Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

“Hail, Beobrand, you ugly whoreson!”

  Beobrand looked down into the courtyard to see who was shouting his name. A large man with a bristling beard had ridden through the gate at the head of yet more warriors and servants. He waved at Beobrand. Despite his bulk, he leapt easily from the back of his fine steed. His blue cloak shone in the dying sunlight, and rings glimmered on his muscular arms.

  Beobrand raised a hand in response.

  “Athelstan, you goat-swiving bastard, I didn’t know you were coming with us to Wessex. I didn’t think Oswald would want you to be seen outside of his borders.” He made his way down the ladder from the palisade.

  Athelstan strode towards him and clasped his arm.

  “Well, the king has the princess already promised to him, so I am no threat, with my good looks. Of course, the other women of Wessex will have to be wary, for they are wont to swoon at the sight of me.” He grinned.

  “Swoon at the sight of you?” Beobrand laughed. “I have heard that is the only way you can get a woman.”

  “We shall see, young Beobrand. We shall see. If you’re lucky, perhaps I will teach you how to woo women.”

  For a moment, Beobrand’s face clouded. Athelstan knew all too well of Sunniva’s death. And what had befallen her before, at the hands of Wybert, at the time one of Athelstan’s own gesithas. Beobrand frowned as he thought of the dark secret Sunniva had taken with her to the afterlife. How Wybert had violated her. Beobrand’s hands clenched into fists. He had not been able to protect her and even the bitter salve of vengeance had been denied him when he would have slain Wybert at Dor.

  Sensing the jesting had gone too far and had strayed from the path of mirth, Athelstan raised his voice so that all his men could hear.

  “Now, enough of this talk of women. Where can a man find a drink in this place? You and I must raise a horn to old friends and fallen companions.”

  Chapter 8

  “Will you never learn?”

  The voice cut into Beobrand’s head like a seax slicing into a ripe apple. He looked up from where he huddled at the stern of the ship. Coenred looked down at him. His face was split into a broad grin. The strakes of the vessel shivered as the bow ploughed through several small waves. The wind was brisk and the ship’s ropes sung, thrumming and taut. The sail strained and cracked. From where he sat, the rushing water was muffled, but the sounds of the ship were amplified. It was as a living thing, groaning and creaking.

  A wave broke on the bow and the chill spray splattered Beobrand’s face. His stomach gave a lurch with the ship’s motion, but he held his body still, breathing shallow breaths through his mouth. He would not disgrace himself.

  His mouth filled with spittle in a rush. He swallowed it back down. It was bitter.

  “Every time we meet, you are drunk or fighting,” Coenred said. There was no real reproach in his voice and his smile remained. He held out a hand to Beobrand.

  Beobrand thought for a moment, before grasping the monk’s arm and allowing himself to be hauled to his feet. Coenred had grown, his limbs now strong from building and working the land of Lindisfarena.

  “You’re almost a man,” Beobrand said, trying to smile despite the churning in his stomach.

  “I wager the monk can hold his drink better than you,” roared Athelstan from amidships. Some of the sailors and warriors laughed. Beobrand did not find it funny.

  “You’re as pale as milk,” said Coenred.

  “I am fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  All Beobrand wanted was to be left alone long enough for his stomach to settle. By Woden, why had he allowed Athelstan to goad him into drinking so much? And why did Oswald always travel by sea?

  Turning his face into the wind, Beobrand welcomed the cold air and spray. How he wished he had not been called upon for this journey. He would happily have stayed in Bernicia with Oswiu. The previous day Oswald had announced that his brother would not be travelling south for the ceremonies that were to be carried out in Wessex. There was unrest in the north of the land. It seemed Beobrand’s neighbours were not the only Picts who resented the rule of the Angelfolc. Word had come to them of another hall-burning. A band of Picts, perhaps some of those whom Beobrand had displaced, had descended from the hills and killed all the inhabitants. Oswiu, grim-faced and solid, would put an end to the Pictish scum, of that Beobrand had no doubt. He hoped that Torran tried to confront the atheling. He would not survive an encounter with Oswiu.

