“Who is next to fight?” Beobrand asked. They had drawn lots, those who were not injured, and now Aethelwulf and Garr stepped over the rope. Aethelwulf, by far the shorter of the two, rolled his head, loosening the bunched neck muscles. Garr, tall and slim, stretched his arms up over his head and then touched his toes. He jumped high on the spot a couple of times.
Aethelwulf seemed unimpressed.
“Stop hopping like a flea and fight like a man.”
Beobrand made his way back to the stool that awaited him between Bassus and Acennan. He nodded to Rowena, erstwhile lady of Ubbanford, before Beobrand had been gifted the land by Oswald. She sat in the shade of the oak with her daughter, Edlyn. The girl’s eyes were wide, as Garr and Aethelwulf began to exchange blows.
Beobrand looked away. Sunniva had liked to sit under that oak and watch the construction of the hall. He swallowed the lump in his throat. He did not wish to think of her. It was too painful. Yet she was everywhere. The great hall, majestic and grand, had been her idea. The doors, with their lavish iron nails and extravagant metal hinges, were her doing. Forged with her small, yet strong and skilled hands.
A cry from the men intruded on his thoughts. Aethelwulf had landed a stunning blow to Garr’s helmeted head. The tall man staggered drunkenly. He held his shield limply at his side and struggled to raise his sword. It was a brave display, but he had lost, that was clear. Aethelwulf, not wishing to shame his adversary, stepped in quickly and pulled the sword from Garr’s grip.
“Come now, Garr,” he said. “All that leaping about has tired you. Let’s get some mead.”
The onlookers applauded.
Ceawlin, flat face dour beneath thinning sandy hair that was pulled back and held in a braid, stepped up next. He took the sword and helm from Aethelwulf. They were firm friends and loved one another as brothers. Next to Beobrand, Bassus pushed himself up. His bulk was forbidding and Beobrand knew there was skill and cunning to match his size.
“Not too late to run away, little man,” said Bassus.
Ceawlin answered something, but Beobrand did not make out the words. Some of the men who were closer chortled.
Movement near the hall drew Beobrand’s gaze. Thralls and housefolk were bringing food and drink out into the sunshine. A swish of skirts and the sway of long dark hair held his attention, even as he heard the men cheer at the warriors’ antics.
Reaghan.
She glanced in his direction and for a moment their eyes met, before she quickly looked away.
There was a clash of shield on shield and a roar of pain. Yet still he watched the slim Waelisc girl.
“Gods, man,” said Acennan. “You would rather make eyes with a thrall girl than watch a good battle. Will you be joining the monks on Lindisfarena in prayer and contemplation next?”
With an effort, Beobrand pulled his gaze away from Reaghan. He did not have the same feelings for her that he had harboured for Sunniva. And yet, when he saw her, he remembered the feel of her fragile form trembling against him. The smell of her hair. When she had been taken by the Picts, he could think of nothing more than saving her. Now that she was safe, he found her in his thoughts all too frequently.
He shook his head and offered Acennan a smile. He could see that his friend was going to say more, probably a further jest, but Acennan closed his mouth tight and turned back to the fight. The events of the last months had left many scars and Acennan still trod lightly with him, scared of ripping scabs from recently healed wounds.
A sudden cheer erupted from the gathered men. Ceawlin had been sorely pressed, using all his sword-skill to parry and evade Bassus’ powerful blows. But he could never hope to win. Bassus was too strong, his reach too long. And he was as fast as he was huge. But just when it had seemed Ceawlin would surely fall, it was the giant Bassus who tumbled, sprawling to the yellowing summer grass. Aethelwulf had crept up behind Bassus and then crouched behind him on his hands and knees. Ceawlin had seized his opportunity and bashed his shield into the big man’s board, boss to boss. All it took then was a strong shove, and Bassus had tripped backwards over Aethelwulf’s body.
Beobrand’s gesithas guffawed and slapped each other on the back. It was a simple but effective trick. And they were pleased to see the massive warrior brought low.
Bassus leapt to his feet with a cry of rage.
