Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  She held it in her hand yet. Small, smooth and warm from her constant touch while she slept. The lady by the river had told her what to do. She traced its shape with her fingers in the dark. It was tiny. She marvelled at the skill to make such a thing. To construct such a delicate earthenware flask must be the work of a craftsman fit to serve a king. She felt where the opening at the top was stopped with wax. It was softening under her fingers, she must be careful not to warm it too much and break the seal.

  She had clutched it in her hands, hidden from view last night as Aart had told tales of the kingdom of Bernicia and beyond. There was trouble in the north. The Picts had taken Finola and her son from Bebbanburg and fled to Din Eidyn. Oswiu had the fortress under siege.

  “But what of our king?” asked Rowena. “Have you tidings of Oswald, and those who travel with him?” Women, men and children had stopped talking then. Their friends were with Oswald. Their husbands. Their fathers. They all listened intently to Aart’s reply.

  “Well, I am just come from Berewic, on the coast, and it was just yesterday that I heard tell from a sailor friend of mine, that Oswald King is on his way back to Bernicia. He may already be home.”

  “This is joyous news indeed,” Rowena had said, “the men will be returning to us soon.” Reaghan had wondered what it was to the lady. Her men were all dead. Then she had caught the gaze of Edlyn. Perhaps the girl thought the same thing. Her look was dark. There was no joy on her face. Reaghan had turned away, as Aart continued, preventing Edlyn from one of her spiteful outbursts.

  “They say that the king’s marriage to the princess of Wessex was a glorious occasion. The ladies wore the finest cloth of green, just like this.” He held up a bolt of dark green linen. “Would the lady Rowena be wanting some? It would make a wonderful dress for your beautiful daughter.”

  The evening had continued with the folk of Ubbanford asking for news. Sometimes the pedlar had quick answers that rang true, at other times he seemed to think a little too hard, and on those occasions, Reaghan noted, his stories always turned to the items he had for sale. There was no further news about Oswald or Beobrand, but it seemed there had been no trouble on the journey, so they were expected back in Bernicia very soon.

  As the night had drawn on, Reaghan had smiled to herself. She carried food and drink, serving the men without complaint. Frequently, her hand would go to the small weight in the pouch she wore at her waist. Her man would return to her soon.

  Not your man, said a small voice inside. Never your man. You are a thrall. Waelisc. You are nothing to him.

  But he had come for her when no other man would have, so she pushed the sour voice into the darkest reaches of her mind. Beobrand was coming home and she would ensure that she did not spoil things.

  Stepping quietly out into the overcast cool of the early morning light, she shivered.

  How had the woman by the river known of her predicament? She slid her hand over her smooth stomach. There was no sign.

  She had asked the woman, but she had merely smiled a crooked smile, made frightening by the scar and the missing teeth.

  “I did not come here seeking you, my dear Reaghan. It was you who came to this place seeking me.”

  Reaghan had not understood, but had not spoken.

  “And you have found me,” the woman had continued. Then, she had produced the small container and handed it to Reaghan.

  “You must find a place where you will not be disturbed and drink all of this potion.”

  “What will it do?”

  “You know what it will do. It will rid you of your burden.”

  Something in the woman’s eyes had frightened Reaghan and she asked, “Will it hurt?”

  “I will not lie to you, girl. It will hurt and you will likely cry out for a time. But if you do nothing, you will feel more pain. In the chill of winter, you would scream as if your innards were being ripped asunder. And then what? Do you think they would let you stay here? You are a thrall. Nothing to them.”

  Reaghan had shuddered. Pain she could handle, but she did not wish to be turned out with nowhere to go.

  “So why do you offer your help to me?” she had asked.

  Again, a smile twisted the woman’s face.

  “Womenfolk should always stick together. Men understand nothing. Just swords and killing. We sisters know about life.”

  Now, as she walked into the shadow of the trees down by the water’s edge, Reaghan wondered at the woman’s words. “We know about life,” she had said.