  “Have you come to scratch on your calf skins again?” Beobrand asked. He knew Oswald placed great importance in having all his decisions written down. Coenred had tried to explain the value of capturing the words in writing, but it seemed pointless to Beobrand. He spat the foul-tasting spittle from his mouth.

  “Yes. Dalston and I are to record all that is agreed in Wessex. Gothfraidh travels with us.”

  “To see that you behave yourselves?” Beobrand offered a thin smile. “The ladies of the south had best keep their legs crossed around you monks, eh?”

  Coenred flushed and frowned. Beobrand felt a twinge of guilt at his jesting.

  “What of Abbot Aidan?” he asked. “Does he not travel south with you?”

  “He is to stay in Lindisfarena,” Coenred replied, his tone curt. “The king wished him to accompany us, but he said it was vital that he get to know his brethren here, in Bernicia.”

  The ship topped another wave and Coenred held out a steadying hand. Beobrand shook it off angrily. If only he had been able to stay with Oswiu.

  “I’m fine, I tell you.”

  “If you say so.” Coenred sounded hurt. They had not seen each other for many weeks, and he was clearly making an effort to rekindle their friendship.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” said Beobrand. “I am not myself.”

  The grin returned to Coenred’s features. His robe flapped around him.

  “I thought you said you were fine.”

  “Yes, I am.” Beobrand smiled wanly. “I am fine.”

  And with that, he leant over the side of the ship and noisily emptied his stomach into the foam-flecked sea.

  *

  The journey was not pleasant, despite favourable winds. The further south they travelled, the worse the weather became. The cold wind that drove their wave-riders through the surf brought with it darkening skies and rain. As the weather worsened, so the king’s mood soured. He was on edge. What should have been a joyous occasion – the union of two kingdoms, both in marriage and under the same God – became a source of annoyance to Oswald. He had been exiled for years before returning to Northumbria to claim his throne. It had been a hard-fought reconquest. To leave now, while the Picts in the north threatened, stuck in his throat like the bone of a fish. The thegns told him not to fear. Oswiu would hold firm. Oswald would nod at these comments. His brother was indeed strong and determined in battle.

  And yet, it was the uncertainty, the lack of knowledge of what might be transpiring, that needled and nagged.

  Beobrand knew how his king felt. He could not turn his mind away from thoughts of Nelda working some dark mischief. In his dreams he saw Ubbanford in flames, as he had put Nathair’s hall to the torch. He heard the screams of the dying. The shattered face of the woman he had struck down in that hellish night often flickered in his mind’s eye, as if seared there by the conflagration of the hall. In the darkest moment of the night, he would sometimes awaken to find his cheeks wet from tears. But the men never saw him cry. He hardened his face. Grim, dour and scarred. His beard was yet thin, that of a young man, but no man would dare belittle him. Those who had seen him in battle were in awe of his skill. Those who had not, noted something in his gaze. He had the stare of a man who had seen more than his share of death, but would happily feed the ravens until they were too full to fly.

  Beobrand’s humour was not improved by the motion of the sea beneath the keel of the ship. After the first day, once he had rid himself of the excesses of the night’s drinking, he was able to hold dow
n some food. But he was no sailor and he was ever woozy, his bile threatening to rise.

  After four days, they entered a land of fog and fens. They passed between small islets. Reeds and rushes sometimes loomed from the mist, causing the steerman to lean hard on the steerboard to avoid running aground. The wind died like the breath of a hanged man and the men were forced to the oars. Sounds in the fog were loud. Distant splashes drifted to them, but they never saw what creatures made the sounds. Birds shrieked and shrilled. Beobrand reached under his kirtle and clasped the Thunor’s hammer that he wore on a thong around his throat. This was an evil land.

  Oars creaked in tholes. Men spoke in whispers.

  Athelstan spat over the side.

  “This land is not fit for men.”

  “It had better be, Athelstan, son of Ethelstan,” said Oswald, his voice as cold as the fog, “for it is the land of the East Anglefolc and we are to visit King Sigeberht at his hall. In a place called Dommoc.”

