he had had the mind (or the stamina), and that he couldn’t sing a note. That sort of bard.

  Eadwine recognised the newcomer immediately he entered the hall. Evidently the slavers worked even quicker than he had expected. The dear young man was Imma son of Imma son of Imma, an undistinguished junior member of Eadric’s warband, very fair, very well-muscled even after months in captivity, and gazing at Heledd with a look of utter devotion that was undeniably appealing. The raw red welts encircling his wrists and neck, where the slave shackles had bitten into the flesh, gave ample explanation for his gratitude, though Eadwine suspected it was probably more to do with having been taken notice of for the first time in an unremarkable life. He retreated behind a pillar
, though he had no great fear that Imma would recognise him – connecting a Brittonic bard with an exiled prince of Deira required some originality, which was not a strong trait in the family of Imma son of Imma son of Imma – and in any case, Imma was far too concerned with recounting his story to his saviour to notice anything else.

  It seemed Imma had been wounded in the battle – here he rolled up his sleeve to a chorus of feminine oohs and aahs and displayed a jagged red line from wrist to elbow –

  (“Huh,” scoffed Ashhere, somewhere in the background, “call that a scar?”)

  – and he admitted that he had fled the stricken field and saved his life by hiding in a bramble thicket all day and most of the following night, in terror of the enemy horsemen. When it seemed quiet he had emerged and set off to try and make his way back to his mother on the east coast. But he was weak from his injury and from hunger, having nothing to eat and not being very good at stealing, and after a few days he had been captured by a group of Bernician warriors. They took him to their lord, who kept him chained up but fed him and sent someone to treat his wounds, and when he began to recover he was sold to a Frisian merchant, who later sold him on to a Frank. By this time it was after Yule and the Frank was not willing to risk a ship in the winter gales, so Imma had found himself locked up again to wait for spring or a buyer, whichever came first.

  “And then the merchant came down and asked if anyone had served Eadric of Deira,” he concluded. “At first I was afraid, because I thought my lord’s enemies might be trying to find and kill all those who had served him, like they’re trying to find and kill his brother, and I hid myself and said nothing. But then I thought it was better to die than live as a slave, so I spoke up. And here I am. Forgive me, lady. I did not think anyone would try to rescue me. Truly you are a great and generous lady, and I ask nothing more than to be allowed to serve you faithfully for the rest of my days.”

  Heledd, who had not in fact been trying to rescue anyone and had been as astonished as Imma to hear that she had offered to ransom him, accepted this undeserved compliment with queenly grace. A lady could not have a warband, of course, but perhaps she should have a personal bodyguard, and perhaps Imma would be its captain?

  (“Huh,” came a disgruntled mutter from the back of the hall, “talk about falling on your feet!”)

  At the word captain, Imma’s delighted face became aghast.

  “Captain, my lady? Me? But what about Captain Beortred?”

  Heledd frowned, puzzled. “What about him?”

  “Aren’t you going to ransom him too? My lady, you must! I beg you!” Imma flung himself on his knees at Heledd’s feet. “I know he says it was his fault Lord Eadric died, but it’s not true! Lady, you must believe me! I know it’s shameful to survive if your lord is killed, but Beortred wasn’t with them! He ran after them, and when we found them he was cradling Lord Eadric’s dead body in his arms and crying that he came too late! Lady, you must believe me, you must!”

  “Imma, Imma, please,” Heledd said helplessly, “you aren’t making any sense. Sit down quietly and tell me what you mean, slowly and carefully. Remember your language is not my native tongue.” An inspiration struck her. “Bard!”

  “My lady?”

  She beckoned Eadwine forward. “You speak Saxon. Translate if we need it.”

  A puzzled look crossed Imma’s face as Eadwine took a seat nearby. “Who are you? Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  “I had the honour to sing in your lord’s hall a few years ago,” Eadwine answered, silently cursing Heledd. “Perhaps we met then, though I do not remember you.”

  “Nobody ever does,” said Imma, with a disarming smile. “You speak Anglian very well.”

  Eadwine wound his Brittonic accent up a couple of notches. “A poor traveller who sings for his supper has to know a lot of languages, lord. Will you tell the lady everything you know about Lord Eadric’s death?”

  It was the first time in his life – and quite probably it was also going to be the last – that anyone had called Imma ‘lord’, and that convinced him of Eadwine’s lowly position.

  “It was after the raiders burned the ships and the wharf,” he began. “Lord Eadric was so angry he would not wait for Captain Beortred or anyone else. There were four men with him when he heard and he marched out with them at the double –”

  “Eadric set off on foot after a mounted warband?” Eadwine interrupted, incredulous. “Are you sure? I mean – er – the lady wants to know exactly what happened.”