  Her fingers once more stroked the smooth shape of the tiny wax-sealed jar, as she sought a place where she would not be disturbed. Her burden would be gone soon, and Beobrand would return. All would be well then.

  *

  Beobrand missed Sceadugenga's easy gait as they rode hard into the west. The dappled mare was sure-footed enough; more than once it slipped on the mud-slick track they followed, but on each occasion it regained its footing quickly. But it lacked Sceadugenga’s confidence and the sense of control that Beobrand had when riding the black stallion was absent. There had been no setbacks apart from a brief disruption as they mounted. One of the horses had stepped on Renweard's foot. He had screamed like a child, before punching the beast squarely on the snout. Under other circumstances, the men would have laughed and teased him, but such was not the mood with them this day. They were wet, cold and tired, and above all else, they were grim and determined.

  Now well into Mercia, they did not wish to stay there any longer than necessary. They passed ceorls who stood dejectedly leaning on scythes, surrounded by swathes of wet barley. Beobrand wondered whether those men might tell their lords they had seen a warband riding west. Perhaps even now, Grimbold, or other thegns of Mercia were amassing their warriors to hunt down the horsemen riding through their lands. As the rain once more began to fall on the already waterlogged land before them, Beobrand told himself that more than likely there was nobody on their trail. Penda had sworn a truce with Oswald. And yet, he could not shake the feeling of being ever more surrounded by enemies. After all, the men who had taken Cyneburg and Eadgyth must surely be Mercians. Could they be acting without Penda's knowledge? Of course they could, but would it be worth the risk? And for what reason? The raid on Anwealda's hall had been daring and dangerous.

  This brought another question. One that he had pondered much, but with no answer. If Cyneburg had been their target, which seemed the only explanation, how had they known that the queen was there to be taken?

  Hlisa and Garr had been scouting ahead of the column of riders, now they both crested a small rise and rode towards Wulfgar and Beobrand. Beobrand held up his hand, indicating for the band to halt. Wulfgar produced a leather flask and took a swig, before offering it to Beobrand. He took the flask with a nod of thanks and swilled some of the tangy water around his sour-tasting mouth. He spat and took a longer draught. In spite of all the water around them, and the now constant, drenching rain, he was terribly thirsty and he welcomed the drink.

  Garr and Hlisa cantered up to them in a splash of mud and grimy water. Their horses were mud-splattered and sweat-lathered. Beobrand tossed the water flask to Hlisa. The tracker took a long pull on it and then handed it to Garr.

  "We are upon them," he said.

  "How far?" asked Wulfgar.

  “Not far. If we push on now, we will close with them before they reach the Afen.”

  "And the women?" Beobrand asked. Acennan had ridden close, and Beobrand knew what question he would want answering.

  "They are with them. Each is mounted. We must have been able to ride faster without the women to deal with."

  Acennan scowled.

  "How many men," he asked, his voice gravel-rough.

  Garr gave a sidelong look at Hlisa.

  “More than we reckoned,” he said, pausing to spit into the mud. “A score. Maybe a few more.”

  Wulfgar turned to Beobrand.

  “This will be a bloody fight. If we force them to stand, they will not
give ground.”

  “You speak true, Wulfgar. But you men of Wessex are brave of heart, are you not? We have not ridden through mud and rain to feast with the men we chase, have we?”

  Wulfgar showed his teeth in a savage grin.

  “No, we have not.”

  Beobrand stared up the rise. Dense forest crowded the path at either side. The foliage was thick with tangled brambles and hawthorn. No rider could penetrate that verdant wall.

  “How far to the river?” he asked.

  “Not far, lord,” replied Hlisa. “The forest follows down to the valley. There is a ford there, though with the rains the water will be high.”

  “And beyond the Afen?”

  For a moment, it seemed Hlisa would not respond. He stared into the distance, perhaps imagining the land in his mind. Eventually he said, “The land opens into water meadows, and beyond that more wooded hills. But the woods are not so thick there. There are many paths. If they reach those woods, they can lose us.”

