Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  “Save your strength, Acennan,” Beobrand said in a soft voice. “When we find the bastards who took them, you’ll have need for it.”

  Acennan strode to his own mount where it stood, reins trailing, cropping at the rain-soaked grass beside the track. He snatched up the reins, causing the horse to snort, then swung himself onto its back in one easy motion.

  “Never mind me,” he said. “I’ll have strength to spare to split the skulls of the vermin who have done this.”

  Hlisa had reached a decision and remounted, spurring his horse over to Wulfgar. Beobrand rode back to where the two conversed, brushing away the annoyance that the tracker had not thought to wait until they were both able to hear his news. He was Wulfgar’s man, not his.

  “Hlisa is certain,” said Wulfgar, as Beobrand approached, “they rode that way.” He signalled the path that struck off between forested hills into the west and north.

  “There can be no mistake?” asked Beobrand.

  “None, lord,” Hlisa replied. “There are several of them. It is hard to say the number with certainty, but I would say about ten. All mounted. Riding hard.”

  “Any extra horses?”

  “From the depth of the tracks, I’d say not. Perhaps a brace of them, but not one per rider.”

  “Well that’s something, at least. Let us pray that some will go lame.” Beobrand stared along the track until it disappeared between the trees. “This is your land, Wulfgar,” Beobrand continued. “Where are they taking them?”

  Wulfgar scratched at his beard absently.

  “Yes, I know this area well. We would often come here to visit Uncle Anwealda. We hunted these forests, and he would entertain other lords from Wessex and beyond.”

  “Beyond?”

  “Yes. For we are in the borderlands of Wessex here. Oftentimes there would be skirmishes with the neighbours. At other times, there was peace. Anwealda was always keen to make peace. Good for trade, he would say.” Wulfgar shook his head, as if to clear it of memories. “I know this land well, but I have little enough knowledge of what lies over those hills.”

  “But you think you know why they have taken Cyneburg? Where they are taking her?” He saw the sharp look from both Wulfgar and Acennan and corrected himself. “You know where they are taking them?”

  “I can think of no reason other than to cause war. We must ride hard and we must catch them before they reach their destination, wherever that may be.”

  “We are agreed, let us tarry no longer,” shouted Acennan. And then he asked the question, the answer of which Beobrand had already gleaned from Wulfgar’s words and his own rudimentary understanding of the isle of Albion and its kingdoms.

  “But where are they taking them?”

  Wulfgar dug in his heels and his mount bounded forward, throwing up gobbets of mud and water.

  “Come, men,” shouted Beobrand, not waiting for Wulfgar to respond to Acennan, “we ride with all haste. For they are taking the ladies to Mercia. To Penda.”

  *

  Reaghan stood unmoving; quiet and as still as the great bird she watched. It was so tranquil here, with the wide waters of the Tuidi sliding silently past. She knew why Beobrand came to this spot. It was a good place to think. Not that she had matters of such import to ponder. She would not need to pass judgement over farmers who could not decide on their boundary stones, or whether a ceorl’s tribute of cheese or grain was enough. Even so, her mind was full of thoughts, each vying for her attention like squabbling children.

  She touched her belly under her peplos. Flat and slender. But that might change all too soon.

  On the breeze, she heard the sound of voices from Ubbanford. At the distant noise, the snake-necked heron on the far bank shifted its position, tilting its head slightly, as if trying to understand words in the voices.

  Reaghan was glad not to be able to hear any words. They would surely be ordering her to rush to some chore or another. She had crept away after finishing the milking. She had taken the bucket of warm goat’s milk to the dairy, but Rowena had not been there as she had expected. So, without pausing to contemplate her actions, Reaghan had left the pail in the shade of the hut and made her way westward along the river bank.

  Seeing the heron reminded her of Beobrand. He talked about the bird as if it were an old friend. She missed him. Her hand went again to her belly, nervously, like a butterfly unsure whether to settle.

