“We shall talk, you and I,” he said, “when we are a safe distance from here.”
Cyneburg’s eyes were wide with fear. Tears brimmed there still.
“Yes, my queen,” he whispered, so that only she would hear, “we shall talk of how you came to be riding unguarded and free amongst this band of Mercians. And why it was you who stayed my hand when I could have slain their leader.”
He released the bridle and strode over to his dappled mare.
Dreogan, flanked by two other men, awaited him there. They were unsmiling. Anger came off them like a stench.
“The Mercian must die,” Dreogan said simply. “They should all die. We do not accept that the weregild for our lord has been paid.”
Beobrand stepped close to Dreogan. He could smell the tattooed warrior’s sour breath and his sweat.
“I have spoken. We take the atheling before our king. Oswald will decide Eowa’s fate. Not you.” Beobrand held Dreogan’s gaze. Athelstan’s man’s jaw clenched, the muscles bulging.
“Make no mistake. I lead here,” said Beobrand, “and you will not question my word again, Dreogan.” Beobrand spat into the mud. “If you cross me again, we will be having more than words. Now mount up and ride. And save your anger for any more Mercians we might meet.”
Beobrand stepped past Dreogan and swung himself into the saddle. Digging his heels into the beast’s flanks, he set off back up the muddy hill.
*
Bassus cradled the straw doll in a fold of his cloak. He did not wish to touch the thing, unsure of what the witch might be able to do to him through contact with the crude figurine.
Gram had said they should cast it into the Tuidi.
“It will wash away any magic on it,” he’d said.
But Bassus had stopped him. Neither of them really knew what would happen if they destroyed the effigy of Beobrand. Perhaps he would drop dead wherever he was. If they threw it into the river, he might suddenly feel his lungs filling with the cold waters. Bassus had shuddered at the thought of drowning on invisible water, conjured up by some witch’s accursed magic.
“Should we remove the arrow?” he’d asked, knowing Gram would have no answer. “Maybe Beobrand can feel the stab of it.”
In the end, they decided not to tamper with the thing, but to take it back to Odelyna, the nearest thing in Ubbanford to a cunning woman. Hopefully, she would know what should be done.
Bassus had held his cloak under the doll while Gram had used his seax to slice through the noose cord.
The two warriors hurried now along the riverbank towards Ubbanford, both eager to be free of the small figure and away from the muggy stillness that had settled on the valley.
Bassus slipped at one of the creeks that ran into the river. Gram caught his arm, preventing him falling.
Bassus took in a slow breath of air.
“Look at us,” he said, grinning. “We are like two boys who have been told a tale of the elves in the forest.”
Gram returned the smile, but Bassus noted it didn’t reach his eyes.
“Aye, if any should see us, they would not think us strong spear-men, slayers of many foes.”
They continued at a slower pace. Midges flitted into their faces in clouds. Bassus blew and spat, unable to swat them away, without releasing his cloak and dropping the doll.
The sky frowned and darkened above them. The river made no sound as the nettles and weeds snagged and snatched at their legs. Bassus noted that they had begun to walk more quickly again, as if the atmosphere of the river’s edge were pushing them forward. His neck and shoulders ached from the tension there. Bassus knew that no amount of rolling and twisting of his muscles would bring relief now. What he needed was to get back to the hall, to be rid of this evil talisman and to have a drink of strong mead. Perhaps then he would be able to relax.
The hairs on his neck bristled and pricked. They were being watched, he was sure of it. He stopped and spun around, searching the trees and bushes for any sign of the woman they had sought. Gram also halted. He must have sensed it too, for he drew his seax and crouched in the warrior stance. Ready for combat.
But what use would steel and iron be against a witch? The skies continued to darken. A storm brewed in the heavens.
All was still. The only sound was Bassus’ ragged breathing. Even the insects had grown silent.
A sudden burst of movement and sound made both men jump. Several crows flapped noisily from the trees on the far bank of the river. The slap of their dark wings broke the silence.
