“You have saved one of my gesithas and I will have no ill befall you on the last stage of your journey. We will ride with you to Bebbanburg.”
It was clear to all there would be no changing Beobrand’s mind on this matter.
“Very well,” Aidan said, through Acennan’s Angelfolc words. “I give thanks to you. This is all part of the Lord’s plan.”
Beobrand snorted. He knew not if the Christ god had a plan for him. But wyrd would take him where it would.
This new abbot had done him a great service, and for now he would willingly allow their wyrd threads to be woven together.
*
“If you are to leave me here,” said Bassus, his voice rumbling in the hall, “you will hear my oath first.”
“I do not need your oath. I have your friendship. That is enough.” Beobrand flushed. It embarrassed him to speak of such things, especially with his gesithas and Aidan’s monks looking on from where they sat at the boards.
“You have my friendship, and freely given. But this is more. I would serve you as gesith. For that, you must hear me speak the words and you must accept me as your man.”
Gram rose, to stand beside the huge warrior. Both stood straight as the oaken pillars of the hall.
“I would also swear loyalty to you,” Gram said.
Beobrand looked at the faces of his men. Some nodded. Acennan raised his eyebrows, amused at Beobrand’s discomfort.
“They speak the truth of it,” Acennan said. “You should hear their oath. And you are right that they cannot come with us to Bebbanburg. Who’s to say how the king would react to Edwin’s right hand walking into the great hall on the rock. Best leave them here,” Acennan eyed the two tall men who stood before them, “after they have sworn allegiance to you.”
Beobrand sighed.
“Very well. I will take your oaths. Though I never thought I would be lord of one such as you, Bassus.”
“What, a great champion?”
“No,” Beobrand said, pulling himself to his feet so that he could look Bassus in the eye, “such an old man.”
There was a moment’s pause and then the men laughed loudly.
Bassus gave a twisted smirk.
“Once that leg of yours is healed, we’ll have a bout or two and we’ll see how old I am. And there’ll be no tricks next time.” He shot a dark glare at Aethelwulf and Ceawlin, who concentrated on their bowls of pottage.
“I accept your challenge. When we return, I will cross swords with you.” He felt a twinge of guilt at making jest of his friend in what should have been a solemn moment, but he felt light-hearted for the first time in what seemed an age. He had believed such feelings were lost to him, but the night with Reaghan and then the miraculous recovery of Attor had buoyed his spirits. He clung to his happiness, but forced his face into a sombre expression. “But first, I would hear your oath.”
Bassus and Gram knelt before him.
“Let all here present, witness the words of these two proud warriors.”
A hush fell on the hall. Not all of the monks understood the words, but they could sense the import of the occasion.
Gram intoned the words steadily, seriously. An oath was no matter for merriment. A warrior’s word was stronger than his sword. It was everything and he did not give it lightly.
Beobrand had spoken the words before and heard them from his own gesithas, but he still felt a tremor of trepidation at the enormity of the bond between lord and warrior.
Bassus spoke then. His voice rolled around the hall.
"I, Bassus, son of Nechten, will to Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, be true and faithful, and love all which he loves and shun all which he shuns, according to the laws of God and the order of the world. Nor will I ever with will or action, through word or deed, do anything which is unpleasing to him, on condition that he will hold to me as I shall deserve it."
Beobrand noticed, that like the men who had sworn to him the year before in Bebbanburg, Gram and Bassus both referred to one god. The Christ god. Things were changing. Uncle Selwyn had taught him the warrior’s oath and then it had talked of Woden, father of the gods. Beobrand looked over at Aidan, who returned his gaze with his dark, kind eyes and a smile. Well, one god was as good as any other for swearing oaths. It was the man’s word, not the god’s, that would be tested.
“I accept your plight gladly. Rise, Bassus and Gram.”
He embraced each in turn. The hall resounded with the crash of the men thumping the boards and stamping their feet.
“Octa would be so proud of you,” Bassus said, eyes glimmering as he held Beobrand’s forearm in the warrior grip.