  Rowena would have her beaten when she returned to the settlement. Since Beobrand had left, Reaghan had been beaten more frequently than ever before. The only one who was kind to her was Maida. She would invite Reaghan in to sit with her while she spun or weaved. The chatter and play of the children reminded her of a distant childhood where the children spoke in a different tongue. Where she was loved. At these times she would recall her father’s strength as he lifted her in his arms after a day harvesting hay. The scent of freshly-cut grass would envelope her along with his warm embrace.

  She was glad of Maida’s kindness. And yet she secretly believed that Beobrand had ordered Elmer’s wife to spend time with her. To watch over her. The thought of him caring enough for her to do such a thing troubled her. What did this mean? She was merely a thrall. Beobrand was a lord. There could be no more than that. But what if her fears were proven true?

  She could run away. The idea came, as it always did, with a sense of dread. Memories of her family and the attack that had seen them slain all those years ago.

  Where would she go? She had nothing to offer, save that which she did not wish to give to strangers. Better to stay here. The beatings would cease when Beobrand returned. He would not allow them to continue. And, despite the looks from some of the warriors as she served in the hall, none had dared touch her. Not while Beobrand was their lord. They knew she was his, and none was foolhardy enough to cross him.

  The heron suddenly twitched, bringing Reaghan back to the present, to the shadowed bank of the river. A moment later, the bird spread its huge wings and flapped away downriver. She watched as it rose into the sky, grey against the grey. The summer was reaching an end. It was yet warm, but soon winter would be upon them. Beobrand had been away for so long.

  A voice from behind her startled Reaghan.

  “Well, girl, are you in some sort of trouble?”

  Reaghan spun around.

  A woman in a flowing green dress stepped from amongst the alder and willows that lined the river. Her hair was long and black as a raven’s claw, although there were streaks of white at the temples. She walked with animal grace, hips swaying. Slender limbs and soft curves. She would have been beautiful, but for the hideously puckered scar that ran from her mouth up her left cheek.

  The woman smiled broadly. A dark gap where two of her teeth were missing made Reaghan reconsider. Perhaps she had once been beautiful, but no longer. But there was something alluring about her all the same. Reaghan could not take her eyes from the woman. Like watching Thunor’s hammer-flash of lightning in a storm cloud, or the searing flames of a bone-fire.

  Reaghan took a step backward, as the stranger walked towards her. The river lay behind; cold and deep. Nowhere to go.

  “Do not be afraid, child,” the woman said, her voice soft as rain on leaves.

  “I’m not afraid,” Reaghan replied, and hoped the woman could not hear the lie in the words.

  The woman threw back her head and let out a laugh. It sounded as harsh as a jackdaw’s call. Reaghan tried not to shudder. Without noticing, her hand had returned to her middle.

  “Oh, but you are frightened, my dear. But you don’t need to be.”

  “What do you know of me and my fears?” asked Reaghan, suddenly defiant.

  “I know many things, child. I know things you could never comprehend. I have travelled the land, walking in the company of gods and spirits. Your fears are as clear to me as if you had told them to me yourself.”

  The woman’s talk of gods and spirits sent a shiver of ice down Reaghan’s back.

  “Wh
o are you?”

  “My name is of no consequence. Just know that I can help you.”

  “Help me with what?”

  The woman smiled slyly and took a quick step forward. Reaghan wanted to flee, but the river was at her back. The woman grasped her wrist with a painful grip. Reaghan stifled a scream.

  The woman slid her other hand slowly over the course cloth of Reaghan’s peplos. She ran her hand softly down her smooth stomach. There her hand lingered. Reaghan wanted to snatch it away, but instead she stared into the eyes of the woman. They were hazel, flecked with gold and madness.

  “Help me with what?” Reaghan repeated in the tiniest of voices.

  “What pretty unwed girls always need help with, Reaghan.” Reaghan jolted. How had she known her name? “Do I need to say the words, Reaghan? Do I need to speak of the evil thing you are thinking of doing?”

  Reaghan shook her head slowly, as if dazed from a blow to the head.

  “No.”

  “Good,” the woman’s hand began to massage Reaghan’s belly gently, softly, “then let me help you free you of your burden.”

