With that, and trusting that the men would follow, he dug his heels into the mare’s flanks, and galloped in pursuit of the Mercians.
*
“What are you doing, girl?” The screeching anxiety in the voice made Reaghan’s heart flutter. She quickly pulled the flask from her lips, spilling some of the precious liquid. Viscous and baneful, the honey-hued liquor dribbled down her chin. Guiltily, Reaghan wiped at her face with the back of her hand. She had thought she was alone.
Odelyna, brow furrowed under her wispy grey hair, crunched onto the pebbles of the beach. She bustled forward and held out her hand.
Reaghan began to move the clay pot behind her, but Odelyna snapped, “No use in pretending there is nothing there, girl. I may be old, but I am not blind and I am certainly not stupid. Now, give it to me.”
Hesitantly, Reaghan offered the small receptacle. A bead of its contents adorned the rim where the wax had been broken. It glittered like amber. Odelyna took it from her and began to inspect the pot.
Reaghan watched in dismay. How could this be happening? She had been so careful. If only she had not tarried. If she had already drunk the brew, it would now be doing its work and nothing this old crone could do would stop it. She would have been rid of her troubles and nobody would have needed to know of her secret. Now everything was in ruins.
For an instant, Reaghan wondered if she could overpower Odelyna. Her hands tightened around a large smooth pebble. She could leap up and surely the pebble would be enough to do for the old woman. But then what? If she had troubles now, how much worse would they be if she killed one of the villagers? She would be slain for sure. She was a slave; unable to pay weregild. She swallowed back the madness that had consumed her for a heartbeat. Her fingers relaxed, letting the stone clatter back to the beach.
The sound seemed to remind Odelyna that she was not alone. She had been sniffing the pot, all the while frowning. Now, she turned her attention back to Reaghan.
“Where did you get this?” she asked.
Reaghan did not answer. Her life was in tatters now. There was nothing to say.
“Where,” repeated Odelyna, “did you get this?”
Reaghan remained sullen and silent, but could not meet the older woman’s stern gaze.
“You are a foolish girl, Reaghan. I thought you cared for our lord. We all know you have been warming his bed. Is he not kind to you, that you should think to do this? Does he deserve to be treated thus?”
Reaghan looked up at Odelyna sharply.
“He is not unkind,” she said in a small voice. She felt her cheeks grow hot. “I could see no way out of this.”
“Out of what?”
Reaghan did not reply. She pulled her knees in close to her chest and buried her face in her skirts. She would not cry, but she did not wish to see this woman’s face. The judgement in her scowl. Her loathing. Or worse: her pity.
The shingle grumbled and crunched as Odelyna sat down beside her. The old woman let out a sigh that was full of sadness, not hatred.
Reaghan flinched as Odelyna placed her arm around her shoulders.
“The ways between man and woman are never simple,” Odelyna said. “When the man is a lord and the woman a thrall, matters are worse. But it need not end like this. He is a man like any other, with his needs. But he is not a bad man. If having to lay with him is causing you so much distress, I will speak with him. I must say I am surprised though. I thought you had been happier than I’d seen you for a long time. Happier than ever really. I was saying so to Maida just the other day, that you seemed content with your lot, and Beobrand had found solace with you following the tragedy of Sunniva. I think if I had not stopped you, it may well have undone him when he returns.”
Something in Odelyna’s words confused Reaghan.
Lifting her head from her knees, she asked, “What do you mean?”
Odelyna frowned at the question, clearly trying to understand what she was being asked.
“Well, for the lord to return to find you dead, so soon after the death of his wife, I think it might have done for him.”
“Dead?” Her voice came out as a squeak.
“You’d have been dead sooner than it takes to skin a hare. And it wouldn’t have been pleasant, I can tell you.”
“Dead?” Reaghan repeated, sounding stupid to her own ears.
“Well, what did you think would happen when you drank that? It is made from ðung, a plant as deadly as any blade.”
“She said it would relieve me of my burden.”
“Who did? What burden?” Odelyna’s tone was sharp.