“You whoresons!” he bellowed, swinging his padded blade in an arc around him. “That’s not fair!”
Beobrand stood and shouted, lifting his voice above the tumult.
“Calm yourself, Bassus. You speak true. It was not a fair fight.”
The noise died down and they all turned to stare at their lord.
“It was not fair,” Beobrand repeated, “but Ceawlin did what you always taught me to do in a fight, Bassus.”
The giant’s face was red and sheened in sweat. His mouth was pulled down in a scowl.
“And what is that?”
“Win.”
Chapter 3
The stink in the small room was one that Beobrand recognised all too well. The sickly tang of rot caught in his throat. He wanted to flee. The stench was almost too much for him. He had stayed away as long as he was able. Not wishing to witness that which he was sure would come, he had found tasks to fill his time and his mind. Disputes amongst ceorls had suddenly become important to him. The ownership of sheep or the theft of a loaf held his attention. He was the lord of Ubbanford, he told himself. It was his duty to see to his people.
But he had another duty. To protect his folk. He was ring-giver. Loaf-keeper. Hlaford. Lord.
He gave gifts, and in turn, his gesithas gave him their loyalty. Their oaths. It was a bond as strong as iron.
And yet iron could crumble; rusting into dust to crack and flake until the strongest of blades could be crushed in a fist.
It was two days after the practice bouts on the hill when Acennan had hurried to find him in the hall.
“You must come soon, Beobrand.”
Beobrand had looked up sharply. He had been staring into the embers of the hearth fire. Lost in memories of flames and death. Caverns and curses. He reached for the cup of mead and found it empty.
“I must come, eh?” he’d slurred.
Acennan had sighed, squaring his shoulders.
Beobrand’s senses had been dull from the drink, but he could see his friend was readying himself for a fight. Beobrand had taken a deep breath. All too often Acennan had paid a heavy price for his lord’s temper. But this was not Acennan’s fault. His anger should not be directed at him.
“How bad is it?” he’d asked, softening his tone.
Acennan had relaxed.
“Bad.”
He did not need to say more. Beobrand was lord of land and people now. He commanded men who would stand in the shieldwall for him. They would kill for him.
And they would die for him.
Beobrand had seen so much death these last months, he had hoped he would be spared more for some time. But such was not his wyrd. His wyrd it seemed was to watch those around him perish.
Steeling himself, Beobrand stepped towards the cot in the darkened room. A figure was hunched beside the bed, but now it stood and shuffled towards him. It was Odelyna, the old healer woman. She had not been able to save Sunniva.
“Elf-shot, my lord,” she whispered, her stale breath adding to the miasma of the room. “The wound-rot has worked its way into the cut.”
For a moment, Beobrand had a terrible urge to lash out at the woman. All she ever brought was sickness. Tidings of doom.
And yet she had helped bring his son into the world. The babe that had killed its mother.
Beobrand clenched his fists.
“Leave us,” he said, his voice clipped and cold.
Acennan ushered the woman from the hut as Beobrand moved to the bed.
Attor’s features were a-sheen with sweat. His pallor was such that he could have already been dead.
Beobrand sighed, closing his eyes. Torran’
s arrow had not pierced deeply, but soon after the dawn attack Attor’s shoulder had begun to swell, red and raw. Now he would die. Another death to avenge. Another friend departing middle earth.
When he opened his eyes, Attor was staring at him from the gloom. His eyes were bright, glowing like moonlit meres.
“Do not be sad, lord,” Attor said. “The Pict’s arrow was meant for you.”
Beobrand winced.
“I know that, Attor. But I would not have you die to save me. It is a price too high to pay.”
Attor smiled thinly.
“I gave you my oath and you have been a good lord. How could it be otherwise?” Attor paused for a moment, gritting his teeth and holding his breath as a wave of pain washed over him. “I would have it no other way. I am your gesith. How could I live with the shame had I let you take the arrow?”
Beobrand thought back to that early morning fight. He had been wearing his byrnie. Attor had been unarmoured. Perhaps the arrow would not have wounded him should it have found its mark. Now they would never know.
