Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  “How so?” asked Oswald.

  Beobrand swallowed. He would not lie, but perhaps he could skirt around some of the events, the way a traveller chooses his footing carefully around puddles and bogs.

  “We were attacked.” He did not mention they had been in Anwealda’s hall. In Wessex.

  “Who attacked you?”

  “A band of Mercians.”

  “Mercians? But why? So quickly they break the truce? To what end?”

  Beobrand chose his words with care. “I am unsure what they really believed would happen. I could only see one outcome to their actions.”

  “Did you slay them all?”

  Beobrand hesitated, realising he had stepped from the precarious path he trod into a dangerous quagmire dotted with meres of deceit and lies.

  “Well?” prompted Oswiu, “did you slay them all?”

  “We fought and several were slain.”

  “But not all?” asked Oswald.

  “No, not all.”

  “Come now, man,” Oswiu said, his tone sharp. “You are speaking in riddles and half-truths. What is it you hide?”

  Had it been so clear then?

  Oswald stepped into the candlelight. His eyes were dark, bottomless.

  In a softer tone to his younger brother’s, he said, “Tell me, Beobrand. Who led these Mercians?”

  Beobrand could not deny his king, and he would not lie.

  “Eowa, son of Pybba,” he said. It was done. Eowa’s fate now lay in the hands of Oswald, as he had known it would. Would the king choose to snap the threads of Eowa’s wyrd this very night? Beobrand sighed.

  “Brother of Penda?” Oswald seemed intrigued. He rubbed his face pensively. “And what happened to him?”

  There was nothing for it now but to answer his king’s questions. But perhaps he had succeeded in avoiding the matter of Cyneburg’s infidelity.

  “I captured him. He is now seated at the board in the hall yonder.”

  To his surprise, Oswald let out a laugh.

  “Well, you are always a surprise, Beobrand. Who would have thought you would have brought me the atheling of Mercia here, to Din Eidyn?” He slapped Beobrand on the shoulder. “You have done well. Derian, fetch the Mercian here.”

  Derian nodded and made to leave.

  “But Derian,” the king said and the bearded thegn turned back to face his lord, “do it quietly. I would not have all of my comitatus speaking of this. If God smiles on us this night, perhaps none save Beobrand’s gesithas will have discovered his name.”

  The candle flames flickered as Derian opened the door and then it slammed shut behind him and he was gone into the night.

  “You see, Oswiu?” Oswald said, his tone still unnervingly cheery. “This is what makes the likes of Beobrand a warrior to reckon with. It is not just his sword-arm strength, his bravery and his loyalty. Many men possess such traits. It is his unpredictability and luck.”

  “He does not seem so lucky to me, brother,” said Oswiu.

  Beobrand said nothing. He agreed with Oswiu. He was not a lucky man. For a short spell the year before perhaps, he had felt differently, when Oswald had raised him up after Hefenfelth. For a few short weeks he had had everything a man could dream of – land, wealth, battle-fame and a beautiful wife. Acennan told him to be thankful for what he still had, but it was not easy to look beyond the death and torment that seemed to follow him the way gulls flock behind a plough.

  “Nonsense,” said Oswald, “he is as blessed as any warrior I know. But tell me, Beobrand, why did Eowa lead an attack against a band of Wessexmen, Northumbrians and my queen?”

  Beobrand’s throat went dry. What to say? Oh gods, he did not wish to speak.

  And then, perhaps proving the king’s point that he was indeed lucky, the door to the shack swung open. Eowa entered, followed by the grave-faced Derian.

  “I have been told your name,” Oswald said, his voice now as harsh as the wind that rattled the frame of the building, “but I would hear it from you. Who are you, stranger to my lands?”

  Eowa stepped into the pool of candlelight. Derian quickly leapt forward and gripped his arm hard.

  “Not too close,” he growled.

  Beobrand suddenly wondered if this whole series of events could have been a trick to get close to the King of Northumbria. As quickly as he thought it, he dismissed the notion. It would have been impossible to predict everything. Eowa could easily have been killed. And Beobrand believed that the Mercian and Cyneburg were truly in love. But was it possible that Eowa could seek to harm Oswald in order to save Cyneburg? Beobrand tensed and moved close to Eowa, ready to spring at the slightest suggestion of an attack on his lord.

