Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  It still looked great to Beobrand. The city was massive and the river around them now was loud with hawkers and fishermen.

  One man bumped his boat against the hull of their ship. Athelstan pushed the bark away with a shove of his spear.

  “Get away from us,” he roared. “We want nothing from you.”

  They were slowed by the rabble, but after much jostling and shouting, the three Northumbrian ships managed to manoeuvre past the assortment of boats and continue upstream.

  The only other incident that gave respite to the back-breaking rowing came shortly after they had passed Lunden. They rounded a bend in the river to find themselves confronted with three longships tethered together end to end, forming a barrier across the Temes.

  Oswald had no intention of halting again to spend time with the king of these lands. But this was something he was prepared for.

  “Arm yourselves,” Oswald said. “Leave only half the number on the oars. The rest, to arms.”

  Beobrand wriggled into his byrnie with help from Acennan. All around them, men were once again donning their battle gear. This was what they were prepared for. Pulling on the oar might be good to build strength in shoulders and arms, but battle was where men could win fame.

  They readied themselves for blood-letting. A sudden thicket of spears swayed on each of the Northumbrian ships. Watery sunlight glinted from helm and spear-point.

  The barrier ships were likewise frantic with activity. The shouts of men being goaded into action carried over the water. Soon, men lined the barricade. Brightly-painted shields shone. Polished bosses shimmered.

  But there would be no battle-glory this day for Northumbrian or East Seaxon. No feeding of the beasts and the fish of the Temes. For Oswald did not wish to be delayed from his course.

  He motioned to Athelstan and the two of them walked to the prow of the ship.

  “Pull steady,” said Athelstan. “Bring us in close.”

  The few men left on the oars did a good job, pulling fluidly to move the ship towards the barricade.

  Within a spear’s throw, Oswald held out his hand and called out to the men blocking their path up the river.

  “I am Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, lord of Bernicia and Deira. King of all Northumbria. I request passage for my hearth-warriors and I.”

  On the middle ship of the barrier, a swarthy man with black beard and bulbous nose called out, “The river is closed to all unless they pay tribute.”

  Athelstan took a step forward as if he meant to let fly his spear at the man who demanded tribute from his king.

  Oswald placed a hand on Athelstan’s shoulder.

  “I have told you my name. Who are you and on whose authority do you demand tribute?”

  “I am Tredan, son of Tredan. My lord is King Sigeberht, and it is he who demands tribute.”

  The men in the ships murmured at the sound of the name.

  Athelstan, incensed, blurted out, “Why that snivelling turd. That nithing. We sat in his hall not three days hence and now he sends men to steal from us. I’ll have his heart. I’ll rip out his entrails and make them into a belt. I’ll—”

  Oswald stopped his tirade with a raised hand.

  “This Tredan,” he said in a calm, quiet tone that would not be heard on the barricade, “speaks of another Sigeberht. Sigeberht the Little is leader of the East Seaxons. He is not a lover of Christ. I have heard rumour that he is often seen in the hall of Penda of Mercia. We must tread warily here. Stay your tongue, Athelstan.”

  The big thegn took in a deep breath, casting a murderous glare at Tredan, before nodding and taking a step back.

  Oswald spoke loudly, for all to hear.

  “Tredan, son of Tredan, I trust we are well met.”

  Tredan looked flustered, unsure how to respond. After a pause, he nodded.

  “So, you will pay tribute to my king? To Sigeberht?”

  “I will not,” replied Oswald.

  The warriors on both sides stirred. The afternoon air was suddenly tinged with menace.

  “If you do not pay tribute to Sigeberht, you cannot pass. Turn your ships and return to the Whale Road.”

  “I am King of Bernicia and Deira. I am soon to be wed to a daughter of Wessex. I will pay tribute to no king.”

  Beobrand scanned the men on the barricade. Which one would he have to kill first when the fighting started? His stare met the eyes of an East Seaxon; a broad man with a small metal helm, a yellow shield and green cloak. For a few moments they held each other’s gaze. Was the Seaxon thinking he would have to kill the tall fair-haired Northumbrian with the scar under his left eye?

  Oswald continued speaking.

