Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  The Mercians seemed set to rush him. Several took a step forward, unable to see their lord treated thus.

  “Please,” Cyneburg said, “do as he says, or he will kill your lord.”

  For several heartbeats Beobrand held his breath, fearing that the Mercians would attack him. With Wulfgar and the others having stepped back from the shieldwall, and where he was in the mud, straddling the lord of the Mercians, he would be cut down in an instant. He raked them with his gaze. Aye, that gaze said, you may slay me, but I will take your lord with me to the afterlife.

  One by one, the Mercians let blades and spears fall to the muck at their feet.

  Beobrand let out his breath. He looked at Cyneburg’s distraught face and was unable to make sense of what had happened.

  Around him the Mercians were being herded together by the West Seaxons and Northumbrians. Wulfgar came over to where Beobrand yet held the Mercian lord by his hair.

  “If you do not mean to slice his throat, I believe you should let the man get to his feet.” He glanced at the blood that trickled from the wound in the Mercian’s side. It did not appear deep. “And perhaps we should tend to his wounds. After all, this is no way to treat those of royal blood.”

  Beobrand’s hands began to shake, as they always did after combat. To hide the tremors, he got to his feet and pulled the man roughly up.

  “Royal blood?” he asked, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, Beobrand, you must think long and hard before killing this one. You may not be able to pay the weregild for his death. And, by Woden, you certainly do not wish to make an enemy of his kinfolk.”

  “Why?” Beobrand said, sizing up his foe’s commanding presence, his fine sword and the helm fit for a king. “Who is he?”

  “This,” Wulfgar said, an unreadable expression on his sweat-streaked face, “is Eowa, son of Pybba. His brother is Penda, Lord King of all Mercia.”

  Chapter 23

  Bassus twisted his head at just the right angle to produce a welcome clicking in his neck. He grunted with pleasure and rolled his shoulders, loosening the tension there.

  “An old wound?” Gram asked.

  “No,” replied Bassus, his tone gruff. In truth his body ached from the scars and injuries suffered in battles over the years, but this was something else. A tightening of his neck and shoulders that came when he was unsure of himself. He did not like to dwell on things he could not change, but he did wonder whether coming back to Bernicia had been a mistake.

  They strode along beside the Tuidi for a while in silence. The leaden sky reflected in the broad river, turning the water into polished iron. Insects buzzed and flitted above the water. Occasionally, small ripples appeared, where some denizen of the river broke the surface.

  “Do you think this witch is truly a threat?” Gram said.

  Bassus shrugged.

  “Who can say? Beobrand certainly believes it. And if what Maida and Odelyna say is true, she came here seeking to kill that girl.”

  “Why bother killing a thrall? Just because Beobrand is swiving her?”

  Bassus glanced sharply at Gram. The slim warrior always spoke his mind. It was one of the things Bassus most admired in him.

  “Perhaps. If she means to hurt Beobrand, I believe that would have the effect she seeks.” He paused to clamber over a small, but deep stream channel that ran into the Tuidi. There were many such burns that fed the waters of the large river. Safely across, he waited for Gram to join him.

  “And yet,” Bassus said, his face grim, “if I had an enemy such as Beobrand, I would not seek to anger him.”

  “And if we find the woman? What then?”

  Bassus ground his teeth, but did not reply. What indeed? He had not come north to wage war on women, no matter how evil they may be. He had heard tales of Beobrand’s exploits and recalled what it had been like to stand in the shieldwall beside his friend, Beobrand’s brother, Octa. Surely he was not yet too old for more battle-fame. By all the gods, he was as strong as an ox still. And as stubborn? Perhaps.

  They were approaching the small stand of willow and alder where Reaghan had said she’d spoken to the cunning woman.

  “Will we kill her?” Gram asked, never one to let a silence deter him.

  “I know not. Scaring her off would be better.” Killing a woman was never a good thing. And to slay one who had the ear of the old gods was reckless or foolhardy. “I do not wish to kill women. And it seems to me, this woman has done no real harm.”