  “Do we not head for Wessex?” asked Beobrand. The sooner they were done with the wedding and the Christ rite, the sooner they could return to Bernicia.

  “We will not tarry long in Sigeberht’s lands, but he worships the one true God and he sent word for us to meet. He is our brother in Christ. We may well need to help each other to hold back the darkness from the lands.”

  “Well, with this fog,” said Athelstan, “we’ll be lucky if we find him. The darkness seems to have already overrun this Sigeberht’s kingdom.”

  As if in response to his words, a flash of light blazed in the fog in the distance. A warm glow such as that cast by the setting sun hazed the horizon.

  “See there,” said Oswald, a spark of excitement creeping into his voice, “they have lit a beacon to guide their Christian brothers safely to Sigeberht’s hall.”

  Athelstan glanced at Beobrand. Neither was as trusting as the king that this was the Christ god’s doing. The fire could as easily have been lit to lure hapless seamen to their doom. Beobrand helped Athelstan into his byrnie, then struggled into his own. Most of the men not rowing did likewise. The fog echoed with the clatter of shields and spears being hefted.

  Acennan growled from where he pulled at an oar, “See that my sword is close to hand, Beobrand. If we are attacked, I would not be unarmed.”

  “Do not fear,” said Coenred, voice thin. “The king here fears God.”

  “And I fear cold iron and things I cannot see,” said Athelstan, reaching to touch the hilt of his sword for reassurance.

  They were drawing close now. They peered into the gloom, straining to make out details of the shapes around the fire on the beach.

  Moments later they saw they should have trusted their king’s faith. The fire had indeed been lit by Sigeberht’s men, a surly group who awaited them on the pebbled beach. The Northumbrians were led with great ceremony by these desultory wardens to a long hall that nestled behind sand dunes. The hall was surrounded by several smaller buildings. All of them had reed-thatched roofs.

  The fog was breaking up, and a watery sun forced its beams to shine briefly on the cluster of buildings. Oswald smiled to see that the hall was topped with the wooden cross symbol of the Christ.

  His good humour was short-lived. They handed over their weapons, then entered the hall. But there they found no food to greet them on groaning board, no fire crackling on the hearth. They had been at sea for days; were tired and hungry. This was no welcome for a king and his retinue.

  “Where is your king?” Oswald asked one of the door wards. “Does he not greet us, with the cup of welcome?”

  The man lowered his gaze, unable to look the Lord of Northumbria in the eyes.

  “He is there.” Scorn dripped from his words, like honey from a comb. “Praying.”

  At the far end of the hall, in the shadows, knelt a slim figure in a pale robe.

  Oswald took a deep breath.

  “Very well.”

  He strode forward. When Beobrand and the others made to follow, he held up a hand.

  “No. I would speak with the King of the East Angelfolc alone.”

  He walked the length of the hall and knelt beside the king. There the two leaders remained for a long while, heads bowed. Whispering in the gloom.

  Beobrand, Athelstan, Acennan and the rest of the king’s men stood stolidly waiting. They had not expected such a welcome. Treachery and steel was always a possibility when two kings met. Or feasting and noisy merriment. Boasting and gift-giving.

  This indifference was unnerving.

  The warriors, not used to being kept waiting, began to fidget.

  To the door warden’s obvious relief, Oswald finally rose from his knees and walked back down the length of the hall.

  The men looked at him expectantly. His face was unreadable, but Beobrand thought he noted a tightening around the eyes. Perhaps the jaw was clenched.

  “We will sleep here tonight.” Then, to the warden, “You are to order bread and salt fish be brought for my men. And clean water.”

  “Water? Fish and bread,” Athelstan bellowed, his outrage reverberating in the still hall. “We are warriors. Thegns of your comitatus. Not shepherds and thralls.”

  “Yes, you are my comitatus,” said Oswald, his words clipped. “I am your king and we are in the realm of another. We are guests in this hall, and we will accept what we are offered.”

  Athelstan hoomed deep in the back of his throat, but said no more.

