Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  She knew his name. His face grew hot.

  Pushing himself awkwardly to his feet, he shook his soaking cloak out behind him with one hand. He ignored the continued laughter from the men. He was sure he could hear Wulfgar’s voice, but he did not look for him. He kept his eyes on Cyneburg.

  “My lady,” he hesitated. “My queen. Apologies for my clumsiness. But you are getting wet. Your fine clothes will be ruined out here.”

  “Never mind that,” she said. “I heard you speaking with Lord Athelstan. I know of a place where we could seek shelter.”

  “Indeed?” The thought of getting warm and dry was welcome, as was leaping back onto the dappled mare and galloping away. Hopefully never to look upon the laughing eyes of his queen again.

  “Eadgyth’s uncle, Anwealda, has his hall a short ride from here. He would welcome us and we could wait out this rain.”

  “Very well, my lady,” the words felt as clumsy in his mouth as his feet had been on the slick cobbles of the road. “I will inform Athelstan.”

  She inclined her head in thanks.

  “Of course, Wulfgar can lead the way.”

  For a moment, he watched the sway of her hips as she walked back to the waggon, before remembering they were not alone. He spun away, his face again burning as hot as if he had been struck with fever from elf-shot.

  Fresh peals of laughter came to him as he grabbed the mare’s reins and swung himself up onto her back.

  *

  Beobrand stretched his hands out to the fire that blazed on the hearth at the centre of Anwealda’s hall. It was a strange place, reminding him of the chapel at Engelmynster. The walls were of stones, cunningly cut and laid by craftsmen of unmatched, and forgotten skill. The walls showed elaborate paintings of people and animals. The paint was faded now, streaked with soot and dirt. Generations of Anwealda’s family had probably sat in this very place and observed those images of scantily-clad, slender women. On one wall, someone had attempted to repair a painting that had cracked and flaked with the damp. The result was splodges of muddy brown on the otherwise golden beauties; diaphanous clothes reduced to what appeared to be coarse woollen blankets. Beobrand wondered whether the artist was the same as the builder who had patched the roof. Much of it was yet covered with red tiles, but a large portion had collapsed and been replaced with thatch. The repair had happened a long time ago, judging by the darkened beams that supported it.

  Beneath the thatch, rain dripped into a large cauldron that had been placed there for that purpose. The mood in the hall was subdued. They had slogged through streams and ditches to get here, all the while the rain had pelted them. Anwealda had received them with politeness, but not warmth. He had only returned from the wedding celebrations at Dorcic the day before and had clearly not expected to entertain a queen and her retinue of warriors. But he had kissed his niece on the cheek and, after only a moment’s hesitation at his wife’s nudge in his ribs, offered their sleeping chamber to Cyneburg. The thralls and servants had bustled around the hall and, without great delay, benches had been set and ale served. The lady of the hall, Osberga, brought the Waes Hael cup and bid them welcome.

  Bowls of thin pottage were filled and served with good, fresh loaves. The simple fare was warming after the cold and wet of the day, and it was a welcome change from the feasting at Cynegils’ hall. Perhaps Anwealda too had tired of the meats and mead. The men conversed in quiet tones. Wulfgar and the other West Seaxons at one end of the board, the Northumbrians at the other. Cyneburg and Eadgyth were at the high table.

  “Well, I thought your bad temper would make this journey tedious,” said Athelstan. “I did not count on the gods turning the weather against us, or Cynegils providing us with such sour companions.”

  Beobrand nodded absently. The dim firelight made Cyneburg’s features dance and glow in the shadows. Her eyes were dark as she spoke to the lord and lady of the hall. Yet her hair shone more brightly than seemed natural in the gloom; lambent and reflective like a pond in moonlight.

  Athelstan let out a sharp laugh, as harsh as a crow’s call.

  “It would seem,” he indicated Beobrand and Acennan with one battle-hardened hand, “that neither of you find our companions sour. Though I was referring to the men. I can see the attraction in the girls. But,” he lowered his tone, “you must be careful, lads. A queen’s field is not to be ploughed by any, save for the king. And her gemæcce’s land is best left untilled too.”

