Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand could scarcely believe what he had heard.

  “But Penda is approaching,” he said. “He is allied once more with men of Gwynedd, perhaps other Waelisc kingdoms too. We have seen his men torching your buildings, murdering your people.” Beobrand looked to where Edmonda knelt. She had refused to be separated from him and had followed them silently into the tent. She had not spoken, but Beobrand saw the glimmer of her eyes as she watched everything. “Does your king not believe his place is here with his fyrd?”

  Wynhelm reached out and placed a hand on Beobrand’s arm. Beobrand glanced at him. Their eyes met. He understood the man, despite the older thegn not speaking. They did not know these people. Offa seemed a good man, but no warrior took kindly to men insulting his lord.

  Beobrand took a sip of the ale Offa had offered them when they had first entered the tent. It was sour. The three men were seated on stools. A great helm and shield rested against a wooden chest. In contrast to the encampment, the tent was ordered and tidy. It reeked of sweat and wet leather.

  They were all silent for a moment. Offa looked forlornly into his cup before taking a gulp of the ale.

  “Ecgric is not a bad man,” he said at last, quietly. “He is a good lord, generous and honourable.”

  “Then why is he not here?” snapped Beobrand. From the corner of his eye he saw Edmonda flinch.

  Offa looked up sharply, his brows furrowed.

  “I cannot speak for my lord king’s decisions. But, lord Beobrand,” said Offa, an edge of iron creeping into his tone, “I know you are a warrior of renown, but do not forget yourself. I have carried shield and sword for longer than you have breathed. I will not hear an ill word spoken against any king of East Angeln.” He drained his cup, grimacing at the taste of the ale. “I will fight the man who insults my king.”

  Wynhelm raised his hands in a placating manner.

  “It seems to me we are allies here,” he said. “Beobrand means no harm. He is but young. Headstrong. And you will be needing to save all your fight for the Mercians and the Waelisc.”

  Beobrand said nothing. Wynhelm’s words angered him, not least because he knew them to be true. He took another sip of his ale.

  “How far is this Beodericsworth,” asked Wynhelm.

  “Not far. Half a day’s ride. Less in good weather.” The wind picked up outside, shaking the walls of the tent. The leather slapped and cracked and the tent was filled with the sudden sound of heavy rain thrumming.

  Offa smiled ruefully.

  “Half a day’s ride,” he said. “The king has told me to send word the moment the enemy is seen, and he will ride here with all speed.”

  Beobrand could contain himself no longer.

  “But what does he do at Beodericsworth that he cannot do here?” he asked. “Is there a woman there whose company he seeks?”

  Offa sniffed. “Perhaps.” The previous tension had dissipated like the rain running off the skin of the tent. “There are many fine women in Beodericsworth. But I believe Ecgric seeks the company of a man, not a woman.”

  Wynhelm, his cup to his lips, spluttered.

  Offa grinned now, pleased at the reaction to his words.

  “He seeks the counsel of his kinsman.”

  “His kinsman?” said Beobrand.

  “Aye. His kinsman. Sigeberht.” At the mention of Sigeberht, Offa’s face lit up.

  “The old king is at Beodericsworth?”

  “Of course, he is. It is where he built his monastery school. A fine place to teach boys the ways of the Christ god.”

  “And Ecgric seeks Sigeberht out so that he can help the fyrd with the Christ’s magic?” Beobrand finally thought he understood the king’s decision to leave the host and travel to a monastery. The Christ’s power was strong. Perhaps it could help them defeat Penda.

  “He may want Sigeberht to pray for him, but I believe he wants his advice.”

  “About what?” asked Wynhelm.

  “This battle of course. Sigeberht was not always a man of God.” Offa’s tone grew wistful. “He was a great warlord. A man to lift the spirits of his gesithas. Men would fight to the death at his command.”

  There was something about the way Offa spoke of Sigeberht.

  “You were one of his comitatus?” Beobrand asked. “Sigeberht was your lord?”

  Offa looked at him as if he were slow-witted.

  “Of course. And he was the best of lords.”

  “But now you serve Ecgric.”

  Offa nodded.

  “Now I serve Ecgric.” Offa set his cup down on the chest. He took a long slow breath. Outside the rain had subsided. A horse whinnied and a dog barked. “I serve Ecgric for my lord Sigeberht ordered me to,” he said. “My lord commanded and I obeyed. He chose Ecgric, and I trust his judgement.” Beobrand thought he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

  Beobrand stood up quickly, handing his empty cup to Offa.

  “Can you spare us a man to lead us to Beodericsworth?” he asked. “This camp is no place for a holy woman,” he offered his hand to Edmonda, who, after a moment’s hesitation, grasped it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

  “And I would speak with both of your kings.”