  “I will not pay tribute to any king. But I will pay for passage on a river through a king’s lands.”

  Tredan scratched at his beard, contemplating Oswald’s words. In the end, he nodded. The tension washed away, as blood spilt in a river is diluted and then vanishes.

  In the end, after much bargaining between Athelstan and Tredan, for it would be demeaning for a king to haggle over a price, the Northumbrians handed over a small chest of hack silver for Sigeberht and a finely-crafted seax as a gift for Tredan.

  The barricade was removed, and Oswald’s ships were allowed to pass.

  As they glided past the watching Seaxons towards a stretch of river that was flanked on both sides by dense forest, Acennan spat over the side.

  “So, that’s two King Sigeberhts. One gave us nothing but cold fish and water and the other takes pounds of silver so we can row up a river. I hope we meet no more Sigeberhts in the south.”

  Beobrand did not reply. He watched as the East Seaxon boats vanished around a bend in the river.

  Darkness and cool air descended upon the Northumbrian ships as they moved into the tree-shadow of the forest. Beobrand felt a chill run down his spine. They rowed into unknown territory. Behind them they left two kings with the same name. One an ally of Penda who could blockade the river and halt their return to the sea. The other, a worshipper of Oswald’s Christ, more akin to a monk than king, who would be of no use in a battle.

  He was not sure which troubled him more.

  Chapter 9

  Torran took a slow, deep breath. He could hear rustling in the undergrowth. Deer often trod this path; he had seen the spoor. Another muffled crunch. The animal approached his position. Torran had been waiting quietly beside the small pool for a long while. His empty stomach grumbled and he tensed, hoping the creature would not hear the sound and be startled.

  If it would only step into the clearing, his immediate problems would be over. He could not miss such a shot. Broden had always claimed Torran could take a sparrow in flight through the eye at a hundred paces, but his brother had liked to boast. Torran knew the truth. He was a decent archer. Perhaps even a good archer. But he was not a great archer. Still, he had been the best bowman of Nathair’s people. Torran seldom missed his mark.

  Until that Seaxon whoreson Beobrand came to Ubbanford. Torran clenched his fist tightly about the bow. If only it were Beobrand about to step from the shadow of the trees instead of a deer. For the chance of vengeance Torran would happily go hungry for another week. That Seaxon bastard had taken everything from him. First Aengus. Poor, foolish Aengus. What had possessed his youngest brother to attack Ubbanford? Beobrand had slain the boy with barely a word and had offered no recompense. No weregild for his death.

  Torran’s hands began to tremble, such was his rage. He breathed slowly again. He must remain calm, or he would miss again, as he had so often of late. It was as if his skill had fled with the arrival of Beobrand. After Broden’s death and the destruction of the hall, Torran had fled north. Others had joined him, looking to the last son of Nathair to guide them. They had caused some mischief, preying on travellers and pedlars, but soon the desire for revenge was too great for Torran to resist. He had convinced his band of brigands to attack Ubbanford at night. They would burn Beobrand in his hall. Kill his retinue when they burst forth fro
m their slumber, just as Beobrand had done to them. The men had not wanted to stand against the mighty warrior and his gesithas, but Torran had cajoled them. He had been so sure of their victory.

  But somehow Beobrand had known of their coming. Instead of a night raid against sleeping men, Torran and his Picts had found themselves ambushed and facing warriors of great battle-fame. Armed with swords and garbed in iron-knit shirts. The Seaxons had cut them down like barley at harvest. Torran cursed silently as he recalled that night of blood, failures and shame. His last shot would have hit its target if it had not been for that crazed bastard rushing him. He hoped that one had died from the arrow wound at least.

  Later, the survivors had slipped away, leaving Torran alone. He had roamed the hills and forests for many days, too proud to seek refuge. He had always been a good stalker, able to bring down game even when it was scarce, but now he felt cursed. He had eaten no meat for days. Berries, roots and leaves was no food for a warrior.

  Another hushed hoof-fall. The deer would step from the trees in a heartbeat.

