Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  His forgiveness was more powerful than any weapon. Beobrand had staggered under the force of the wind and Eowa’s words. And with that, the Mercian had kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and cantered into the wind-whipped darkness.

  Acennan and Beobrand pulled their steeds to a halt and once more set about looking at the fortress of Din Eidyn. Beobrand wondered if Acennan truly believed they might find something, or was he just humouring his friend and his lord?

  “So, the tale is that Eowa escaped last night,” Acennan said, not looking at Beobrand, instead glaring with intensity at Din Eidyn. “They say he stole a horse and overpowered the door wardens.”

  Beobrand said nothing.

  “I know you do not wish to speak of it, Beobrand, but know that I am your friend. And I can keep a secret should you wish to talk.”

  “There is nothing to talk about,” said Beobrand. He was warmed by Acennan’s offer, but knew he would never speak of what had occurred in the darkened storehouse on the hill.

  Acennan said something else, but Beobrand did not hear the words. The wind howled, rending leaves from bushes and trees in a flurry around them. But Beobrand hardly noticed. In an instant his attention had been pulled from the events of the night before to the present.

  He nudged Sceadugenga a couple of paces closer to the fortress. Could it be true?

  Acennan moved alongside him and followed his gaze.

  “By the gods,” he said, his voice full of amazement, “is that who I think it is?”

  *

  A great gust of wind ripped leaves from the branches of the rowan trees that huddled at the base of Din Eidyn’s great rock. The tents and shelters surrounding the crag cracked and creaked in the wind. As if summoned by some arcane command, a great flock of rooks wheeled in the sky above the fortress. Beobrand’s cloak – borrowed from Derian that morning – streamed out behind him. Sceadugenga, not normally nervous, whinnied and took a jostling step to the side.

  Beobrand tugged on the reins harder than was necessary and the black stallion once again tossed its head and whinnied. Without thinking, Beobrand reached up with his left hand and grasped the hammer amulet that hung at his neck.

  He had wondered if he would ever see her again; had expected to travel for long weeks in search of the witch, and yet here she was.

  Nelda, Hengist’s mother, was unmistakable even at this distance. He could never forget her lithe body, her flowing, jackdaw grey-black hair. The tantalising woman scent of her.

  He shuddered as the great mass of black birds circled above her head and then flew towards him. Their raucous chatter was like the clatter of dry bones. The wind was the rush of a funeral pyre.

  The wind blew Nelda’s hair back from her face and Beobrand saw that he had destroyed her beauty. Just as he had rendered her son ugly, so his blow had changed her face into a twisted mask. It was as if when struck, both mother and son displayed their true nature in their wounded faces.

  Acennan’s mount stepped close to Sceadugenga, as if seeking protection from the larger horse.

  “The witch is here,” Acennan whispered, his words barely loud enough to hear. The stocky warrior seldom showed fear, but Beobrand heard the tremor in his voice now. He too had been into Nelda’s lair, listened to her words, as soft as gossamer and then, sudden as lightning, shrieked like a night-walker, spitting out her hatred and spite.

  Beobrand finally found his own voice.

  “So it would seem.” His mouth was dry.

  Nelda had seen them. Her stare bore into them and she raised her arms to the sky, as if invoking the heavens themselves. All around them, groups of men turned their faces towards the woman on the fortress palisade.

  As if in answer to her command, the wind eased and Nelda’s voice carried to them.

  “Beobrand Half-hand! Foul murderer of Hengist! My curse follows you yet. All those you love will die and leave you. You will be alone at your end.” Her words struck him like poisoned barbed arrows. Had this cunning woman, this witch, taken Sunniva from him? He knew she had tried to kill Reaghan. Had she also somehow sought to slay Bassus?

  Above them, the night-black rooks spun as one and winged their way southward.

  Without turning his eyes from Nelda, Beobrand could sense the gaze of the fyrd on him, awaiting his response. He could not remain silent. He was a thegn of Bernicia. A leader of men. A hlaford. He must live up to the name. He swallowed the dryness from his throat.

  “It is not I who is trapped within a doomed fortress,” Beobrand shouted back. “Din Eidyn will fall, and I will rip your accursed heart from your chest, viper. I will see you dead long before my own end.”

