Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

Sunniva. How Cyneburg reminded him of her. The queen had the same beauty. The same golden locks. And yet, Sunniva had a strength that was evident to all. It was encased in the soft, pliant flesh of woman, but Sunniva’s heart was as strong as the iron she had forged with her father.

  A fresh cloud of smoke billowed past Beobrand.

  “Do not blow so hard, Acennan,” shouted Garr. He was not one to lose his temper, but Acennan’s lack of patience was clearly too much for him. “You will snuff it out before it can catch.”

  Beobrand ignored them. Sunniva would have had the fire blazing by now. She had always had a way with flames.

  He shut his eyes against the sting of the woodsmoke. The twigs Garr had placed on the fire began to crackle and snap as the flames leapt into life. For a terrible moment, he could see the flames that had consumed Sunniva’s body. Had those same flames burnt away something within him? He wondered whether the sound of flames hid the cackling of the vicious gods who laughed to see the despair that was woven into the wyrd of men.

  Opening his eyes so as not to see the images in his mind he beheld that the sun had fallen behind middle earth now. Complete darkness would be upon them soon. A tear in the clouds showed the first star of the night, glinting like a fine jewel on rich, purple silk, such as that worn by kings and queens.

  It would be a cold night. For a moment, he thought of Reaghan. Her long dark tresses. Her slim form pressing against his flesh. Was she also looking up at the first star? Beobrand felt a sharp pang of guilt, as if he was being disloyal to Sunniva. He thrust the feeling roughly away. Sunniva was gone. And the gods alone knew what that thrall girl was doing. Probably swiving one of his gesithas. He scowled into the darkening night.

  The fire would have to be enough to warm him.

  As if welcomed into his mind by the night, the tiniest of voices whispered to him. And what of Octa? Was he safe? Had the witch, Nelda, cursed him? Perhaps he had been stricken down like so many babes with the coughing sickness. Mayhap he was already dead. Perhaps they all were. Ubbanford could be a wasteland of blackened timbers and bones. Had Torran exacted his vengeance?

  “You are nervous,” the voice startled him and he spun around. Eowa stood close. He never talked much. The atheling rode alongside each day with scarcely a word being said. He did not complain, and he was helpful when the need arose. Fetching wood. Saddling the mounts. Two days before, he had even pulled Acennan from a bog after he had fallen from his horse. Acennan had been covered in thick black mud and Eowa had got himself caked in the stuff too. He was a good travelling companion, and yet, they were not friends. How could they be? They were taking him to his doom.

  “Nervous?” answered Beobrand, angry at himself for not being aware of the man’s approach. He was too distracted. It would be his undoing.

  “The further north we get, the more anxious you become. You are like a cat before a thunderstorm.”

  Beobrand snorted at the description. He would never admit it to Eowa, but the Mercian was right.

  “We head towards war,” he said by way of explanation.

  Eowa shook his head.

  “There is more,” he said, looking sidelong at Beobrand, “I do not believe you fear battle.” Beobrand recalled the terror of awaiting the clash of shieldwalls. Many strong men were reduced to mewling wrecks, puking like children. He remembered the screams of the dying. The stink of shit and piss. The pallid, mud-splattered skin of the corpses left for the ravens to gorge on.

  “Any man who is not a fool fears battle.”

  Eowa nodded slowly.

  “And yet, you fear something else more than you fear the shieldwall.”

  Beobrand looked at him sharply.

  “I am no fool. I fear many things.”

  Eowa placed his hand briefly on Beobrand’s shoulder. Beobrand tensed, uncomfortable with the contact. What did Eowa’s sudden closeness mean?

  “All men are worry-struck at times, Beobrand. It is the way of life. Especially for one such as you. A leader.”

  Beobrand frowned.

  “My worries are my own concern,” Beobrand said, his tone curt.

  “That they are,” replied Eowa. “Perhaps you worry about a woman?”

  “Perhaps,” said Beobrand, his head once again full of Sunniva, Reaghan and the shadow of Nelda. “Or more than one.”

  Eowa laughed. Acennan and Garr looked up from the fire that now burnt bright and hot. None of them had ever heard the atheling laugh before.

  “Women. Always women,” he said. “We men may carry spears and swords into battle. Lords rule our peoples. And yet who has more power? The men who die and fight, or the women who bewitch us all, and bring our children into the world?”