Bassus let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
Just birds.
He watched as they flew upwards on soot-coloured feathers. But there was a flash of white amongst the dark. What was that arcing across the river?
Bassus understood he was seeing the white feathers of an arrow’s fletchings in the same instant the iron tip pierced his flesh.
Searing agony followed a heartbeat later, and, as he fell to the earth, a single thought ran through his mind.
He knew it had been a bad idea to come back to Bernicia.
Chapter 24
Beobrand stood with his back to the small fire that shed its warmth and light on the exhausted men sprawled around it. The flickering glow did not reach further than the bushes and trees that sheltered their camp. He stared out into the darkness for signs of pursuit, but all was still. They had escaped the banks of the Afen without incident, retracing their steps and then heading northward to join the crumbling Wæcelinga Stræt.
A sudden burst of laughter from the men around the campfire shattered the quiet of the night. Beobrand frowned. Enemies could be approaching, hidden by the darkness. Still, it seemed unlikely. This land was sparsely populated and a large group of mounted and armed warriors would not attract thieves or brigands. The only men they would need to fear would be a sizable force of Penda’s warband, and there was no reason to believe there were any of his gesithas nearby.
Beobrand turned towards the slightest of sounds, a rustle of cloth. Cyneburg stood there, face in shadow, hair a wreath of fire-licked gold. She had regained her composure. She held her head high once more, and despite the grime of hard travel, she was once again the image of a young queen.
He swallowed the lump from his throat, attempting to summon the anger he had felt back in the mud, surrounded by corpses. But he was too tired. He did not know how to broach the subject with her. As they had ridden, he had become less sure of himself. She was his queen. Oswald’s bride. What right did he have to question her? He had made up his mind that nothing good could come of confronting her with his concerns. And yet it seemed she was not prepared to avoid talking to him.
“Where are we heading?” she asked. There was no echo now of the tremulous anguish in her voice he had heard at the battle.
For an instant, his anger bubbled up and he considered not telling her. But to what end? He would merely appear petulant. He swallowed again and resumed staring into the night rather than be dazzled by her beauty.
“We will follow Wæcelinga Stræt, then northward along Earninga Stræt to Eoferwic.”
“We will not return to Anwealda’s hall?”
“No.” Beobrand had made that decision as they rode through the afternoon. He had consulted with Wulfgar and Acennan, who both agreed it was the best course. “To return would add many days to our journey. And all of them through Mercia.”
“But what of my possessions? My waggon is there. All of my things.”
“Your possessions are of less import than the lives of these men,” he snapped, too tired to control his tongue. “We will send for the waggon once we are safely in Northumbria.”
“But to ride so far. Eadgyth and I are already exhausted.”
And then, as sudden as Thunor’s lightning striking from a summer storm, his ire blasted away his own exhaustion.
“We too are tired from riding. Riding hard through the night and the rain. Our limbs tremble from standing strong in the shie
ldwall. Look around you, queen,” he spat the title at her as though it were an insult. “All the men here, all of them, from Mercia, Northumbria or Wessex. They have all fought for you. Bled for you.” He leapt forward and raised his fist.
It would be so easy to make her understand what a waste it had all been. He could make her see sense quickly enough.
Through the fog of his rage, he noticed the silence that had fallen over the camp. Cyneburg cowered before him. Acennan stepped forward from the warriors.
“Beobrand?” he said. And it was enough. Acennan knew him well. He had faced him before when anger coursed through his veins like molten hate. Beobrand remembered with shame hitting his friend. But more than that, for a terrible moment, he heard his father’s voice screaming in his mind.
He unclenched his fists. Lowered his hands.
“Good men died for you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper but shaking with emotion.
Very well. If she wished to talk, then she would know the truth of it. He was no longer unsure or tired. He looked over at Acennan and nodded his thanks. Slowly the conversations around the fire started up again. Eowa sat with his men, many of whom were already sleeping, wrapped in their cloaks. His eyes glittered in the firelight as he stared unblinking at Beobrand.
