Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Once, when she had opened her eyes after snoozing for some time with the boy snuggled on her lap, she had found Maida watching her, with a knowing expression. Reaghan had known what the goodwife had been thinking. “The child is not yours.”

  She had stood, placing Octa into his crib and made to leave the hut. Maida placed her hand on Reaghan’s arm, stopping her.

  “Never speak to him about what happened this summer, Reaghan. You did what needed to be done, but he would not understand.”

  Reaghan had stared at the woman for a long time. Maida had been as kind to her as anyone, but she did not comprehend the guilt she felt whenever she held Octa. The guilt and the jealousy.

  She nodded.

  “I know,” Reaghan had said.

  Sunniva had given Beobrand a son. Reaghan had killed one.

  She carried the jug of mead back to the benches, filling cups and horns. Letting the noise of chatter wash over her unheeded.

  Maida was right. She could not tell Beobrand of what she had done. But she needed this emptiness inside to be filled. Movement from the partition drew her gaze. Beobrand stepped from the doorway, his face drawn and haggard. The events of the past year had aged him in ways that could not easily be seen. His eyes were pinched and dark-ringed; his step heavy and full of sorrow. And yet his body was still that of a young warrior, tall and strong. A lord in his prime.

  Their gazes met across the fuggy haze of the hall and, as if he could hear her thoughts, he pulled himself upright, squared his shoulders. With an imperceptible nod in her direction, he strode towards his gesithas.

  “Have you spared enough of my mead for me?” he said. She watched as Acennan stood, offering Beobrand a full drinking horn. No words were said, but she saw the silent communication between them. Beobrand took the horn and drained it.

  Aethelwulf stood, raising his own cup.

  “Welcome back, lord,” he shouted, his voice raucous with the drink he had already consumed. He emptied his cup in one quaff.

  “Be sure to leave enough for my guest and I to get drunk, Aethelwulf. We have been on the road for a long time, and travel is thirsty work. Besides, we must drink our fill tonight, for tomorrow we ride north.”

  The warriors must have already heard this news, or guessed it, for they seemed unsurprised. They hammered the boards and cheered their returned lord, as Beobrand made his way back to the high table.

  Reaghan felt her eyes prickle. She would not cry. Tears gave no help, did nothing. But the sudden sadness that came upon her now forced her to lower her head and wipe at her eyes. He was to leave so soon. They had not even spoken since his arrival. She looked back to where he now sat talking to Eowa.

  Rowena was right. She was a foolish girl. There was nothing between them. She was a thrall. He was her lord. Looking back, she realised they had seldom spoken. To him she was a mere plaything. A body on which to expend his lust. And yet, he had come for her when she had been taken by Nathair’s sons. And he had asked Maida to watch over her. Her stomach twisted. He had planted his seed inside her.

  She saw that Beobrand’s horn was empty and he looked towards her, raising the vessel.

  She blushed and felt a rush of heat throughout her body. She went to him. Did his eyes linger on her as she walked?

  As she leaned in to pour the drink, his hand brushed her arm. She almost spilt the mead once more, such was the jolt of desire that ran through her. The force of it shocked her.

  He turned his head to her and whispered, “Will you come to me this night?”

  Her throat was closed. She could not speak. His touch burnt her skin. The smell of him, sweat, dust, horse and mead, filled her nose.

  She nodded. Whether Beobrand knew it or even cared, she understood something in that moment. He may be her lord, and she merely a thrall. But he had not commanded her to go to him. And she knew something else, he would never have to, she would go to him as willingly as a goodwife goes to her husband.

  *

  Beobrand lay still with his eyes shut, listening to Reaghan’s steady soft breathing. Her warmth enveloped him under the furs they shared. Gently, not wishing to wake her, he stroked a hand along the curve of her back. She let out a muffled moan of pleasure at his touch. He recalled the sounds of her passion the night before. At first, he had been dull with drink, exhausted and still stunned at the news about Bassus. But Reaghan had caressed and kissed his body until he could think of nothing else but her. She seemed to have made it her duty to bed him that night. Beobrand smiled. Who was he to question her duty?