  Beobrand felt his face grow hot. He turned to Acennan, who had also been staring towards the high table at the object of his desire. Their eyes met and suddenly they were brimming with merriment. They laughed loudly, each clapping the other’s back. It felt good. Athelstan smiled and drained his cup of ale.

  The older warrior shook his head and muttered, “You young fools.”

  This only served to make Beobrand and Acennan laugh the louder. It had been a long time coming, and now the laughter welled up within Beobrand and he wondered if he would ever be able to stop. He clung to his friend and fought to regain control. He had barely sipped the ale, and yet he felt drunk.

  After what seemed a long time, the two friends managed to rein in their good humour. Struggling for breath, they each wiped tears of mirth from their cheeks. All around them, faces stared. Conversation had stopped, while the two warriors had laughed uproariously. Wulfgar’s look of utter disdain was almost enough to reignite Beobrand’s laughter, but he swallowed it back. His gaze fell on Cyneburg and he smiled openly, his teeth flashing white in his summer-tanned face. She stared back at him for a moment, with an unreadable expression, before frowning and turning to her host once more.

  The diversion over, people returned to their trenchers and cups. The sombre mood of the hall descended again, as thick as autumn fog.

  Beside Beobrand, Athelstan swore under his breath.

  “By the bones of Christ and the cock of Tiw, this hall needs more life.” He rose to his feet, and slammed his open palm into the board before him. Silence descended once more.

  “Hwaet!” he shouted. “Listen! And I will tell you the story of the evil and mighty Hengist, and how he was defeated by Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, who some know as Half-hand.”

  The men in the hall hoomed and stamped their feet. A tale of battle and the vanquishing of foes was something they all enjoyed.

  Beobrand groaned inwardly. He hated to be talked of as some hero of legend while people stared and appraised him. The tales grew in each telling until he could barely recognise himself in them. He shot Athelstan a look of undisguised anger, but the big thegn just grinned and continued.

  As he had proven in Dorcic, Athelstan was a good story-weaver, and despite himself, Beobrand found the words conjuring up dark memories. Athelstan recounted what he knew and what he had heard. He spoke of the fight in the mud of Engelmynster where Beobrand had split Hengist’s face with a lucky strike. He spoke of the battle of Gefrin ford, where the river had run thick and red with the gore of foe and friend alike. He told of the ragged shieldwall before Bebbanburg where Beobrand had lost the best part of two fingers from his left hand. And then, Athelstan, clearly enjoying himself and pleased with the rapt attention of his audience, told of how Beobrand had used his brother’s sword, Hrunting, to kill the very man who had stolen it and murdered its previous owner.

  The listeners stamped on the floor and hammered fists into boards in praise of the tale. It had been well-told, of that there could be no doubt. And yet Beobrand felt the darkness of his past extinguish the lightness of the laughter that had gripped him so recently. Athelstan had recounted moments of great sword-play. Acts that warriors liked to sing of when the shieldwalls were a distant memory and they were glad to have survived them. But he did not speak of things that would not make such a pleasing tale. He spoke not of Cathryn’s pleading eyes as she was violated on the gelid winter earth of the forest. He did not tell of her mutilated body, ruined and bloody on the frost-hard ground. Nor of the charred and smoking corpse of Strang,
lying amidst smoking charcoal mounds. Athelstan did not recall the creak of the rope on the yew tree as Tondberct had been hoisted, gibbering and screaming, to his death.

  No, Athelstan spoke of none of these things. Some he did not know of, but even if he had, he would not talk of them. Men wish to hear of the battle-glory of great warriors. Not the blood and shit and stench of death. They wanted to hear of the giant amongst men, resplendent in battle-bright byrnie and polished helm. Not the mewling boy with entrails escaping a gaping cut like so many writhing eels.

  The warriors of the hall applauded the tale and Beobrand’s part in the story. Athelstan grinned, content to bask in the praise; happy that the hall was full of sound. Beobrand was unable to bring himself to smile. To those watching, he was the perfect image of a warrior. Stern-faced, scarred, broad-shouldered and tall. A man who did not need to speak, for his sword’s song was enough.