  “The women seem convinced that she is a witch intent on evil. And Beobrand was clear what we should do should she cause mischief.”

  “Well, Beobrand is not here, and the women of Ubbanford are full of spite, and are keen to see others do their killing. I have little stomach for the murder of women.” And yet, he had sworn his oath to Beobrand, and he was certain that Beobrand would wish to see this woman gone. But, Beobrand was far away. He had left Bassus in charge, so the decision would be his until Beobrand’s return.

  He rolled his shoulders and neck again, trying to ease the tension. He hoped they would not find the woman. There was little chance that they would, unless she decided to approach them. He was good for battle, for the clash of sword and spear. The sword-song and the battle-glory. Not for this. Warriors were not difficult to control. But their women! By the gods, how the women bickered and nagged.

  He spat into the river and silently cursed coming here. It had been good to see Beobrand again. The boy had grown into a man; a warrior of renown. He was a thegn now, valued and respected, and Bassus took pride in his part in Beobrand’s journey. Octa would have been proud of his younger brother, and they were enough alike that Bassus enjoyed the young man’s company immensely. Beobrand was taciturn and seldom jested, but he was loyal and strong, a man to be trusted. Bassus remembered the glow of pride at seeing Beobrand seated on the gift-stool of his own hall. He recalled the warm joy of being given the role of trust to lead Beobrand’s gesithas while he was away. To be given the command of the men and his lands was something that Bassus did not take lightly. But he wished he had not made the decision to return north.

  He shook his head to clear it of these thoughts. They were like the flies and midges of the river, they buzzed and circled his head, but there was nothing to be done about them.

  “Do you wish we had not come here?” asked Gram, no sign of his usual light-humoured tone in his words.

  Bassus sighed. They had been shield-brothers for a long time. Gram knew him well. And he was no fool. He must be feeling it too. Each night they sat alone. Beobrand’s gesithas had fought together against a common enemy, forging them into a hardened unit. They served Oswald, and some of them had followed his brother, Eanfrith, before him. Bassus and Gram had been King Edwin’s men. King Edwin who was the sworn foe of Oswald and all his kin. It was easy to understand why Beobrand’s comitatus did not warm to them. And yet understanding did little to sweeten the bitter taste. And it was worse for Gram, mused Bassus. The men offered Bassus respect and did his bidding without complaint, as their lord had ordered them to. They saw Gram as an interloper in their midst.

  “There is nothing to be gained in talking of what could have been. We are here now.”

  Gram nodded, as if he had expected this answer.

  Bassus turned and faced him.

  “Things will be different once Beobrand returns. There will be war soon. We’ll be joining Oswiu in rooting out those Picts. And once we have stood shield to shield with the rest of the men, they will forget our past.”

  “I hope that is so,” Gram replied, but his words were distracted, distant from the focus of his thoughts.

  “What is it?” asked Bassus.

  Gram bent down and parted the foliage at the river’s edge so that he could better see something that lay there.

  Bassus pushed in close.

  “What is it?” he repeated.

  For answer, Gram held back the leaves and merely pointed.

  Bassus peered
into the shade beneath the elder bushes and his heart clenched. He could hardly believe Gram had spotted this thing, half-hidden within the tangle of branches and leaves. But find it he had, and there was no doubt in his mind now that the cunning woman Reaghan had spoken to yet lurked somewhere nearby. Perhaps she was watching them even now. His skin prickled as the first claws of fear scratched down his neck. Yes, she was yet somewhere near Ubbanford, and her purpose was clear.

  Bassus sighed.

  Betwixt the twigs and green of the elder, a small doll dangled in the dappled light. It was a crude thing, made of straw and twigs. Not much larger than his hand, there was little on the doll to distinguish it from any other such plaything that parents made for their children. And yet, Bassus knew that this was meant to be Beobrand. It was crowned with a golden sprig of barely chaff to resemble the young thegn’s blond hair. The hands were just rough sprays of hay, splayed out like fingers. The left hand had clearly been cut in half.

  Bassus suppressed a shudder. He had hoped the witch might have fled. He spat. He caught himself once again wishing he had not returned to Bernicia, for now he knew he must kill this woman.