Turning back to Cyneburg, Beobrand said, “I am sorry for frightening you, my queen.”
For a moment, he thought she would not reply. When she did, her voice once again trembled.
“It is I who should be sorry, Beobrand.” Her lower lip quivered and her face crumpled as tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Walk with me,” he said, “where we cannot be overheard. I would hear the truth of the matter from you.”
She hesitated, then nodded.
He led her a little distance from the camp. They were still in sight of the fire, and a flickering of light reached them, but if they spoke quietly, they would not be heard.
Beobrand leaned against the bole of a birch and stared at the pale smudge that was her face in the gloom. Every now and again, the distant flames glinted in the tears on her smooth cheeks. He did not speak.
She sniffed and rubbed at her face.
“How could we have been so foolish?” she whispered.
“Who?”
A pause, then, “Eowa and I.”
Beobrand let out a long breath. He feared that knowing the truth of this tale was going to bring him misery. No good would come of it. He knew it. And yet, he must hear it now.
“How is it possible that you should know each other?” he asked.
“I am the daughter of Cynegils, lord of Wessex. Eowa is atheling of Mercia. We have met many times over the years. Eowa would come as emissary to my father’s hall.” Her fingers absently played with her hair that Eadgyth had freshly-braided. Beobrand glanced back at the fire. Eowa had not moved. He was staring into the darkness directly at Beobrand and Cyneburg, his eyes dark shadows.
“We met many times,” she continued, “but it was last year that we…” She took a deep breath, preparing herself, as if for a leap from a clifftop into a frigid and rock-strewn sea. “That we fell in love.”
Beobrand sighed. He wished he had not pulled on this thread. For his wyrd would soon be woven into this cloth of queens and athelings and kings. The weft and warp of this fabric might follow those of noble birth, but it would be the warriors who would drench it with their blood before the end. Of that he had no doubt.
“But there can be no love now. Not for a peace-weaver married to a stranger from a faraway kingdom.”
“Perhaps you will grow to love Oswald. In time.”
Now it was Cyneburg’s turn to flash bright with anger.
“You know nothing! You just fight and kill. What do you know of love?”
The storm of his anger shredded and tattered and was replaced by a dark, hollow sadness. His chest ached at the memories that tumbled through his mind.
“I am no stranger to love,” he said. “You would do well to know of what you speak before allowing your tongue to flap like the women washing their men’s clothes by the river. You are no washer woman, you are a queen. A peace-weaver, as you say. You must start acting as such.”
For a long while she was silent. He stared into the night and breathed deeply of the cool air. It was redolent of rain and damp earth. He should not speak so bluntly with her. She was his queen and yet he could not allow himself not to say the words she needed to hear.
He thought she would speak no further, when she said, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
“You are right, I spoke with no knowledge. Tell me of your love.”
“There is nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past,” he snapped, his voice harsh. “I do not wish to speak of it.” He took a slow breath; calmed himself, softened his tone. “And my story is not important here. What happened between you and Eowa?”
Again a long pause.
“When he heard I was to be married, he sent word. He told me to ensure I would stop to rest at Anwealda’s hall. It is close to the frontier with Mercia. He said he would come for me. And he did…” Her voice trailed off.
“And what did you believe would happen then? That you could ride away and Oswald would do nothing? You are both mad! Men have already died because of this madness, but this could lead to open war between three kingdoms.”
Cyneburg sniffed in the gloom.
“I do not know.” She sounded like a child now, unsure and fearful. “All I could think about was being with him. I have been blinded to all else.”
“You are both mad,” Beobrand repeated, but with less vitriol in his tone. Would he not have risked everything for Sunniva? Had he not ridden into a night of flame and death to rescue Reaghan? And for what? A mere thrall whom he did not even love. What might he have done if Cyneburg had been his?
