Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Horse and rider careened down the path, past bushes and a few scattered ash trees towards the valley between two hills. There, the path passed through the small birch wood. The trail was narrow and steep in places, but Sceadugenga knew no fear and thundered onwards. Its great hooves threw up clods of earth in its wake.

  They reached the bottom of the valley and the stallion slowed momentarily, stumbling briefly at the change in direction from down to up before hitting its stride again and powering up the incline towards the trees. The foliage was lush and dense, the path a darkened tunnel surrounded by an archway of green. In the woods, Beobrand would need to slow Sceadugenga to a walk. It would be dangerous to rush through and there was no need for haste.

  Just as they approached the tree line and the shadowed entrance of the path through the wood, Beobrand noticed something to the edge of the track. At the same instant, the horse seemed to see it too and shied away. The mount ceased its forward run and stepped quickly to the right, away from the object that nestled in the long grass and nettles. Beobrand lost his balance and almost fell. He gripped the reins tightly and clutched Sceadugenga’s flanks desperately with his legs.

  The horse circled twice before Beobrand regained control.

  “There now, boy,” he soothed, again patting the muscular neck with his mutilated left hand. The horse’s skin trembled beneath his palm. Its ears lay flat on its head.

  “Easy, boy.”

  Only then, when he trusted that the horse would not bolt, did Beobrand turn his attention to the object on the ground that had so frightened Sceadugenga.

  Lying on a nest of fresh-cut holly branches was a huge skull. Long and angular, with great gaping holes where eyes once lived. It was a horse’s skull, streaked and spattered with brown.

  Dried blood.

  All around the gruesome totem lay small trinkets. Crudely carved figures of wood, antler and bone. From some of the lower branches of the nearest trees and shrubs hung strips of cloth. They dangled limp and still in the oppressive warmth of the late morning.

  On the crest of the skull, stark and white against the scabbed stains of old blood, were the fragile bones of a bird. The tiny skull stared at him with it empty sockets. Small dark orbs above the massive eye-caves of the horse.

  A chill rippled over his skin. The echo of a winter’s wind on the isle of Muile. The cavern-cold of a witch’s lair. The hairs on his arms and neck bristled.

  But surely Nelda, the witch who had cursed him, was far away; north and west in her distant island fastness. She could not have followed him here. Could she? No. Folk throughout the land left offerings to the old gods. To the spirits of the land.

  And to cunning women. To witches who could heal them, make them potions from secret wyrts.

  Curse them.

  A sudden sound, shrill and loud, made him start.

  Tchack, tchack, tchack. The call of a jackdaw.

  Sceadugenga tossed its head in fear. Beobrand shuddered.

  Scanning the trees he searched for what he knew must be there, watching from the darkness. The living brother of the bird whose bones lay on the skull. For he was then certain that the bones belonged to Nelda’s bird, Muninn. And where Muninn, Woden’s raven of memory rested, its brother Huginn, was sure to be close by.

  Yet there was no sign of the bird. The call came, shrieking from the trees again and then was silent.

  Beobrand wanted to be away from this place. He imagined that eyes were upon him.

  He peered into the shade of the copse. He had no desire to ride into the darkness. But he would not retreat from shadows and birds.

  “It’s only a bird,” he whispered, repeating Acennan’s words from Muile, to calm Sceadugenga. Or perhaps himself.

  He had named the stallion after it had led him through the shadows of a benighted wood. Sceadugenga. Shadow-walker.

  The horse was quivering. It longed to flee, yet held steady, awaiting its master’s command.

  There was danger in galloping under a roof of dense branches, but Beobrand lowered his head and whispered, “Come on, boy. Let us show them why you got your name.”

  He touched his heels to the steed’s flanks and they surged forward into the gloom under the trees.

  The shrieking cries of the hidden jackdaw followed them.

  *

  “I told you we should have killed her,” said Acennan. He tossed a small log onto the fire. Sparks danced in the night air. It was a warm night, but a fire was always good to allay men’s fears. It kept wild animals at bay; held back the darkness.