Reaghan’s eyes brimmed with tears now.
“This one.” She placed her hand on her belly. “In here.”
Understanding dawned on Odelyna’s face.
“Well this ðung would have got rid of that burden for sure. And any other burdens you carried. You’d have never seen another sunrise.”
“But she said…”
“Whoever she is, she lied to you. But do not fear now, Reaghan, you foolish child.” She gave the thrall a squeeze with her meaty arm. “If the only problem you have is an unwanted babe, why didn’t you come to old Odelyna? I can help you be rid of it. There now, child. Do not fret.”
Perhaps her life was not ruined after all. Could it be that she would be able to stay in Ubbanford? That all would be well again?
She shook, like an animal that has been held in a trap for a long while.
Without thinking, she leaned into Odelyna’s ample breast and allowed the tears to flow.
*
The path was churned and slick. The passing of many horses and the constant rain had made parts of the track a quagmire. Beobrand clung to his mare’s reins and gripped the horse’s flanks with his legs as the beast, seeming to feel its rider’s eagerness, galloped with abandon down the hill. The horse skittered and slipped, but despite the danger of falling, Beobrand let out a bark of laughter. A calmness had come upon him and he recognised the joy of imminent battle replacing the fears and worries of uncertainty and the unknown. Gone were the questions of what they should do, of how they would escape Mercia, and why the womenfolk had been taken. Their foes were within sight. The Mercians had slain one of their own and stolen those they were oath-bound to protect. There was no doubt now. Their enemies must perish.
The cloud-laden sky and the shade from the forest that loomed on either side, made the path a gloom-filled tunnel. A tunnel filled with the thunder of horses, the rattle and clank of battle-harness and the shouts and cries of warriors, thirsty for vengeance and battle-fame.
Beobrand sensed the rest of the men crowding behind him, all riding recklessly down the hill in pursuit of the Mercians. The bellowing war-cry of Dreogan rose above the clamour of the charge.
“Athelstan!” he screamed, and Athelstan’s retainers took up the call.
They may be outnumbered, but Beobrand was sure of these men. He had stood with all of the Northumbrians at Hefenfelth. They would not be frightened of a handful of Mercians. He was less confident of the Wessexmen, but that would have to be Wulfgar’s worry.
Ahead of them, the Mercians pulled up their steeds in an abrupt halt. In the darkness of the shadowed path it was difficult to make out what was happening, but then, it struck him. The Mercians had come upon them at the brow of the slope because they had been riding back the way they had already travelled. And there could only be one simple reason for that: they could not go forward. Something had blocked their path. So now, with their pursuers snapping at their heels, and unable to continue along the trail, they had dismounted and were quickly forming a shieldwall.
For a heartbeat Beobrand thundered forward, the battle-joy sang to him. Here was glory to be sung of in the mead halls of kings. He would smash through their ranks. He had broken a small shieldwall before. Then he had charged his mount into the tiny group of warriors who faced them. But there had only been four men standing in that wall, and they had been caught by surprise. In the dim light of t
he tree-shadows, Beobrand discerned the wicked flicker of steel. The shieldwall had formed quickly. The men they faced were well-trained. When they arrived at the Mercians’ line, they would be riding into a thicket of metal-tipped spears. Outnumbered by battle-ready warriors who stood prepared with spears set and shields raised, only one thing awaited a rider galloping at that shieldwall.
Death.
Battle-fame would be better enjoyed by the living.
Beobrand held Hrunting high and bellowed in a voice that he hoped would be heard over the thunder of the hooves.
“Halt! Halt!”
He dared not yank his mount’s reins hard, for fear of the men behind him not slowing quickly enough to avoid a collision. Instead he waited a moment, screaming again for the men to halt their charge, then pulled gently on the reins, checking the mare’s gallop. Cantering now, he could see that in a matter of moments he would be upon the shieldwall of Mercians.
“Halt!” he roared again, and then, with no alternative, he tugged hard on his reins. The mare dug her hooves into the slimy muck of the road, ripping deep channels in the mud. He heard commotion behind, but was too intent on keeping himself in the saddle and watching the warriors before them to look over his shoulder.
