Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  To Reaghan. To Bassus. To Octa.

  “How do things fare with Eadgyth?” Beobrand asked, wishing to shift the conversation from the thorny issue of Cyneburg and Eowa.

  Acennan’s face lit up as if a cloud had split and the sun’s rays had illuminated him.

  “She is a marvel, Beobrand,” he said, grinning. “Who would have thought that travelling to Wessex would see me find such a gem?”

  “You mean to marry her?”

  The smile fell from Acennan’s face, like a child caught stealing.

  “I believe she would have me, but I will need to speak to her brother first.”

  Beobrand nodded. Wulfgar, as her older brother, could speak for her family, but he doubted the Wessex thegn would give her to Acennan.

  “I’m sure he can be swayed… if you offer a large enough brýdgifu. If you have need of treasure, I can help you.”

  “I give you thanks of that, lord,” said Acennan, suddenly formal, “but I hope to be able to pay for my bride’s gift with my own worth.”

  Acennan was a proud man, as it should be.

  “Just remember what I have said. I am your lord, as you seem so keen to remind me,” he smiled wearily, “and as such, I must give rings and treasure to you. We took much from the Mercians. You will have your share, Acennan.”

  Acennan did not reply, but dipped his head in acceptance of Beobrand’s words.

  “Besides,” said Beobrand, “if you do not manage to convince Wulfgar to give you Eadgyth in marriage, you will soon find yourself in the same position as Eowa with Cyneburg. And I do not wish to be sent to hunt you down.”

  Wulfgar was at the crest of the hill now. The rest of the group had already disappeared over the other side. Not wishing to lose them from view, Beobrand dug his heels into his mare’s flanks. The beast shook its head at the demand for speed after so many days of travel, but the horse, while small, had a strong spirit and with a snort, she jumped forward and took Beobrand at a canter up the slope.

  He turned back to see Acennan staring at him. His face was thoughtful. Beobrand hoped he had not sown the seeds of an idea in his friends mind.

  Why did women always bring such trouble and confusion?

  Chapter 25

  Beobrand awoke with a jolt. The echo of a scream hung in the air and he looked about him nervously at the slumbering men scattered about the hall. Had he let out the cry of anguish into the silent darkness of the hall? No. Acennan snored from where he lay closest to Beobrand. None of the other men stirred. It must have been in his dream.

  He stood quietly and made his way to the door of the hall. A dim light glowed under it. Dawn was close. The large doors creaked and the door warden turned to see who was up so early. The hooded figure nodded at Beobrand, but did not speak. In no mood for conversation, he was glad of the warden’s silence.

  Walking towards the soaring walls of Eoferwic, he picked his way through the mud-clogged courtyard, skirting black puddles.

  His father had been in his dream. Sunniva too.

  And baby Octa.

  Beobrand’s teeth ground together as he clenched his jaw. The dream was yet fresh in his mind. Grimgundi, that hate-filled brute, had first beaten Sunniva about the face, kicking her savagely after she fell to the ground. Then, tired or bored of the sport of hurting a woman, he had reached for the infant. All the while, Beobrand had been unable to move. His feet were as tree trunks, rooted to the ground. He had watched in horror as his father had picked up Octa from his small cot. In those huge, calloused hands that Beobrand remembered so well, Grimgundi had raised the child high in the air. A crazed smile split his face like a scar.

  Beobrand had fought with all his will to move, to throw himself at his father. To stop the vile man from hurting anyone else. But he was frozen. Beobrand had started to wail when Grimgundi had dashed Octa’s brains out against a wooden pillar. Blood and bone had splattered his face.

  He climbed the crumbling stone steps up to the wall. A cold wind blew, cooling the tears on his cheeks. He swiped them away. His father could never hurt Octa. Beobrand stared north. The dawn lit brooding clouds there. Summer was nothing more than a memory now.

  Just like Grimgundi.