  Beobrand glanced up from the flames and looked at his friend’s round face. It was craggy and hard in the firelight.

  “Perhaps it is not her,” he said, hearing his own doubt in the words.

  “I hope it is not. But I fear it is. She means you harm, Beobrand. We must find her, and kill her.”

  A moth fluttered towards the newly kindled flames. For a moment it flew happily in the light before its wings set afire and it tumbled into the embers, adding its own tiny death pyre to the small blaze.

  That morning Beobrand had traversed the wood and caught up with Acennan and the others without further incident. They had walked on quickly, making good time, and in the warmth of the afternoon, the terror of Nelda and her curse had abated. But like a poorly healed bone, the dull ache did not go away completely. Now, surrounded by the great blanket of a moonless night, the fear had returned, as the pain of a once-broken bone returns when the weather grows cold.

  Beobrand rubbed his left side absently. At times, his ribs still hurt him, though they had healed nearly two years hence.

  “Perhaps she is watching us now. From out there.”

  “Let her come,” said Acennan, his teeth flashing yellow in the flickering light. “I will not suffer her to live. Besides, Aethelwulf is warding. He will let none pass unheeded.” He drew his seax and whittled savagely at a stick.

  “Who do you speak of?” said a voice.

  They both started. Acennan, usually calm, leapt to his feet. He gripped his seax in a defensive pose. Ready for combat.

  “Do not fear. It is I, Biorach.” The huge monk stepped into the firelight, Abbot Aidan at his side.

  Abashed, Acennan returned to his place on his travel cloak beside the fire.

  Beobrand relaxed. He liked Biorach and Aidan. From behind them came the sounds of murmured conversation between Ceawlin and Garr. The monks were eerily silent following their chanting a while before.

  Beobrand shifted his position, indicating for the holy men to sit. He handed a flask of mead to Aidan. As the leader of the monks, he must be served first.

  “Thank you,” Aidan said, his Hibernian lilting tone giving the words more music than was normal. He took a small sip, before passing the flask to Biorach.

  The large monk took a long gulp and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. At Aidan’s raised eyebrows, Biorach smiled and handed the drink to Acennan.

  “The abbot frowns upon drinking more than a tiny amount.” He chortled, a pleasant sound like a brook bounding over boulders. “I find it hard to abstain, but the Lord gives me strength.”

  For a time they sat in silence, until Biorach, at a nod from Aidan, spoke again.

  “Who were you speaking of? We can speak freely, the lord abbot has given me permission to speak after Compline.”

  “Compline?” said Beobrand.

  “The last office of the day for those who follow the Regula.”

  The strange words meant little to Beobrand, but he had heard similar things from his friend Coenred and the other monks at Engelmynster. He wondered if he would ever understand the ways of these holy men of the Christ.

  “And you are not allowed to speak after… Compline?” Acennan asked.

  “Normally we observe silence until Vigils.”

  Acennan and Beobrand both looked blank.

  “The first office of the morning,” said Biorach, smiling.

  Acennan nodded as if he understood. Beobrand
was sure he did not, but he didn’t wish for a long discussion concerning the faith of the Christ followers, so he too nodded.

  “So?” Biorach asked. Aidan looked on intently, his dark eyes twinkling in the fire-glow.

  “We spoke of the cunning woman, Nelda,” said Beobrand. A gust of wind made the flames flare and dance. The night had been still and warm until now. Beobrand did not allow himself to shiver.

  Aidan must have understood the name, for he spoke to Biorach in hushed tones.

  Biorach translated: “She has not been seen since the thaws in the north. Shortly after you left Hii, she was spotted by a shepherd walking eastward.”

  “And nobody saw her since then?”

  Biorach shook his head.

  “Not before we left Muile. And months had passed by then.” He turned and translated to Aidan.

  Beobrand caught Acennan’s gaze.

  “We believe she is here. Somewhere nearby.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Beobrand told of the horse skull, the bird bones. The ribbons and carvings.

  Biorach made the sign of the Christ’s rood over his body with his hand. Head to chest, shoulder to shoulder.

