Neither man responded.
“Are we agreed?” Anwealda repeated. “I am hungry and in no mood for the foolishness of young men.” He turned to the dark-bearded Wulfgar. “And do not think I will find in favour of you, nephew, should this come to a dispute. The man who best wields a blade will win. Now, are we agreed?”
“We are agreed,” said Beobrand.
Wulfgar nodded. “Agreed.”
“Very well,” said Anwealda. “Now, all of you form a circle in the yard.” The crowd spread themselves into a ring, leaving an area of muddy ground that measured across its width the length of three men lying end to end.
Anwealda made his way to the edge of the ring.
“Prepare yourselves,” he said, in a loud, ringing voice.
Beobrand raised his shield; readied his sword. His feet squelched in the mire. The ground was treacherous. This would be tricky.
Anwealda lifted his right hand.
“Remember, the first to strike seven blows is the victor.” Though hungry, the lord of the hall seemed more animated now; excited at the prospect of the entertainment. He held his hand up for a few heartbeats, clearly revelling in his role, then dropped it as he shouted, “Begin!”
Beobrand did not look to the lord. The people watching were mere shapes behind his foe. To lose concentration now would be to sacrifice victory. Looking over the rim of his shield, he fixed his gaze on Wulfgar’s feet. He would not be the first to strike. He would allow the West Seaxon to make the first move. Beobrand wished to see what skill he possessed.
The two circled each other warily. Beobrand felt the tightness in his left arm, the twinge of pain in his right leg as his foot slipped a little in the mud.
Perhaps perceiving the slip as a weakness, Wulfgar chose that moment to attack. With surprising speed, especially given the soft ground, he bounded forward, aiming a blow towards Beobrand’s midriff. Beobrand sidestepped easily, taking the blow on his shield and allowing Wulfgar to glide past. As he went, Beobrand cracked the wooden blade of his practice sword against Wulfgar’s left leg. He did not put his full force into the blow, but Wulfgar winced.
“The first blow is struck by Beobrand,” Anwealda said. Acennan, Garr and Athelstan’s gesithas let out a ragged cheer.
Beobrand grinned. It seemed this fight would not tax him as he’d thought it might.
Yet his gloating was short-lived. Wulfgar spun around to face him once more and instantly resumed his attack.
By the gods, he was quick. Beobrand shuffled backwards, soaking up the brunt of Wulfgar’s attacks on his shield. But the mud and his leg hampered his movement. He was retreating too slowly. Wulfgar pressed home a flurry of blows on the shield. Beobrand wished to continue to move backwards but he sensed the watching men behind him. There was nowhere to go. So he changed direction, punching his shield forward and to the left to parry Wulfgar’s sword, he lunged at his adversary’s legs again. But this time, Wulfgar was not off balance. He had anticipated the move and twisted away from the shield, smashing his blade hard into Beobrand’s outstretched sword arm.
The crowd gasped. It was a crippling blow, even with a wooden blade. Beobrand sprang away from Wulfgar, darting over to the other end of the area ringed off for them to fight. His arm was numb. It was all he could do to keep hold of his sword. He kept his eyes on Wulfgar. If he came on without pause again, Beobrand was unsure he would be able to do much more than defend himself with the shield.
“One blow apiece,” shouted Anwealda, over the cheer of the West Seaxon onlookers.
Wulfgar wiped small beads of sweat from his forehead with his arm.
“If this had been a real blade, you’d have lost your arm then, Beobrand,” he taunted.
It was true, Beobrand knew. His arm throbbed from the blow, but the feeling was returning and with it, movement. All he needed were a few more moments to get the blood flowing again. He swung his arm, willing his body to recover quickly.
“If we had used real blades, Wulfgar, you would have found it hard to attack with only one leg.”
Wulfgar frowned. The watchers laughed. This was a rare entertainment indeed.
Both wary now, they circled once more. Beobrand twisted and flexed his forearm. The feeling returned slowly. He would have a bruise to remind him of this fight for a few days. He was lucky the bone had held. It could easily have shattered under such force. Perhaps it was his wyrd to vanquish Wulfgar today after all. The crows had settled on the thatch once more, and now let out a series of raucous calls. Was Woden watching? Were the gods laughing at the men and their sticks? Beobrand wished he could reach for the Thunor’s hammer amulet that hung at his neck, but he dared not lower his guard.