  At the far end of the board, Wulfgar stood. The room was still once more.

  “This is the second time that Lord Athelstan has told of your prowess in battle, Beobrand,” Wulfgar said.

  Beobrand took a deep, slow breath.

  “Athelstan likes to spin a yarn,” Beobrand said, his voice flat. He had known a moment of confrontation would come with Wulfgar, but perhaps he could avoid it.

  “Nonsense,” said Athelstan, still flushed from the success of his story-telling, “Beobrand is every bit the warrior I have said he is. He can best any man I have ever seen with a sword.”

  Beobrand sighed. Athelstan and his big mouth. When would he ever be quiet when needed?

  “Well, you have not seen me with a sword,” replied Wulfgar. And with those softly-spoken words, the threat of violence and blood crept into the hall amongst them all.

  “No, I have not,” Beobrand said. There was no escaping this now. “I have only seen you fight with your fists… and I found you lacking.”

  A sharp intake of breath from the gathered warriors. Such words were as good as a slap in the face.

  Beneath the healing bruises on his face, Wulfgar’s skin grew pale.

  “I would prove to you that I am more than a match for you with a blade.” He turned to his uncle. “If Lord Anwealda will allow it, I would fight you here and now.”

  Anwealda rose to his feet. He surveyed his nephew with a withering look of tiredness.

  “I do not allow it,” he said.

  “But, uncle—”

  “I do not allow it,” Anwealda repeated. “There shall be no combat in my hall. Tonight is a time of welcome. And need I remind you that we are allies? Friends? We are not foemen. Save your swords for the Mercians. I am sure one day soon Penda will seek to find more land and then we will need all the strong swords we can muster.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” shouted Anwealda. “There shall be no combat tonight. But I see there is a need for the two of you to settle some score. So, if the gods cease pouring this rain on us and you both agree, you may use wooden practice blades in a test of skills.” He looked first to Beobrand. After a moment’s hesitation, he nodded. What else could he do?

  Wulfgar, smiling now, also assented.

  “Very well,” said Anwealda, “it is agreed. In the morn we shall see you cross blades and settle this once and for all.”

  Chapter 15

  By the morning the rain had stopped falling. Though in the middle of the night Beobrand had been awoken by the crash of thunder and the roar of a storm that reminded him of the night they had attacked the Waelisc at Hefenfelth. Gusts of wind had buffeted the hall, rattling the beams and threatening to lift the old thatch from the repaired roof. A thin waterfall of rain had cascaded into the cauldron. By morning it had overflown and soaked the rushes strewn about it on the tiled floor. Beobrand had lain there in the darkness listening to the Thunor hammer-crash of lightning and the rumble of the god’s chariot as it was pulled along by his great goats. He had shivered, in spite of the cloak wrapped about him and the warmth from the embers of the hearth. When he closed his eyes, he thought he could again hear the screams of those who had fallen south of the Great Wall. Perhaps he could. Maybe their voices would always come to him when storms raged.

  When he awoke, Beobrand was stiff and unrested. His stomach grumbled at its emptiness, but he did not have an appetite. Shaking Acennan awake, he said, “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”

  Acennan moaned and grumbled, but rolled over and pushed himself to his feet.

  Beobrand stood and stretched. His leg did not feel right. He would have to be careful it did not give way as it had the day before. His arm was taut, but moved freely and seemed strong. He rolled his shoulders. He did not relish confronting Wulfgar. If he bested the West Seaxon he knew that the man’s grudge against him would surely grow. But if he was defeated, he would lose the reputation he had gained before Athelstan, Acennan and the other Bernician warriors. And what else did a thegn have apart from his riches and his battle-fame.

  He pulled his arms up over his head, working the life back into his sleepy muscles. A ghost of a smile played on his lips. Win or lose, the outcome of the fight would cause him problems. And yet, it would be a lie to say he was not excited at the prospect. He had beaten Wulfgar once without a weapon. It would feel good to show him that putting down his blade that night in Dorcic had been a wise choice.

  “Awaken,” Beobrand said in a loud voice. “The sun is in the sky and Thunor has gone to his bed. Awaken, that I may defeat Wulfgar and then I would break my fast.”