  Beobrand did not answer. He was unused to speaking of such things. Had Coenred been here, he would not have been so surprised. This was the sort of topic the monk would enjoy discussing.

  “When I first saw Cyneburg, it was as if all other women vanished from the world,” said Eowa, his voice growing soft and distant as his memories returned to him. “I could no more let her travel to Bernicia, than I could will the sun not to set at night. I was entranced.” He sighed. His breath smoked in the cool evening air. “I would risk all I had for the chance of one more night with her.”

  “Was it worth it?” Beobrand felt ashamed of the question as the words left his lips. He understood too well the power of emotion that had led Eowa to act the way he had.

  Eowa laughed again, this time a harsh sound, empty of mirth.

  “It was cold and miserable. You pursued us like a pack of hounds on the scent of a stag. We could not rest. How had I believed we would escape? It was madness.”

  “Yes,” said Beobrand, “but a madness I too have felt. Perhaps the gods enjoy watching us weak men losing our minds over women. Lucky for me the woman who bewitched me was not married to another. Not married to a king.”

  Eowa smile ruefully.

  “The gods will have a fine time watching me then, for I truly lost my mind. And now, I fear it is too late to find it again. All I can do is face my wyrd with pride.” Where did Eowa find such calm acceptance?

  “That is no small thing, Eowa, son of Pybba,” said Beobrand.

  In the dim light, Eowa’s teeth gleamed in a smile.

  “Thank you, Beobrand of Ubbanford. Know this. If one of the things that preys on you is my fate, push it from your mind. You are doing what is right. It is I who did wrong to your lord king. My life is in Oswald’s hands.”

  Eowa, atheling of Mercia, did not wait for an answer. He walked back to the warmth of the fire, leaving Beobrand staring after him, the perplexed expression on his face hidden by the shadows of dusk.

  *

  Beobrand patted the neck of the dappled mare he rode. The small horse had proven a steadfast companion on the long ride from Wessex. Now they were close to Ubbanford at last and Beobrand imagined riding once more on Sceadugenga. The huge stallion was stronger and brave, but the smaller mare would certainly have a place in his stables. At the moment, he could scarcely think of riding yet further north on any horse. His body ached, though his muscles were now accustomed to long days in the saddle. A rest would be most welcome.

  And yet he knew that there would be little time to rest. At Bebbanburg, they had heard tell of the conflict that yet raged in the north of the kingdom. On the very borders of the land of the Picts. Oswald would not wish them to waste time recuperating. He would expect Beobrand to gather his men and ride to add his spears to the Northumbrian force.

  They passed the trees where he had found the horse skull and bones. Beobrand scanned the bushes but could see nothing in the foliage. Had his gesithas captured Nelda? Perhaps the witch had moved on. Maybe Bassus had killed her. The thought of killing a woman sat heavily on him, but what else could be done? Hengist’s mother had sought him out, followed him to his home. She would bring mischief, which would only mean one thing: people would die. Better her than one of his folk. Or one of his kin.

  Garr c
ame riding towards them from where he had been scouting the land ahead.

  “What news?” asked Beobrand, his voice clipped, anxiety rasping in his throat. They had ridden so far, and now, so close to his hall, he was suddenly overcome with the fear that something terrible had happened. He half-expected Garr to speak of burnt ruins where the buildings of Ubbanford should stand. But he held his face still, showing no sign of the dark worries that flapped inside his mind like a trapped murder of crows.

  “All looks well, lord,” replied Garr. “No sign of Picts here. They must all be further north.”

  Beobrand let out his breath and nodded.

  “It is good. Let us ride on then. To Ubbanford. To home.”

  They spurred their mounts forward into the cold breeze that came from the north. The day was dry, but dark clouds hung ominous and brooding low overhead.

  Acennan and Garr cantered away, but Eowa matched pace with Beobrand. He had been a pleasant travelling companion these last days. Since that first conversation by the campfire, they had spent more time conversing; during the days of riding and at night beside crackling fires in sheltered forest glades or beside the roaring hearth fires of lords who provided them with hospitality.