  Chapter 18

  The sun was low in the sky. It had been hidden all day behind the dark clouds, but now, as night drew close, it shone bright and glaring from under the band of darkness. The clouds had spat rain at times as they had ridden west, but nothing to rival the storm of the night before. But the dark sky and laden clouds spoke of further downpours to come.

  Beobrand squinted as the dying light of the sun reflected from the puddles and pools of the path they followed. Far in the distance wound a river of molten gold. Against the glare of the sunset, they could not make out the men they pursued, but they could not be too far away. Hlisa had dismounted several times during the afternoon and swore the tracks they followed were getting fresher. They were gaining on their quarry.

  Wulfgar reined in next to Beobrand.

  “We must make camp, even if just for a short while.”

  Beobrand turned to him and nodded. They were all exhausted. His arm ached where Wulfgar’s wooden blade had struck.

  Acennan yanked savagely at his mount’s reins, jerking its head round so that he faced Beobrand and Wulfgar.

  “We should keep riding. If we halt now, we might lose them.”

  Beobrand saw the desperation in Acennan’s eyes. He could feel it pulling at his own will. This was the curse of leadership. He could not show his fears.

  “No, Acennan. Wulfgar speaks true. If we ride into the night, we risk the horses. Or losing the trail. The men we follow will need to rest too. Have the men make camp there, in that copse. We will ride before dawn.”

  Acennan glowered at him for a moment, before wheeling his horse around and shouting at the warriors. They rode towards a stand of oak and ash, leaving Wulfgar and Beobrand alone.

  “Where do you think they are headed?” Beobrand asked.

  Wulfgar scratched his beard, hawked and spat into the nettles at the side of the muddy path.

  “I cannot tell. But whatever mischief they plan must be in Mercia.”

  “Do you know where we are?”

  “My knowledge of these lands is not deep, but I have ridden here before. That river yonder is the Afen. We are near Grimbold’s hall.”

  Grimbold. Why was the name familiar?

  “I have heard the name, but cannot recall where. Is he a great thegn?”

  “They say he is a good lord. I have met him a couple of times at Anwealda’s hall. But I would have thought you would have remembered who he is. Word of the events of kings travels quickly.”

  Beobrand stared at him, frowning. What was he speaking of?

  “Your wyrd is woven with Grimbold’s. Or at least with one of Grimbold’s gesithas.”

  Then, as sudden and as bright as the flaring sunlight had burst from the black clouds in the west, it came to him.

  “Wybert,” he said, his voice brittle and hard.

  “Aye, Grimbold is Wybert’s lord.”

  “I have sworn a bloodfeud with Wybert.” His hand went to the hilt of Hrunting. His fingers tightened around the sword. He could ride now to this Grimbold’s hall. The others could surely find Cyneburg; bring back the queen. The thought of vengeance almost overcame him. His mouth was suddenly dry. He licked his lips.

  “I know, Beobrand,” Wulfgar’s voice was unusually soft. “I have heard what he did to you.” He swallowed. “To your wife.” Beobrand’s jaw clenched, he did not meet Wulfgar’s gaze. “There is no man who would not wish to seek the blood price for what Wybert did. But I fear your moment for revenge is not close.”

  Beobrand looked at him sharply.

  “You said Grimbold’s hall lies nearby.”

  “I did. But Wybert is not there.”

  “Where is he then? I will kill him. Tell me where he is, that I may search for him once we are through with this.”

  Beobrand could sense Wulfgar looking at him for a long while.

  “I would not wish to be Wybert,” Wulfgar said at last. “But I know not where he is now. All I have heard are rumours. The murmurings of visiting travellers.”

  “And what is it that you’ve heard?” asked Beobrand.

  “That after he had recovered from his wounds at Dor, he rode south.”

  “South? Where?”

  “I cannot say, but there are those who said he was bound for the coast. And then on to Frankia.”

  Frankia? What lay there? Was he fleeing Beobrand’s wrath?

  “If he thinks that putting a sea between us will protect him,” Beobrand said, “I will prove him mistaken.”

  Wulfgar nodded.

  “I hope the gods smile upon you in your quest,” he said and spurred his horse towards where the others were making camp.