  Beobrand gave it a moment’s thought. They had ridden too far to let them escape now.

  “We should ride them down, before they cross the Afen.”

  Acennan’s mount circled and he drew his sword.

  “What are we waiting for?” he asked. “There are some Mercians who need killing and we will not do that here.”

  Dreogan came forward. His legs trailed long on the small roan he rode. The dark scar marks on his face gave him a frightening aspect. This was enhanced by splatters of mud that could have been dried blood.

  “Are my lord Athelstan’s slayers near?” he asked.

  “Aye,” said Acennan, struggling to control his mount that sensed its rider’s excitement. “And we stand here talking when we could be riding. And killing.”

  “Dreogan and Acennan speak true,” said Beobrand. “We must ride now. To tarry, will see us lose our prey.”

  “Wait,” said Wulfgar in a strong voice. “We know they outnumber us. To ride at them without a plan is madness.”

  Beobrand’s heart sank. A divide in the leadership of the warband was what he had feared. Such a division would drive a wedge into the men’s resolve.

  “Wulfgar, a word,” Beobrand said, his tone broaching no argument. He beckoned to the West Seaxon thegn and they rode a few paces from the gathered warriors, where their words could not be overheard.

  “We are a long way from a safe hall,” Beobrand said. “The Mercians are close and outnumber us, but we must act with speed. If we stop to argue this point, we will lose the womenfolk. At worst, we all perish. We must be united, Wulfgar.”

  “Perhaps we could follow them further, and then send men into their camp at night to rescue the women.”

  “And what if they stop in a hall in these lands? We are lucky they have not done so already. Woden alone knows where they are heading.”

  Wulfgar’s jaw clenched. He was angry at the rebuke, or perhaps angry at himself, as he knew Beobrand’s words to be true.

  “And if we did take the women?” spat Beobrand, anger entering his voice. They were wasting precious moments. “Then what? We ride back through Mercia? Exhausted men on exhausted horses?”

  Wulfgar seized on this.

  “Whatever path we choose, how do we mean to escape Mercia?”

  Beobrand glowered at the bearded thegn, his eyes the cold blue of winter ice.

  “It will not prove so difficult if we slaughter all those who know we are here. We can afford to spend no more time talking about this, man. We must ride now.”

  “But—” Wulfgar began to form a retort, but his words dried in his throat.

  The decision had been taken from them.

  Over the knap of the hill, bedecked in the gear of war, spears waving, wet shield bosses gleaming dully in the rain, rode more than a score of warriors.

  Beobrand grinned.

  The time for talking was over.

  *

  Reaghan sat for a long while in the still of early morning with nothing for company but the occasional splash from unseen denizens of the river and the dawn song of the birds. She would like to have seen the heron, as it reminded her of Beobrand, but she had not gone westward along the Tuidi towards the great bird’s usual haunt. She had headed downriver, towards a small shingle beach, where she knew she would not be troubled. The cunning woman had been at the heron’s spot, and something made her turn away from that direction. A tremor of fear ran down her spine. She needed to steel herself to the task in hand. The woman had said it would hurt, but the alternative was much worse, she had been right about that.

  Reaghan watched the mist curl over the sluggish waters of the river. A muted splish-slap sound made her turn her head, and she thought she saw a flash of silver before the ripples showed where a fish had leapt. The sun did not yet reach the edge of the river where she sat. The beach was in the shadow of the hills and the air was unmoving, and cold. Reaghan shivered and looked away from the water to the small flask in her hand.

  All she had to do was break the wax seal and drink the contents. There would be some pain, and then all would be well again.

  The echoes of distant barking tugged at her attention. If she was going to do this, she needed to get on with it. Ubbanford was waking. In her left hand she clutched the small sack that was full of scraps of wool. She was unsure how much blood there would be. Her stomach was still flat. Surely there could not be much. Perhaps nothing more than a normal monthly bleeding. But what of the baby? What would it be like? She hoped she would not look upon it. She would wrap up whatever came and throw it in the river. Or bury it.