He spat into the churned mud. Beobrand’s arm throbbed. He recalled another, deadlier fight in the mud of Engelmynster. He had goaded Hengist then. Anger needed to be harnessed in battle. Unbridled rage was seldom a companion of victory.
“Well, Wulfgar, are you going to show me what great sword-skill you have? Or would you rather I turned my back? And perhaps your friends could join you. That is how you prefer to fight, is it not? Attacking from behind when your foe is outnumbered?”
“I am no coward,” Wulfgar screamed, and launched himself at Beobrand.
Despite having hoped for the attack, Beobrand was once more shocked by Wulfgar’s speed. The West Seaxon’s oak blade passed a finger’s breadth over Beobrand’s head as he dropped to one knee, allowing his left foot to slide in the slimy muck. His right leg screamed in protest at the sudden jerking motion. Wincing against the pain, he thrust his practice blade forward and caught Wulfgar solidly in the stomach, bringing him up short, wheezing and coughing.
The audience whooped and cheered.
“To Beobrand a second blow,” shouted Anwealda.
Wulfgar, doubled over and clutching his middle, glowered at Beobrand. He was filled with rage now; that was something that Beobrand recognised all too well. But there was something else in the man’s eyes. It was there for only the most fleeting of moments, quickly replaced with the flint-hard stare of the warrior. Yet, for an instant, Beobrand was sure he had seen the uncertainty of one who has given his best and has been found wanting. He was skilled; strong and fast. And yet Beobrand was faster and they both knew now, as did the warriors watching, that Wulfgar was outmatched.
Beobrand heaved himself up from where he knelt in the muck. He nodded as Wulfgar straightened and hefted his shield and sword once more. He had spoken the truth, he was no coward. Beobrand felt a pang of guilt. He had humiliated Wulfgar once. He had no desire to do so again, in front of all these people. The thought of the fight had enticed him, but the flame of his battle lust had died; snuffed out the moment he had looked into Wulfgar’s eyes and realised he had no more need to prove himself.
But there was no way out of this now. Neither could cede victory without losing face. They began to circle again. Sweat trickled into Beobrand’s eyes, making them sting. He may have nothing to prove, but if he did not give his all, Wulfgar would make him pay. Of that he was certain. There was nothing for it, but to continue and hope he could beat him quickly.
Perhaps the gods tired of the spectacle. Mayhap they saw that the warrior’s hearts were no longer in the fight. But at that moment, a terrible scream echoed from the hall. Everyone turned to stare at the doors, as a young thrall girl ran into the yard. Her face seemed as grey as the sky above the roof, where the crows still perched, watching the proceedings with their unfeeling eyes.
The thrall looked about her, pale and trembling.
“What is it, girl?” asked Anwealda, stepping towards her. “What has happened?”
Sweat trickled a trail down Beobrand’s back. It felt like the cold finger of death.
“Gone,” the girl said, her voice as tremulous as her lower lip.
“Gone?”
“Taken,” she replied.
“What has been taken? Speak sense now, Gitta.” Anwealda’s voice had lost its air of self-assurance.
“Not wha
t. Who.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The queen. Cyneburg’s been taken.”
Chapter 16
“By all the gods, what has happened here?” Anwealda’s voice was barely a whisper. The sleeping chamber was dim. The thin morning light dribbled through the gap between the shutters on the window. The mass of bodies blocking the doorway impeded most of the light that could have filtered in from the main hall’s hearth and rush lights.
Beobrand, still holding the wooden sword and shield, forced his way through the throng and joined Anwealda at the entrance to the chamber. He could discern little in the room. There was a wooden bed, and a couple of smaller cots stood to one side. The room was deathly still. He sniffed. A familiar scent hit the back of his throat. Shit. This had been the ladies’ quarters. It was not the smell one associated with ladies and queens. Unless…
A groan. A shape he had assumed to be a pile of bedding moved. Anwealda rushed forward and bent beside the form.
