“Remove his arms and let him in to speak.” Cynegils smiled complacently at Oswald. “A king must at times pause to listen to his people when they bring news.”
The wardens allowed the man into the hall. He strode swiftly the length of the hall. His cloak was travel-stained, his leg bindings dusty. Upon reaching the high table the man gave a curt bow. Cynegils nodded expectantly.
The man spoke in a clear voice for all to hear.
“My lord King Oswald, I come with grave news. Finola and her son, Talorcan, have fled Bebbanburg. They were taken by the Pictish scum. Your brother, Oswiu atheling, has ridden in pursuit of them. He bids you return with your comitatus as quickly as you are able.”
*
For a time after the messenger’s arrival, the hall was in uproar. Cynegils, his face flushed with drink, was angered at being overlooked in his own hall.
“I am king here!” he had screamed. He had picked up an ornate drinking horn and flung it at the new arrival. He had missed, spilling mead over himself in the process. Someone had laughed and Cynegils’ skin had turned such a deep hue of purple that it seemed he would either die or slay someone.
In the end, it took Cyneburg to soothe her father’s battered pride. She placed her arm around him and led him from the hall.
Beobrand watched with eager interest as the messenger from Bebbanburg spoke with Oswald.
This was not good news. Finola was the sister of Gartnait, King of the Picts. Her son, was one of the heirs to the throne of those people. Oswald would be furious to lose them. They were both important parts in the great game of tafl he played to rule the isle of Albion. The king would be angry, but there was good that came of this.
Beobrand drained his cup of ale and smiled despite the tension in the hall. With these tidings, they would be leaving straight away, and they would travel with haste. Soon they would be back in Bernicia. Back in Ubbanford. And he would once again see Octa. And Rheagan.
After a lengthy conversation at the high table, Derian approached Athelstan, beckoning to Beobrand to join them. Acennan followed close behind, an expression on his features that Beobrand could not fathom.
“So, it is settled,” Derian said, as Beobrand came within earshot.
“What is?” he asked. Athelstan’s features gave nothing away. Acennan seemed to be struggling to hide a grin.
“We are to be Cyneburg’s nursemaids,” said Athelstan.
“What?”
“Yes, we, the heroes of Hefenfelth, are to escort the queen to Northumbria.” Athelstan scowled, clearly unhappy with their lot.
Derian raised a placatory hand.
“This is a task that our lord the king would only entrust to his most worthy thegns. Besides,” Derian’s teeth showed through the thicket of his dark tangle of beard, “not all of the heroes of Hefenfelth are travelling with the queen. Most of us are travelling with the king by ship.”
Athelstan growled and reached for a jug of mead.
“And you get to put those Picts in their place while we hold the girl’s skirts out of the mud on a long ride north?”
“It is agreed,” snapped Derian. “Oswald has willed it.”
“Why us?” asked Beobrand, unable to keep the pleading tone from his voice. A moment ago he had believed he would be in Bernicia within a week, now, who knew how long until they would make it back.
“We are to hurry north,” said Derian. “There can be no tarrying while the queen prepares her things. Besides, she says she does not wish to travel by sea.”
“Well, that I can understand,” said Beobrand. The mere thought of the rolling surf under the keel made his stomach twist. “But you still haven’t answered me. Why us? There are others who could do this task. I need to return to my home. The gods alone know what the Picts will have done in our absence. Couldn’t some of Cynegils’ men escort her?”
Derian nodded.
“They can, and they will. A group of them will travel with you. But as Cyneburg is now Oswald’s queen, Lord Athelstan will lead.”
Beobrand opened his mouth to speak, but Derian continued, anticipating the question.
“As to why you, that is simple. Acennan asked for the honour of escorting the lady Cyneburg to her new home. Oswald was most taken by the offer. After Athelstan’s story of Hefenfelth, he believes it is a sign of how much he values his queen, to leave the famed Beobrand Half-hand for her protection.”
For a moment, Beobrand was unable to speak.
Athelstan laughed.
“Come now, boy. You look like a beached fish, mouth opening and closing. We will be home soon enough. Perhaps it will not be so terrible to travel with the queen and her womenfolk.”