  Silently, using all his skill, Torran filled his lungs with air and drew the string of his bow back. He sighted along the shaft of his arrow, the iron tip glinting dully in the green light under the trees. He did not breathe for many heartbeats. His heart pounded in his ears and yet he stood as still as a rock.

  At last, the deer, tawny coat sleek in the dappled light through the leaves, stepped cautiously from the gloom. Its head peeked out from behind the bole of a huge oak.

  One more moment. He would wait for the perfect shot. Another step and the chest would be exposed. The tension of the bow pulled at the muscles in his shoulder and back. The cord dug into his fingers, but still he waited, ignoring all but the deer.

  It raised its head, as if scenting the air. If it had smelt him, he would slay it anyway. From this range, he could not miss.

  “Well, what have we here?” said a voice from behind him.

  Torran let out a small cry of surprise and loosed the arrow. The deer bunched its muscles and sprang over the pool and into the trees on the far side of the clearing. A flash of fawn and it was gone. The arrow rattled off the oak trunk and disappeared harmlessly into the foliage.

  Torran spun around, reaching for the sword at his belt.

  “I will kill you, whoever you are!” he screamed, all his ire, hunger and disappointment focused on this newcomer who had caught him so unaware.

  “You will do no such thing, Torran mac Nathair.”

  From the dense trees stepped a woman. Her hair was frost-streaked black, her face, half turned from him, was beautiful. Her plump lips parted slightly in a smirk and she moved into a shaft of light. Her green dress was the same hue as the summer-bright leaves. It clung to her body, accentuating shapely breasts and hips.

  Torran’s mouth was suddenly dry. How had this woman come upon him so silently? She had made less noise than the hart. Could she be an elf? A creature of the woodland?

  “Who are you?” his voice cracked. He had spoken to nobody in days.

  The woman turned her head the other way and Torran’s breath caught in his throat. The left side of her face was scarred and broken; a thing to bring fear to children in mead-hall tales. Her face was the moon. One side white, pallid and lovely, the other dark and evil. He suddenly needed to piss.

  “I am Nelda,” she said in the tongue of the Picts. “You have nothing to fear from me, Torran.” Her voice was rich and sensual. His gaze drifted to the curves beneath her dress, only to flick up once more to the ruin of her face.

  “How do you know me?” he croaked.

  “I know many things,” she smiled. The shattered teeth behind her rose-petal lips were hideous. “And I know what you seek, Torran, son of Nathair.”

  Torran shuddered as if a chill wind had blown through the trees. But the sun yet shone and the day was warm.

  “What is it you think I seek?” he asked, his voice as small as a child’s.

  “I can help you find fame and fortune.” She stepped closer. Her presence was intoxicating. He wanted to run from her, and yet he knew he would not. “And I know how you can wreak vengeance on your blood-enemy. On Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”

  Nelda’s eyes were as deep and cool as mountain meres. Her tongue flicked over broken teeth, wetting her lips. He swallowed against his mouth’s dust-dryness. He knew not whence this strange woman had come. Was she even flesh and blood? Perhaps she was a goddess, come to middle earth to walk amongst men for a while. But woman or goddess, she knew his name. And she knew his desires. His heart yearned for glory, but more than that, he burnt for revenge.

  He looked fully on Nelda’s face then. The two sides of the moon, the dark and the light. The perfect and the ruined. The good and the evil. She grinned.

  He would see Beobrand bleed. He would see the accursed Seaxon dead for what he had done.

  “Tell me how,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  “I will kneel for no man!”

  The bellowed shout was loud enough to cut through the general hubbub of the great hall of Dorcic. Beobrand looked up, setting down the fine drinking horn that had been passed to him moments before. It was filled with a heady local brew which cooled the throat and dulled the senses in equal measure.

  At the high table, King Cynegils had stood up, knocking his finely-carved seat over with a clatter. He was as different from the pious King Sigeberht of the East Angelfolc as fire is to ice. Tall and broad, with a wide red-veined nose, he did not strike Beobrand as one who would turn his back on the old ways of gift-giving and feasting.

