Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  “We must keep a close watch on them,” Acennan said, as if he could hear Beobrand’s thoughts. “If we are not careful, Eowa will meet with an accident before we reach Oswald. Oaths or no oaths.”

  Beobrand grunted, but said nothing. It was as Acennan said. He had seen the lust for vengeance in Dreogan’s eyes. He knew that fire well, for he carried a bellyful within himself. And he knew how difficult it was to keep those flames at bay, whatever promise had been made.

  “And I fear Elmer may be less than pleased at being left with the women, children and old folk once more,” said Acennan.

  Beobrand turned towards his friend.

  “Truly? I need men I can trust to stay here. To protect Ubbanford and its folk.”

  “Can you not trust all of your gesithas?”

  “You know that is not what I meant.” Beobrand sighed, though in truth he would not trust Dreogan, Beircheart or Renweard to be left at Ubbanford. Not yet. They would have to prove themselves to him first. “I would have thought Elmer would be glad to stay close to Maida. And his children. Where he can watch over them.”

  “I am not so sure he sees it as a gift from you. He has not ridden out with us for many months. The men have begun to jest about it.”

  Beobrand frowned. Why was it so hard to lead men? He would rather be staying at Ubbanford than riding north. If his duty allowed him to, he would gladly have remained in his hall, warm under blankets and furs next to Reaghan.

  But was that true? Or did he lie to himself? Did he not feel his blood quickening at the thought of facing the Picts? At the chance of finding Torran amongst them?

  “I will see to it that he is well-rewarded,” he said, scowling. “And next time we head for battle, I will ensure Elmer is amongst my warband. Though I am not so sure Maida will thank me for it. Do the others feel the same?”

  Acennan shrugged.

  “Gram seemed happy enough to stay close to Bassus. I believe Garr welcomed the chance of a rest.”

  Beobrand nodded. He hoped he had left enough men to keep Ubbanford safe.

  Attor, fully-restored now, and keen to spill Pictish blood once more, was the last to ride through the ford. The others were already lost in the darkness of the trees of the northern bank.

  With a final look up to the hall on the hill, and the scattering of buildings in the valley, Beobrand touched his heels to Sceadugenga’s flanks. A cloud scudded before the sun, plunging the valley into shade. Beobrand shivered. Wind blew cold through the trees, dry autumn leaves rattled and flurried. The season was changing early this year. Snow would not be far off.

  “Come, my friend,” he said to Acennan. “Let us hope that Oswald and Oswiu have those Picts ready to be slaughtered. With any luck we can be home to the warmth of the hearth before the first snows fall.”

  “The warmth of the fire in your hall sounds appealing, Beobrand,” said Acennan, spurring his mare forward, so that both riders hit the chill waters of the Tuidi at the same moment, drenching them in a shower of icy droplets, “but I have another warmth I crave, and I hope to find it within the walls of Eoferwic.”

  *

  “There,” said Attor, pointing ahead. His eyes were keen; nobody else had seen anything of note.

  Beobrand reined in Sceadugenga close to the wiry warrior and peered into the distance. Was there perhaps a smudge of smoke on the horizon? It was possible, but he could not be certain.

  “It could be just another farmstead,” said Beobrand. They had passed several small settlements since leaving Ubbanford two days before. Each had been put to the torch. At one, they had found the charred, crow-pecked remains of four men hanging from the blackened beams of the husk of the hall. In each case, the remnants of the buildings had long since ceased to smoke.

  “No, it is Din Eidyn. I am sure of it. By my reckoning it is yet a half day’s ride, but we should make it by sundown. By the look of the campfire smoke, there must be a host of warriors there.”

  Beobrand knew not how Attor could be so sure that what he strained to see above the horizon was the smoke from Oswald’s host, but he did not question him. Instead, he waved on the others.

  “We shall be at Din Eidyn by nightfall.”

  “Let us hope they have not drunk all the mead,” said Aethelwulf, spurring his steed down the slope. Attor followed him.

  Beobrand cursed silently. He should have brought mead or provisions from Ubbanford. Oswiu and Oswald had long been in the field facing the Picts. Surely they would be in need of supplies. Well, there was nothing for it now.