  Oswald raised his hands for calm.

  “Your name?” he urged.

  “I am Eowa, son of Pybba, son of Creoda, atheling of Mercia and lord of the northern marches.” His voice was strong and clear, with no sign of the nervousness he must surely feel.

  “Does Penda know that you are here?”

  “I have no way of knowing whether my brother knows where I am, lord king” answered Eowa, the sound of a smile in his tone.

  “I have had enough of games of words for this night,” Oswald snapped. “Did Penda send you to attack my men?”

  Eowa flashed a glance at Beobrand. Eowa’s eyes were wide.

  “I am sorry for my impertinence, Oswald King,” said Eowa. “I thought that Beobrand would have told you of my plans. Why I did what I did.”

  “He has not told us. I do not know why he was reticent to do so, but as you are before me now, the tale is yours to tell, not his.” Eowa nodded his thanks to Beobrand. He must have understood how hard it had been for Beobrand not to tell of his indiscretion. “So speak,” continued Oswald. “Why did you attack my men, taking the life of my old friend, Athelstan? Why did you break the truce that I agreed with your brother so very recently?”

  “I am truly sorry for the death of your friend. And the other brave men who fell when we fought, Northumbrian, West Seaxon and Mercian alike. None should have died for my cause. It was a fool’s errand…”

  “Tell me all of it. What brought you to throw away the lives of good men?”

  Eowa flinched as if he had been slapped.

  “Love.” His voice was small now, a child standing before his elders.

  “Love? Speak no more in riddles. My patience is all but vanished.”

  Eowa squared his shoulders.

  “I love your queen,” Eowa said, as if that were explanation enough.

  Beobrand held his breath, unsure of his king’s reaction to Eowa’s words.

  Oswald stood still for a long while, glowering at the Mercian. Outside the wind had picked up. As it blew through the eaves of the building it made a low moaning sound.

  “And does she love you?”

  “I believe so.”

  “And this is why you attacked my men? To rescue her from me?”

  “It was madness. But I could not bear the thought of losing her.”

  Oswald’s eyes glimmered in the flame-flicker of the greasy tallow candles.

  “Is my bride… sullied?” he asked, his voice now as cold as ice-drenched steel.

  Eowa hesitated.

  “No, lord. Cyneburg is pure.”

  Oswald bent and lifted one of the candles. He raised it up close to Eowa’s face and peered into his eyes. Eowa met Oswald’s gaze.

  For a long while they stood thus.

  “Your wife is pure,” Eowa repeated at last, his voice firm.

  Oswald did not reply. Instead, he lowered the candle back to its place on the ground.

  “My life is forfeit—” began Eowa.

  As swiftly as a striking serpent, Oswald lashed out and struck a blow with the back of his hand across Eowa’s face. The atheling’s head snapped to the side. He staggered, then pulled himself up straight once more.

  “You are right,” spat Oswald, a strange calm in his voice, “your life is mine to take. But I will not kill you,
Eowa, son of Pybba.”

  Beobrand thought he saw a glimmer of hope in Eowa’s eyes.

  “I have my spies amongst the Gewisse and the Mercians,” continued Oswald. “I am King of Bernicia and Deira. I will soon rule the land as far north as this rock of Din Eidyn. The Gewisse of Wessex pay tribute to me. As do the East Angelfolc of Sigeberht. I am Bretwalda, lord of all Albion. Do you believe me to be blind?”

  Nobody answered. A rivulet of blood trickled from Eowa’s nose. Beobrand recalled the sudden beheading of Cadwallon. For all his praying to the Christ, the god of forgiveness, Oswald’s calm exterior hid a ruthless killer.

  “No,” Oswald said, “I knew of your meetings with Cyneburg. I thought it the stuff of childish folly. I did not foresee this. I thought you would forget each other once she was safely in my kingdom. Many would take your life for what you have done. But I will let you live. But you are no longer a free man of Mercia. From this day forth, you are my man, though none shall know it save for those in this hut.”

  “But, my lord Oswald—” Eowa was again stopped by a savage slap from the king. He reeled backwards. Beobrand and Derian reached out and prevented him falling.

