Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Aidan sat at Oswald’s side at the high table. There also sat the king’s brother, Oswiu. The atheling, solid and still like the crag of Bebbanburg itself, raised his drinking horn in Beobrand’s direction, a thin smile on his lips.

  At the far end of the table, sat a lady of great beauty. Long, flame-red tresses tumbled down her back. Her eyes were downcast, hand folded demurely in her lap. Finola, widow of Eanfrith, Oswald’s brother. She was the sister of Gartnait, King of the Picts, and thus of great worth to Oswald. She sat now, as she always did when Beobrand saw her, quiet and still. A beautiful peace-weaver surrounded by men of war.

  Beobrand felt sorry for her and her son, Talorcan, who sat at her side. They were both as good as prisoners of Oswald. And yet, their lot was not so bad. They had shelter, fine food and drink. Many would have killed to have the privileges they enjoyed.

  For a heartbeat, Beobrand pictured Reaghan. Something about Finola reminded him of the slight Waelisc thrall. Both appeared fragile. Their slim figures dainty and alluring.

  And both were captives. Each thrall to their own wyrd.

  A movement at the other end of the high table broke his reverie.

  Oswald was looking directly at Beobrand, his eyes shadowed and dark. He held out his right hand and beckoned for Beobrand to approach.

  *

  “I see you have saved one of my men from a long ride,” said Oswald, seating himself and reaching for a beautiful glass beaker.

  “Lord King?” Beobrand stood before his king awkwardly. The last time he had faced Oswald had been at Dor, at the frontier of Mercia and Deira. A dark day following a night filled with lightning and spite. It had ended with Beobrand having to take the life of his servant, Anhaga, who had broken the King’s truce, almost throwing Northumbria into war with Mercia. A war that Oswald had made clear he was keen to avoid. He had been furious with Beobrand and the warrior was unsure of his king’s mood.

  Oswald raised his glass to Beobrand with a smile. It seemed he did not bear him ill will. But it did not do to relax around kings.

  “I was going to send a messenger to Ubbanford. You have saved me the trouble.” Oswald indicated to a thrall to bring a stool for Beobrand.

  Beobrand sat tentatively, uneasy at his presence at the high table. He cleared his throat. The slave proffered a wooden cup brimming with a dark liquid. Beobrand took a sip. His eyes widened. He had never tasted the like before.

  Oswald laughed at his expression.

  “It is wine. From Frankia, by way of Cantware.”

  “Wine?” said Beobrand, his mouth still caressed by the rich warmth left by the drink. He had heard tell of the stuff, but never before tasted it. “What is it made of?”

  “Grapes. A fruit. In Frankia they drink it like we drink ale.”

  Beobrand took another mouthful of the wine. Both its spicy smoothness and the king’s good cheer served to calm his nerves.

  “It’s good,” he said. He savoured the taste of the drink in silence for a moment, then asked: “Why were you going to send for me?”

  Oswald ignored the question.

  “Word reached me of the burning of Nathair’s hall.” The king’s eyes were suddenly hard; obdurate like flint.

  Beobrand stiffened.

  “They were my people, Beobrand. You cannot slay my people like you would slaughter cattle at Blotmonath.”

  The savage hatred of that night flooded back into Beobrand as quickly as a summer storm. With an effort he kept his tone low. His words came clipped and sharp.

  “Those Pictish pigs had slain my people.” From the edge of his vision he saw Finola’s flame-red hair flick. For an eye-blink he felt sorry for his words. She too was a Pict. Then he remembered the red smear on Rowena’s mantle. Tobrytan’s blood. He recalled the trembling form of Reaghan as he had clutched her to his chest. He swallowed against the sour dryness in his mouth.

  “They took my people. They had been warned.”

  “You should have come to me. There are laws. You should have asked for weregild for your slain. And for any object or thrall stolen from you.”

  Beobrand took a deep breath.

  “You are right. There are laws for your people. But I did not see Nathair and his sons at Hefenfelth. Where were they when we slew Cadwallon and scattered his host?”

