Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3)

by Matthew Harffy

  Chill fingers scraped down Beobrand’s back.

  Ignoring the pain in his leg, he swung his feet to the ground.

  “Help me walk.”

  “Of course,” Acennan said, reaching out to help Beobrand stand, “but where? You need to rest.”

  All thoughts of sleep had fled. He could not stomach lying here under the gaze of Oswiu. He wished to be surrounded by men he loved and trusted.

  “Take me to my gesithas. I would drink with them this night. We must celebrate our victory. That we yet live. And our luck.”

  *

  In the end, Beobrand had not managed to stay awake for long. His body needed rest and after a couple of horns of mead his head had nodded while the men around him told tales of the battle at the gates of Din Eidyn. He vaguely recalled Acennan and Dreogan half-lifting him and laying him tenderly on the cot that they had brought from the end of the hall to rest by their benches. The message was clear to all. They were Beobrand’s men. And he was their lord.

  He awoke in the morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. Around him men yet snored. A Pictish slave stirred the embers on the hearth, rekindling the fire. Beobrand sat on the cot and placed his bare feet on the rush-strewn ground. His left leg still ached, but the pain was much decreased. Placing a hand on a bench, he pulled himself upright. The leg throbbed, but it obeyed his commands and held his weight.

  “Where are you going?” whispered Acennan, rousing himself from where he had lain, wrapped in his cloak.

  “I would breathe fresh air,” answered Beobrand in a hushed tone. “But where are my shoes?”

  “Sit still for a moment. I will bring your clothes.”

  Beobrand sat and allowed Acennan to fuss over him. The stocky warrior helped him on with his shoes. He laced them and wrapped Beobrand’s leg bindings tightly. For a moment Beobrand was far away, in Hithe, as his older brother, Octa, had helped him tie his shoes before they went out to help plough the top field. He closed his eyes and could almost hear his brother’s laughter.

  “Come on then,” said Acennan, “you’ve woken me up, so you cannot go back to sleep. Lean on me and we can walk together.”

  Beobrand smiled and pulled himself up again. He placed a hand on Acennan’s shoulder, but found he could walk quite well.

  “Your leg seems much healed,” said Acennan.

  “Thanks to you sucking it,” Beobrand replied, laughter creeping into his voice.

  “If the winter is ever bad enough that we have no food, I would rather starve than eat you. Tasted like shit, I tell you.”

  “That was the poison,” Beobrand grinned, “I am sure I would taste good enough. With plenty of mead to wash me down.”

  They stepped over the detritus of the feast and swung the hall doors open enough to allow them to walk into the cool morning. The door wards, grim-faced and silent, nodded to them as they passed. The sight that greeted them dispelled the mood of good cheer.

  The thick snow that had cloaked the land, giving it a clean and soft aspect, had begun to melt. The brilliant white of the day before was replaced by brown, mud-churned slush. The sun was low in the sky. The yard, surrounded by the high palisade, was in shadow. To one side of the courtyard lay the grisly reminder of Oswiu’s rage. A dozen corpses piled in a heap of butchery. Limbs entwined like obscene, grey-skinned lovers. Gaping wounds parted like lips of horrific mouths. Blood, shit and piss had congealed and pooled around the charnel heap, making a swamp of death. Atop this ghastly mound sat several ravens. They feasted on the flesh, pecking at eyes and dipping beaks into the softs maws of the sword-strokes that had killed these men.

  Beobrand turned from the scene. His stomach clenched.

  On the other side of the walled enclosure a severed head had been placed on the point of a spear. The spear haft had been dug into the ground so that the head could gaze upon the massacred hearth-warriors with unseeing eyes.

  “Donel had little time to regret laughing at Oswald,” Acennan said. He picked up a pebble and threw it at the pile of corpses. The ravens flapped lazily up from their feast, cawing angrily. Beobrand spat.

  “There is no fresh air here,” he said, walking towards the huge oaken gates where the fighting had been fierce. There was a ladder up to the palisade. He remembered the Pict falling, splashing red on the rocks beneath the walls. He tested his leg on the first rung and pulled himself up the creaking ladder, one step at a time. Acennan followed him.