  Eowa rode past, his face set, expressionless.

  Perhaps the gift Beobrand brought to his king would be enough. Though whether he would be cursed or praised for bringing bad news and trouble to his lord, he did not know.

  “Don’t look so glum, Beobrand,” Acennan said, as his sturdy mare brought him level with Beobrand’s position on the crest of the hill. Here a chill wind buffeted them as it had ever since they left Ubbanford. On the journey, they had been glad of the shelter of valleys and forests where they were afforded some protection from the wind. Beobrand recalled the biting cold the last time he had ridden this way the previous winter in search of a priest for Lindisfarena. The clouds above them flew southward, driven by the strength of the winds. It had been dry these last days, but the smell of snow was in the air.

  Beobrand looked at his friend’s round, smiling face. He could not return the grin.

  “I wish to be at the journey’s end,” he said, scratching his scrubby beard with his half-hand, “but I dread bringing the tidings I carry.”

  Acennan reined in next to his lord.

  “Aye. Giving Eowa to Oswald will be hard.” They watched in silence for a moment as the Mercian rode his horse down the hill. He sat straight and prideful, in control and exuding confidence. “He’s not a bad one. Stupid, maybe, but a good man, as far as I can tell. And who hasn’t done stupid things for the chance at getting some warm cunny?”

  Beobrand snorted.

  “I don’t think our lord king will be so understanding.”

  “I think you may be right. If Eowa was ploughing my wife’s furrow I doubt I’d be too happy either.”

  “There is nothing for it, I know,” Beobrand sighed. “And Eowa goes willingly to his doom.”

  “Aye,” said Acennan, serious all of a sudden, “but that makes it all the harder, does it not?”

  *

  An air of despondency hung over the Northumbrian host, intermingling with the fug of dozens of campfires. The sun was touching the horizon as Beobrand rode into the settlement at the head of his small warband of mounted gesithas. They were stopped briefly by a group of desultory sentries, but once Beobrand spoke his name, they were quickly allowed passage into the camp.

  The low sun bathed the men who huddled around the fires in a golden glow that belied their sombre aspect. These were men who had been too long far from their homes and fields. Beobrand knew the look.

  Some recognised him and raised a hand or called a greeting. Most looked up sullenly as the warband trotted past. The ground was churned by the constant passage of feet and hooves over days and weeks. All around them were shelters. Some had been put together from the timbers of houses destroyed in the fighting. Others were well-made tents of leather pulled over wooden frames, such as he had seen in Dor earlier in the year. The luckiest, or more likely the richest and most powerful, of Oswald’s host had taken up residence in the houses or barns that remained intact.

  Dominating all was a huge rocky crag. Mightier than the rock of Bebbanburg, it stood thrust up from the earth rising high over the men who camped at its feet. Atop the rock the setting sun picked out walls and buildings. A stout gate. The place was imposing. It looked impregnable.

  The fortress of Din Eidyn, Beobrand surmised.

  He remembered riding close to the area in the winter, but they had not ventured to this point. Instead, Oswiu and his small band had been turned away by a Pictish lord, a gruff man named Donel, whose hall
was close to the vast water to the north of here. Donel had insulted Oswiu and they’d spent a miserable night in the freezing cold of the wind and rain. The atheling had been furious, promising to return. Scanning the host of grim-faced warriors camped around the jutting rock of Din Eidyn, Beobrand thought that the Pictish lord probably regretted his rudeness now. If he yet lived.

  Some distance to the east another great rocky outcrop rose out of the land. Larger, with one side dropping off in sheer cliffs, there were also buildings there. Beobrand was unsure where to go. He could see no clear sign of where Oswald and his hearth-thegns would have settled in this squalid, mud-soaked, encampment.

  As he scanned the area, movement caught his eye. A group of horsemen approached from the direction of the cliff-edged hill to the east. Beobrand turned Sceadugenga towards the riders.

  “Come. Let us see who comes to greet us.”

  They spurred forward, their horses throwing up clods and splashes of muck in their wake. Someone cursed, evidently splattered by their passing.