  Beobrand had grown to enjoy the atheling’s company. He was thoughtful; a man of conviction. Not once had he attempted to flee, instead being driven by the weight of his own words. Beobrand understood that sense of duty. Understood and admired it. And yet, being bound to one’s oath seemed a fickle thing as they rode ever closer to Oswald, and what would almost certainly prove the death of Eowa. Beobrand wished he could see a way to avoid the outcome he saw looming. But how could he not bring the man to justice before his king?

  “These are good tidings,” said Eowa, “I know you have been anxious. All the tales I hear of these Picts portray them as a savage and dangerous tribe indeed. Living on the frontier of their land must be hard.”

  “They are not one tribe,” answered Beobrand. “There are many folk in the north – men of Dál Riata, Ystrad Clud, Gododdin, Picts. But ‘Picts’ is what they call them here, in Bernicia.”

  “Well, it seems fitting,” Eowa said. “The Waelisc call us all ‘Seaxons’, even though we are many tribes and folk in the different kingdoms of Albion.”

  “True,” said Beobrand with a grin. His fear fell from him like snow from a steep roof and he was suddenly filled with the joy of homecoming. He had not known how much he had longed to return to Ubbanford until this moment. “Come, we are near my hall. Tonight we will rest in comfort and safety. We can worry of Picts and what is in store for us tomorrow.”

  He dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and the beast, picking up on her rider’s mood, reared up and then flung herself forward into a gallop. Beobrand laughed as the wind ruffled his long hair, pulling it from his face.

  Home.

  He missed the people. Bassus and the rest of his gesithas.

  Reaghan.

  With a jolt he thought of Octa, his son. He missed them all. But mostly, he was glad to be home.

  Behind him he heard Eowa whoop and holler as he urged his own mount into a run. Beobrand was not a great rider and the mare was not fast. If Eowa wished for a race, Beobrand did not think he could beat the atheling. He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw Eowa closing on him. Kicking the mare’s sides once more, Beobrand slapped her rump and shouted.

  “Come on, girl. We can beat them! We are almost home.”

  He was full of the excitement of the chase. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes sparkled as they sped down the last hill towards Ubbanford. Eowa was close behind, laughing with the thrill of riding with abandon. Ubbanford was as Beobrand remembered it. Nothing had changed in the weeks they had been away. Smoke drifted from the scattered buildings, hazing over the settlement. Beyond the houses and the old hall in the valley, the broad river Tuidi flowed, deep and strong.

  On the hill to his right, standing proud and imposing, was his new hall. The hall he had built with Sunniva. For a moment, he considered turning to ride up to his hall, but then he noticed Garr and Acennan had ridden down to Ubba’s hall. They had dismounted before the old hall that nestled amongst the smaller huts and houses. Who was that there with them?

  Beobrand leaned forward, peering.

  Eowa, with a surge of speed from his horse, rode close to Beobrand. The mare was tiring. But Beobrand cared nothing now for the race. There was something wrong. Ice fingers of fear scraped down his back. Figures in dark robes milled before the hall. Who was that there?

  Unthinking, he pulled gently on the reins and the mare slowed to a canter. Eowa sped past, cheering loudly. Beobrand ignored him.

  And then, he recognised the foremost robe-clad figure. His forehead was shaved back to the crown of his head, leaving his long brown locks to fall behind his ears. The face was young. It was a soft face, that he knew was prone to smiling. But now it was pinched and pale. The skin below the eyes was dark and drawn.

  Beobrand hauled the mare to a halt before the figure. Eowa had already leapt from his horse, joining Acennan and Garr who were surrounded by the people who had spilt out of the hall.

  Sliding from the small horse’s back, Beobrand grunted at the jab of pain in his leg. It was almost healed, but just when he had all but forgotten about it, the wound reminded him of its presence.

  “Coenred,” said Beobrand to the young monk, who stood wide-eyed and pallid before the open doors of Ubba’s hall, “what brings you to Ubbanford?” Coenred did not respond immediately. Beobrand noted other monks behind him. He recognised the new bishop of Lindisfarena, Aidan. He too had the look of a man exhausted by endless toil. Or stricken with grief.

  Others crowded around them. He saw Elmer. Aethelwulf standing close to Ceawlin. Attor, whole and well, seemingly fully-recovered from his wounds. Beobrand was glad to see them all, and yet he was unable to focus. Something had drawn his gaze and now he could not tear his attention away from it.