  Chapter 7

  Rowena pulled the antler comb through Edlyn’s long, dark hair. A thrall could easily have done the task, but Rowena liked to spend this time with her daughter each day. The teeth of the comb snagged on a knot and Rowena teased the tangle free and continued with the long smooth strokes. Edlyn’s hair tangled so easily. It always had. Across from where they sat on the porch of the hall, several children shrieked as they were chased by a dog. The shouts were shrill, the dog’s yelps piercing, but Rowena did not mind. To have a life full of sound and laughter of children was not a bad thing.

  For a moment, she ceased combing, allowing her gaze to wander further, beyond the huts and barns of Ubbanford to the hills and trees that surrounded the village. Soon, all too soon, Edlyn would be gone somewhere beyond the valley. She was of age already. Rowena frowned. She should probably have found her a husband before now, but she could not bear the thought of seeing her leave. Ubba’s hall was too quiet already, the nights long and cold. When Edlyn left, Rowena would be totally alone.

  “Mother?” Edlyn broke into her reverie.

  Rowena realised she had paused, her hand resting on her daughter’s head. She recommenced brushing.

  “Sorry, child, I was just thinking.”

  She thought too much, that is what Ubba had always told her. Perhaps he was right. But he was not there now to tell her. He had left her alone, and taken her two fine sons with him to a cold grave at Hefenfelth. And for what? So that a new king could rule over them? She cared no more for one king than another. No king had kept them safe in this valley by the Tuidi. They had always fought their own battles. It was their sweat and blood that had fed this land. Not some atheling who had come from exile far to the north-west.

  Absently, she began to braid Edlyn’s hair, her fingers nimble at the task they had performed countless times before. The girl had such silken hair. She was truly beautiful. Rowena smiled. Of course she would think that, she was the girl’s mother. And yet she knew it to be true. She had seen the way the men looked upon her daughter. The way their eyes lingered on her hips, her slim waist, the curve of her breasts. Men were all the same.

  Her thoughts returned to Ubba and she frowned. She missed the old goat. He had often been cantankerous, grumbling at everything, but still she missed him. Missed his solidity in the hall. His presence had seemed to ground everything, to keep her world steady. And she missed the warmth of his bulk beside her in their cot at night. Perhaps not all men were the same, but they were all governed by one thing. They could be mighty warriors, able to feed the wolves and ravens with their prowess in battle, but they could all still be led by a nice pair of tits and a plump arse. Once, she had been young and beautiful, able to turn the heads of men, but now those days were long gone.

 
Just as her man and her sons were gone.

  Rowena finished one braid, adeptly tying it off with a short length of wool yarn. She started on the other side. That winter, she had briefly considered marrying Edlyn to one of Lord Beobrand’s gesithas, but it would not do. None of the warriors were of noble birth and whilst she would have loved to keep her daughter close, Edlyn deserved better. No, this summer they would travel to Bebbanburg, or perhaps even as far as Eoferwic and seek a suitable husband for the girl.

  The children had stopped their screaming and she looked to see what now entertained them. She pressed her lips tightly together as she spotted Reaghan, carrying baby Octa. The Waelisc slave girl was talking to the children in her sing-song tone and they were listening to her with rapt interest on their grimy faces.

  “Be careful, mother!” snapped Edlyn.

  Rowena had snagged some of the hair in the long plait, tugging painfully at her daughter’s scalp. She smoothed the hair with a light touch and continued with the braid.

  That slave bitch! Rowena could barely stand the sight of her. Who did she think she was? She paraded around Ubbanford as if she owned all she surveyed. But of course, in a manner of speaking, she did. And she was certainly no longer a slave.

  How had Beobrand allowed himself to be bewitched by such a creature? He was a good man; brave, honest and loyal. And yet he was merely a man, like any other. He could no more control his lust than a fish could fly. But to give the slave her freedom! Rowena could scarcely believe it. It was the stuff of madness. When Sunniva had died in childbirth, Beobrand’s grief had been awful. Rowena had not been surprised when he had begun to bed Reaghan. The girl was comely enough she admitted grudgingly. A man needed comfort and what were thralls for, if not to serve their masters? But to free her? Make her the lady of the new hall? Sunniva’s hall. It was all too much. Seeing Reaghan with Sunniva’s child every day, ordering the thralls, living like a queen in the great hall on the hill. Rowena hated it.

  “Are you finished, mother,” Edlyn asked in a timid tone, as if scared to awaken the anger that simmered just beneath the surface of Rowena’s demeanour.

  “Yes, my dear,” Rowena answered, her mind elsewhere. “Fetch your blue cloak and my green one and we shall go for a walk.” She needed to be away from the oppressive hush of the hall. And away from the sight of that Waelisc whore. Edlyn scurried away, perhaps happy to be free from her mother’s bitterness. Was it so obvious? Perhaps. Though she never spoke of her thoughts to Edlyn, her daughter was no fool and could surely sense her mother’s moods well enough.