  Turning south, the land was all shadows and dull glimmers of water. The Usa ran broad and deep close to the fortress walls, beyond that there was no sign of life apart from a flock of starlings, way off in the distance; swirling flecks against the grey sky. He wondered where the Mercians were. Would they have ridden through the night, or risked camping so close to Eoferwic?

  The previous day, when they had come within sight of the stone-walled fort, Beobrand had halted the riders. He had considered what to do long and hard as they had ridden north through Mercia, and he could think of no better course than this. He had sent Eowa’s men away, with what was left of the provisions and the horses they rode. But no weapons. He would not be watching his back all the way to Ubbanford. There were too many of them to guard. They had given their word and having travelled with them for several days now, he was sure they were good men, men of honour. But they were sworn to Eowa, and as they got ever closer to what would surely be the cutting of his wyrd-thread, would their need to protect their lord outweigh their oath to an enemy? It was an easy question to answer. Given the chance, they would turn on their captors and there would be further bloodshed. And there had been enough of that.

  They had not wanted to leave their lord, but Beobrand had made up his mind and he would not be swayed.

  “You have my word that Eowa will be treated fairly. Oswald is gōd cyning.” The words had offered them little comfort. They knew what kings were capable of.

  In the end, it was Eowa himself who had quietened them, convincing them to return to their home.

  “Prepare my hall for winter,” he had said to his gesithas, most of whom looked ready to weep, “prepare it for my return. For if I yet live, I give you my oath that I will return to you.” At the mention of the possibility of his death, one of the warriors, Scur, had let out a moan. Eowa had raised his hands for silence.

  “Await my return or tidings of my death, but know this. Should Oswald King take my life, it is as it should be.” Scur had wailed then, and Cyneburg had lent her own sobs to the sounds of grief. Eowa had not looked at her.

  “Do not seek vengeance for my death, for I have wronged Oswald, and my life is his to take.”

  It had been well-said and Beobrand had felt a lump in his throat as the Mercians rode away, shoulders slumped and heads down.

  The breeze picked up, swinging his cloak about him. His hair, long and matted from the dirt of travel, blew into his eyes, and he turned his face northward once more, into the wind. There was the brittle promise of snow and ice in that wind. His ribs ached at the change in the season. He could feel the throb of his heartbeat in the toe he’d broken kicking one of Nathair’s warriors.

  “Winter is coming,” said a familiar voice.

  Beobrand made no show of the surprise he felt. He had not noticed Acennan following him through Eoferwic. For the first time in many days he had allowed himself to lower his guard. He would have to be careful. Perhaps they were safe enough in Eoferwic, capital of Deira, with its old Roman walls, and the fine oak hall and new Christ-god temple, but the north was far from safe. The aches he felt reminded him all too well of that.

  “Aye, there will be snow before too long,” Beobrand said, without turning to face Acennan. “There is a storm growing in the north. I can feel it. We must hurry. I fear Oswald will be in need of our swords before the winter snows.”

  “Would that we could tarry here awhile. I ache from being in the saddle.”

  Beobrand turned to him.

  “Perhaps you ache for something else?” He arched an eyebrow.

  Acennan let out a short laugh.

  “Perhaps I do at that.” Then suddenly serious, “It has been a long time for me, Beobrand.”

  “I am sorry, but you will have to wait some more, my friend. We ride n
orth today. And the queen stays here.”

  “Can we not take her to Bebbanburg? Surely they will be safe there?”

  Beobrand shook his head.

  “Cyneburg and Eadgyth stay here. They would slow us down and I would leave them far from the Picts. We almost lost Oswald’s queen once, I will not risk it again. I have spoken to the king’s steward here. His lady is already doting on the queen and her handmaiden. There are warriors and walls here to keep them safe.” He looked at Acennan’s round face. Fingers of dawn light softened the cheeks, but he could not fail to see the tightness of the mouth, the anger and disappointment that lurked just beneath the surface.

  “We will return as soon as we are able, Acennan. I give you my word.”

  Acennan said nothing, but let out a long sigh. His breath steamed briefly in the cold before the wind shredded it.