As if he could hear his lord’s thoughts, Attor said, “Do not dwell on what might have been. My wyrd has been woven.”
Beobrand met Attor’s febrile gaze and nodded slowly, his jaw set. Bassus always said not to waste time worrying about what you could not control. Scand, who had been a fine lord, had said similar. Beobrand knew he should not dwell on the past, on what could not be changed. He knew it, but was unable to heed the advice.
“You have been the best of warriors. Loyal and brave.” Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat. “We will honour you. And I will avenge you.”
Attor’s eyes brimmed with tears.
Beobrand reached out his hand. Attor gripped his forearm tightly in the warrior grip. His touch was hot and clammy.
In the silence three short notes from a horn could be heard outside in the valley.
Beobrand gave Attor’s wrist a final squeeze and turned to Acennan.
“Quickly. Let’s see who approaches Ubbanford. If it is those Picts, they will pay with their blood.”
They did not see Attor’s savage grin at his lord’s words as they swept from the room into the sunlight beyond.
*
“Who are you and what do you want?” Beobrand’s tone was harsh. He had no desire to play host to the bedraggled band of men before him. He had a good idea who they were. They wore the robes of the Christ followers, but he had never seen so many of the robed monks together outside of their monasteries.
There were thirteen of them. One, a skinny youth, was drenched. His robes clung to his bony frame and he stood shivering on the shingle beach. Several of the others were dripping too, though none was as wet as the boy.
Elmer stepped close to Beobrand. It was he who had sounded the horn.
“They just walked out of the trees and began to wade across the ford. Before I could get down here, that little one had slipped and went under as fast as an otter. He was lucky that big one has a fast hand.”
Elmer pointed to one of the monks. He was a tall, broad man. He looked more like a warrior wearing robes than a holy man. Beobrand recognised him.
“Biorach!” he said, smiling in spite of himself. The big monk had paddled them across the sea to the lair of Nelda, the witch. Beobrand did not wish to think of that black time. His thoughts were already dark enough. He pushed the memories away and stepped towards the monk with open arms. “You are well come to my hall. What brings you and your brethren hence?”
The monk beamed with recognition.
“My brothers and I accompany the Holy Abbot, Aidan.” He indicated a man of middling years. Like all of the monks the front of his head was shaven, leaving his greying hair hanging down behind his ears. He had a full beard and kindly, dark eyes.
Beobrand addressed Aidan as the leader of the group.
“Where is it you are heading?” he asked.
Aidan met his gaze and nodded slightly, but he did not answer. Beobrand shook his head.
Biorach spoke in the lilting tongue of the Hibernians. Aidan replied.
“Father Aidan does not yet know the words of the Anglefolc,” he said. Aidan said something else and Biorach nodded. “But he is keen to learn. We are headed to Lindisfarena and we would welcome your hospitality for the night. We are weary, and foot-sore. And I believe young Conant may freeze if we do not get him dry soon.”
“You have walked all the way from the isle of Hii?” Beobrand was incredulous. He had made the journey on horseback and would not wish to do it on foot. It was long and dangerous.
“We have. The abbot does not like to ride. In this way we are closer to God’s land and His people.”
Beobrand could scarcely believe they had traversed the isle of Albion from sea to sea on foot and with no warriors to guard them.
The young monk, Conant, suddenly sneezed. He was shivering uncontrollably now.
Beobrand did not wish to have to spend time with these men of Christ. But they were travellers in need of shelter, and they had fed and sheltered him when he had been on their island sanctuary the previous winter.
“Come, follow me,” he said. “My hearth is warm and food and drink will be brought to you.” He turned and led the way up the hill towards the new hall.
*
Reaghan was uneasy. She was unused to hearing so many voices speaking in the water-trickle pitter-patter of her native tongue. The sound stirred many memories. Distant visions of a small straw doll her father had made for her were conjured by the words that washed around the hall. The bitter-sweet recollections of her childhood were quickly engulfed by more recent memories. She closed her eyes for a moment and heard again the coarse voices of her captors in Nathair’s hall.