Perhaps it should have been his brother who stood here in this new hall, surrounded by his housefolk and warband. Octa had been a better warrior. A better man. And yet, he had perished at the hands of Hengist, attacked in the dark, and Beobrand lived. He pushed the thoughts away, like a man pushing the nose of a hungry dog that sniffs at table. He would not let darkness take sway. He held tight to the thoughts of happiness.
Later, when they had eaten their fill and were already loose-tongued from mead and ale, Bassus leant close to Beobrand. The young man’s eyes followed the small Waelisc thrall girl, as she served the men at the other end of the hall. She looked fleetingly towards her lord, a faint smile on her full lips.
“I am glad you have found someone to bring you joy,” said Bassus.
Beobrand started, like a child caught at mischief. He watched Reaghan for a moment longer. She walked with a lightness of step he had not seen before. She too seemed happier.
“Yes,” Beobrand said, “there is something about her…”
Bassus laughed. “I am sure there is.”
“No. I mean… I don’t know what I mean.” Beobrand hadn’t stopped to think about how he felt for the girl. He wasn’t sure he wanted to dwell on it now. “I feel the need to protect her.” He remembered the overwhelming panic when he had believed she’d died in Nathair’s burning hall.
“Hmmm… Perhaps you need to protect her from some who are close by.”
“What do you mean?” Beobrand sat up, suddenly alert, a wolf scenting a hare.
“It is probably nothing,” Bassus waved his hand dismissively, “but I have seen the way Rowena and her daughter treat her.”
“Well, she is a thrall.” The words stuck in his throat, like unchewed gristle.
“Aye, she is that.” Bassus rubbed his beard. “Living in fear cannot be easy.”
Beobrand frowned.
“She has nothing to fear here.”
“Perhaps not from you, but a thrall is always in fear of something. It is the way of things.”
Beobrand took a deep draught of ale, all the while watching Reaghan. The men grinned and watched her hips as she passed. Then he spotted Edlyn. Her eyes too tracked Reaghan’s steps, but where the young girl’s face was usually demure and pleasing, now it was pulled into a scowl of loathing. How had he not seen this before?
The drink tasted sour on his tongue where before it had been pleasantly bitter.
He slammed the empty cup down with a clatter. His good mood had fled.
Chapter 5
The next day dawned warm and cloying. The sky was heavy with low cloud and the air swarmed with midges. Swallows dipped and careened over the river, beaks sometimes briefly slicing into the cool water. Beobrand’s good humour of the day before had slipped away, driven out of reach by memories of the past and worries of the future. He knew he could alter neither, but try as he might to regain the pleasant feeling of contentment that had filled him, it was like trying to see the sun on a rainy day. You know it is there somewhere in the sky, but no matter how hard you stare, the most you can see is a lightening through the clouds.
Reaghan had visited his bed again. Unbidden she had slipped beneath the blankets and they had made love until sated. Yet even Reaghan could not dispel the gloom that had returned. Deep in the darkest marches of the night he had awoken to feel her warmth against him. Fo
r the briefest of moments he had thought she was Sunniva.
The whinny of a horse caught his attention. Acennan, mounted on his brown mare, trotted towards Beobrand. Some way distant, Aidan and the monks, accompanied by Ceawlin, Aethelwulf and Garr, trudged up the path that would lead them to the coast and to Bebbanburg.
“I will wait for you,” said Acennan, reining in his mount before Beobrand.
“No, I will not be long and Sceadugenga needs a good gallop. We’ll catch up with you.”
“Sceadugenga, or you?” Acennan raised an eyebrow.
“Both.” Beobrand forced a grin. It was true that his black stallion would appreciate a run, but he too wished for some time alone with his thoughts.
“I should ride with you. I cannot protect you, if I am not at your side.”
“Keep your eyes open on the road. I will be riding in your wake. Nothing will befall me. Besides, Sceadugenga could outrun Thunor’s goats and Woden’s steed, Sleipnir.”
Acennan did not look convinced.
“If you are not with us by midday, I will come back in search of you.”