Suddenly, the truth dawned on Beobrand.
“Womenfolk, you say?” Then he asked the question to which he could already guess the answer. “Who is Cyneburg’s handmaiden? Her gemæcce?”
Acennan stifled his smile and stared at the rush-strewn floor.
“I thought you knew,” answered Derian. “The queen will travel with her closest companion, the lady Eadgyth.”
Chapter 13
A smothering drizzle fell the next morning. It was still warm, but the summer was growing old. The heavy skies spoke of more rain to come. Perhaps storms. All about Dorcic, Oswald’s men readied their gear for the short journey to the ships.
One of the younger warriors, a tousle-haired man with unusually long arms, stumbled and dropped his spear with a clatter. He was laden with his own belongings and battle-harness, as well as a sack full of provisions. Like all the Northumbrians, he seemed keen to leave, and so had attempted to carry everything to the waiting ships in one trip.
“Give us a hand with this,” he called, in a friendly tone to Beobrand and the others who stood watching him struggle.
“Carry your own damn spear,” shouted back Beobrand.
Athelstan let out grunt of amusement.
“By the Christ and all his saints, you will not be a pleasant companion on this journey, unless you let go of your anger.”
But Beobrand was not ready to forget his ire at having been left behind.
“If Acennan could have kept his mouth shut, we’d be getting aboard those ships soon.”
Acennan said nothing, but Athelstan laughed.
“Acennan has his mind set on getting aboard something with softer curves than any sea-steed. And he can no more control his mouth when it comes to a beautiful woman than any man. A man will do anything for a warm cunny, but speaking sense does not come easily. There are some good tidings though.” Athelstan grinned, and Beobrand knew that a joke was coming.
“What?” he asked, making no effort to hide his annoyance.
“Oswald is taking those monks with him. At least we won’t have to pray day and night on the journey north.”
Beobrand snorted. He cared little. It was true that the Christ monks were prone to being too sombre, but Coenred was good company. He actually thought he would miss the conversations he had with the young monk. Another reason to be angry for not travelling with the king and his retinue.
They watched on in silence as the preparations continued, until eventually, Oswald and his retinue were ready. The ships were low in the water where heavy treasure weighed them down. It seemed that Cyneburg’s dowry was more substantial than just her father’s promise of aid if war should come with Mercia.
Cynegils, face once more open and smiling, apparently mollified after the events of the previous night, walked down to the water’s edge to bid his new ally farewell. His comitatus followed him, all resplendent in their finest jackets, cunningly-patterned cloaks and gleaming buckles and brooches. The West Seaxon king did not want Oswald to quickly forget his strength or hospitality.
Cyneburg, Eadgyth and other womenfolk also walked the short distance to where the ships were moored. The rain was thin, but their fine-spun veils and braids were quickly bedraggled. They did not complain, but Beobrand noted the tight-lipped annoyance on the young queen’s face. A quick
glance at Acennan showed him that his friend was unaware of the queen or the rain. He only had eyes for Eadgyth. The dark-haired companion of the queen flicked an almost imperceptible look at the stocky Northumbrian warrior as they passed. Acennan beamed as if he had been given all the riches in the land of Wessex.
Beobrand sighed. He was still disappointed, but he could not remain angry at his friend. Acennan had stood by him in terrible times. Beobrand knew he had once had a wife. And a child. Both gone now. If he could find happiness with Eadgyth, he should seize it and hold on to it for as long as he was able. Before wyrd saw fit to snatch it away.
Beobrand clapped Acennan on the shoulder.
“Come, let us bid our king a safe journey.”
Acennan, smiled even more broadly, if such a thing were possible, pleased that Beobrand’s temper was abating. Together, they all walked down to the river.
As they gathered at the river’s edge, the rain ceased. The redolence of freshly-trodden soil and wet grass was heavy in the air. The unbroken surface of the river reflected the iron-grey sky. A pair of swans glided past the watching men and women.
Oswald stepped forward and raised his arms in the now familiar posture he adopted when addressing a crowd. They quietened.