“What will happen to us?” Cyneburg asked.
“I cannot say. That will be for your husband to decide.”
“If you tell him this, he will kill us both.”
Beobrand imagined Oswald receiving news of his queen’s treachery. He recalled the iron in his king’s will when they had faced the Waelisc at Hefenfelth. The flash of Oswald’s sword as he had beheaded Cadwallon. In the darkness, Beobrand nodded. She probably had the right of it.
“You cannot tell him, Beobrand.”
“I can do nothing else.”
“But why? You say you know of love. If that is so, can you not understand the madness that overcame us? Why tell Oswald?”
“He is my lord and king.” That was answer enough.
He heard his queen’s sobs as he trudged back to the fire. He needed a drink of mead.
*
“Perhaps she is right,” said Acennan.
Beobrand jerked the reins of his mare hard, bringing his mount to a halt. Wulfgar turned in his saddle, always alert, a question on his face. The rest of the men rode past.
Beobrand waved them all on.
“Keep riding. Acennan and I will catch up.”
Wulfgar shrugged, too tired to ask more. They had been riding north now for six days and everyone was on the verge of collapse. Their provisions were running low. They had taken as much horseflesh as they could easily carry from the rapidly butchered beast, but they had not tarried, leaving precious meat behind for the forest animals. The previous night they had stopped at a farmstead and purchased some smoked cheese from the surly man who stood protectively before his wide-eyed children and sour-faced wife. The food was not much, but it would see them through to Eoferwic, if the weather held. Beobrand had contemplated slaying another horse, but had decided it was better to keep the fresh mounts in case of the need to flee from pursuit.
The rains had abated, but the grey sky bore the threat of more to come. Summer was dying. The wind had a bite in it, and the men pulled their cloaks about them as they rode.
Beobrand waited until the last of the band had plodded past. He scanned the horizon for any sign of an atta
cking force. There was nothing. This land was all dales and crags, tumbled rocks and scrubby heath. They had made good progress through Mercia. People who saw them approach either hid, or bowed to them as if they were oath-sworn thegns of Penda. One armoured lord was much like another. Such a large warband of mounted gesithas was not often seen, and nothing good ever came with such men. Beobrand offered up silent thanks to any god who would listen that this was so, and that Eowa and his men had kept their oaths. None of them had sought to run, and the atmosphere in the camps at night was becoming more relaxed. The night before he had seen Garr offering one of Eowa’s thegns a swig of mead. The drink was precious, and the sharing said much about the attitudes of the men.
“So, you think I should lie to our king?” Beobrand said, sure now that they would not be overheard.
“I think, lord,” said Acennan, using the title to reinforce the point that it was Beobrand’s decision, “that if you tell Oswald of the truth of the matter between Cyneburg and Eowa, he will slay them both. Would you have the blood of such a beauty on your hands?”
“I do not wish her death. You know me better than that. But it is not for me to say what her husband, our king, should do with her.” His stomach churned as it did before battle. They would soon be in Eoferwic, in Northumbria. If Oswald was there, Beobrand would need to make a decision.
Acennan shook his head.
“No, it is not for you to decide on the king’s actions, but you know as well as I, that if you tell him, you are as good as condemning them both to death.”
“Perhaps not. The Christ-god priests preach forgiveness,” Beobrand blustered, grasping at anything that would make his dilemma simpler.
“Does Oswald strike you as a forgiving man?” Acennan gave a half smile.
Beobrand watched as the riders moved towards the brow of a nearby bluff. They would need to follow after them very soon if they did not wish to lose them from sight.
His vision blurred as he peered at Wulfgar and the others. Would that he could just put all of this confusion aside. He yearned for rest. For sleep. His eyes were heavy and the weight of responsibility was harder to carry than any iron-knit shirt. Perhaps Oswald would still be in the north fighting the Picts. That would at least give him some respite. Maybe he would even be able to return to Ubbanford.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 20