“My dear,” he said, the words choked.
The shape moaned again.
“I cannot see,” Anwealda said, desperation in his voice. “I need light.”
Beobrand strode to the window and pushed open the shutters.
Watery light washed the room in grey.
Anwealda held his wife, the lady Osberga, in his arms. There was a splash of blood on her face. Her skin was pale. And someone had tied a strip of cloth around her mouth to prevent her making a noise. Her hands and feet were tied with strong strips of hide. Anwealda tugged and fretted at her bonds for a few moments. Beobrand dropped the shield and sword with a clatter and knelt beside them. Pulling his small eating knife from his belt, he sawed through the cords. Anwealda pulled the gag from her mouth.
Osberga’s eyes were dazed, unfocused. Anwealda smoothed her hair away from her face. It was sticky with blood.
“What happened here, my lady,” Beobrand asked, his gentle tone belying his pounding heart. Cyneburg, his queen, was gone. Taken. But by whom? And where?
Others crowded into the room behind him. Beobrand held up a hand to quieten them.
Slowly, Osberga’s eyes focused on Beobrand. He watched as understanding came to her. Her mouth opened and her eyes grew wide.
“What happened here,” he repeated. “You are safe now,” he added in the voice he used to calm anxious animals.
“They… they came in the night.”
“Who?”
“I do not know. They came quietly. Quickly. They knew what they wanted. They took her. Oh, by Frige, they took her, didn’t they?” She tried to sit, but moaned and fell back against her husband.
Beobrand struggled to make sense of this. They had been safe in Anwealda’s hall. How could this have happened?
“You recognised none of them?”
She shook her head briefly, but her face crumpled with pain and she stopped moving.
“No. We were abed. Sleeping. There were enough of them to overpower all of us. Before we could do much of anything, they had tied Gitta and me. I screamed then. For help. That is when one of them hit me.”
In the gloom of the room, the blood on her face and in her hair looked black. Beobrand found himself unable to look away from it. For an instant, he recalled the face of the woman at Nathair’s hall. She had flung herself at him and before he had known it, she had lain dead at his feet. Slain by his hand. He loathed men who would raise a hand to women. They were the worst kind of craven. Hengist. Wybert. His father. Was he really any different?
Pushing the dark thoughts from his mind, he forced himself to look into Osberga’s eyes.
“I will find these men and they will pay for what they have done.”
For a moment she stared into his eyes. He did not know what she saw there, but after a time, she gave the tiniest of nods, and reached out to touch his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
“You must bring back Cyneburg safely.” She looked past him at the crowd of faces gazing down at her. “Is he well? Did he raise the alarm?”
Beobrand frowned. The savage blow to the head had addled her thoughts. It was not uncommon for this type of wound. He hoped she would recover fully.
“She needs rest,” he said to Anwealda, who nodded. Beobrand made to stand. Osberga gripped his arm more firmly.
“My lady, there is no time to waste,” Beobrand said, trying to gently prise her claw-like fingers from his arm. “We need to ready the men to ride. We must hurry.”
She ignored his words, digging her fingers in.
“Is he well?” she repeated, urgency in her voice. “He fought like a bear to protect us.”
Cold dread gripped Beobrand.
“Who do you speak of?”
“The great warrior. I cannot recall his name. He came at my scream. He crashed into the chamber and lay about him with his fists. He downed one of the attackers with a punch. That was when I screamed for the second time. One of them must have hit me again. The next thing I remember is awakening now.”
Beobrand leapt to his feet and moved further into the chamber. There was an unmoving bundle of clothes between the bed and the cots. The stench of shit was stronger here. He stepped cautiously forward and reached out a hand. He was certain now of what he would find. The shape before him was gaining form and sense in his mind as he moved closer.
With the trembling fingers of his half-hand, he pulled at the blanket that covered the body, for that was clearly what it was. Tugging at the cloth he revealed an ashen face. The teeth, surrounded by a bristling beard, were bared in a vicious snarl of anger.
His heart sank. Athelstan had not missed the bout that morning through laziness.
By his side, Acennan gasped at the sight of the thegn’s unseeing eyes and death-pale face.