  “But first, my friend,” Beobrand said, clapping Acennan on the shoulder, “we must say our farewells.”

  *

  “You ride north so soon?” asked Wulfgar. Beobrand noted that his dark beard was shaggier than it had been, less well-groomed. The ride through Mercia had taken its toll on them all. “You could not stay awhile to rest before continuing?”

  Beobrand did not need to look to Acennan to know that his friend was listening carefully from where he sat at the ale-bench of the great hall.

  “I wish that we had time to recover, but no, we must head northward today. Our king is in need of all the spears he can field. We are wasted here. Besides,” said Beobrand, flicking a glance to where Eowa sat alone at the far end of the hearth, “we must take our guest to Oswald. His wyrd is in our lord’s hands, and I would be rid of the burden of warding the atheling of Mercia.”

  Wulfgar nodded and sipped at the warm ale in his wooden cup.

  “I will miss you, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”

  Beobrand’s face clouded at the mention of his father; the dream was yet fresh in his memory. Wulfgar looked away quickly, perhaps misinterpreting the reaction to his words.

  “I prefer to be known as Beobrand of Ubbanford now. My father is dead.”

  Wulfgar looked back at him, a strange expression on his face.

  “We all live in our father’s shadow. But we will be remembered by our own deeds, not those of our forebears. I know nought of your father’s exploits, but yours are sung in halls across Albion. You need not worry about how people speak your name, Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford.”

  Beobrand smiled at the Wessex thegn and raised his own cup to him in salute.

  “I will miss you too, Wulfgar, son of Ethelbert.” Even as he said the words, he realised it was true. They had not grown close, but the journey and battle in Mercia had changed how they each felt about the other. Gone was the rivalry and suspicion. It had been replaced by mutual respect. “Perhaps one day we will be able to finish our bout to find who is the better swordsman.” He grinned at the West Seaxon.

  “Perhaps,” replied Wulfgar, also smiling. “I will ride south soon, but someone will need to bring the queen her waggon-load of goods that she left at Anwealda’s hall. I will ask that it may be me who returns to Northumbria. Perhaps I will even travel to Bebbanburg, or your own Ubbanford, if I would be welcome.”

  “We have stood together against a common foe, Wulfgar. You will always be welcome in my hall.”

  They rose and gripped each other’s forearm in the warrior grip.

  Then, Wulfgar strode along the bench to where Acennan sat.

  “And you, brave Acennan, do not think I am ignorant of the thing you would ask of me.” Acennan made to reply, but Wulfgar held up his hand to silence him. “Do not ask it of me now. Go north, fulfil your duties to your king and lord. Then, should you still feel the same way when I return, seek me out and speak your wish. If my sister is agreeable, I believe we will be able to strike a bargain that will see us become more than friends and shield-brothers.”

  Acennan seemed unable to speak, a rarity indeed. Beaming, he leapt to his feet and offered his hand to Wulfgar. At last he found his voice. Turning to Beobrand he said, “Come, lord. We must be away. There are Picts to slay in the north.”

  *

  Beobrand marvelled at Cyneburg’s beauty. Gone was the grime of travel. The women of Eoferwic had spared nothing in making their new queen and guest comfortable. Her hair, brushed and freshly plaited, shone in the light of the expensive wax candles that flickered on the table near where she sat. She wore clean clothes, probably the finest that could be found in the town. Her blue gown had sleeves with cleverly embroidered grey stripes. Around her narrow waist was a woven girdle in green, white and indigo. At her neck shone a necklace of garnet and gold. She was stunning.

  Oswald would have been a lucky man, had she not loved another.

  Around her were gathered the ladies of Eoferwic. The steward’s wife sat closest to the young queen, but it seemed that all the women of any worth – wives of thegns and other freemen – wanted to spend time with Cyneburg. They had been chattering quietly, sewing and embroidering as they talked, when Beobrand had approached them with the news that he was travelling north.

  Now, all the faces around the table were staring his way. He swallowed, feeling like a naughty child before all of these women. By the gods, this was worse than standing before Cadwallon’s Waelisc in the shieldwall!