  There was a dark smudge on Aidan’s cheek. As the holy man walked slowly towards him, eyes deep and sorrowful, Beobrand saw that it was blood. Looking down he saw the man’s hands were covered in gore.

  Something awful had occurred here. Dragging in a shuddering breath, Beobrand spoke again.

  “What has happened?” his voice cracked. He swallowed and blurted out: “Is it my son?” Terror lent force to the question, surprising him, but as he spoke the words he knew that was his worst fear. Something must have happened to tiny Octa and he had not been there to protect him.

  Aidan stepped close and placed a bloody hand on his arm.

  “Tell me, priest,” Beobrand shouted. “Is my son dead? Speak man.”

  All around them, the people of Ubbanford and the newly-arrived warriors were silent. Coenred said some words in the tongue of the Christ priests. Aidan nodded and spoke in a calm voice, as one would to a frightened animal.

  “Octa is well, Beobrand,” he said, his accent strong, his words slow. “Your son is well.”

  Relief flooded through Beobrand and he almost fell. Aidan gripped his arm, held him upright. Beobrand’s eyes returned to the blood on the bishop’s face and hands.

  “Then who… whose blood?” Beobrand managed at last.

  “It is Bassus,” Coenred said, stepping forward. “He was gravely wounded and they sent for us. We prayed and prayed. The abbot tried everything he knew. But it was no good. I am sorry, Beobrand. We were too late.”

  Part Three

  Siege of Souls

  Chapter 27

  Reaghan poured more of the good mead into Eowa’s drinking horn. The lady Rowena had ordered that the best food and drink be prepared for the return of their lord. Their lord. Her lord. She blushed at the stupid thought, but she could not hide the pleasure at seeing Beobrand again. Would that the circumstances had been better. What had happened to his friend, Bassus, was terrible, but her concerns lay only with Beobrand. She flicked a glance again at the partition to the rear of the hall. Bassus lay there, away fro
m the feasting, in a darkened room. Alone, apart from his friend Beobrand.

  “Reaghan! Foolish girl. Look what you are about,” snapped Rowena.

  With a shock Reaghan saw that she had spilt the mead. It trickled over the board of the high table and onto Eowa’s thigh.

  Flushing a deeper shade of red, Reaghan used her apron to mop up the worst of the spill from the table.

  “I am sorry, lord,” she said, her voice quivering.

  Eowa reached up and placed a calming hand on hers.

  “There is no harm done here.” He offered her a smile. He was handsome. She had heard them say he was the brother of Penda, an atheling of Mercia. Though why he was here in Ubbanford, she had no idea.

  She pulled her hand free from his soft grasp and retreated to fetch more drink.

  “Stupid girl,” Rowena said.

  Reaghan hurried away. These days she did all she could to keep her distance from Rowena and her daughter, Edlyn. Maida and Odelyna helped by finding her chores to do, but she could not avoid the high-born women all the time. Whenever their paths crossed she seemed to anger them. She had felt the lash of a hazel switch many times this summer. The punishments hurt her, leaving welts that Odelyna treated with leechcraft, but the pain was nothing when compared to the loneliness she felt. She was hollow. The tiny babe that had been growing inside her had been expelled by her body leaving her weak and empty. She hated thinking of that day, but it seemed to be lurking in her memories, like a wolf in a dark forest, ready to pounce whenever she lowered her guard. The cramps had been terrible, her body racked with pain. In the end, she had voided everything from her womb, leaving her with nothing. She was a thrall. Nothing was all she could ever have, and yet, when she could have had one thing, a perfect thing, she had chosen to destroy it. To kill it.

  Tears welled in her eyes and she struggled to refill her jug from the barrel.

  Odelyna and Maida told her she had done what was best. But they had no inkling of the devastation she felt inside.

  The best days were when Maida asked her to watch the children. This kept her far from Edlyn and her mother, and she found the company of the little ones soothing. The children liked her. She had a soft way about her that they took to easily. They did what she asked of them, and in return, she would devise games to keep them amused. Octa, the baby, was her favourite. She relished the moments when he grew sleepy after suckling from Maida. Reaghan would take him with pleasure, clean him and then nestle the babe close to her body. She would close her eyes and breathe in the scent of his baby head, stroke the gossamer softness of his blond hair. Hair that would be the colour of his father’s when he grew. Those moments of closeness with Beobrand’s son were the times she cherished most.