  Beobrand’s leg was stiff, and ached, but it was a dull pain now. Gone was the savage burning of the day before.

  From the palisade, he could see far. The day would be fine. There was no more chill wind from the north. No snow-laden clouds.

  “It’s as if winter lasted but one day,” he said, breathing deeply of the cool air. The sun warmed his face.

  “Perhaps we will have good weather for our journey southward.”

  All around the rock were scattered the shelters of the fyrd. Wisps of smoke drifted from dozens of campfires. The scent of woodsmoke reached them on the soft breeze. Those men would be wishing to return to their families. To their farms.

  Their homes.

  Back in the courtyard, the ravens had returned, their croaking cries harsh reminders of the end that awaits all warriors. Something in the birds’ voices recalled to him Eowa’s pitiful moans. Beobrand sighed. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, resting his head against the rough-hewn wood of the wall.

  “What is it?” Acennan asked, reaching out a steadying hand to Beobrand. “You should not have climbed up here with that leg.”

  “My leg is fine,” Beobrand lied. “But I am tired of all this,” he waved his hand, indicating everything and nothing. “I do not wish to spend another moment here, surrounded by all this death. Rouse the men and send for the horses. By midday I would be gone from this accursed rock.”

  “Oswald wishes to bestow treasure on you. You have earned the battle-fame and you should claim your reward.”

  Beobrand straightened and faced his friend. Forcing a smile, he said, “I did not say I would forgo treasure or riches. Let Oswald King and his brother bedeck me in jewels and gold before we depart. But depart we will. And soon.”

  He looked down at the black-feathered birds that hopped, squawked and fluttered in the yard. He frowned, a sliver of fear pricking the back of his neck.

  “I would return to Ubbanford. Too long have I been away. Too long has death surrounded us. I miss peace.” He thought of Sunniva, her fair hair glowing in the warm sun of the meadow above Gefrin.

  Acennan descended the ladder.

  Cyneburg’s hair was the same hue of gold. He recalled how she had cried for the loss of Eowa. They had been mad. It could never have worked between them. And yet Beobrand understood their madness. He understood it and yearned to know it again.

  “I miss love,” he whispered to himself, and began climbing slowly down to the death-strewn yard.

  Chapter 34

  “Ride ahead Attor,” said Beobrand. “Inform the lady Rowena of our return. We shall be home before nightfall.”

  Attor nodded. The bandage on his head had been changed by one of Oswald’s priests before they left. After three days of travel it was stained, but his wound had ceased bleeding. He did not complain of any pain.

  “I will see that the women prepare food and drink, lord.”

  Grinning, Attor dug his heels into his mount’s flanks. The beast’s hooves threw up clods of earth as it carried him out of the sunshine and into the gloom of the forest.

  The day was pleasantly warm. There was no trace of the snow that had fallen so suddenly only days before. Perhaps it had not snowed this far south. Not for the first time, Beobrand wondered at the sudden storm and Nelda’s escape. Had she called on the gods to send the blizzard? Was her power so great?

  He shrugged. It would do no good to wonder. He just hoped she had headed north with her precious companions; to King Gartnait. When Beobrand next saw her, he vowed he would take her life, but there was no urg
ency. For now he would be content that one more enemy was dead. He looked around the ruins of the settlement where they had paused before entering the final forest that would take them to the Tuidi and to Ubbanford.

  The charred bones of Nathair’s great hall jutted from the ground. Some of the other houses had also burnt. A few huts yet stood, and the smoke drifting from one spoke of some of Nathair’s people still residing here. But they had seen nobody and Beobrand did not care to look. They were welcome to scrape together a living from the land here, as long as they did not cause mischief. He would return in time and find them; let them know who their new lord was.

  Nathair and all his sons were no more. Perhaps they had uncles and cousins; men who would continue the bloodfeud. But Beobrand hoped he was done with the kin of Nathair.

  “Come, if we wish to beat the setting of the sun, we must ride,” Beobrand said. The return journey from Din Eidyn had taken longer, despite the warmer weather. Yet, Beobrand could not begrudge the slow pace. Renweard and Beircheart led a heavily-laden donkey apiece. The stubborn creatures had been gifts from the king, as had their baggage. Oswald had lavished riches on Beobrand.