  Bidding Acennan to follow him, Beobrand strode to the end of the hall. Removing the bar from the doors, he swung them open, letting in a cool draught of watery morning air. This was met by curses and complaints, but throughout the hall men were rousing themselves. The womenfolk had retired to the sleeping chamber which lay behind a screen at the far end of the hall and he doubted they would ready themselves in time to watch the practice bout.

  He stepped into the courtyard before the hall. In the distance, mist hung over a forest. The air was chill and still. The storm had gone, leaving a land that looked as if the gods had scrubbed it clean. A pair of crows flapped lazily overhead to land on the tattered thatch of the hall. Beobrand followed their flight with his gaze. Could it be that Woden himself wished to know of the outcome of a contest between two mortals? Of course, the gods loved their mischief. Beobrand shivered. The presence of the birds unnerved him. What would his wyrd bring him this day?

  Stooping, Acennan picked up a pebble from the muddy ground of the courtyard. He flung it at the crows. He missed. The stone skittered on the clay tiles, sending the black birds into the air, cawing angrily.

  “I hope you do not mean to throw stones at me,” said Wulfgar, stepping from the hall. “I am not a master of that skill. I leave the casting of pebbles to children and thralls.” His three companions chortled dutifully at his poor jest. The warriors, who too bore the fading bruises from their fight with Beobrand and Acennan, were always at his side.

  “A wooden sword will be enough,” replied Beobrand, his tone as cool as the morning.

  The rest of the men were stumbling from the hall bleary-eyed and tousle-haired. They rubbed their eyes to remove the grit of sleep. They grumbled, but without much conviction. They were all excited to see these two warriors face each other. Beobrand knew that some had wagered on the outcome.

  He noted that, as he had expected, none of the womenfolk, with the exception of a couple of house thralls, had come to witness the bout. He wished that Cyneburg was there to witness his skill, but no matter, she would hear the tale of the fight soon enough.

  Beobrand leaned close to Acennan. “Where is Athelstan?” he whispered.

  “No idea. Asleep?”

  “The man causes this, and then stays wrapped in his blankets while I fight?” Beobrand spat. He could not hold much anger against Athelstan. The man was brutish and loud, but he was a good warrior, and a good friend.

  “Perhaps it is for the best,” said Acennan with a wry sm
ile. “If he was here, we’d be hearing the tale of this fight at every hall we stop at on this journey.”

  “True. Though not seeing it will not prevent him telling the tale. He’ll be sorry he missed it.” Beobrand’s grin was wolfish now that the fight approached. No matter where Athelstan was, Beobrand wanted to fight now. He could feel the pressure building in him. It was as if there was an animal caged inside that was unleashed when he entered battle. Too long had the beast strained at its fetters. Beobrand shook his arms to limber them.

  Anwealda walked to the centre of the yard.

  “I see you are keen to test your sword-skills. It is early and we would all slake our night-thirst and fill our bellies.” He waved to one of his gesithas who brought forward two plain shields and carved, oaken practice blades. Wulfgar and Beobrand armed themselves.

  Beobrand swung the sword a few times. It was a comfortable fit in his fist, much lighter than Hrunting, with a very different balance. It was also a hand-breadth shorter. It would be a fast fight. The shield was simple, boards of willow covered in hide. The central boss was nothing more than a dull dome of iron, with a central handle to grip in the left hand. Beobrand missed the straps that Sunniva had fashioned for his own shield. He had grown accustomed to them and the way they supported the board. This shield felt clumsy in his half-handed grip. He hefted it, and thrust it forward, as if punching with the boss. His grip held.

  “I know that I am not the only one who is hungry and thirsty,” continued Anwealda, “so we shall keep this short.” A few moans came from those in the crowd who wanted an epic battle. Most were quiet, their eyes wide and eager to see the two warriors spar. “The bout will be won by the first to strike seven times. A fall to the ground will be counted as a blow received. As lord of this hall, my word is final and neither of you is to bear a grudge against the other after this. No feud will be entered into. All previous scores are settled here. Are we agreed?”