“You are a long way from your home, Beobrand.” The man’s voice was muffled by the intricately decorated faceplate of his helm. The helmet was a thing of wonder. An artefact fit for a king.
“You have taken that which belongs to my lord. I demand that you return it.”
“It?” the man’s scorn was clear, despite the muffling helm. “Is that how you Northumbrians refer to your queen?”
Beobrand felt the heat rising in his cheeks. He swallowed down the bitter taste in his throat.
“You know my name,” Beobrand said, voice sharp as ice. “What is yours, Mercian?”
“My name is no concern of yours. You are outnumbered here. If you mount up and leave these lands, I give you my word you will not be hampered.”
“The word of a man who will not give his name is worth less than dust in the wind. In the name of my king, I demand that you return Cyneburg, daughter of Cynegils, and her maidservant, Eadgyth.”
The helmeted warrior shook his head.
“I will not.”
Beobrand’s knuckles showed white on Hrunting’s hilt.
Acennan said in a low voice, “This is getting us nowhere. Let’s just kill the bastards.”
Beobrand silenced his friend with a glower.
“This is your last chance,” he said, shouting the words now, so that all of the men listening would hear. “Return the queen and her woman to us now and pay the weregild for the men you have killed, or you will feed the ravens come nightfall.”
In answer, the tall warrior returned to his shieldwall and, a moment later, the hurled insults recommenced, accompanied once more by the threnody of swords and spears beating against shields.
And so it came to this, as somehow he had known it would. From the moment they had found Athelstan’s stiffening corpse, what other outcome could there be but that of warriors facing each other in the mud? Battle was not the glorious thing the scops sang of in the mead halls in the firelight. It was fear and blood. Shit and mud. The screams of the dying and the maniacal laughter of battle-joy.
And yet, Beobrand could not hide the smile that tugged at his lips. Battle may not be as it was recounted by bards, but Beobrand welcomed the chance to release the fettered animal that was held within him. Too long he had held it in check. A coolness washed over him, as if a heavy rain had begun to fall again. The time for talking had gone.
Now was the time for killing.
He raised his sword high in the air once more and hoped the men would follow him. He had told them his plan briefly and positioned the shieldwall so that those men he knew he could trust to obey were closest to him. These were men who had trained with him under Scand, men who had faced the Waelisc at Hefenfelth. He glanced at Acennan, who gave him a nod of assurance. Wulfgar’s jaw was clenched beneath his beard, his mouth a blade’s edge line of tension, but he too nodded.
“Now is the time to take back what is ours,” Beobrand said. “Hold firm and hit them hard and keep moving forward.”
He offered up a silent prayer to Woden and Thunor, and sliced Hrunting down towards the enemy line.
“Now!”
For a sickening instant, his feet slipped in the mud and he was unable to find purchase. He dug his left foot in and shoved hard, surging forward. Dimly, he recognised the aches in his leg and arm, but these were distant things. All there was now was the foe who stood before him. He was aware that Acennan, Dreogan and Wulfgar were just behind him, pressing him forward at speed. There was not much distance, and the earth was treacherous with the slime of the road, but Beobrand could see no other way. He had become the tip of a spearhead of men in the hope that they could break through the Mercian line. But for this to succeed, they needed speed and strength, or the attack would break on the shieldwall like a wave against a cliff.
Beobrand registered Mercians launching spears into the air. They had panicked, the missiles soared over their heads, sinking harmlessly into the mud behind them. Good. Throwing the spears may well have weakened the shieldwall momentarily as men adjusted their gear and lifted fresh weapons.
Beobrand ran faster. He screamed his rage at the Mercians. Behind him the roar of his men’s battle-ire drove him forward.
He chose his enemy, a short, helmeted man, who crouched behind a red and yellow shield, spear thrust forward to meet the oncoming charge.
Beobrand fixed the man with his gaze and planned how he would kill him. An instant later, the sharp steel of the man’s spear tip jabbed at Beobrand’s face. He had anticipated this. It would have been better for the man to strike at his legs and trip him, but the spear had rested on the rim of his shield, so a low attack would have been impossible. Beobrand dipped his head, lifting his shield at the same moment. He did not hesitate in his onward rush. The spear scraped harmlessly over his shield rim and then Beobrand was too close to be concerned by it any longer. He bellowed and hammered his shield forward, putting his shoulder behind it.