  Oswald’s eyes narrowed. He knew the Picts had not been there. Many men had chosen to await the outcome of that fateful battle near the Wall before giving their fealty.

  “Did you see them after that? Did Nathair’s clan come to swear their oath to you, Oswald King?”

  Oswald’s face gave his answer.

  “Then I have done you a service by ridding you of them. They were not men of honour. Heed my words, they will not be the last Picts we have to kill before this land is truly yours.”

  Oswald’s anger flared again.

  “You cannot judge which men should live and which should die. Only the Lord God has that power. And the laws of this earth must be followed or we are no more than animals.”

  Beobrand set down the cup of wine. His hand shook.

  Squaring his shoulders, he said, “I have done nothing wrong. My people were attacked. I defended them and took payment in blood.”

  “You should have sought weregild. Gold in payment for the affronts on your own.”

  “I did nothing wrong,” Beobrand repeated. “Has any man come to claim I have broken my oath or to seek weregild for a crime?”

  The king finished his beaker of wine before replying. When he did, his voice was faint.

  “It is hard to seek payment when you are dead.”

  Beobrand nodded. At last they understood one another.

  “Yes. Nathair had to die,” he said, his voice stony and chill. “As did Cadwallon of Gwynedd.”

  The King met Beobrand’s gaze. For a time they stared at each other, neither averting his eyes. In the end, Oswald gave the smallest of nods and a flicker of a smile touched his lips.

  “What of Nathair’s sons? Did you slay them also?”

  “He had three sons,” Beobrand said, acutely aware of the ache in his arm and leg from the wounds inflicted by those sons. “Two are dead.”

  “And the third?” enquired Oswald.

  Beobrand thought of white fletchings in the darkness, the stench of wound-rot from Attor’s injury. Nothing good would come of speaking of these things with Oswald.

  “Torran has fled like a kicked cur.”

  “You must be careful, Beobrand. You cannot kill whoever crosses you.”

  “Perhaps not,” replied Beobrand, picking up his cup once more and draining it of wine. “But you have my oath, Lord King. And you know I will kill whoever crosses you.”

  *

  The night drew on. Prodigious amounts of food were eaten. There was roast venison, oysters and a great pot of rich, tasty stew. All this was mopped up with freshly-baked soft bread. The drink flowed as freely as water from a spring. And the men, warriors and monks alike, got drunk. The riddling began, and riotous laughter greeted the first of the bawdy word-games that were loved by all.

  Beobrand had returned to his place with his men and now sat back, stomach full and drinking horn filled with good strong mead. Aethelwulf seemed to have worked some magic on the portly serving woman, for she attentively refilled their cups without being bidden and Beobrand was sure that she brought Aethelwulf the choicest cuts of meat.

  “What did Oswald want with you?” asked Acennan.

  “He wanted me not to kill people.” Beobrand took a swig of mead. He was already past the point where he knew he would regret it in the morning, but the drink was sweet and fragrant, and like a man who is abed with a willing woman, there is a moment when there is no turning back.

  Acennan choked on his ale.

  “What? Nobody?” he spluttered.

  “Said there are laws.”

  Acennan, also well on the way to drunkenness, nodded slowly.

  “So no more killing then.”

  “We
came to an understanding in the end,” said Beobrand, with a thin smile.

  “What?”

  “I would only kill those who the king wants dead.”

  “Seems fair enough,” said Acennan.

  They watched as Conant, the young monk who had almost drowned fording the Tuidi, stood on a board, juggling three wooden cups. It was an impressive show of dexterity. The warriors howled and cheered. Moments later Conant lost his balance, took a faltering step to one side and tumbled from the table. He landed with a crash atop several of Oswald’s house thegns. This got the loudest cheer of all.

  As the noise died down, Acennan turned to Beobrand, eyes struggling to remain focused.

  “Is that all he wanted?”

  “No, there was more. He was going to send for me if we hadn’t arrived today. We are to accompany him south.”

  “To Eoferwic?” The old city was in Deira, south of the Wall, and the location of one of the royal halls.

  “No. Further. To Wessex.”

  “Wessex? Why are we going there?”

  “It seems the king is in need of an heir.”