A horse whinnied and a man yelled.
Beobrand’s mount finally came to a stop. He risked a glance behind. The men following him must have heard his cries or understood what awaited them on the path, for they were slowing their mounts. One of the West Seaxons stood some distance away. He was plastered in mud, evidently having been thrown from his horse. Beobrand spotted the animal cantering riderless towards him. He leapt from the mare’s back without thinking of his leg until he hit the ground. It reminded him quickly enough that it was not yet fully healed with a silent scream of pain, but it held him upright. Without pause, he took three quick strides and snagged the reins of the frightened horse. Beobrand braced himself to be dragged forward by the animal, but it was happy enough for him to take charge and stood, quivering, eyes rolling.
Around them, the men were reining in. The gods must have been smiling on them, for none of the other riders had fallen foul of the thrown man. And the unseated warrior appeared uninjured. He walked towards the gathered men, a sheepish grin on his mud-splattered face.
“You have the luck of a fox, Eldrid,” cried Wulfgar. His cheeks were flushed. The gallop or the prospect of battle appeared to have kindled a spark of excitement within him.
Eldrid trudged through the mire left by the passing of so many horses. Mud caked his shoes and leg bindings, making his feet appear huge.
Beobrand took hold of his mare’s reins and called to Garr, who was dismounting close by.
“Garr, you and Eldrid, secure the horses. Tie them to the trees. The rest of you,” he raised his voice, “form a shieldwall.”
He did not wait to see if his orders were obeyed. He turned his attention back to the Mercians. They were close enough to make out their faces. They wore byrnies and polished war-helms. Their shields bore bright painted sigils and patterns. These were no brigands.
Behind them, the path appeared to open out into a plain. But now, from this new vantage point, Beobrand saw why their quarry had not ridden on. The open area beyond the tree-tunnel of the road caught the light from the sun. The rain had stopped now, but its constant barrage over the last day had done its work and helped force the Mercians to stand and fight. For, what should have been open meadows running down to a ford of the Afen, was instead a lake. The rains had raised the water level and the river had burst its banks. The usually passable ford had become a wide stretch of lapping brown water that would require a boat to traverse.
The Mercians were trapped.
Beobrand grinned. They would push them down to the water’s edge and kill them all. But a trapped animal was dangerous indeed.
As he watched, the enemy shieldwall parted and one of their number ran forward a few paces. At the end of his run, he let fly a short spear. It was a long distance for a spear throw, but Beobrand had seen Garr throw further.
For a heartbeat, he watched as the javelin flew high, narrowly missing overhanging branches and leaves, and then arced down towards its target. Incredibly, it was going to fall behind the shieldwall that was forming around Acennan and Dreogan.
Beobrand let out an incoherent cry of warning, unable to form words in the moment he realised what would happen.
Perhaps hearing the shout from Beobrand, Eldrid spun round from where he was leading one of the horses. He never saw the spear that killed him. It fell silently from a shadowed tunnel of trees and pierced his throat. Eldrid was flung back into the mud once more. But he would not rise from this fall.
Beobrand watched aghast, as the West Seaxon’s lifeblood pumped crimson into the black mud.
A great cheer went up from the Mercian ranks.
Eldrid’s feet, huge in their viscid coating mud, danced forlornly, splashing in a puddle.
Eldrid with the luck of a fox.
The ways of wyrd were unfathomable.
Chapter 21
Reaghan’s stomach cramped again and she bit her lip so as not to cry out. Her mouth filled with the bitter taste of bile and the potion Odelyna had given her. Maida put her weaving to one side and came to her. She dipped a cloth into a bowl and wiped Reaghan’s face with the cool, damp material.
“There you go, girl,” Maida said, in the voice Reaghan had heard her use to her children. “The worst is over now.”
Reaghan hoped that were so. The griping pains had been terrible. Worse than anything she had ever suffered before. The rags she had brought in the small sack proved to be pitifully inadequate. As her body expelled Beobrand’s seed, thick, dark, glutinous blood came forth in such quantities that she feared she would die, as the woman by the river had intended.