  Clearing his throat, he began again.

  “We leave today, my queen. We head north to lend our support to your husband, the king.”

  Cyneburg did not reply, but tears welled and glistened in her eyes.

  Beobrand’s mouth grew dry under the scrutiny of the watching women.

  “A word, if I may, my queen,” he said, indicating for them to step away from the onlookers. The women would gossip at them talking in private, but he feared the alternative was worse.

  Cyneburg rose gracefully and followed him a few paces away from the table, out of the pool of light cast by the candles. Behind them, he heard the women murmur amongst themselves. No doubt they debated what he needed to say to her that they could not be allowed to overhear. He hoped they would not guess the truth.

  “So soon? Can I bid… him farewell?” Tears brimmed now and one toppled down her cheek. Anger flared in Beobrand.

  “You cannot speak with him,” he hissed. Instinctively, she took a step away from the force of his ire. “And you must dry your eyes. None can know of your feelings. Do you wish death upon you both? Should anyone find out the truth, your deaths will be assured.”

  Another tear rolled down her face. But he saw her square her shoulders and take a deep breath. She dabbed at her eyes with a sleeve. Her face was still, impassive and cold now. The face of a statue. Perhaps she feared that showing any emotion would cause her true feelings to tumble out.

  “Good. You are a queen now. Do not forget your place. Let nobody know the truth of what happened between you both.”

  “So you will not tell Oswald?” Her eyes pleaded with him. His heart leapt in his chest. Such beauty. Such perfection.

  “I ride north. Eowa must answer to your husband.”

  To her credit, no more tears came, but her pain was plain to see, despite no change to her expression. He could see it in her eyes.

  “You must do what your duty demands of you,” she said, her voice flat and cold as ice on a winter lake.

  Beobrand could find no more words. She had the truth of it. He must do his duty to his lord. He was oath-sworn. Nothing else mattered.

  He turned abruptly and strode away. The eyes of many women followed him as he left the hall.

  Chapter 26

  One of the mounts whinnied in the gathering gloom of the night. The others replied with their own snorts and blows. Beobrand glanced over to them, but there was nothing amiss. They were safely tethered and were merely settling down for the night after another long day’s ride.

  Behind him, Garr and Acennan tended to the small campfire that guttered and smoked. It had taken them a long while to get a spark to catch
and now they both leaned in close, bickering about how best to conjure the elusive flames they sought. The flames that would dry their sodden clothes, warm them and allow them to eat hot food this night. Darkness was closing around them like a cloak and if they did not succeed soon, they would have no light.

  They had travelled for three days since Eoferwic, staying in halls and steadings where possible. They had left Dreogan and the rest of Athelstan’s men behind. They could find their own way back to their lord’s hall. He wondered whether they would hurry with the tidings they carried. He would have been tempted to tarry a while in Eoferwic.

  It had rained heavily that morning, a harsh wind buffeting their faces as if with pebbles, such was its force. The road was slick and treacherous; the streams swollen. At one crumbled bridge they had been forced to travel far to find an alternative crossing. They had covered much less ground than they had anticipated when they had left the hall of Beadurof that sunrise. The rain had ceased in the afternoon, but the chill wind still blew from the north. As the sun had begun to sink towards the western horizon, Beobrand had led them to a wooded hill that would provide them some shelter. If they could get the fire burning, it would not be so uncomfortable.

  He turned away from the camp and stared into the north. The last rays of the sun picked out the edges of black clouds that rolled over the high hills of Bernicia. This would be his third winter in the north. Each had brought its own horrors. Cathryn, raped and mutilated on the frozen forest floor. Nelda’s shrieked curse from within the depths of her cavern fastness.

  He hated winters. He loathed being enclosed in smoky crowded halls. Sunniva had hated it too. They both loved the open spaces of the hills. The cliffs overlooking the slate-grey Whale Road. The forested valleys that followed the great rivers as they flowed forever towards the sea.