“What are you doing, Reaghan?” The voice, sharp and scratching as a chipped blade, pulled her back to the present. She opened her eyes.
“Can’t you see that the men are awaiting their ale?” the voice continued. Reaghan turned and saw Edlyn.
The girl was several years younger than Reaghan and there had been a time when they had been close. But that time was gone. Blown away on the ashes of Sunniva’s funeral pyre and Nathair’s hall. Edlyn had looked up to Reaghan once. They had been playmates when Reaghan was spared from her chores. For a time they had almost been like sisters. Sunniva’s arrival had changed that. In Sunniva, Edlyn found a new focus for her affections. Sunniva was beautiful, kind and the lady of a lord. Most importantly, she was not a thrall, and she was of the same race as Edlyn.
While Sunniva had lived, Edlyn had merely ignored Reaghan where before she would seek her out. After the lady’s death, and Beobrand’s interest in Reaghan, Edlyn’s erstwhile friendship had changed into loathing. It was as if she blamed Reaghan for Sunniva’s death. The more attention Beobrand paid her, the worse the abuse from Edlyn became. And worst of all, the other women seemed to follow Edlyn’s lead. The girl’s mother, Rowena, was waspish towards Reaghan, and had even beaten her once when she had dropped a freshly washed dress. She had never beaten her before. Even the other thralls and ceorl women were cold to her.
She had nothing to do with Sunniva’s demise. And she could not stop Beobrand from bedding her. He was the lord of Ubbanford and she was a slave. What choice did she have? It was confusing, and unfair.
Yet she was used to unfair. Life had ceased being fair many years before.
The confusion she felt was not merely over how they treated her, but how she felt. She glanced over at Beobrand where he sat at the high table. He was leaning in to better hear some comment from Acennan. Both were sombre of expression. The mood of all the warriors was dark. Beobrand seemed to sense her gaze upon him, for he looked her way. The sight of his ice-blue eyes sent a small tremor down her spine. She remembered the weight of him on her. The gentle ferocity with which he had taken her. So unlike other men she had been with. She felt a warmth in her belly. Yes, so different.
“What spirit has stolen your senses?” Edlyn screeched into her ear. “Do n
ot make me take a switch to you before our guests.”
Reaghan lowered her eyes and hurried to serve the monks and warriors at the lower tables.
*
Beobrand was restless. He watched Reaghan pour ale into mugs and drinking horns. Reaching for his own cup, he wished he could go somewhere away from all of this noise. Perhaps by the river. He liked walking there. The heron might be there, in its usual spot. He liked to sit and watch the bird. It was so still. So focused. He could take Reaghan with him. She was good company, seldom speaking. And she never complained. He snorted at his own stupidity. She was a thrall, of course she did not complain.
“Aidan is asking about your leg.” Acennan was translating for the abbot, who sat at Beobrand’s left hand. Acennan had spent long years in exile with the sons of Æthelfrith and had learnt the tongue of the Hibernians.
“My leg?” Beobrand had not been concentrating on the holy man. The cloud of Attor’s impending doom shadowed his mood. He was a poor host this day he knew, but he had no time for these Christ followers and their soft god.
“Yes, he noticed you limping when you walked up the hill.”
“Oh. Tell him it was injured in a fight with neighbours. But it is healing well.”
Acennan spoke to Aidan, who nodded and smiled, before replying.
“He asks why we are so sad. Did one of your own die?” Acennan winced as he spoke the words.
For a long while Beobrand did not speak. Was his sadness so evident? He supposed it was. But he would not speak to this stranger of his loss. Of the agony of finding Sunniva and then having her snatched away from him forever. The abbot would be sure to speak of the will of his god or some such nonsense. If he did, Beobrand was not certain he would be able to control himself. He did not believe King Oswald would forgive him if he attacked his new bishop.
“Tell him we grieve for a brave warrior who is going to die of the wound-rot.”
Aidan listened intently and then, with the vigour of a younger man he leapt up.
“Where is he going?” asked Beobrand. He had already drunk enough mead to smooth the edges of his words. His leg no longer pained him.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 3