“By Woden, Thunor and Tiw, the bastards will pay for this.”
The pungent stench of death was overpowering now.
Beobrand turned to the gathered men.
“Queen Cyneburg is taken, and Athelstan died trying to save her.” Athelstan’s men let out a moan of grief.
Dreogan, one of Athelstan’s gesithas, a balding man, with a hard face made harsher by blackened lines on his cheeks where he had rubbed soot into cuts, stepped forward and said, “We should have stopped this. Or we should have died alongside our lord. Instead, we slept and played at fighting.” He fixed Beobrand with a bleak scowl.
Beobrand thought of his dreams of screams in the storm. He took a deep breath. The taste of death stung his throat.
“Athelstan was a great warrior. A strong lord and a true friend. I share your grief, Dreogan. And I also share the guilt you feel at not preventing his death. But he died protecting his queen. It is a good death. And we should not dwell on what has happened. We must move. We find the men who did this and we avenge Athelstan.” And salvage our pride, he thought.
Dreogan lowered his gaze.
Beobrand sought out Wulfgar amongst the watchers. “We must put our squabbles behind us and find Cyneburg.”
Wulfgar nodded.
“There is no time for games now,” the West Seaxon said. “Together we will seek out Cyneburg.” Neither Beobrand nor Wulfgar needed to mention what was at stake. Oswald of Northumbria’s queen was gone, taken by men clearly capable of murder. Wars had started over less.
“What of my sister?” Wulfgar said, suddenly.
Acennan quickly, frantically searched the rest of the chamber, throwing aside cloaks and blankets in case they hid another grisly secret.
“She is not here,” he said, an edge of panic in his voice.
Chapter 17
Beobrand sat astride his mount and waited for Wulfgar’s man to speak. The horses were lathered with sweat, blowing hard. This rest would do them good. They would have to slow the pace or risk killing the beasts. He hoped their quarries did not have replacement mounts. If they did, there would be little chance of running them to ground.
Bitter spots of rain began to fall as they waited while the dismount
ed warrior walked back and forth over the churned track. Beobrand looked up at the iron-grey sky. It didn’t look as if it would rain heavily. It would take a lot to wash away the tracks. The earth was soft and they were in pursuit of many riders.
How could it be taking the man so long to decide on which direction they had taken? Beobrand missed Attor. He had no equal in tracking and would have scarcely needed to dismount to track the queen’s captors at this crossing of two paths. Thinking of Attor brought thoughts of Rheagan. He prayed she was well. He smiled grimly. He could almost hear Bassus’ voice telling him not to fret about things he could not control. He knew the sense in those words, but he was ever unable to fully heed them.
As if he could also hear the voice from within his thoughts, Wulfgar said, “Do not fear. Hlisa is the best tracker I know. He will set us on the right path.”
Beobrand did not reply, but gave a curt nod. He had asked Wulfgar to ride at the head of the small column of warriors with him. The men seemed happy enough to follow with them both in the lead. He just hoped that if it came to a fight, and surely it would, Wulfgar would allow him to lead. There could be no division in a group hoping to win a pitched battle.
Wulfgar seemed calm, the only sign of tension the tightness of his jaw and a slight pinching around his eyes. His sister was missing too. Beobrand suddenly felt sorry for him. Where he had despised the man before that morning, he had now seen how he reacted in the face of an armed opponent and adversity. He was a brave man, proud and vain, but courageous and a skilled warrior. Beobrand took in Wulfgar’s rigid posture in the saddle, the warrior ring on his tensed arm. At his side hung a sword in a finely-decorated scabbard. Wulfgar peered towards the wooded horizon for any sign of the men who had taken Cyneburg and Eadgyth. Watching him, Beobrand was sure that they would regret their actions soon enough.
A few paces to Beobrand’s left, Acennan had dismounted. He paced back and forth, face like thunder, muttering under his breath. He too worried about Eadgyth and did not hide it as well as Wulfgar.
Beobrand nudged his mare towards his friend, out of earshot of Wulfgar and the others. The small horse tossed its head nervously at the rapid movements of the squat warrior.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 14