“Lord King Cynegils, son of Ceol, ruler of the West Seaxons, I give you thanks for your hearth, your board,” a pause and a wink to their host, “and your heady mead and ale.” A rippled of laughter from the listeners. Cynegils smiled and nodded.
“But of course, more than any of this, I give you thanks for tying our families and kingdoms with my marriage to your lovely daughter, Cyneburg.” All turned to look at Cyneburg. As Queen of Northumbria and princess of Wessex, she must now be one of the most powerful women of Albion. She trembled under the gaze of so many, her pale skin showed clearly the rising blush of her cheeks. She looked down at the wet earth.
Oswald strode forward. Leaning in close to Cyneburg, he whispered something in her ear that only she could hear. She squared her shoulders, raised her head and offered a delicate kiss to her husband.
“Godspeed, my king,” she said, her voice as soft as the kiss.
“Thank you, my queen, and I pray that God will speed your journey northward and keep you safe on the road.” Oswald swept all those congregated on the riverbank with his gaze. “For it is the gift of our Lord God’s love and protection that is the most cherished gift. I am overjoyed that the wise and mighty King Cynegils has welcomed the one true God into his heart and that of his people.”
Birinus, standing off to one side of the royal retinue pushed his chest out with pride. Then, awkwardly and with a quick flush of embarrassment, he bowed his head and slumped his shoulders. Although he looked downward, the dark-skinned priest could not hide his gleeful expression.
Oswald continued: “We share one God now. And yet Northumbria and Wessex are bound by more than just common beliefs. I am Godfather to King Cynegils, responsible for his spiritual guidance.” Cynegils stiffened. “But wise Cynegils is the father of my bride, and will be the grandfather of our children. So it is that our two peoples are united by holy oath and blood.”
Cynegils stepped forward, shoulders broad, face shining, still wet from the rain.
“May your journey be safe, son,” he said, voice booming. One of the swans rose up to stand in the water, flapping its wings at the sudden loud noise. “As you say,” Cynegils said, “we are bound by God and family. And yet let us not forget why we have sought this union. Penda of Mercia’s power is waxing. The day will come when our truces will no longer hold and he will seek more land. Then, we will stand together, strong shield and sharp spear against the Mercians. Let all here remember and so may it be known to all of Albion, that Northumbria and Wessex are, from this day forth, bound by blood and blade.”
The watching warriors cheered. Some crashed spear hafts into linden boards and iron shield bosses.
Oswald nodded. It was well-said. He embraced Cynegils, who grinned and slapped the younger man on the back.
The last thing Oswald did before boarding his ship was to approach Athelstan, Beobrand and the other warriors who would accompany Cyneburg north. He was smiling, but no mirth touched his eyes.
“Bring me my queen safely to Bernicia, Athelstan,” he said. The king looked at each of them in turn, his face suddenly grave. “And do not tarry. I fear I will need all my swords before the winter snows.”
Part Two
Treachery and Torment
Chapter 14
As if to remind them that the summer was drawing to a close, cold rain lashed them as they trudged north. Beobrand could scarcely make out Garr where he rode ahead of the small column, such was the intensity of the downpour. Garr had the best eyes of any of his men. He talked little, but watched much, making him perfect to scout ahead of the group in Attor’s absence. One of the West Seaxons rode with him. They did not trust the Northumbrians to know their business. At least they knew the land well, so it would not hurt to have them around. Of course, they still rode through Wessex. Soon they would be in Mercia. Beobrand hoped they would not need to discover the Wessexmen’s skill with shield and spear.
Cold water trickled down his neck and back. His cloak was sodden, heavy and plastered to his horse’s flank. His byrnie would be eaten away by the metal-rot if he wasn’t careful. He spat into the churned mud beside his mount’s hooves. He was seated astride a dappled mare. She was smaller than Sceadugenga; less feisty. But she was nimble enough and obeyed his commands without hesitation. Cynegils had provided mounts for them all. Once the queen was safely in Northumbria, the Seaxons were to return home, escorting traders south. This was the agreement Cynegils had struck with Oswald, and it seemed a good bargain. All they had to do was get through Mercia without incident. Beobrand watched as a skinny thrall goaded the oxen to pull the queen’s waggon up the small rise to where Beobrand waited. The beasts bellowed angrily, but finally the vehicle was over the hill.