  Quickly they were free of the encampment and the air was noticeably clearer. Beobrand raised a hand and pulled Sceadugenga to a halt, allowing the other riders to close the remaining gap between them.

  They numbered ten men, all armoured in iron-knit shirts and bearing shields painted red with the Christ-symbol, the rood, upon them in white. As they drew close, the leader removed his great helm. It caught the dying rays of the sun and flashed bright, like a spark in a newly kindled fire. He was not a young man, but his shoulders were broad and his hands and arms strong. His teeth showed from his full, grey-streaked, black beard.

  “Well met, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi,” he said. “I thought it might be you, but was unsure you had such a retinue of warriors. You are doing well for yourself, it seems.”

  Beobrand chose not to comment.

  “Well met Derian, son of Isen,” he said. “It has been too long. How do you fare?”

  “As well as could be expected for one who has been stuck here in this gods’-forsaken place for weeks.”

  “What news of the Picts?”

  “There is not much to tell. Things started well here. We killed many and took the hill yonder,” he indicated the cliffs behind him. “But, Donel fled with many of his hearth-warriors and they retreated to that accursed rock. Try what we might, we are unable to unseat the bastard. We have wasted too many men on trying and soon,” he glanced at the darkening sky and the clouds rolling in from the north, “I fear, soon winter will be upon us. Still,” he said, smiling once more, “it is good to see you, and you bring more men. Perhaps you can help us break this siege.”

  “I doubt we will be able to make much difference where you, Oswald and Oswiu have failed.”

  “Failed, is it?” Derian said, his smile twisting. “Well, I suppose we have at that.” He rubbed his beard. “Well, have you come here to pass judgement on how we fight the Picts, or for some other reason?”

  Beobrand could not tell whether the older man was jesting or serious, so he changed the subject.

  “We bring tidings of King Oswald’s queen. We have ridden all the way from Wessex with scarcely a rest. I would speak with our king, if you would lead me to him.”

  Derian’s smirk vanished. This was no matter for jest.

  “I will take you to him. He is anxious to hear of his bride’s health. Follow me.” And with that, he placed his helm once more upon his head and expertly wheeled his horse around to face the cliffs. The other riders followed him. When they were moving towards the hill, their shadows streaking out before them as the sun finally fell below the earth, Derian turned in his saddle and shouted to Beobrand.

  “Perhaps when you are done talking to the king, we can share a cup of mead and you can tell me how you would defeat these damned Picts.” His face was hidden by his helm, but Beobrand was sure he could hear Derian’s laughter over the thrum of the horses’ hooves.

  *

  “Well, if it isn’t the great warrior, Beobrand, returned from the south.”

  Oswiu, atheling of Bernicia smirked as Beobrand trudged into the hall. Beobrand bristled with instant anger. He hated the way the king’s brother addressed him. There was insult hidden close behind the joviality. Without thinking, Beobrand reached for the hilt of Hrunting and was suddenly glad that they had been made to leave their weapons at the door to the hall. None could approach the king armed. Not even his thegns. Beobrand was glad of it. Drawing a blade on the atheling would not have ended well for him. He swallowed his ire and stepped forward.

  “I thank the gods that you are well, Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith,” Beobrand said, his words somehow sounding like taunts.

  The large round building was situated atop the bluff that overlooked the rock of Din Eidyn. Derian had told them that after the Picts fled to the fortress, Oswald, his brother and their retinues had taken up residence here. It was certainly better than the make-shift shelters of the fyrd-warriors camping around the besieged crag. It was a fine hall, not lofty or extravagant in design, but solid and warm. But it was overcrowded. The stench of many men, sweat, stale ale, spilt mead, food and smoke, hit the back of Beobrand’s throat after the clear air outside on the hill.

  Despite his tone, Oswiu seemed friendly enough. He ushered Beobrand forward to where Oswald sat on an elaborately-carved, high-backed chair, surrounded by ealdormen and his most trusted thegns. Beobrand approached the king. Derian came with him. The rest of the men stayed back with the throng of warriors already at the boards. Thralls bustled about the hall, fetching drink and meat for the hungry men. Beobrand’s mouth filled with saliva. He too was hungry. To feed so many would take prodigious amounts of provender. Once again, he cursed himself that he had not thought to bring provisions from Ubbanford.