  Please, Danu protect me and take the sacrifice of my blood.

  Another shudder racked her frame. It was cool here in the shadow-gloom by the water. Yet that was not why she shivered.

  She placed the sack on the ground beside her and took a deep breath. She was surprised at how much she was trembling. She must do this now. It would get no easier if she waited.

  Without more hesitation, she clasped the edge of the wax that stoppered the clay jar and pulled the layer back. Her hands shook. Careful not to spill the contents, she raised it to her face. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of the flask. Acrid and bitter. There could be no doubt that the potion would taste foul. Danu only knew what was in the concoction.

  She lowered the flask for a moment and took another tremulous breath.

  It was not meant to taste good. It had but one purpose. To rid her of the burden she bore, that she could continue with her life in Ubbanford. Perhaps the Earth Mother would look over her. Mayhap the goddess had guided the cunning woman to her. Perhaps she had brought Beobrand to her too.

  She closed her eyes, and raised the noxious brew. The smell burnt her nostrils and made her gag as the clay pot touched her lips.

  Chapter 20

  The Mercians reined in when they saw the horsemen gathered just beyond the brow of the hill. Not much more than a spear’s-throw distant, Beobrand could see the mud and sweat on their mounts. The sodden cloaks. The weary dark circles around the eyes of men who had ridden long and hard. He recognised the look; the Northumbrians and West Seaxons around him bore the same signs of fatigue.

  The leader of the band, a large man in a warrior coat of leather, was quick to assess the situation. Before Beobrand or Wulfgar could react, he had raised his hand and shouted over his shoulder. Despite their evident tiredness, the men riding behind him turned their steeds in a well-trained manoeuvre and galloped back the way they had come, quickly disappearing over the hill. The leader kicked his own horse into motion, tugging its head to the side. The beast sprang forward, throwing up clods of mud as it galloped in the wake of the last two riders of the band. They had been slower to react to the change in direction than the rest of the men, and then Beobrand understood why. The last two riders, who were now closely followed by the leader of the Mercian warband, were not warriors. They were Eadgyth and Cyneburg.

  Beobrand sat straight upon his mount and raised his voice, so that all would
hear.

  “The gods have smiled upon us. Behold the men we seek. They have Cyneburg and Eadgyth. The Queen of Northumbria and her gemæcce. Both daughters of Wessex. Will we turn away now because they number more than us?”

  “No!” roared Acennan. The other warriors echoed his cry a heartbeat later.

  Beobrand nodded. The way a smith can sense the correct moment to strike a blade on the anvil, he sensed the resolve of the men hardening. Their will would be what would bring them victory. Or defeat. He could show no doubt. Certainty and belief won battles.

  “Many of us have faced worse odds than these and we have prevailed. We will prevail once more. Those men have stolen our womenfolk and slain one of our brothers. They cannot go unpunished.”

  His horse, sensing the urgency in its rider, shook its head and made to break into a gallop. He yanked its reins and it turned a tight circle. He turned his gaze to Wulfgar.

  “There is no time for plans. We must close with them now. We will face them in the shieldwall, and kill them.”

  The men roared their approval. They too, it seemed, wished to be unleashed to punish the Mercians.

  “And then?” asked Wulfgar, in a voice meant only for Beobrand. “How will we flee Mercia with our lives?”

  It was a good question, but Beobrand remembered the words of older, wiser warriors. There was nothing to be gained in worrying about the past. Or the future.

  “One problem at a time, Wulfgar,” said Beobrand with a grin. “First we fight. And, as I said, if we slay them all, there will be none left to hinder us.”

  He pulled Hrunting from its scabbard and flourished the blade above his head. It caught the dull sunlight, flashing in the drizzle.

  “Come, men,” he shouted. “We ride to save our women and to avenge our friend.”