  Imma had begun to bridle, but calmed down when Heledd was invoked. “Yes. Certain. I was helping to fight the fires, and saw them go. Captain Beortred was with us, and when he saw that Lord Eadric had so few men with him, he shouted across the river to him to wait, to let him collect more men. Lord Eadric shouted back that he was to mind his own business. But Captain Beortred said he wasn’t going to let his lord go into danger without him at his side, and he threw down his bucket and ran after them. Without even going to fetch his spear or his shield or sword or anything. He had to go down to the bridge, see, so he was a long way behind, and if he’d gone for his weapons he wouldn’t have caught them up. That’s how brave he was, to run into danger with only his knife, trying to protect his lord. Will you tell the lady that?”

  Eadwine translated for appearances’ sake, and added in Latin I want to question him. Back me up. Heledd smiled sweetly and responded, also in Latin, Why do you think I called you over? You might as well get my money’s worth.

  “We got the fires out after a while,” Imma continued, “and Lord Eadric hadn’t come back. So some of us went out after him. And we found them.” His lip started to tremble and he bit down on it, hard. “All dead. Cut down from behind. The Bernicians must have turned back and attacked them. And in the middle Captain Beortred, weeping like a woman with Lord Eadric’s body in his lap, crying out over and over again Too late! Too late! Forgive me lord, forgive me!”

  “Forgive him for what?” Heledd asked.

  “I don’t know, lady. For coming too late, I suppose. Though he must have got there before the fight was over, because his knife was all blood right up to the handle. I remember that, because none of the others had even drawn their swords or bloodied their spears.”

  “I do not think I have understood this,” Heledd said slowly. “They did not fight at all? How is that possible?”

  “They didn’t run away, lady! The horsemen must have been waiting in ambush, taken them by surprise.”

  Eadwine frowned. Eboracum Vale was flat, open country, not well suited to ambush. He had thought Eadric and his men had been overwhelmed by a vastly superior force and gone down fighting.

  “Where was it?” he asked.

  “At the ivy-covered oak on the border of Lord Eadric’s lands, not two miles from the city. Those horsemen are devils, lady! They appear from nowhere, murder, and vanish again!”

  No they don’t, Eadwine thought, his frown deepening. They appear out of woods, from behind hedges and out of dips in the ground you haven’t looked in. Men do not, in my experience, appear out of nowhere, and especially not men with horses. And ambush is something I have a lot of experience in. That oak stands all by itself at a crossing of tracks surrounded by flat farmland. It’s a meeting point, a landmark, visible for miles. A cat would be hard pushed to ambush a mouse there. No way could enough men hide there to kill five men before any of them can strike even one blow in return. Especially not men led by a commander of Eadric’s experience. Unless by archery? Archers could kill from a distance, though it was not something that mounted warriors generally went in for.

  “Did they die by arrows?”

  Imma shook his head unhappily. “No. They had all been cut down by sword or spear.” He shivered. “Some had been wounded first, and then killed later as they lay on the ground. My younger brother was among them.” He swallowed hard, and Heledd leaned forward and patted his hand kindly. “We – we thought the horsemen must have swept down on them so
fast they had no time to do anything. Except Lord Eadric, of course. His sword and spear were both covered in blood.”

  Eadwine sat up sharply. So Eadric had fought but his warband had not. Fought who?

  “Were there any Bernician dead or wounded?”

  “No, nothing. Just hoofprints.”

  Well, the Bernicians could have carried their dead and wounded away, but this was starting to look like a peculiarly one-sided fight. It reeked of treachery – luring Eadric to a pre-arranged meeting point with only a handful of men, there to be betrayed and slaughtered. But treachery by who? Eadric had made all the decisions, it seemed. Beortred had literally been tagging along behind.

  “Was Beortred wounded?”

  Imma shook his head. “No. Well –”

  “Go on,” Heledd prompted.

  Imma tapped his temple. “He was – strange, lady. We thought his mind was unhinged by grief. He wouldn’t let go of the body, and he sobbed and wept like a child. Too late, too late, I would have died for you, he cried, over and over again, all the way back to Eboracum with Lord Eadric’s body on the bier. And he spoke true, lady, I am sure of it. He would have died for Lord Eadric. We all would. It wasn’t his fault he came too late!”

  “Truly Imma, I knew nothing of all this,” Heledd said thoughtfully. “Captain Beortred seemed well enough at the funeral.”