  “Well-said,” murmured Acennan, “we know she bleeds. And what bleeds can be killed. You should have let me do for her when I had the chance.”

  Beobrand said nothing. Acennan was right. He had held her life in his hands and yet he had not been able to bring himself to allow his friend to kill a defenceless woman. How he regretted that moment of weakness.

  Unnervingly, Nelda let out a cackling laugh that carried over the gathered host like the cawing of the rooks moments before. All around them, men reached for amulets. Many made the sign of the Christ’s rood over themselves. Many more spat. There was magic and power here.

  Fear rippled through the despondent men of the camp. Fear was a strong weapon when wielded with cunning. Hengist had been as much a master of fear as of the blade. Beobrand saw the pale faces of the fyrd-men, wide-eyed and trembling, gazing on this witch who cursed one of their own. He did not need to ask what they were thinking. She controlled the wind and the birds of the sky, her curses would be listened to by the old gods. And she laughed at thegns of Bernicia, even from the fortress that their king said was doomed to fall.

  Beobrand spurred Sceadugenga forward. Fear was the enemy. He must face it head on.

  “By Tiw’s cock, Beobrand,” Acennan said, “you know they have archers?” Beobrand ignored his friend. Now was not the time for caution. A moment later, Acennan followed him towards the fortress. “Of course, you know there are archers,” he grumbled. “But why ride close enough for them to test their aim.”

  “Stop your moaning, Acennan,” Beobrand forced a smile, “you sound like an old woman.”

  With that, he kicked Sceadugenga into a gallop and rushed towards the crag of Din Eidyn. Derian’s dark cloak streamed behind him, and his long fair hair blew back from his face. Beobrand knew that all eyes were on him now. The huge thegn astride the massive black steed. He tugged the reins hard, bringing the stallion to a skidding halt. Sceadugenga, angry at the treatment, reared, showering earth and leaves from his hooves into the chill air. Beobrand clutched the reins and gripped the saddle with his thighs. His right calf throbbed, but he ignored it. Sceadugenga calmed and Beobrand let out a breath at not having lost his seat.

  Sceadugenga wanted to be allowed to continue galloping, but Beobrand held him in check. The stallion turned a quick circle while Beobrand clung on. He jerked the reins hard to show the beast who was in command. Sceadugenga halted his prancing and rolled his eyes balefully.

  Acennan galloped up close on his smaller steed, his round face upturned as he scanned the fortress wall for signs of danger.

  Beobrand offered up a silent prayer to whichever gods might listen that it was not his wyrd to die here today, punctured by arrows from the Pictish defenders. He dragged Hrunting from its fur-lined scabbard, noticing the slight catch as a notch in the blade snagged. The blade had been nicked on the tough bones of Aengus Mac Nathair. Beobrand grinned savagely. The Picts may have strong bones, but they die easily enough. He held the great sword high in the air for all to witness. The day was dull, but what light there was glimmered on the serpent-skin patterned blade.

  “This is Hrunting,” Beobrand bellowed. “It is the slayer of Hengist. With this blade I defeated Cadwallon, King of Gwynedd. It has drunk of the blood of many brave warriors and supped on the life of the sons of Nathair. I, Beobrand of Ubbanford,
Thegn of Bernicia, servant of King Oswald of Northumbria, swear upon the mighty Hrunting that Din Eidyn will fall and my blade will taste of your blood, witch.”

  For an instant he thought that Nelda would respond, but there was movement on the palisade beside her. He tensed. Was this an archer, come to put an end to his show of bravery? He squinted into the wind. And in that instant he knew he had been right in his suspicions that Nelda had joined forces with another of his enemies. For the new arrival on the palisade was indeed an archer. One he recognised.

  The narrow face of Torran mac Nathair peered over the rampart. His skin was pallid, as if he was sick. But his voice was powerful enough for all those gathered to hear.

  “Your blade did not slay all of the sons of Nathair, you whoreson Seaxon,” he screamed. Spittle flew from his lips. He was not pale from illness, he was furious almost beyond control. “You have taken my brothers, Beobrand Half-hand, but I will kill you and all you hold dear. Just as I killed your friend, Bassus.”