  In the end, their love-making had been thunderous. He had missed the touch of a woman these past weeks and once his body was inflamed, he could not hold back. Reaghan too appeared desperate to take him inside of her. She clung to him, gasping and moaning as he thrust into her until they had both screamed out their passion and collapsed into a sated, contented sleep.

  Reaghan was a mystery to him. A thrall who had ensnared him somehow. He thought of what Eowa had said about women. Who was it who really held the power?

  He opened his eyes and looked at the dark hair that encircled Reaghan’s slim face. Not the shining gold of Sunniva’s locks. In an instant, his warm contentment was gone, as if washed away with ice-cold water from the Tuidi. He sighed and stood, lifting his breeches and kirtle from the floor and pulling them on. Would he never know true happiness again? Perhaps he did not deserve it. He yet lived, while so many others had gone to the afterlife. He knew what Bassus would say. That he should not dwell on the past and merely enjoy the moment. The giant warrior was probably right, but it was not an easy thing to do.

  Was Bassus now thinking of the past; of what he had lost? No. Beobrand doubted the pain of the present would allow his friend to think of anything but his current situation. The shock of seeing the huge warrior laid low was still fresh in his mind. Bassus had seemed an invincible force. Initially, when he had galloped into Ubbanford, Beobrand had believed Bassus dead, and felt great relief when Coenred managed to get through to him that his friend yet lived. But his joy had been short-lived. He had hurried into the partitioned area at the back of Ubba’s hall to be confronted with the terrifying stench of flesh-rot, blood, sweat and fear. And overlying it all, the cloying scent of burnt flesh.

  Bassus lay on a cot. In the dim flicker of the rush lights his sallow face showed no sign of life. The massive warrior’s skin was pallid and bejewelled with fever-sweat. Leaning in close to him, Beobrand felt the heat wash off him like a forge. Or a bone-fire. He yet lived, but Aidan and Coenred had said it was in God’s hands now whether he stayed on middle earth or departed. Looking at the leaf-wrapped stump of the man’s left arm, Beobrand found it hard to believe that Bassus could survive. But was it truly the great warrior’s wyrd to die thus, sweating and shaking after losing his arm to a wound from a treacherous Pictish arrow?

  Beobrand pulled on his leather shoes and laced them as quickly as he could, silently cursing the clumsiness of his missing fingers. He had survived losing them. If anyone could live after having their arm taken, it was Bassus. Did the gods laugh to see one so mighty brought down thus?

  Beholding Bassus weak, fevered and broken, had struck Beobrand like a physical blow. He had sat by his friend for a long time. Tears had slid down his face at the thought of losing another loved one. Staring at Bassus’ pain-tight features in dismay, Beobrand had heard the big man’s voice in his mind, as clear as if Bassus had awoken and spoken them. “Don’t sit here weeping for me, boy. I can take care of myself. You have men to lead. Get out there and show them you are their lord.”

  And so he had scrubbed the tears from his face with his calloused hands and returned to the hall. To the chatter, food and drinking. To the riddles and boasts of his men. Gram had asked him how Bassus did, unable to conceal the fear in his voice. He too was in shock at the great warrior’s decline from the arrow wound.

  “Bassus will be up and drinking us out of mead before you know it,” Beobrand had replied. He hoped the anguis
h and uncertainty behind his words were hidden by his bluff tone.

  Beobrand made his way quietly to the door of the sleeping chamber. He glanced back at the slumbering form of Reaghan. She looked so small and peaceful. Would that he could share in that peace a while longer. He drew in a deep breath, turned and left her to sleep.

  *

  Coenred’s eyelids drooped. He yearned for sleep, but knew it would not be allowed now until after sunset. He sipped at the weak ale in his cup, then took a bite of bread. It was hard, so he dipped it in the ale and took another bite. The food and drink slowly seeped into his body and he began to feel more alert. He had been awake for much of the night. They had prayed over Bassus and sung the offices. He wondered if he would ever grow truly accustomed to the life of a monk. He loved the prayer and the community of the brethren, but he did feel ever weary. He longed to sleep without being woken for prayers. He marvelled at how older men managed to make the life seem easy. Fearghas had been ancient and yet had never missed an office until he was too infirm to rise from his pallet.