Athelstan cantered through the sheets of rain, pulling his steed to a mud-splattering halt beside Beobrand.
“I thought you said the rain wouldn’t last. If it goes on much longer, we will need a ship after all.”
Beobrand sighed.
“It can’t rain forever,” he said. In truth he felt bad that he had convinced Athelstan to strike out north during the bad weather. He was anxious to get back to Ubbanford. The thought of being cooped up in the hall of Dorcic for days while the sky washed the world was more than he could bear. Cyneburg and the king had wanted them to wait until the rain passed, but Beobrand had swayed Athelstan, saying that the rain would cease soon and if it did not, the roads would only get worse, not better. Now the massive warrior looked less inclined to agree with him than when they had been sipping mead beside Cynegils’ hearth fire. Athelstan rubbed the water from his face; his beard dark and dripping.
“Well, it looks like it might never stop.” He held up a gnarled hand to shield his eyes and gazed upward. The dome of the sky was shrouded in a dense blanket of grey cloud. “I see no break in this rain. Not today. I’ll ask Wulfgar where the nearest hall is.” He spurred his horse forward to where the dark-bearded warrior, brother of Eadgyth, rode his fine steed. Beobrand swallowed back the sharp words he wished to speak. It would do no good, he knew. And yet he could not help but loathe the man. When Cynegils had announced the men who would be riding as the queen’s escort from Wessex, Beobrand had almost laughed. Of all the men in the king’s gesithas, Wulfgar and the other three from that first night in Dorcic, were all to ride north. The gods loved mischief, and to have Beobrand, Acennan, Wulfgar and Eadgyth all riding in the same group was clearly a great jest. So far, there had been no cross words between them, but the journey would be long and there would be many chances for vengeance from the warriors who had been bested in the dark outside the byre. Warriors did not easily forget, and they would be wanting revenge. Beobrand and Acennan would have to be wary.
Beobrand turned his attention to where the waggon now s
tood. The thrall and oxen both panted, breath steaming in the cool air of the day. On the wain, beneath a cloth and leather canopy, Cyneburg and Eadgyth were protected from the elements. So it was with surprise that he saw the slender form of the queen step out into the mire of the path. By the gods, she was a lovely creature; like a ray of sunlight on this gloomy day. She walked daintily towards him, picking her way around the larger puddles. Where possible she stepped on the remnants of the stone slabs that had once made the road great. Birinus said he came from the same distant land as the long-gone people, who had left such a lasting mark on Albion. With a jolt, Beobrand realised the queen was walking towards him. They had not spoken before. He had been content to observe her beauty from afar, as he would gaze upon a rare bird. She had seemed distant and withdrawn since Oswald’s departure; seldom deigning to converse with the warriors. In his opinion, this was as it should be.
He felt suddenly foolish sitting astride a horse while his queen waded through the muck of the road. Swinging his leg over the saddle, he leapt to the ground. His right leg screamed in protest. The memory of Torran’s arrow was still fresh to his muscle. The leg gave way, and Beobrand staggered forward, slipping and sliding in the mud. He lost the battle with his balance and fell to one knee before Cyneburg. Throwing out his hands, he prevented his face sinking into the mud. The taut skin of his left forearm gave a twinge of pain. But it was his pride that was hurt.
The sound of laughter reached him. Much of it the loud guffaws of fighting men who were cold, wet and tired and were glad of something to break the tedium of the day. From just above him came a softer giggle, and once again he was reminded of Sunniva. He was not sure he had ever heard Rheagan laugh.
He looked up into the smiling face of Cyneburg. Her hair wreathed her in a crown of finely-spun gold. The rain and gloom of the day seemed unable to dampen Cynegils’ daughter’s beauty.
“No need to kneel, brave Beobrand,” she said, the laughter still sounding in her words.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 12