  “Well, he’s not going to find one in Wessex, is he? Or do they grow on trees there?” Acennan began to giggle at his own words.

  “No,” sighed Beobrand, “heirs do not grow on trees in Wessex. But that is why Oswald is travelling there. That and to strengthen ties with King Cynegils.”

  Acennan looked blank.

  “Oswald seeks a peace-weaver.”

  Understanding finally dawned on Acennan.

  “Not the heir, but the heir-bearer!” he said, words slurring.

  “Yes,” said Beobrand, reaching for more mead. The moment of no return had passed long since, and now was the time to seek oblivion.

  “Oswald is to marry Cynegils’ daughter. And we are to travel as his escort.”

  Chapter 7

  Coenred drew in a deep breath and looked back towards Lindisfarena. Above the island, the sky was a dark blue, dotted with wisps of white cloud. From where Coenred stood, he could see his own tracks passing over the flat, wet sands that separated Lindisfarena from the mainland of Albion. He still marvelled at how the sea came rushing in to smother these sands with each high tide. He cast his gaze further to the slate-grey waves of the Whale Road. He knew he was safe. The waters would not return for a long time yet, but he was still uneasy standing on the sands that at other times would be the ocean floor.

  Far in the distance, barely visible against the drab green of the isle, he could just discern the cells and chapel of the monastery. He had helped to construct some of those buildings; to dig the vallum around them. And to bury the abbot, Fearghas. He had loved the old man. Fearghas had given him so much; rescued him from a life of misery and given him something to live for. A new God. Brothers in Christ. A family of Christian brethren.

  A home.

  He sighed. Above him wheeled sea birds. Many had swept down to the sands and were now pecking at the prints left by the monks for the worms unearthed by their steps. Coenred loved the island and its peace. The simple life of prayer and toil was a good one. And yet, he could not deny that he was excited to have been called to Bebbanburg again.

  The king was to marry a princess of Wessex. And the king of that distant kingdom, Cynegils, was to be baptised into the Christ faith. These were important times. And King Oswald had asked for Coenred personally to travel with him to act as scribe for the events.

  Coenred thought back to the meeting of kings at Dor. He had been there to write down the decisions and pacts made by Oswald and Penda. It had been a great honour. And yet it was there that he had begun to feel real doubt about his calling. When confronted with the injured Wybert, the man who had violated Beobrand’s beautiful wife, an almost all-consuming rage had filled Coenred. When Wybert had shown no sign of repentance, it was all he could do not to slay the man.

  The shrieks of the birds brought him back to the present. In a dark, hidden part of his mind the sound of birds always conjured memories of the previous winter. The cave on Muile. The witch. The jackdaw. Cormán.

  “Come on, Coenred.”

  The voice of Dalston cut through his thoughts before they could pull him from the warm summer’s day and back into the terrors of that frigid winter.

  Coenred took one last look at Lindisfarena, and turned to follow Dalston and Gothfraidh. He had known Dalston since they were novices together at Engelmynster. They had never been close. There was something about Dalston that grated on Coenred’s nerves. And yet, they had both seen much suffering; their old home destroyed and those they cared for killed. Neither was a boy any longer. They had each grown. Dalston was nearly a head taller than Coenred now, and the pimples that had so marked him in previous years had all but left his face, leaving little more than a shadowy pink memory on his pale skin.

  They were not friends, but they had shared much. And shared hardship could not be easily ignored or forgotten. Coenred did not particularly like Dalston, but he did respect him. Dalston had not initially taken to the arts of writing and illumination, but he had worked ceaselessly until he was able to scribe as well as the most skilled monk of the monastery. In fact, he was far more adept than Coenred.

  Gothfraidh was older; one of the monks who had accompanied the king from the isle of Hii. Though Gothfraidh was often taciturn and gruff, Coenred loved the man. When all had seemed lost, Gothfraidh had spoken up for Coenred. He had believed him over Cormán. Coenred would never forget.