  Beobrand tightened his grip on Hrunting until his hand ached. He sat thus, tense and angry astride the dappled mare, staring into the setting sun until his eyes began to water.

  *

  Heavy rain fell in the night. The ash and oak trees offered little protection so they spent a sad and wet time of it. They had few provisions and did not light a fire, making do with stale bread and some scraps of cold meat; leftovers from Anwealda’s table. Beobrand set guards and ordered the men to get some rest. Taking his own advice, he had wrapped himself in his damp cloak, propped his back against the bole of a large oak, and sought sleep. Despite his discomfort, he fell into a light doze almost at once. His dreams were filled with thunder and the screams of innocents. When he awoke with a start, the only thing he could recall from his slumber were eyes. Staring. Imploring. The eyes of Cathryn, as she lay on the cold earth.

  It was still dark and the rain had eased. Acennan was shaking him.

  “It will be dawn soon,” Acennan whispered. His face was a pale smudge in the gloom.

  Beobrand grunted, and held out his hand to be pulled to his feet. Acennan’s tension was palpable.

  Beobrand stretched, wincing at the number of aches he felt. His rib and leg both throbbed dully. His left arm was stiff and his right hurt from the bruises Wulfgar had inflicted on him. The practice bout had only been the previous morning, but it seemed so far away. He stamped his feet and swung his arms to get the blood flowing.

  He stepped out of the cover of the trees, the big toe of his right foot giving a twinge. The sky in the west was still dark, but there was a dim glow in the east.

  “Wake the men,” he said to Acennan, slapping him on the back. “We ride, my friend, and we shall make them pay for what they have done. Athelstan’s death shall be avenged.”

  Acennan hesitated.

  “What if…?” Acennan’s voice trailed off. He could not say the words.

  He did not need to.

  Beobrand again thought of Cathryn’s eyes.

  He gripped Acennan’s shoulders roughly.

  “Do not think those thoughts. We will face those who have done this and we will make them pay for what they have done.” But what had they done to Cyneburg and Eadgyth?

&nbs
p; “Do not fear for the womenfolk,” Beobrand said. “Now rouse the men. We will ride hard again today and should the gods will it, we will run them to ground.”

  Acennan nodded and stalked into the gloom under the trees. Sounds of men rising and gathering their belongings came to Beobrand.

  Somewhere, in the darkness, a night creature shrieked, making him shudder.

  He was almost certain that Cyneburg would be safe. Surely they had taken the queen for something more than to be the plaything for some warriors’ lust. She was too important, the risks far too great. But what of Eadgyth? She was of no importance in the game of tafl played by kings. And she was a beauty.

  Beobrand hurried back into the copse and helped Acennan get the men up and mounted. There was no time to lose.

  Chapter 19

  There was scarcely light in the sky when Reaghan awoke. She felt refreshed. The fears that had been troubling her had fled, like bad dreams or the spirits of the dead borne on smoke from a funeral pyre.

  Rowena had not beaten her in the end. Reaghan had returned to find the lady of the hall fussing over some new cloth that Aart, the pedlar had brought to Ubbanford. All of the women were flocking around the man, a stunted creature who looked as old as the hills themselves. He had a small handcart and he visited two or three times a year with his brutish companion. The big man who accompanied him never spoke, but his eyes were always vigilant. The man’s size alone would be enough to deter most brigands from attempting to rob Aart, but if that were not sufficient, the hefty axe he carried was extremely persuasive.

  A visit from Aart was always cause for celebration. He brought trinkets and fine thread; spices and herbs from faraway lands. His eyes would twinkle as he told of the places his wares came from, and Reaghan always wondered how much of it he made up. She was not interested in hearing his tales of distant lands, but, like all the other inhabitants of Ubbanford, she was hungry for news. She had remained at the back of the hall while the Angelfolc questioned him. She had not been keen on attracting attention to herself. Rowena might remember that she had disappeared before her chores were complete, and Aart and his massive friend always let their gaze linger on her. Nothing had ever come of their leering, but Beobrand was not here to protect her. It was best to be prudent. Besides, she did not wish them to discover her secret. She had not used it yet.