  “I had expected to see you before now, Beobrand,” Oswald said. “What detained you? I trust the beautiful Cyneburg is safely in my kingdom.”

  Beobrand stood uncomfortably before the high-board, all eyes upon him.

  “I left the queen safe within the walls of Eoferwic. She will be well-treated there and awaits your return, my lord.”

  The king nodded. Beobrand noted the lines around Oswald’s eyes, the lankness of his usually shining hair. The king looked aged, exhausted.

  “I do not see Athelstan here. Did he choose to linger at his hall rather than come to fight the Picts with his king?” Oswald smiled, but to Beobrand it seemed forced.

  Beobrand swallowed the lump that formed in his throat.

  “Alas, Oswald King, I bring sad tidings.” He took a deep breath, willing his voice to remain calm. “Athelstan fell.”

  “He is dead?” Oswald sounded incredulous. Beobrand could understand why. The old thegn had seemed invincible. But of course, such a thought was madness. No man could defeat death. This was something Beobrand had learnt all too well. Beobrand’s face clearly gave all the answer Oswald needed, for the king continued: “How did he die?”

  Beobrand opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He was painfully aware of all the watching eyes, all the listening ears. To speak of the things that had transpired could have far-reaching effects. If he told now the tale of his journey, the king would be shamed before all of his men. Such a thing would be a calamity. The fewer who knew of the events of the past weeks, the better.

  “How did he die?” the king repeated.

  “I will tell you, my lord, but I would speak with you alone.”

  For a long moment, Oswald stared at the young thegn before him. Beobrand felt as though he were being judged for his part in some terrible crime. Eventually, Oswald stood.

  “Very well,” he said. “Come with me. I would hear all the tidings you bring.”

  *

  It was full dark as they walked from the hall to a small out-building. In the gloom Beobrand could not ascertain the usual function of the hut; a storeroom perhaps. Strong wind buffeted them. They were exposed out here on the cliff-edge. Below them, the flickering glow of dozens of campfires sho
wed the extent of Oswald’s host. Again Beobrand wondered how long so many men could be kept away from their homes. How long until the food ran out? Men would get sick. The snows would come. Then Din Eidyn would be left for another season.

  Derian entered the small building, raising the guttering torch in his left hand high. After a moment, content that it was empty of eavesdroppers or would-be assailants, the bearded thegn bade them enter. Oswald’s fine cloak flapped in a strong gust of wind. Oswiu and Beobrand followed him inside. Derian addressed the two men who guarded the door outside.

  “None is to enter,” he said, before slamming the rough wooden door against the night and the wind.

  Inside it was all dancing shadows and looming shapes. Bales, sacks and barrels were stacked against the walls. Meat and smoked fish hung from the rafters. Derian silently produced a couple of tallow candles and lit them from the brand he carried. Warm light caressed the stocks of provisions, but did not reach into the shadowy crevices. The wind outside caused the walls of the hut to creak and groan. Under the wind-creak of the timber, Beobrand could make out scratching. Rats.

  Beobrand shivered.

  After the chill of the windy bluff the storeroom seemed warm, but it was no great hall. Nowhere fit for a king. And there were no seats.

  Oswald turned to him, his face veiled in shadows, but eyes glinting.

  “What news do you bring, Beobrand? I could see from your face, there is much I need to hear.”

  How to proceed? He did not wish to speak of these things with his king. He thought on Cyneburg, the tears streaming down her smooth skin as she imagined what would happen when her husband found out about her lover. And Beobrand liked Eowa. The Mercian seemed to be a good man. Would he not have done the same if he were in Eowa’s position, blinded by love?

  But he would not lie to his lord. He had given his oath, and he would stay true to his word, or he had nothing.

  And yet, must he tell Oswald all of the truth?

  “Speak, man,” Oswiu spat, impatient to hear the tidings Beobrand brought.

  Beobrand drew in a deep breath.

  “Athelstan fell in the borderlands of Mercia.”