“Very well. Now go. Look for me before the highest point of the sun.”
Acennan nodded, tapped his horse’s flanks with his heels and cantered up the hill towards the retreating backs of the others.
Beobrand walked through the small collection of buildings that was Ubbanford. The smithy was cold as he passed. Edlyn wished to light the forge and try her hand at what she had learnt from Sunniva, but Rowena would not allow it. It was not a woman’s work, she said.
The rest of the settlement was abustle. A couple of men were hammering wedges into a log to split the wood into planks. These would be used in the construction of a new barn. Women carded wool, others were wrapping it onto their distaffs. From the hillside came the whistles of a shepherd and the thin bleating of the sheep. The calls of the withy men, making the fishing basket-traps down on the shingle beach of the Tuidi drifted to him.
It was a good place. A good home.
Arriving at his destination, he saw a woman standing outside her small house. She was spinning yarn. From time to time she turned to her daughter, a girl of eight or nine years, to show her how to tease the wool onto the spindle and whorl. On the grass at her feet played smaller children. One, a plump, pink-cheeked baby, lay on his back, chewing a smooth wooden toy.
The woman did not notice Beobrand at first. She had unpinned her sleeves against the stifling heat and her hair was loose. She was no beauty, but exuded a sense of solidity. Safety. She reminded Beobrand of his own mother. She had been dead these two years now. He missed her still. Probably always would. So many gone. Did they look on from the afterlife? He shook his head, again trying to peer through the clouds of despair at the pale sunlight of hope.
“Goodwife Maida,” he said.
The woman, startled, dropped her spindle and distaff with a curse. The yarn fell to the earth in a tangle. She made to retrieve it and then seemed to change her mind. Leaving the wool where it had fallen, she scooped up the baby boy from the ground. The toy fell from his grasp and he began to wail. One of the other children started to weep too. Red-faced, Maida tried to curtsy to Beobrand, holding the screaming baby out towards him.
“Lord,” she stammered, “your son is well. Do you see how strong he is?”
Beobrand smiled.
“He has strong lungs, of that there is no doubt.” He winced as his son’s cries reached new heights.
“Would you take him, lord?” she asked, her timid tone almost drowned out by the babe’s protestations.
Beobrand hesitated. He had not thought to hold the boy. Did not know how.
Maida sensed his unease.
“Here, like this. Place your arm thus, carrying his head.” She gave him no option, placing the child in his arms. “There,” she continued, voice soothing, reassuring both baby and father, “that’s right. You’ve got him now.”
Octa ceased screaming and gazed into his father’s eyes. For a time, both were silent, observing the other with interest. The baby was so light. So tiny. So defenceless.
“You’ve got him now,” Maida repeated softly.
Beobrand was not sure if she was speaking to him or to Octa. Or both.
Octa reached out his hand and gripped Beobrand’s calloused finger tightly.
“My son,” whispered Beobrand. The boy’s blue eyes stared back at him.
Beobrand said, “Maida, wife of Elmer, I know I have not shown my thanks for your care of my son.”
Maida fidgeted nervously. Her cheeks reddened. The girl who had been helping to spin the wool stood behind her mother, her eyes wide. The other child who had been crying, now snivelled, clutching Maida’s leg.
“It is my honour, lord,” she said, her voice small.
“You have your own bairns to tend. You will not want for anything. If you suffer any hardship, come to me.”
“One more babe is no trouble, my lord.”
Beobrand looked down again into the blue eyes, lambent in the dull light from the sky. He could see himself reflected back. The same piercing eyes. The scar under his left eye. The strong jaw, bristled with thin straw-coloured beard. His was a hard face. He was shocked at his own scowling aspect. Would Octa one day look as dour? He hoped he would see less suffering. Less death.
“I am thankful for your kindness. A boy needs a woman to care for him. A mother.” His throat tightened. He swallowed hard. “Sunniva would be thankful too.”
Gently, he handed Octa back to Maida. She took him without a word. They were silent for a moment. She nodded to Beobrand.