  Oswald pushed his long hair back from his face.

  “Yes, I will be your lord. And you will give me your oath now, Eowa.” The wind outside hummed and groaned. “And know this. Should you betray me, or fail to answer when I call upon you, remember who holds the life of your beloved Cyneburg in his hands. If you forsake me, she will pay dearly for it before you do. Now speak your oath.”

  Eowa’s eyes flicked from one man to another, seeking for some way to be free of this punishment. But of course, there was no way out. His life was no longer his. It had been Oswald’s from the moment he had entered Anwealda’s hall. Beobrand’s mind was in turmoil. Oswald had known of Cyneburg and Eowa’s love? He was amazed at how quickly the king had turned this situation to his advantage.

  Seeing there was nothing for it, Eowa shrugged off the hands that held him. He knelt on the packed earth. The candle flame guttered, its light illuminating his features clearly. His eyes were full of sorrow and anguish, but he held himself still, as he gave his oath to the King of Northumbria.

  When Eowa had finished speaking the words, pledging his allegiance, Oswald nodded.

  “Now you are bound to me. Remember what I have said. I hold the life of Cyneburg in my hands and if you cross me, I will destroy you both.”

  Beobrand shivered again. This time, he was sure it was not from the cold of the night.

  “You must escape this night and hurry homeward, Eowa. To Mercia. I will send word when I need your assistance.”

  “Escape?”

  “Yes. You will take a horse and ride off into the night. Derian, see that he has a horse and provisions.”

  Eowa stood, his face displaying an unhappy mix of hope and despair. Oswald strode to the door, turning his back on them. At the door he paused.

  “Of course, your men must believe you escaped. You will need to show signs of a struggle. Derian, Beobrand, make sure he carries enough injuries to last him until he reaches Mercia. And,” his eyes glittered in the darkness, “see that his face is marked. I would not wish for any other young, foolish princess to have her head turned by the dashing features of this atheling of Mercia.”

  Chapter 29

  “I can see no weakness in the fortress,” said Acennan. “It will not fall easily.”

  They had ridden around the great rock of Din Eidyn, hoping in vain that they would see some way to breach the defences. Beobrand had known it was a futile errand. Oswald and Oswiu had been camped here with a host of thegns, ealdormen and fyrd-warriors for many days. If they had not spotted a weakness, it was certain there was none.

  But Beobrand was eager to mount Sceadugenga once more and to ride free of the hall where the king and his comitatus sheltered from the cutting northerly wind. Acennan would not hear of him riding alone, despite Beobrand’s protestations that no harm would come to him.

  “Our enemies are besieged behind the wooden walls of Din Eidyn,” he’d said.

  “One can never tell where enemies will strike from,” Acennan had replied. Beobrand thought of the night before in the store room and nodded. Acennan was right. Eowa had known he was riding to his doom, but had he not thought Beobrand his friend? Or at least no longer his enemy?

  Beobrand had not wished to get involved in the punishment of the atheling, but it was his king’s order. How could he refuse? He gripped his reins tightly, the leather creaking within his grasp. His knuckles ached from where he had punched Eowa. Looking down, Beobrand saw a cut on one finger. He was reminded of Eowa spitting a tooth and blood onto the packed earth of the storeroom floor. Beobrand’s hand was bruised and angry-looking. His memories sickened him.

  When he had returned to the hall, Acennan had taken one glance at his lord’s face and enquired what was wrong. Beobrand had refused to answer. He could not speak of it. His king had ordered them to remain silent, never to tell of the night’s events. Beobrand had called for mead and when Dreogan had peered over the board and asked where the Mercian had gone, Beobrand had snapped.

  “Eowa’s whereabouts is no concern of yours, Dreogan. Drink and fill your belly and be glad of the warm hearth this night as the wind rages outside of these walls.”

  Dreogan had glowered and half stood before Renweard pulled him back to the bench with a whispered word.

  Acennan had stared for a long while at Beobrand, but had said no more.