  *

  They spent a cold, mirthless night in Sigeberht’s hall. The fish was tasteless, the bread gritty and hard. No fire was lit. Sometime in the evening, as the blaze of the setting sun outside made them yearn all the more for a roaring fire on the hearth, Sigeberht rose and addressed them in the language of the Christ priests.

  Oswald bowed his head and nodded sagely. Gothfraidh, Coenred and Dalston spoke words in the ancient tongue in response to Sigeberht’s words. Beobrand and the other men knew not what was said, but the King of the East Angelfolc beamed with pleasure at the sound of the monks’ chanting voices answering his own sombre booming.

  “This Sigeberht, it seems,” said Acennan in a hushed voice, “is more monk than king.” His stomach let out a gurgling rumble. “This is no way for kings and warriors to live.”

  Several of the Northumbrians nodded and muttered their agreement. Oswald flashed them an ominous glower and they quietened. But Beobrand noticed the shame on the faces of Sigeberht’s own retainers. They knew how a visiting king should be greeted. Their king brought them all into disrepute.

  Beobrand thought back to the healing performed by Aidan. The victory at Hefenfelth. The Christ had real power, but was it necessary to eschew all pleasures of the flesh? A good king should above all things be generous; a giver of rings and wealth. That was gōd cyning. He wondered how long Sigeberht’s gesithas would remain by his side. Glancing around at the frowning men and shuffling thralls of the hall of Dommoc, he doubted it would be long before this king was left alone with his god.

  In the morning, they resumed their voyage, glad to be away from the gloomy piety of Sigeberht. Oswald did not speak of the encounter, but it was not hard to see he was unsettled. If he had hoped for a strong ally in Christ, someone to harry the Mercians on their eastern borders, he must now be questioning that likelihood.

  The mist followed them south but burnt away in the late morning. The breeze did not return, so for that day and the next they made slow progress. The men, many unused to rowing, complained of blisters on their palms. Beobrand, pleased to be able to do something of use, took his own turn at the oars and quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. At first, he believed he would be able to pull at the oar all day, but soon his shoulders and back began to burn. And his recently-recovered left arm smarted with each pull. He gritted his teeth and stared at Garr’s slim back, matching him stroke for stroke.

  There was no merriment or jest in the ships. It was as if the last vestiges of humour had been sucked out of them at Sigeberht’s hall. All they hop
ed for now was to arrive at their destination soon.

  And that Cynegils, who they knew was to be baptised into the brethren of Christ, had not also become a shadow of a true king.

  When they reached the wide estuary of the Temes, they turned to the west, and rode the incoming tide into the river that would lead them into the mainland of Albion, all the way to Wessex. To Dorcic. To the hall of King Cynegils.

  But first they must pass through the lands of the East Seaxons.

  They moored the ships that night, as the sun dipped below the horizon. Grey clouds streaked the western sky, laden with rain.

  “The rest of the journey will be on the river,” said Athelstan the next morning. The rain that had threatened now fell in an incessant drizzle. Their world became small, all distance hidden in the sheets of rain.

  “Come on,” roared Athelstan, “put your backs into it.”

  They heaved and pulled, and made their way, stroke by stroke up the river. At first the river was so broad they could not see the opposite bank. Later, they slid closer to the shores. Shadows loomed through the mist. Stone and clay buildings, like those at Eoferwic. Buildings left by the mysterious Romans who had built so much, conquered all, and then disappeared like a dream that only the land itself remembered. As always, the sight of these edifices of stone made Beobrand uneasy. All that power gone and forgotten.

  He shivered.

  Without warning, the rain ceased. The sun, held captive behind clouds for so long, burst forth and shone its brilliance on the wide river. The crumbling ruins of the city that sprawled to the north of the river, lost their mystery. But they were no less impressive. Some of the buildings had collapsed. Others showed signs they had been burnt. But many yet stood, and many more recent wooden structures also dotted the waterfront.

  With the unveiling of the sun, they saw vessels all around them. Men rowed small skiffs towards them, raising up produce for sale. Buckets of fresh fish. Barrels of ale and mead. Trinkets. Rope. Baskets of reeds. All manner of food.

  “This is Lunden,” said Athelstan. “Once a great city, now a ruin.”