  Why did Oswald request his presence? Fearghas and the king had been close. And Oswald respected Gothfraidh. Coenred supposed it must have been Fearghas’ and Gothfraidh’s faith in him that made Oswald invite him to be his personal scribe. Perhaps the incident with Cormán was why Oswald favoured Coenred over the other monks. Whatever the reason, he was glad of the opportunity to once more expand his world. The events he had witnessed beyond the vallum of the monastery often frightened and saddened him. Yet he wanted to see more.

  He caught up with Gothfraidh and Dalston.

  “No time for dilly dallying, Coenred,” said Gothfraidh. His voice was stern, but his eyes twinkled.

  They walked on in silence for some time.

  Before them, the westering sun threw the rock and fortress of Bebbanburg into shadow. They still had far to walk, but if they pushed themselves, they would reach their destination before dark.

  “We are to witness a royal wedding,” said Dalston, in his breathless voice that always sounded to Coenred equally fearful and enthusiastic. “And a royal baptism. Can you believe it?”

  Gothfraidh snorted and strode ahead, leaving the youths to their chatter.

  Coenred did not answer for a while. He thought of the portentous things he had seen. The future of kingdoms being decided. Abbots being chosen. Men elevated to positions of power by their lord.

  What great events would they see in Wessex?

  He shook his head.

  “No,” he said, surprised at the realisation, despite the many hardships and woes he had faced. “No, I can’t believe it. We must be truly blessed.”

  *

  Bebbanburg was crowded. Thegns and ealdormen gathered, answering their king’s call. As each arrived with his own retinue of warriors and thralls, the atmosphere of the fortress reminded Beobrand increasingly of the time he had spent within the cramped confines of the walls. The previous summer had been a time of fear in preparation for battle with the Waelisc, followed by celebration and feasting. The air of the place now was closer to the festivities of victory than the gut-clenching nerves before war, but one thing was different for Beobrand.

  The previous summer, when the noise and bustle of Bebbanburg became oppressive, Beobrand had found solace and comfort in the arms of Sunniva. Now there was no quiet corner where he could forget himself, lost in his lover’s embrace. There was no soothing word to cheer him when he doubted himself.

  There was no Sunniva.

  As he had done so many times before, he looked out over the
sea from the eastern palisade. He watched ships being laded on the sands below. Men shouted, hefting bales and casks. Ropes were repaired. He was not looking forward to the journey south. He was no sailor and had no love for the rolling, shifting deck of the wave-riders that plied the routes of the Whale Road. Such was not his wyrd. Yet where the king led, he would follow.

  He gazed southward, where the long shadows of the dying sun picked out the dunes in stark relief. Beyond the sand and marram grass he knew there lay a sacred place. A burial ground. His brother, Octa, mouldered there in a Christ follower’s grave. But Beobrand would not go to him on this visit. The tree-lined area of canted grave markers and mounds unnerved him, and would do nothing to improve his mood.

  He missed Sunniva. And he missed Octa. It was the living he needed, not the dead.

  Perhaps sensing his dark mood, Acennan and his other men had left Beobrand alone to wander. They had been at Bebbanburg now for several days and as the fortress became more clogged with people, so Beobrand’s humour worsened. He fretted over Ubbanford. Convinced that Nelda had travelled south and meant him and his people harm, he had sent Aethelwulf and Ceawlin back to Ubbanford with instructions for Bassus to set watches. They were to be vigilant. Should Nelda show herself, they were not to hesitate. She must be slain.

  The two doughty warriors were not pleased to be sent home. They would miss the feasting that came with a royal wedding. “I’ve heard things about those Wessex wenches.” Aethelwulf had said. “Good things, if you take my meaning.”

  “You will have to make do with Bernician lasses, for you are to stay at Ubbanford,” Beobrand had replied.

  “Picts and crones, that is all we’ll get here,” Ceawlin had moaned. “Not Wessex beauties.”

  “Pigs and kine is all you deserve,” Acennan had said, with a grin. “Now, be off with the two of you. And don’t drink all the mead before our return.”

  Having the extra men under Bassus’ command, went some way to settling Beobrand’s unease. But he knew he would not rest well until he was back in his own hall. And Nelda was no longer a threat.