  Now, looking at the southern face of the crag, the bitter wind brought tears to Beobrand’s eyes. He brushed them away with the back of his hand. Truth be told, he felt like weeping. He had no qualms with beating, or even slaying a man, in defence of his loved ones, but the savage attack on Eowa was something different. But was it? If he had Wybert within his power would he not wish to do the same, or worse, to him? He knew that given the chance, he would kill Wybert without any feeling of guilt. So what made this so terrible?

  He clenched his jaw until his teeth ached. His stomach grumbled sourly. He had eaten sparingly in the night and had no appetite this morning.

  By the end, Eowa had scarcely been able to stand. Oswiu, teeth flashing in the dim light of the candles, had grinned as he had kicked the Mercian where he lay. Beobrand had stepped forward and placed a hand on Oswiu’s shoulder.

  Oswiu had spun around, fists raised.

  “You dare to touch me, Cantware hound?” he’d said, his eyes aflame with a savage glee. Beobrand had thought Oswald’s brother would strike him. Had he done so, he knew he would not have been able to control his anger. It was all he could do to stop from shoving Oswiu away from him. But if he landed a blow on the atheling of Bernicia, his life would be worthless.

  Derian had spoken into the tense silence.

  “Eowa needs to be able to ride, my lord Oswiu.”

  Oswiu had scowled for a long while at Beobrand, perhaps willing the young thegn to swing a punch at him. It was clear that his blood was up and he was relishing inflicting pain on Eowa, who had done nothing to defend himself. It seemed to Beobrand that all the weeks of being unable to fight the Picts in open battle had changed both the sons of Æthelfrith. There was a darker, easy violence close to the surface where usually it lurked deeper, held in check.

  “He needs to be able to ride,” Derian had said again.

  Turning away with a shake of his head, Oswiu had pulled a knife from his belt. The blade caught the candlelight, gleaming.

  “Indeed, that was my brother’s wish.” He had knelt beside the quivering form on the ground. During all of the beating, the punches and kicks, Eowa had made hardly a sound, but as Oswiu went to work with his knife, he had let out the feeblest of whimpering screams; a proud man unable to remain silent any longer.

  “You look like one who is close to death,” said Acennan, breaking into Beobrand’s thoughts. “Are you ailing?”

  “No,” he said. But his stomach twisted as he recalled Eowa�
��s face when finally they had lifted him from the ground and helped him mount a horse.

  “Let’s ride a little closer.” Beobrand said, nudging Sceadugenga towards the rock. A twinge of pain throbbed in Beobrand’s right leg. “But let us not get so close as to allow the Picts to test their archery skills.”

  The wind ushered dark clouds from the north. They were heavy with the threat of snow. Sceadugenga’s hooves slipped on a patch of frost that lay in a shadowed dip in the ground. Winter was coming. Staring up at the fortress, Beobrand could not avoid thinking that the siege would fail.

  “There is nowhere to attack this rock,” he said. “It is like Bebbanburg; as strong as an iron-clad fist.”

  Acennan frowned, but nodded.

  “Aye, I doubt they are just going to open the gates for us,” he said. “And as many warriors as there are here, they are too few to storm all the walls at once.”

  Beobrand focused on the broken, grey rock of the cliff and the wooden palisade atop it, searching in vain for any sign of weakness that had hitherto gone unnoticed. He tried to forget the images from the night, but his mind returned over and again, like a dog that will not cease to lick a wound, even though doing so will open it further.

  Oswiu had made deep cuts to both of Eowa’s cheeks. He had also sliced into the man’s nostrils, splitting them. Blood sheeted down Eowa’s face, soaking into his fine beard, making it black in the dim light. Beobrand had hardly been able to look upon him, such was the guilt he’d felt.

  Derian had sent the door wards away, so that no-one should witness Eowa’s leaving and, for a moment, they’d stood alone on the hillside, buffeted by the wind. Beobrand had removed his cloak and placed it upon Eowa’s shoulders. Without it, he would surely perish in the night. Oswiu had frowned, but Beobrand had ignored him.

  The night air had brought some sense back to Eowa. He’d reached out and gripped Beobrand’s hand. The same hand that moments before had dislodged a tooth from the Mercian’s mouth.

  “We will meet again, Beobrand,” Eowa had said, his voice clogged with blood. He’d spat and the wind had snatched his spittle away. “And we will not be enemies, you and I. This is not your doing, I know that.”