  The doll Beobrand twisted on the end of a thin cord. It had been hanged from a noose round its neck. Piercing its heart was a tiny arrow. Perhaps that is what had caught Gram’s attention. For the delicately cut white fletchings of the minute arrow winked and glimmered as they caught the light.

  *

  Beobrand clenched his fists against the trembling. He sat on the trunk of a fallen elm at the edge of the path. Before him, where the path normally ran down to the Afen, brown water lapped. Here and there trees and bushes jutted from the murky waters, like the hands of drowning men.

  “I have set men to watch at the brow of the hill.”

  The voice startled Beobrand. He turned quickly to see Wulfgar.

  He nodded at the West Seaxon.

  “That is well done,” he said. He should have thought of it himself. Nobody could approach from the waters of the swollen river without the aid of a boat, and the forest at either side of the path was too dense for a group of men to traverse, especially with horses, so danger was unlikely to come from that quarter. But they were in Mercia, and now had the brother of the lord of the kingdom as their captive. By the gods, how had this happened? It made little sense. Beobrand shook his head to clear it and pushed himself to his feet. On the other side of the swirling, muddy waters he could see a small group of people. They were staring. He saw no spears, no shields. Probably thralls or ceorls working the land. They must have heard the fighting. Where there were men working the land, there would be a hall and a lord close by. And lords had gesithas.

  They could not stay here. It seemed Wulfgar was still content to allow him to lead, but that would quickly change should he appear unsure of what to do next.

  To hide his uncertainty and to give him time to think, he snapped at Wulfgar.

  “Have the men strip the bodies of all of worth. Let the Mercians tend to their own, but see that they do not claim sword or spear from the fallen. They are our prisoners. If one of them tries anything, kill him.” Beobrand took in the scene of carnage on the mud-churned path. The wolves would feed well tonight.

  One of the horses further up the track whinnied pitiably. A spear had pierced its side and still dangled from its flesh. The beast stood trembling and snorting, its white-rimmed eyes bright in the forest gloom. Its flank was awash with blood.

  “Kill that horse,” Beobrand said. “We will need meat. But do it fast. Each man must carry what he can.” He remembered butchering such an injured creature after another skirmish, and the slow trudge they had made through the wilderness of Bernicia with more men than steeds to carry them. “We will take the rest of the horses with us. Fresh mounts will serve us well.”

  Beobrand looked about him for a moment. What was he missing?

  “Bring Eowa to me,” he said at last, then, after a brief hesitation, “and Cyneburg.”

  Wulfgar stood motionless for a moment, as if he was going to say something. In the end, he said nothing. He turned away and barked orders to the men.

  Beobrand watched as Acennan left the side of Eadgyth to begin the process of collecting weapons and treasures from the corpses. The instant the battle had finished the dark-haired beauty had rushed forward into Acennan’s arms. Wulfgar had frowned at his sister’s actions, but there was little he could do. Beobrand was pleased for Acennan. He had been concerned that the girl would not return his friend’s affections. He clearly did not understand women.

  The thought brought a grim smile to his lips. Cyneburg, his queen, walked gingerly through the mud towards him. Her fine dress was ruined, splattered with blood and mud. Her hair had fallen free of its braids and hung wet and lank down her back. And yet, she was still stunning; a flash of sun on a stormy day. No, he really did not understand women. He probably never would.

  Eowa followed her. Proud and noble he came, holding his head high. Despite his injuries, he walked with grace. Beobrand met his eye. He wondered if they could have been friends in other circumstances.

  “So, you are Penda’s brother?” Beobrand asked. He searched the man’s face for similarities with the King of Mercia. If there were any, they were not strikingly obvious. The eyes perhaps. The same savage glare in them. Like an animal stalking prey.

  “I have that pleasure,” Eowa answered. A slight raising at the edge of his mouth lent the words irony. “It seems to me,” Eowa continued, still smirking “that you are in a tight spot here. Days of riding from the borders of Mercia, and not enough men to guard all of your prisoners.”