  On arrival at Dorcic, Oswald and his retinue had been treated with the pomp and honour expected by visiting nobles. The men had laughed and smiled as they had been led to a great hall, pleased to see such grandeur. It was as large as the hall of Gefrin, Acennan had said. Beobrand had nodded. It was a hall fit for a king, of that there was no doubt. He thought it was larger than Gefrin had been, and also more ornate. The lintel over the doors was carved with all manner of animals. They intertwined; a wolf bit the tail of a raven who in turn pecked at the claws of a great fire-breathing wyrm. The roof was topped with great horns, larger than any bull Beobrand has seen.

  “Perhaps they are the horns of an aurochs,” Garr had whispered, awe in his voice.

  They had been offered a warm welcome by the lord of the hall. Cynegils’ daughter, Cyneburg, veiled and demure, offered around the cup of Waes Hael and they each drank heartily from the good, strong mead. In the absence of her mother, who had died some years before, the princess carried out the duties of lady of the hall with well-practised ease. She would make a good queen to Oswald.

  The afternoon of their arrival had been warm, so the hearth was not aflame with crackling logs, but they saw firepits outside the hall where meat was being roasted. Cynegils had clearly had men watching the river so that his household could be prepared for this meeting.

  Beobrand and the others had been cheered still further when they had seen the young women who served in the hall. Most were pretty, with swaying hips and easy smiles. A couple of them were true beauties.

  “We must ensure we tell Aethelwulf and Ceawlin what they have missed,” Acennan had chortled, as a girl with raven-black hair and startlingly blue eyes had filled his cup with ale. She had reminded Beobrand of Nelda, and tiny claws of ice scratched down his back, but he could not deny she was lovely. Acennan had beckoned to the girl and she had leant in close, lips parted slightly, a smile in her eyes.

  “Here,” Acennan had said, holding out a dainty gold ring inlaid with a small garnet, “something beautiful for the most beautiful girl in Wessex.” Beobrand had no idea where he had produced the ring from.

  The girl had eyed both Acennan and the ring suspiciously for a long moment, before taking it and slipping it into a pouch she wore at her side.

  “So, you have seen all the girls in Wessex, have you?” Her face was stern now, but the smile still played in her pale blue eyes. “Do you say
the same to all of them?”

  “I do not need to see all the other girls to know that you are the most beautiful by far.”

  She had blushed, but dazzled him a radiant smile, white teeth between plum-plump lips. Then, with a swish of her skirts, she had bustled away to fill more cups from the pitcher she carried.

  Beobrand had clapped his friend on the back.

  “You work fast. You’ll be wed before sundown at this rate.”

  The men had laughed. But Beobrand noticed with a pang that Acennan’s features clouded slightly. Both he and Acennan had been wed before. Happy and in love. But things changed. And wives died.

  Beobrand had been keen not to let his or Acennan’s mood sour. The journey from Bebbanburg had been sombre. Now with good ale and mead in the horns, food on the boards and comely women to serve them, there was no reason for melancholy. He had slapped Acennan on the shoulder, forcing a grin.

  “Let’s drink to the women of Wessex.”

  The men had roared their appreciation of this fine toast and they all drank deeply.

  The mood of the hall had been jovial since then.

  Until Cynegils’ outburst. Now all eyes were on him.

  “I will kneel for no man,” he repeated, his cheeks red with the flush of drink and his anger.

  Another man at the high table stood. He wore the robes of a Christ priest and his hair was cropped in a strange way. Unlike Coenred, Dalston and the other monks from Hii and Lindisfarena who shaved the front of their heads up to the crown, this man had shaved a circle of hair from the top of his pate, leaving a ring of hair all round. This must be Birinus, the bishop from the southern lands over the sea whom they had heard would perform the baptism and wedding.

  “My king—,” Birinus spoke with a strange lilting, sing-song to his voice. He shook, voice tremulous, clearly afraid of the reaction to his words. “My king, we have spoken of this. In the baptism, you must kneel in the—”

  “I will not kneel!” Cynegils boomed. He hammered a fist into the board before him to accentuate his words. Beobrand saw there were many scars on the king’s forearms. This was a king who had stood in shieldwalls. He smashed both his fists into the board again, sending cups and plates crashing to the rush-strewn floor. His anger was terrible. This was not a man to take lightly.