Tears trickled down her cheeks, and Maida wiped them away, all the while making small humming sounds under her breath.
The ripples of pain from this last clenching of her stomach passed quickly. Perhaps she would survive after all. If childbirth was anything like this, she hoped she would never have to suffer it. Fresh tears came then as she thought of little Octa, Beobrand’s son. Maida had given him to one of the other women to care for while she tended to Reaghan, who she said had been taken ill. She had killed Octa’s brother or sister. She had destroyed life that had come from the man who had rescued her in the most horrific of nights.
Maida continued cooing and wiping Reaghan’s face. Suddenly, Reaghan gripped her hand tight enough to make the older woman cry out in surprise.
“He can never know!” Reaghan said, her voice a hiss of anguish. Who could say what he would do if he discovered what she had done? He was a man of war. Quick to anger and slow to forgive. He solved his problems with the blade. “Promise me! He must never know of this.”
Maida looked at her, sadness in her eyes.
“I will not speak of this to anyone, Reaghan. Beobrand wished that I watch out for you while he was away.”
Reaghan had suspected as much, but to hear the words took some of the sting from the pains she endured. Beobrand wished her to be safe.
“I will not speak of this,” Maida continued, “as I can see no good coming from anyone knowing of what transpired here. Men do not need to know of the secrets of women.”
Reaghan shivered at the words, which closely echoed those of the stranger by the river.
“Thank you,” she said, in a small, cracked voice.
“But we must tell the men of the woman you saw by the Tuidi. She must be the woman Beobrand feared meant us harm. The witch from Muile.”
Reaghan nodded. She thought of the woman’s scarred beauty. Her hair like a thunder storm. The blaze of her eyes.
“I am not sure that she is of this middle earth,” she said.
Maida reached for the small Christ-rood amulet she wore at her neck.
“All the more reason to tell Bassus. We must be wary and allow nobody to travel alone.”
“Hold your shields ready,” Beobrand roared. “Forward!”
As one, the shieldwall trudged slowly towards the Mercians, who were raising a clamour fit to bring Woden himself to see what was afoot. They beat blades on linden boards and screamed insults at the small shieldwall that moved forward one step at a time. It was two men deep and five wide. Beobrand stood front and centre. The mud clung to his feet, just as it had to Eldrid’s. Beobrand could feel it hungrily sucking and pulling him back, as if it had not yet had its fill of man’s blood. He looked at the helmeted faces that scowled over the shields before him. Those men would not easily be made to step aside. If the earth was thirsty, it would drink more blood soon. Death hung in the damp air.
Acennan, standing on Beobrand’s right, wore the granite expression of a death-dealer who knows his trade.
“You sound like Scand,” Acennan said. “He could always make himself heard in battle.”
Beobrand did not answer. He wished that Scand was there to guide them. Had the old thegn felt this way when he had led men; so unsure and confused? He doubted it. Scand had been a warrior lord; terrible in battle and generous in victory. Beobrand hoped he would one day attain such stature amongst his men. But for now, there was no time to ponder. The Mercians were close. If they chose to throw more spears, they would not miss.
Beyond them, the weak sun shone on the muddy waters of the flood. The Mercian horses stood behind the shieldwall, heads lowered, exhausted from the long chase. Beobrand caught a flash of sunlight on hair the colour of molten gold.
Cyneburg.
She stood with the horses, face pallid and eyes dark with fear. Eadgyth was with her. Both looked terrified.
“Halt!” Beobrand raised his sword. The men stopped.
“I am Beobrand of Ubbanford,” he said, in the voice he hoped was as certain as Scand’s had always been, “Thegn of Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, Lord King of Bernicia.”
A tall man stepped from the ranks of the Mercians. Clad in byrnie and warrior-jacket, a red belt cinched at his waist and full helm covering his head and face, he raised his hand and the Mercians fell silent. This was the leader Beobrand had seen directing the riders at the crest of the hill.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 17