  Beobrand struggled to control his own ire. He swallowed down the acid taste of bitter fury. There was nothing for him to do here while Torran hid behind stout walls.

  And the fyrd was watching.

  “Bassus yet lives, Torran, as do I.” A look of surprise twisted Torran’s features. “It seems your arrows are not as deadly as my blade. And I swear here before all the gods and these warriors of Northumbria, that I will take your life for all you have done.”

  “You can do nothing,” spat Torran. “Din Eidyn is too strong. We are too strong! Finola and Talorcan are safe where I brought them. Away from you Seaxon scum. Winter is coming and Din Eidyn will not fall. And then I will come for you, Beobrand. I will come for you and I will slay you.”

  “You bleat like a sheep, Torran oath-breaker. Torran deceiver. Torran the craven. You are a nithing. Your word has no value. You say you would slay me, but how? With an arrow from afar, like the coward that you are? This is not a man who speaks. These are the words of a worm. I speak not to worms.”

  Beobrand sheathed Hrunting with a flourish and turned Sceadugenga.

  “Come, Acennan,” he said quietly. “Time to leave.”

  He did not wait for a response, but trotted away. Torran’s screams and insults bombarded his back as he rode beyond arrow-range. Beobrand sat tall and rigid in the saddle, expecting to feel the agony of an arrow-head ripping into the flesh between his shoulder blades at any moment. But no arrow came.

  Acennan caught up with him and matched his pace.

  “Well, that was fun,” he said, grinning. But Beobrand could hear the strain in Acennan’s voice. “What now?”

  “Now we fulfil my oath.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We take Din Eidyn and I kill that goat-swiving son of a whore, Torran. And that whore-witch, Nelda.”

  “Nothing too hard then?” Acennan smiled, the tension was dissipating as they rode further from the fortress. All around them, the upturned faces of dirt-smeared warriors watched their passing with awe.

  “I did not say it would not be hard,” said Beobrand, spurring Sceadugenga into a canter. He laughed suddenly, the horror of the night before forgotten for the moment.

  “Come on,” he shouted over the rush of the wind, “I have a plan.”

  Chapter 30

  Beobrand could not sleep. The hall was cold, the embers of the hearth fire nothing more now than a twinkling red glow surrounded by the shadow-shapes of slumbering men. He lay some way from the hearth and doubted it gave much warmth now anyway. The night was full of snow and a howling wind that sounded like the screams of the dying. The snow had begun to fall heavily as the sun went down and soon the world was engulfed in a swirling blizzard. The gods alone knew how the men in their tents and shelters around Din Eidyn would survive the night. The hall atop the cliff was chill, but he knew he was much warmer than he would have been without the walls, roof and flickering embers.

  The gale raged outside and from time to time a gust of wind would shake the whole building, making it groan and creak, like an old man being asked to lift a great weight. Draughts found their way under the doors and through cracks and knotholes in the walls. They made the embers crackle and shine. The cold air caressed the back of his neck. Beobrand shivered.

  And yet it was not the cold or the noise of the storm that kept him awake. His mind was full of thoughts, as if he had somehow swallowed the great flock of rooks they had seen and now those birds were beating and scratching inside his thought-cage.

  Would his plan work? Now, with the snow falling deep outside, would it be possible?

  When he had taken his idea to Oswald, the king has listened patiently. He had asked a few questions, but had nodded all the while.

  “It is a good plan, Beobrand.”

  Oswiu had scoffed.

  “It will never work. It is too simple, too easily will something go amiss.”

  “You forget something, brother,” said Oswald, his voice calm and soft, a small smile playing on his lips. “Beobrand is lucky. And more importantly, he has brought me the blessings of God with his plans in the past. I believe that God speaks through him, even if Beobrand does not know it.”

  Beobrand indeed knew nothing of the sort. The idea of being a mouthpiece for a god was terrifying. But he said nothing. He did not wish to offend his lord, but as soon as he had laid out his idea, he had regretted it. So much could go wrong and then who would Oswald blame? Not his precious Christ god, of that he was certain.