  “Din Eidyn would yet be held against me if not for you, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi,” the king had said with a warm smile. “I give you my thanks, and these tokens of my favour.” Fine weapons, byrnies, helms and even a pot of golden coins from a faraway land were loaded onto a donkey.

  Beobrand, feeling a mixture of embarrassment and pride at being singled out for praise in this way, had mumbled his thanks.

  “I have given you wealth, as your ring-giving lord and king,” Oswald had continued, “and yet there is another who promised you riches and also owes you much. My brother Oswiu, now lord of Din Eidyn, will match my gifts to you.”

  Oswiu had offered something close to a grimace. He had not addressed Beobrand, instead he had clicked his fingers and another donkey was brought into the yard where Beobrand and his gesithas were preparing to leave. The second beast was similarly laden with all manner of items of value.

  Oswiu had glared at Beobrand, who had wished that the king had not chosen to force his younger brother to do this thing. Oswiu had no love for Beobrand, but this gesture had merely served to push his feelings towards Beobrand closer to loathing.

  “I thank you both for these generous gifts,” Beobrand had said. “My sword and my life are yours.”

  “We value both,” Oswald had replied, “but we hope we have no need of either for some time. The lands of Nathair are forfeit and I declare that they are now yours. Return to your lands and rest.”

  “I thank you again, my lord and king.”

  More land. More riches. He should have been overjoyed. This was the stuff of dreams. And yet, he could not bring himself to even smile.

  Grim-faced he’d made to mount Sceadugenga, but his leg still pained him too much. Quickly, Acennan had come to his aid, heaving him up into the saddle.

  His leg was now much improved and that morning he had been able to pull himself into the saddle unaided.

  With a last look at the ruins of the settlement, Beobrand turned Sceadugenga’s head to the forest path.

  “It seems like an age ago when we fought the sons of Nathair here,” he said. The night of fire, screams and death was like a distant nightmare.

  “Aye, much has happened since,” said Acennan, nudging his steed closer to Beobrand so that they could talk without having to raise their voices. “And life is never boring around you, my friend.” Acennan grinned, clearly happy to be riding south again.

  “You think it possible there will be peace now? When I came to Bernicia I dreamt of becoming a warrior. Of battle-glory and fame. I knew nothing then.”

  Acennan sniffed and spat.

  “I hope there is peace, for a while at least,” he said. “But I do not believe this island of Albion will be tamed in our lifetime. We must rest and feast while we can, for war is never far away.”

  “I would enjoy some days of quiet in Ubbanford. I have seen too little of my son.”

  “Or of a certain slave girl.” Acennan chortled.

  Beobrand had been thinking much of Reaghan these past days. He did miss her. Her warm, comforting touch. Her passion. An image of glowing golden hair flitted in his mind, whether Sunniva’s or Cyneburg’s he could not be sure. But did he love Reaghan?

  “Yes,” he smiled, “I will need to do something about Reaghan.”

  “Something about her? Or with her?” Acennan’s eyes twinkled in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the trees.

  “Probably both!”

  “Well, enjoy her while you can,” Acennan said, “I think by next Eostremonath we will be called once more to stand with Oswald in battle.”

  “I fear you speak true,” said Beobrand, frowning. “Penda will not be content with Mercia. We will fight him again, I would wager.”

  “It is for the best, Beobrand.”

  “Why? I am sick of the killing.”

  “You think that now, while your wounds still smart, but mark my words. You are not a man to sit happily on your gift-stool, passing judgement on the boundaries of neighbours’ turnip patches.”

  Beobrand snorted.

  “My wyrd’s threads do seem to be woven into war and blood. Perhaps that is all I will ever know.” His face took on a dark aspect. “Whether war comes in the spring, there are still those I must seek out. I will never forget Wybert’s wrong to me. I have sworn the bloodfeud and his life is mine.”

  Acennan, serious now, turned his face to his lord.