His arm screamed in pain at the jarring shock as shield boss met shield boss. And yet he did not pause. Acennan and Dreogan added their weight to his and it proved too much for the Mercian to withstand. He slipped in the muck, until he lost his footing. He tumbled backwards, his eyes full of fear. Beobrand stepped onto the red and yellow shield, thrusting down with Hrunting as he moved. The blade pierced the man’s neck. The eyes widened in shock and terror. Blood bubbled and spouted. And then Beobrand moved on.
All around him were enemy warriors. They had parted instinctively as he smashed into their ranks, but now they turned, intent on slaying this huge warrior with the serpent-skin bladed sword, that flickered and thrummed in the dappled shade of the forest path. A large man, long beard hanging to his chest, leapt towards Beobrand with a cry of rage. He wielded a heavy-bladed seax in his meaty hand as if it were nothing more than an eating knife. Beobrand stepped to meet him, ignoring the dangers to either side. He would have to trust to Acennan, Dreogan and the others to do their part.
“For Oswald!” he screamed, beating Hrunting’s blade against the willow wood of the man’s shield. The Mercian was screaming too, but his voice was lost in the tumult of the fray. All around them men shouted and cried out in rage and agony and fear.
The bearded Mercian lunged and Beobrand took the blow on his shield. He lowered his shield slightly, inviting the man to take another swing. The seax sliced at his neck once more, but Beobrand had the measure of his opponent now. He was a strong man, large and brave, but he was slow and unskilled. Beobrand again took the strike on his shield, but at the same moment stepped forward, raking Hrunting’s long sharp blade under the Mercian’s shield and along his thigh. He was unarmoured there and the sword sank deep into his flesh. Dark blood gushed from the killing blow in a great torrent. The man’s face paled and his eyes filled with shock. Beobrand had seen the expression many times before. The embrace of death in battle always came as a surprise. Beobrand shoved with his shield, wary of a dying blow from the man. But he needn’t have worried, the fight had gone from him as his blood soaked into the mud. The man fell backwards, and Beobrand hacked into his exposed neck as he fell. He did not wish for the fallen man to be able to kill from the earth even as his own life fled him. Such an end had come to Scand, who had always warned of the danger from under the shield. Beobrand had learnt the lesson well. He watched for a heartbeat as the bearded warrior slid into the quagmire, his eyes blank and sightless.
Panting from the exertion now, Beobrand’s eyes stung as sweat trickled from under his helm. For a moment there was nobody before him to fight. He watched Acennan dispatch a broad-shouldered, ox of a man, with a skilled sword-blow to the wrist. The huge warrior lost his grip on his sword, his hand almost completely severed. Acennan hammered home his advantage, smashing blow after blow into the man until he collapsed under the pressure and the loss of blood. Acennan finished him with a savage thrust of his shield rim into the man’s face.
Acennan turned to Beobrand, face slick with gore and mud. His teeth flashed white. Beobrand felt
the same gleeful expression stretching his own features.
“You never know, Beobrand,” Acennan said, “we may just win this fight.”
But Beobrand could sense more than see that elsewhere along the line things were not going as well. He scanned the warriors locked in combat, trying to make sense of what was happening. Along with Acennan and Dreogan, he had broken the Mercian line and they were now through to the other side. Yet, to the left, the West Seaxons and the remainder of the Northumbrians were not faring so well. The Mercians had coalesced around their leader. Wulfgar, who had somehow become separated from them after the initial charge, was sorely pressed there.
A few paces away stood Cyneburg and Eadgyth, both as still as carven totems, faces pallid and full of fear. The horses milled about behind them, white-eyed and whinnying at the scent of blood.
Acennan took a step forward.
“We have come for you, ladies. You have nothing to fear now.”
The women did not reply, but seemed to recoil at the words. Perhaps they could not hear over the sounds of the battle, or the sight of the blood-soaked warrior frightened them.