  Aidan spoke in his calming voice and Biorach repeated the words in the tongue of the Angelfolc.

  “Do not fear the ways of darkness, Beobrand. Light will prevail, as Jesus conquered death itself. This woman is a lost soul. She searches for meaning where there is none. She has been driven from this land before, I have heard. She will leave it again. The power of the one true Lord is too great for her weak, old gods.”

  The breeze stiffened, rustling the leaves in the trees nearby. The fire guttered. Beobrand threw on a fresh branch.

  He had seen the power of this new god. It had cured Attor. Brought victory to Oswald at Hefenfelth. Or had that been Thunor, with his goat-pulled chariot and thundering war-hammer?

  This talk of witches and gods was unnerving. He reached for the flask of mead and drank deeply. Who knew which gods had the most power? Whether Nelda had strong magic or not, he did not wish to have that witch always at his back; a threat to him and his own.

  And, as he sat there by the wind-blown flames of the campfire, surrounded by the black of a night without moon, he was certain of one thing. Acennan was right. He should have killed Nelda when he’d had the chance.

  Chapter 6

  The dry weather held, the wind in the night blowing the clouds away and leaving a land bright with dew-sparkle. Fears retreated along with the shadows of the night, and the camp awoke in good cheer. The monks carried out their prayers and songs before they broke their fast and then, more quickly than a warband on the march, and with a lot less complaint, they were ready to move.

  The holy men walked fast, settling into an easy gait that ate up the distance. The earth at their feet was dry and firm and the day was long. And so it was as the sun finally dipped towards the hills in the west that they saw the fortress of Bebbanburg. The rocky crag rose, as stark as a fist thrust from the earth, to stand guard over the gently rolling land around. Atop the rock was a wooden palisade and a section of stone wall that enclosed several buildings. Beobrand saw that the new Christ church that Oswald had ordered to be built, was almost complete. Unlike the other buildings, it was made of blocks of stone.

  To the east, the outcrop fell away down to the grey water of the North Sea. The evening was clear, and they could make out the shapes of islands in the distance.

  They walked past marsh flats that rolled out towards the sea. The setting sun licked the waters with red and gold, and a host of birds thronged over the grass and mud and brackish water, filling the afternoon air with a cacophony of calls. Beyond the marsh lay the island of Lindisfarena, low and dull green, with pale sandy beaches and a smaller crag on its southern tip to match that of Bebbanburg.

  Beobrand pointed from his vantage point astride Sceadugenga.

  “Your new home. Lindisfarena.”

  Biorach and Aidan talked for a moment.

  “But is it not an island?” asked Biorach. “The mud and sand reaches it. We could walk there easily.”

  Beobrand smiled.

  “It is an island when the tides are high. At other times the island can be walked to.”

  Biorach translated. Aidan nodded, seemingly pleased. The other monks whispered excitedly.

  “The sands can be treacherous,” Beobrand said, “and the tides comes in as fast as a galloping horse, they say. But you will learn of your new home soon. First, let us to Bebbanburg. To Oswald, the king.”

  “And some meat and fine mead,” said Acennan. “And maybe even a comfortable bed and a nice young pretty house thrall to warm it for me!”

  Acennan spurred his mare forward. Beobrand held Sceadugenga in check for a moment. He was surprised by the pang of longing Acennan’s words had summoned. He hoped Reaghan was well. Maida would see that she was not maltreated, he was sure of it.

  He watched for a heartbeat more as Acennan cantered towards Bebbanburg. Then, letting out a cry that sent a multitude of white birds flapping into the air in a fearful cloud, he dug his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks and the stallion bounded forward.

  *

  “Aidan, my old friend!” Oswald stood at the high table, gift-stool to one side, and held out his arms expansively. The hall was full of noise and movement. Darkness had fallen and the fire was stoked on the hearth, throwing light and heat far into the great room. Rush lights and candles added their own glow to the far corners. The boards were groaning under the weight of the feast prepared in honour of the new Abbot of Lindisfarena.