  Bishop Aidan seemed always bright-eyed and eager to do the Lord’s work, no matter how much sleep he had. It seemed to Coenred that the other monks found sustenance from God in a way he did not. Surely they were holier than he. He still fought with temptations sent by Satan to pull him from the path of righteousness he should follow. Gothfraidh said it was normal for one of his age to feel urges of the flesh. Perhaps it was. The devil must be powerful indeed, for Coenred found it difficult to think of little else than their soft curves when he was in the presence of young women. How would it feel to touch them? To lie with them? He shivered, though the morning was not cold. Beobrand had no such problem. Coenred had felt a sharp pang of jealousy as the pretty thrall girl had left the hall with Beobrand the night before. He remembered the beautiful woman Beobrand had married too.

  He dunked more bread into his ale, then chewed it, deep in thought.

  Beobrand may have found pleasures of the flesh, but his life was also filled with sadness. Perhaps it was better to never know the loving touch of a woman, than to suffer despair at its loss.

  “Would you care for some cheese?”

  Coenred looked up, disturbed from his reverie. Attor, the lithe and whip-like warrior, who had ridden to Lindisfarena to ask for Aidan’s help for Bassus, stood before Coenred, his face open and eager to please.

  “Thank you,” said Coenred, taking the proffered slice of good, creamy cheese. He placed it on his remaining bread, took a bite and swigged ale into his mouth to soften it all. He nodded appreciatively and Attor beamed back at him.

  Christ had clearly touched Attor. Since he had been delivered from seemingly certain death from his own arrow wound, he had cast aside his pagan ways. Gone was the Thunor amulet he had worn about his neck, replaced by a small wooden cross. When there was no sign of Bassus’ wound healing, Attor had known the only hope for him was the Christ and His new bishop.

  “How does Bassus do?” Attor asked, his usual gruff tone always softened when he addressed any of the holy men. Coenred liked him, but feared him. He was like a wild wolf that had been tamed to sleep beside the hearth in a hall. He may seem soft and biddable, and yet the same sharp teeth rested within the jaws of the beast. Coenred felt the same way about Beobrand.

  “We shall see, Attor. The abbot is with him now. We have prayed all the night and his life is in the hands of the Lord now. Have you also prayed?”

  Attor’s face paled.

  “Should I have?” There was an edge of panic in his tone. “I did not know. How should I pray?”

  Coenred smiled.

  “Do not fear. Prayer is simple and God will always listen to prayers from believers. And you believe, do you not?”

  Attor rubbed his shoulder where Aidan’s poultice had drawn out the poison from his wound.

  “I do.”

  “Then to pray all you must do is find somewhere quiet and speak to Christ as you would speak to your earthly lord. Speak and you shall be heard.”

  Attor looked confused.

  “I am no holy man. I do not know the rites or sacrifices to make the gods hear me.”

  “There is only one true God,” corrected Coenred. “You need not perform any secret rite or sacrifice to speak to our Lord God. But,” he said, too tired to enter into a lengthy discussion with this warrior over the ways of religion, “you should speak to Abbot Aidan later. I think he would explain these matters better than I. And, perhaps you would wish to be baptised.”

  “Baptised?” Attor asked, yet more confused.

  “It is when you wash away your sins and become a true worshipper of Christ.”

  “And after that God will talk to me?” Attor’s eyes were wide.

  “Well, it is not so simple, but God talks to us all, if we listen.”

  The doors to the hall swung open, letting in a stream of bright daylight into the musty gloom of Ubba’s hall. From the light strode Beobrand, broad and tall.

  Attor’s expression changed from one of intense concentration and wonder to one of abject misery. He hurried forward and fell to the rush-strewn ground before his lord.

  “I am sorry, lord. If only I had slain that Pictish bastard, Torran. I have let him slip away twice. And now Bassus…” He could not bring himself to finish.

  Beobrand pulled Attor to his feet.