“Later, Acennan,” said Beobrand, urgency lending his tone a jagged edge, “we must aid Wulfgar.”
Acennan dragged his gaze from Eadgyth.
“Aye. There is one sure way to end this.”
“Yes,” Beobrand nodded. “We kill that bastard with the grim-helm.”
“To me,” Beobrand yelled and as if from nowhere, Dreogan and Garr were beside Acennan and Beobrand. Men lay dead or dying behind them. Beobrand recognised the face of one of Athelstan’s gesithas amongst the corpses. More bodies lay before the Mercian shieldwall that remained strong around the tall leader with the glorious helm that marked him out. In spite of having shattered this side of the Mercian shieldwall, they were still outnumbered. Beobrand could see their doom in the gleam of the Mercian leader’s helm. Strong hearth-thegns surrounded him and none seemed able to approach without feeling the bite of their blades.
“Follow me, brave sword-brothers,” Beobrand said, raising his voice. “This is where we take the day and seize our battle-fame.”
They hefted their shields, and sprinted towards the side of the Mercian ranks.
Chapter 22
“For Oswald!” Beobrand screamed. Acennan, Garr and Dreogan added their voices to the battle-cry.
They lumbered forward, as fast as they could, feet weighed down with the clinging mire.
The Mercians either saw or heard their approach and three of their number turned to defend their lord from this new threat. They were stalwart thegns, not new to the art of killing. They raised their shields, held their blood-dipped blades high.
But they did not have more than an instant to prepare themselves and Beobrand urged his men forward. He flung himself into the still-forming side shieldwall with a guttural scream of unbridled ire.
The ferocity of his attack and the abandon with which he threw himself upon the Mercian shields once more proved enough to force a breach in their defences. Beobrand brought Hrunting down on the helm of the middle warrior. The blade rang like a hammer striking an anvil. The Mercian, dazed, staggered back, lowering his shield in confusion. Beobrand followed him, trusting Acennan to protect his flank. He raised Hrunting again and hacked into the man’s exposed shoulder. The iron rings of the man’s byrnie burst asunder, Hrunting’s blade cutting flesh and sinew and smashing the bone beneath. Blood welled up from the wound, and flowed down the iron-knit shirt in a crimson cascade.
“For Oswald!” Beobrand roared again.
The sudden attack from the flank sent a tremor through the Mercians and brought renewed hope to the attackers, who had seen Beobrand break their enemies’ defence. Beobrand quickly checked behind him. Garr and Dreogan were exchanging blows with the two remaining men who had stood against them. Acennan smashed his shield at the left man, causing him to give ground, his attention divided as it was between Garr and Acennan. The moment’s hesitation gave Acennan space, and he rushed through to join Beobrand behind the enemy line.
Panic was in the air now, but the Mercians had yet to fully comprehend that their doom was amongst them.
Off to Beobrand’s left, Wulfgar bellowed a defiant war-cry, then sent a flurry of vicious attacks at the centre of the Mercian shieldwall. The West Seaxon spat insults as he smashed his blade over and over into the enemies’ shields.
“Die, you dog-fucking, piss-guzzling, cowards! I will rip out your hearts, feast on your brains, drink your blood!”
Wulfgar’s attack was so furious, his taunts so loud, that all eyes turned to him. The Mercians lifted their shields against the torrent of sword blows and insults. Beobrand grinned.
Without hesitation, he leapt forward at the distracted leader of the Mercians. Acennan came with him.
Before any of the Mercians could react, Beobrand was upon the tall lord. The man’s head was protected by the finely-decorated helm, so Beobrand swung his blade at the Mercian leader’s back. The sisters who weave men’s wyrd surely did not wish for this Mercian to die that day, for in the instant before Hrunting’s bright blade connected with his broad, leather-clad back, he spun towards Beobrand, raising his shield. What sense had told him of the impending cut, none but the gods could say, yet even with the luck of the gods themselves, the man was too late to stop Beobrand’s attack completely. The shield edge clattered into the sword blade, but such was the strength of the blow, the sword carried on, pushing the shield with it. It swung around the edge of the shield and sliced into the lord’s right side. He stumbled slightly, but held his shield firm. He had not fully turned, so his own sword arm was away from Beobrand.