  Aidan, dark eyes glistening in the red firelight, bowed, then walked the length of the rush-strewn hall and embraced the king.

  They spoke quietly to each other in the lilting language of the Hibernians, while the monks made their way into the royal hall. They came sheepishly, unsure of their place and unaccustomed to such rich food and fine surroundings.

  Once in the shadow of Bebbanburg, Beobrand and Acennan had ridden ahead to announce the arrival of the abbot and his disciples. Now Beobrand waved to Garr, who towered over all the monks except for Biorach. Garr returned the wave and led Aethelwulf and Ceawlin to a bench near their lord.

  Aethelwulf and Ceawlin both sat and called for ale to the nearest servant, impatient for their first drink.

  “I have such a thirst from all that walking, I could drink a lake,” said Aethelwulf. “And my legs are burning from the pace those holy men set. Anyone would think they had a warm cunny waiting for them in Bebbanburg.”

  The young girl who was pouring his ale blushed.

  “Still,” he laughed, giving the girl a playful slap on her rump, “I cannot complain about what was waiting for us. The drink is not bad either!”

  The girl hurried away, quickly replaced by a large woman of middling years. She poured ale into the remainder of the cups, a stern expression on her blotchy face. Then she fixed Aethelwulf with a grim stare.

  “The only thing to be touched in this hall, is the food and the drink. Any more wandering hands and I’ll be adding some fresh sausage to the pot.”

  Aethelwulf gulped down a long draught of ale, but could think of no reply.

  Ceawlin said, “Do not bother with his sausage, goodwife, it would not add much meat to the stew.”

  She turned her withering gaze upon him.

  “Then perhaps I will be needing sausage from more than one to add to the stock. Keep your hands on the boards,” she said, giving them all one final appraisal, “and your swords sheathed, or you’ll answer to me.”

  With that, the burly woman waddled off to serve others. Or more likely to remonstrate with them.

  “Well,” laughed Acennan, “I don’t fancy Aethelwulf’s woman much, but I think she is in love.”

  Smiling, Beobrand looked to the high table. Oswald was addressing the hall. The hubbub abated as everyone turned to hear the words of their king.

  Oswald, chestnut hair framing his angular
, intelligent face, held his arms out to his sides as if imitating his Christ god on His death-tree. Beside him stood Aidan, face ruddy in the warmth of the hall.

  Silence fell on the hall as all waited for Oswald to speak. Two hounds snapped and snarled over a bone. A swarthy warrior kicked one of the dogs away.

  At last Oswald spoke. He did not raise his voice as one who declaims before a host. Beobrand had heard him speak many times before and he was always in awe of the way that Oswald commanded attention. His quiet tone made the listeners almost hold their breath in anticipation.

  “My people,” he said, “I am glad to welcome to my hall and to my lands, the Holy Father of Lindisfarena, Abbot Aidan.”

  This announcement was met with raucous noise. Hammering fists and the clatter of eating knives onto boards. Cheers. It was not that the king’s gathered thegns, his comitatus, were overjoyed at the arrival of the Christ priest, they were simply relieved to be able to release the pent-up tension in the hall.

  Oswald held out his hands again.

  Hush. Silence.

  “Some of you know that the monks who follow Christ lead a simple life. They do not eat rich meats. They do not drink like warriors at the mead-bench.”

  “The more for us,” shouted a man from the back of the hall. Laughter rippled through the gathered throng. Oswald smiled.

  “But tonight they will make an exception. Tonight I invite them to dine of my table as honoured guests who have travelled far at my behest. Aidan has given his permission for his brethren to feast with us tonight. Treat them well and remember they are not warriors, but men of God.”

  The warriors cheered again. New faces in the mead hall was always a thing of interest. Perhaps they could learn news from afar. Or clever new riddles. Or games.

  Oswald spoke to the monks who had congregated nervously at one side of the hall and explained to them what he had said. They relaxed and began to find places to sit. Biorach looked particularly happy, thought Beobrand. The large monk lifted a horn of mead and drained it in one gulp, to roars and laughter from the warriors nearby.