  “Brave, Attor. You cannot be blamed that the craven Pict runs like a hare in the forest. No. And I hear if it were not for you, Bassus would now be dead.”

  Attor’s face was still twisted with anguish, but he nodded.

  “I rode as fast as I could to Lindisfarena. And I made the monks ride back. Aidan wanted to walk, but I would not hear of it.”

  “You did well, Attor. But you are right, we should have killed Torran when we had the chance. The next time our paths cross, I swear I will take his life.”

  “If I don’t take it first,” said Attor, a thin smile twisting his mouth. The wild beast was not far beneath the surface. Coenred had not seen Attor fight, but he had heard the tales. The man was savage in battle.

  Beobrand smiled and clapped Attor on the shoulder.

  “So, all healed now?” he asked.

  “Yes, lord,” Attor’s voice was full of awe. “A miracle of the Christ.”

  “Let us hope he can work his magic on Bassus.”

  Attor’s face grew serious once more. With a curt nod, he padded away.

  Beobrand sat beside Coenred.

  “It is good to see you. How was the journey back from the lands of Wessex?”

  “Easy enough,” said Coenred. “We were not stopped on the river on the return. And we missed the rains. The storms began shortly after we arrived in Bebbanburg.”

  Attor came back and placed bread, cheese and ale before Beobrand.

  Beobrand took a bite of the bread. He winced at the texture, pausing to soak it in ale before trying a second chunk.

  “How was the journey with the queen?” asked Coenred, remembering the stunning daughter of Cynegils, and feeling not a small hint of envy that Beobrand had travelled long days north in her company.

  Beobrand’s face clouded.

  “It was not without hardship,” he spoke around the bread and cheese in his mouth.

  Coenred awaited something further, but Beobrand continued to eat in silence.

  “How does Cyneburg fare?”

  Beobrand shot him a hard glance. His blue eyes were as pale as winter skies. And as cold.

  “She is safe in Eoferwic. She is Oswald’s worry now.”

  Coenred thought that such a choice beauty would be no man’s worry, rather his joy, but he could see that Beobrand was unwilling to say more on the subject of the queen.

  “Tell me,” Beobrand said at last, “of how Aidan treated Bassus. Can he truly survive such a terrible thing?”

  “Only the Lord knows if he will survive, but he is as strong as an ox. And we have prayed for his recovery all this night.”

  Beobrand chewed
for a time before speaking.

  “I have seen the strength of your god’s magic, Coenred. And Aidan has great skill with wounds. I know this, but…” he hesitated. He took a draught of his ale and continued. “Did he have to take his arm?”

  Coenred understood his dismay. For one such as Bassus, a great warrior, to lose an arm was a terrible thing. Never again would he be able to heft shield and spear. Never more would he stand in a shieldwall. He would see himself as less of a man. Perhaps others would too. The loss of the arm would be bad enough, but the lack of battle-fame and respect from other warriors would be worse.

  “If Aidan had not taken the arm, Bassus would already be with our Father in Heaven. The wound-rot had crept into his flesh from where the arrow pierced the skin. The arm had grown black. Even now, he may yet succumb. It is dreadful for him to have lost the limb, but if he had not, he would be dead already.”

  Beobrand seemed mollified by the words. He took a further mouthful of bread and cheese.

  “How was it done? How did he not lose all of his life blood?”

  Coenred paled to remember the awful process he had witnessed. He had vomited after all was finished, but none there had belittled him for his weakness. In fact, Aidan had praised him for holding his nerve until he was no longer needed to help.

  “How was it done?” Beobrand repeated.

  Coenred took a deep breath.

  “Abbot Aidan cut away the dead flesh. It was black and stank of decay.” Coenred felt his gorge rising at the memory of that sickly smell. He swallowed and continued. “We later burnt what was cut from him, that the evil within it would be destroyed. Fire too was used to seal the wounds as they bled.” It had stunk like burning boar meat. “Once the dead flesh was removed, Elmer helped us.” Coenred swallowed again. He did not wish to remember. It had been a struggle to bring himself to eat, now he feared he would bring up the food again. The cheese and bread sat heavy in his stomach.