  “Besides,” Oswald had continued, seeing the scepticism in his brother’s face, “we have no better plan. Once the snows begin, all will be lost until after the winter. And I would bring our brother’s wife and son back to Bebbanburg, where they belong.”

  “Very well,” Oswiu had said reluctantly, “let us see if your luck holds, Beobrand. If you can get us into Din Eidyn and I can finally confront Donel, I will reward you handsomely. You can have Finola and the boy, brother. Donel is mine. And he will regret the night he turned us away from his hall.”

  “And when he stood against the sons of Æthelfrith,” said Oswald, his voice as cold as the wind from the north. “I have offered the cup of welcome and the embrace of peace, but no. The Picts have chosen to reject Christ and to defy me. With Beobrand’s help, we will make them see the mistake they have made.” Again, Beobrand had been reminded of the steel-hard edge to Oswald that seemed to have been brought out over recent months. It was as if Oswald had been a blunt blade, but the events of the last year had honed and sharpened him, making him more deadly.

  For an instant, Beobrand had remembered Eowa’s blood-slick face. Yes, the Picts would be sorry for not swearing allegiance to the heir of Æthelfrith.

  A huge gust of wind rattled under the eaves of the Pictish hall, making the whole building shake and moan. Somewhere off to the other side of the hall someone coughed and rolled over. Beobrand hoped his men were able to sleep. They would need all their strength on the morrow. Though if this snowstorm continued, the plan would have failed before it began.

  “Do not fret so,” said a hushed voice from close by. Acennan. So he could not sleep either.

  “How can I not worry?” answered Beobrand in a whisper that no-one else would hear above the wind. “Brave men will surely die tomorrow. At my behest.” His stomach churned with the weight of the risks they would face.

  “Brave men die all the time. It is the manner of their deaths that is important. If they follow a good lord, and fight with all their might, then they can die content.”

  Beobrand said nothing. The burden of leading men was terrible.

  “And you are a good lord, Beobrand,” said Acennan. “We will follow you tomorrow. We know your life too will be in the balance. Our wyrds are all entwined. The men trust you to bring them a great victory. I trust you. Even the king trusts you. You should trust in yourself. As Scand would have said, you have cast the dice now, tomorrow we will see how they land. Until then, rest.”

  Beobrand swallo
wed the lump in his throat. He could not bring himself to answer for fear his voice would crack. He rolled himself in his borrowed cloak and closed his eyes. Moments later, Acennan’s snoring added another sound to the noise-filled night.

  Beobrand lay there listening to the sounds of the sleeping men and the maelstrom of the storm outside. He knew that Acennan was right; there was nothing to be gained from worry. All the pieces were in place and the day would come soon enough. And yet it was a long time until his own breathing slowed and sleep took him.

  His dreams were filled with clouds of squawking black ravens and deadly showers of white-fletched arrows that seared through flesh and bone.

  Chapter 31

  Beobrand squinted up at the fortress of Din Eidyn. The glare from the snow made his head ache. The storm had blown itself out while he had slept. On awakening, he had stepped out of the hall into a world of brilliant white. Drifts of snow rose against walls, rocks and shelters. The bright sun in the pale, cloud-free sky shone down with a chill, biting light. Everything had changed in the blizzard. The world was now a softer, cleaner place. But Din Eidyn was still home to Torran and Nelda.

  If the gods smiled on him, Beobrand would see them both dead before nightfall.

  “Is everything in place?” he asked, his voice as clipped and sharp as the icy puddles that lay hidden beneath the snow. Plumes of breath-smoke blew from his mouth and drifted away on the light breeze. His words and the crunch of his boots in the freshly-fallen snow were loud, jarring in this muffled, soft, white land.

  “Aye,” answered Acennan. “Everyone is ready. Do what you must, and they will do their part, lord.” He only ever called Beobrand ‘lord’ when he was angry or nervous. Beobrand nodded. He too was uneasy. His stomach growled and gurgled. He had been unable to swallow anything that morning, anxiously donning his battle-harness while other men ate. Now he wished he’d heeded the calls from his gesithas to sit with them. He could have settled his stomach with some bread and ale. And he might never have another chance to a share a moment with them. Too late now. He had paced impatiently by the doors waiting for the others to prepare.