Beobrand pulled the thong to open the pouch he wore on his belt. From it he produced a small object. He placed it in his palm and held it out to Maida.
There was no bright sunlight, and yet the object sparkled. It was a ring. Golden with a cut and polished garnet cunningly set in a mounting intricately carved with swirling patterns.
“A lord should give rings to his warriors, and to his most trusted servants. This was part of Sunniva’s bride-gift. She cherished it and I am sure she would have wanted you to have it.”
Maida was still. Her eyes drank in the lustre of the metal, the deep red of the stone. It was a thing of rare value. She made no move to take it.
“It is yours alone,” Beobrand said. “To Elmer, I will give warrior rings and weapons of war. This ring is all yours. Take it, with my thanks.”
She shifted Octa in her arms and reached out a trembling hand. The touch of her fingers on his palm was as light as feathers.
She felt the heft of the jewel and smiled broadly.
“I will not know what to do with such a precious thing,” she said. Her pleasure at the gift tinged her words with a warm glow. She seemed to grow in stature.
“Would you care for a drink, lord,” she said, perhaps not knowing what else to say. “Or maybe some food?”
“I thank you for the offer, but I must leave. I am to travel to Bebbanburg with the priest and his monks.”
She inclined her head, sure that the meeting was over.
But Beobrand did not turn to walk away. Instead he said, “Yet there is one other boon I would ask of you.”
Maida fingered the heavy, gold ring in her hand.
“Anything, lord.”
“You have been a true friend to me. To Sunniva. I would have you be a friend to Reaghan also.”
Maida straightened. Her lips pressed into a thin line.
“But she is Waelisc. A thrall.”
Beobrand sighed.
“She is. And yet, she is…” he hesitated, unsure. “She is dear to me.”
Maida frowned, her disapproval clear.
“Reaghan is not to blame for any of this,” he waved his hand to encompass all of Ubbanford. He was unclear about what exactly he was referring to. The violence? The deaths? Octa’s birth?
“She is not to blame,” he repeated. “She is a thrall, and you may make her work, but I would not have her mistreated in my abs
ence. If you cannot be her friend, I would ask that you at least see that she is treated fairly. Can you do that?”
She met his gaze for a long moment, all the while turning the ring in her hand, before eventually nodding.
*
Beobrand revelled in the cool wind blowing his hair from his face. Sceadugenga, black coat glistening like liquid over powerful muscles, carried him easily at a gallop along the path. The stallion whinnied as it caught the scent of Acennan’s mare in the distance. Beobrand pulled gently on the reins and the huge horse slowed, then halted. He was not much of a rider, but Sceadugenga seemed to sense his thoughts and had proven to be a faithful steed ever since Beobrand had ridden him in pursuit of Cadwallon, King of Gwynedd, after the battle of Hefenfelth. That had been scarcely a year before, but now Beobrand could hardly imagine riding a different mount. He patted the sleek neck. Sceadugenga blew hard, but Beobrand knew the stallion had much more to give before it would be tired. It still wanted to be given its head, to pound its hooves into the warm turf. To gallop freely through the clammy day, making its own breeze.
On the brow of a hill beyond a copse of birch trees, Beobrand could make out the group of monks and their warrior protectors.
They had made good progress. The monks must walk as fast as warriors on the march. Beobrand was glad of the extra distance. He would be upon them soon, but he looked forward to one final gallop.
He stroked his hand through Sceadugenga’s greasy mane and said in a low voice, “One more run before we walk awhile, boy?”
Sceadugenga’s ears flicked back, listening to his master’s words. Then, without further encouragement, the horse sprang forward. Beobrand was almost unseated. He laughed as he grasped the saddle’s pommel. The stallion’s power always lifted his spirits. Riding the steed that Oswald had gifted him after he had delivered Cadwallon to the king, was one of the few times that Beobrand could believe he was truly a lord. From Sceadugenga’s back he looked down on the world and was in control of great power. He grinned as he righted himself, pulling himself straighter in the saddle and finding again the rhythm of the horse’s gait. Well, perhaps not in total control.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 5