This was the chance. Beobrand could feel it. If he could defeat their leader now, the Mercians would crumble. If they rallied around him, they would prevail and Cyneburg and Eadgyth would be lost. Athelstan’s death would have been in vain. Beobrand would not allow that.
He sent an overarm strike with Hrunting towards his foe’s fine helm. The man’s vision would be hampered by the face-guard, but he was skilled. He would see the attack. And he would defend against it.
As Beobrand had anticipated, the Mercian lifted his shield to parry the sword. At the instant the blade connected with the hide-covered board, Beobrand took a quick step forward and kicked the man’s left knee with all his strength. He heard the howl of pain from behind the helm and the man who had stolen Oswald’s queen in the night, fell sprawling to the mud. Beobrand sprang forward, stepping on the flat of the Mercian’s sword blade, squelching the patterned steel into the grime.
Around him Beobrand could hear the clash of weapons. Men yelled. He heard Acennan roar in anger. But he did not look up from his prize. He could end this here. Now. Dropping Hrunting into the mud, Beobrand fell atop the Mercian, pinning the man’s shield arm under his body weight. Unable to shed his own shield that was strapped to his arm, Beobrand fumbled clumsily at his belt with his right hand. His fingers found the hilt of his seax and he pulled it free of its scabbard.
The Mercian was squirming beneath him, fighting for his life. In the flailing of arms and legs Beobrand finally shook his arm free of the linden board and hammered a punch with his half-hand into the man’s stomach. Scrabbling, he clutched at the cold metal of the helm, yanking it back to expose the man’s sweat-drenched beard and neck. And so it would end, wrestling in the mud. Not the glory-death of the tales. Their two fine swords wallowed in the quagmire as the small seax flashed.
Then, once more the gods took pity on this lord of the Mercians. Or perhaps he was destined for greater things. For a sound echoed in the forest that stayed Beobrand’s hand. A sound that pierced the clang and crash of battle-play. A sound sweeter and yet more terrible than all the other screams, shouts, groans and death-cries of the shieldwall.
The high-pitched shriek of a woman.
“No! Do not kill him!”
A dark memory fluttered in Beobrand’s mind. A Pictish woman running at him in the dark. Her face
smashed and ruined; destroyed with a blow from his sword.
He looked up towards the female screams. Cyneburg, golden hair trailing behind her, flowing like the tail of a horse, was running towards him. Towards the men who battled and died to rescue her. To protect her. Her face was streaked with tears and she screamed once more.
“Do not kill him, Beobrand!”
All the men on that mud-splattered, gore-soaked path, hesitated. The queen’s cries had reached all of their ears and they paused, unsure. Warily, and without a word, the men parted, stepping back from their foes. They welcomed the respite. Once a safe distance, some of the warriors bent forward, hands on knees and panted like hounds that have harried a boar.
Beobrand felt the man beneath him tense, readying himself to resume his struggles. Quickly, Beobrand placed the seax blade against the bearded throat and said in a voice of iron, “Move, and you die.”
Cyneburg let out a small cry of anguish. She halted a few paces from them. Looking around her, she suddenly seemed to become aware of all the battle-hard warriors staring at her. She looked back at Beobrand, her face a mask of despair.
“Do not kill him,” she said for the third time, her voice now little more than a whisper.
For what seemed a long while, Beobrand stared at her in disbelief. What could the meaning of this be? But now was not the time for questions. He offered a small nod and said, “As you wish, my queen.” Then, raising his voice so that all there would hear, he said, “Mercians, drop your weapons. Your leader is my prisoner and his life is forfeit should you continue to fight against me.”
None of the Mercians moved.
Beobrand jerked the leader roughly up into a sitting position. Tugging at the helm, it came free, revealing a handsome man, still young but some years Beobrand’s senior. He had long braided hair and a full beard. His face was awash with sweat. He glowered at Beobrand, his eyes burning with fury. Wrapping his half-hand in the lord’s braids, Beobrand pulled his head backwards savagely, exposing the throat and placing the sharp edge of the seax against it once more.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 18