  “I could have them all put to the sword right now,” said Beobrand, his voice as harsh as the clash of shieldwalls.

  He half-turned towards Wulfgar and Acennan, as if about to give the order. Eowa’s smile faded, his eyes seemed less certain. Oh, so perhaps the atheling lacked his brother’s iron will too. Beobrand was sure that Penda would not have cared for an instant at the death of a handful of warriors.

  For a moment, Beobrand watched as the surviving warriors went about the bitter business of retrieving valuables from the dead. It was a dark task that nobody relished, but the men knew their work. The pile of weapons and trinkets was growing. Beobrand counted nine dead, seven Mercians, the unlucky Eldrid and one of Athelstan’s gesithas. A Wessex man led the injured horse up the path away from the other steeds. Beobrand looked back to Eowa.

  “But enough good men have died this day. I am content with the blood price paid for my friend, Athelstan. You must see whether Oswald will be satisfied with the death of a few of your gesithas in payment for the loss of one of his most trusted thegns. A thegn who died protecting Oswald’s queen.”

  Beobrand flicked a look at Cyneburg. She stood off to one side, head down, shoulders slumped. Tears glistened on her cheeks.

  “I am sorry that Athelstan had to die. It was not my intention. There should have been no bloodshed.” Eowa’s words sounded hollow in that darkened tree-tunnel path, beside the murky waters of the storm-burst Afen. Cold ire flooded back into Beobrand. His hand fell to the hilt of Hrunting and he took a pace forward.

  Eowa stood his ground, but tensed, preparing himself for a blow. But none came.

  Mustering all his will, Beobrand released his sword, letting it slide back into its scabbard.

  “Athelstan was my friend. Soon enough you will tell me why he died.” A sob from Cyneburg drew his attention for a heartbeat. “Aye, I would hear that tale. But first, you will give me your oath that you will not attempt to flee.”

  “And what of my men?”

  “They must give the same oath. And any who breaks it will forfeit his own life, and yours. They will be allowed to ride their mounts, but will not bear arms.”

  “And if I refuse these terms?”

  “Then all of your men will be killed. Here. Now. And I will take you bound and gagged, shamed and beaten, before Oswald.” Cyneburg let out a whimper. This time Beobrand ignor
ed her.

  Beobrand held Eowa in his ice-chip blue stare. There was no self-doubt in those eyes any longer. He was sure of what he must do now.

  “Swear your oath to me now. Then command your men to do the same. And do it now. We cannot tarry here any longer.”

  And so the atheling of Mercia, brother of the formidable warlord, Penda, son of Pybba, plighted his oath that he would not raise arms against Beobrand or the men he rode with and that he would not seek to escape them. Beobrand made sure Eowa’s comitatus witnessed their lord’s oath. He then had the Mercians bend their knees in the mire and swear also.

  There was much grumbling, but their lord gave the command, so they could not refuse. As they spoke the words, unhappily and disgruntled, Beobrand felt some of the burden of the situation lift from him. When the last had spoken, he addressed them all, while the West Seaxons and Northumbrians readied the horses and secured the new-found treasures they would carry home.

  “Mercians, I know the words of this oath must have tasted bitter as poison on your tongues.” A burly ox of a man, with a broken nose, spat a gobbet of phlegm into the mud close to Beobrand’s feet. “I know you see us as your enemies. And perhaps one day, you will be free again to fight us once more in the shieldwall. But for now, you have sworn your oath not to raise arms against us, or to try and flee. And I know that I can trust your word, for I have seen you stand strong, shield to shield. You are brave men, one and all. And whilst we are not friends, I trust you. Now mount up on your own steeds, for we ride north. To Northumbria and King Oswald. There we shall learn your fate.”

  The men clambered onto their horses. Beobrand went to help Cyneburg up onto her gelding. She had not spoken a word to him since the battle. Now she flinched as he reached out to cup his hands for her to use as a step. He boosted her into the saddle, and then, while all around them was the noise and bustle of men preparing to ride, he held the reins of her mount tight, preventing her from moving away.