  “And I will travel with you to find the wretch, Beobrand. Together we shall run him to ground and he will pay in blood for what he did.” He reached over and clapped Beobrand on the shoulder. “But that will be after the turning of the year. Till then, you must regain your strength. And practice your sword-skill. I watched you as you fought Torran. You have rusted like an unused seax. You must rebuild your sinews and that speed that makes you the deadliest of foes. Luck will take you only so far.”

  “I was poisoned, you know?”

  “Yes, and now you must rest, but do not neglect to take the whetstone to that rusty seax. You will need its edge come the spring.”

  Ahead of them, a deer trotted out of the trees and ambled along the path, its white tail bobbing in the forest gloom. Dreogan and Aethelwulf touched their spurs to their mounts and galloped after the creature. The deer, as quick as thought, bounded away and sprang into the cover of the trees. The two warriors whooped and gave chase.

  His gesithas too were pleased to be returning to the hall. And a rest from battle.

  “Scand would be proud of you,” said Beobrand, pulling Sceadugenga back. The stallion, always keen to run, wished to speed off after the others. “Remember how he made us train? We will all rest and build our strength over the winter.”

  “You can all rest,” Acennan replied. “But first, I have something I must do.”

  “Indeed?” Beobrand watched as Dreogan and Aethelwulf returned, laughing but empty-handed from the forest.

  “With your leave, I will be heading south. To Eoferwic. There is someone I must see there.”

  Beobrand laughed, reminded of Eadgyth’s dark-haired beauty. He hoped his friend would find happiness with her.

  “Of course. Perhaps Wulfgar will have returned. But do not tarry too long there.”

  “I will return soon, Beobrand. The gods alone know what trouble you will fall into without me to look out for you!”

  *

  “Would you like me to fetch you another cloak?” Reaghan asked. Despite the bright afternoon sun, it was cool here on the porch of the new hall. Sunniva’s hall, the people of Ubbanford called it. Beobrand’s lady. The mother of his son. Reaghan looked down to where the babe slept in a wooden crib. He had bellowed for an age before he succumbed to sleep. He was a stubborn one and strong. Just like his father.

  “I am no gum-sucking greybeard that needs to be wrapped in blankets and furs,” growled Bas
sus. She knew he would say something of the sort, but she could see that he was uncomfortable. Next time she would not ask. So stubborn, all these warriors. Even the old ones who would never fight again.

  “The Christ priests said that you should keep warm and rest,” she said, her tone soothing. “God will heal you now. But to catch a cold would do no good. I will bring a cloak.”

  Bassus grunted, but did not reply further.

  Reaghan went into the hall in search of a cloak. There was one with wolf-fur trim that would be perfect. She hurried to where it hung from a peg. Taking the heavy garment down, she ran her fingers through the thick pelt. She wondered how Beobrand fared in the north. She missed him. She could not speak of her longings or desires, but Maida and Odelyna knew. They smiled to her secretly and ever since that dark summer day, they had been kind to her.

  These last days had been calm. She had taken to caring for Bassus, seeing that he was fed and the poultice on his stump was changed regularly. Rowena and Edlyn had seemed content to remain in the old hall in the valley and thus, Reaghan’s days had been quite pleasant. Bassus was gruff, but he was not mean. He did not talk a lot, but when he spoke he treated her with respect. Each day, Maida brought Octa to Reaghan. She would walk with her gaggle of children up the hill and hand her Beobrand’s son. Maida said it was so that she could have a rest from the babe, but Reaghan saw the smile in her eyes and knew Maida did this thing for her.

  She carried the warm cloak outside and draped it around Bassus’ shoulders. He reached up with his right hand and pulled the fur-trimmed wool clumsily into place. He winced. He still tried to move the arm that was no longer attached. She said nothing. If she tried to help him, she knew he would only get angry. He was a proud man. She looked at him sidelong. Bassus had aged in this last week. More grey frosted the hair at his temples and his skin was sallow. He had lost weight too. For a time, she had feared he would not recover, that the wound-rot had not been removed in time and he would slip away. She did not know how to pray to the new Christ god, but she had left an offering of food and meat for the old gods in the forest.