  As she watched Reaghan conversing with the children, the imposing figure of Bassus strode into view. The huge warrior followed Reaghan everywhere. He looked old after the terrible wound he had suffered the year previously. His hair had greyed and his beard was silver, but despite having lost his left arm from the arrow wound, he was no cripple. He was still a man to be reckoned with. He would never stand in the shieldwall again, but his shoulders still held the memory of the muscle-bulk of the great warrior, and he still wore sword and seax at his belt.

  As if sensing her gaze upon him, Bassus turned his scarred face towards Rowena. Their eyes met and she felt her face grow hot. The giant man always made her feel unsure of herself. She turned quickly away, back into the shadows of the old hall.

  “Hurry, girl,” Rowena called to Edlyn, her voice shriller than she had intended, “bring those cloaks. I wish to walk to the river and the day is cool.”

  Edlyn returned with the garments and Rowena snatched the green cloak, sweeping it about her form and fixing a clasp at the shoulder. She wished now that she had asked the girl to bring the grey one. It was not as comfortable as the green woollen cloak, but it hung better on her. No matter now.

  Without waiting for Edlyn to fasten her own cloak, Rowena stalked away from the hall, leaving the sound of children chattering behind her.

  Chapter 8

  Beobrand stretched with a grimace, pushing his hands into the small of his back. All this riding made him ache. And the rain had brought with it twinges of pain in the old wounds of his leg and foot. Absently, he rubbed his hand on the left side of his chest where a Mercian shield had cracked his ribs.

  “By the gods, why are we kept waiting here like ceorls?” He went to drain the ale from the wooden cup he had been given, but found it empty. He flung it onto the small table in disgust. The cup rolled along the board and then fell with a clatter onto the bare floor.

  Wynhelm, frustratingly calm, raised a hand from where he sat.

  “Be seated, Beobrand,” he said, his voice soothing. “I am sure the king will see us soon.”

  “Soon?” spat Beobrand. “We have been here since the sun was at its highest, and now it is nearly dusk.” He cast a glance out of the open door. The rain had ceased some time ago, and now a thin yellow light cast long shadows on the building work that was underway. Despite being late in the day, men still split wood, chiselled, and hammered pegs into joints. The sound of their labour had been a constant reminder of their own inactivity all of that long afternoon. Beodericsworth was a-bustle with activity while they sat waiting to be attended by the king of the East Angelfolc. Beobrand took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax the tension in his shoulders and back. With a sigh, he sat back down on the bench beside Wynhelm.

  “So many strong men working,” he said. “and not half a day’s ride from here, the fyrd is gathering to meet the might of Penda and his Waelisc allies. We must speak some sense into this Ecgric.”

  “Hush,” said Wynhelm, nervous now at Beobrand’s harsh words. “We are strangers in this land and an insult to a king in his own hall will surely bring us nothing but ill.”

  Beobrand sighed again. Wynhelm was right, but it was infuriating. To ride all the way from Northumbria and then to be made to wait like supplicants at the door of the king’s hall. What could be so important that he had not seen them already? They were thegns, not thralls.

  “Peace, Beobrand,” Coenred spoke up from where he sat flanked by Gothfraidh and Edmonda. He held the intricately-carved casket on his lap, his fidgeting fingers evidence of his own unease. He offered Beobrand a thin smile. “Peace. The king will see us soon enough, I am sure.”

  As if in reply to his words, the huge doors to the inner hall swung open.

  The door wards, who had stood silent and grim-faced while the Northumbrians waited to be seen, now beckoned them to rise and to enter the hall.

  Beobrand stood abruptly, only to have the older of the two door wards block his path.

  “You cannot bear blades in the hall of the king,” said the man, his tone broaching no argument. Beobrand clenched his jaw, but he knew this was no personal slight; to carry weapons inside was reserved for only those thegns who were closest to the lord of a hall.

  He unbuckled his sword belt and deposited it, Hrunting and his seax still attached and scabbarded, on the ground. The others did the same and soon there was a sizable pile of weapons in the small chamber.

  “Keep good care of my blades and those of my companions,” he said, his voice gruff. The door ward nodded, ignoring the rudeness in the younger man’s tone.

  Beobrand strode into the hall. The first thing that he noted was how dark it was. The shutters were pulled closed, scant light from the setting sun slicing into the gloom through the cracks where the wood met. A few rush lights burnt with small guttering flames that wavered at the breeze from the open doors. The hall was huge, large enough for a king. Longer and higher than Bebbanburg and Ubbanford, most of the hall was in utter darkness, the assorted rush lights not beginning to dispel the gloom from the place. No fire burnt in the great hearth, but Beobrand noticed the embers glowed. The hall had about it more the look of early morning, rather than late afternoon. Compounding the sense of a hall awakening, two slave girls flung open the shutters, making him start. Unbidden, his hand dropped to his side grasping for Hrunting’s absent hilt. Embarrassed, at his nervousness, he let his hand relax. Shafts of warm sunli
ght slanted into the hall like hot knives from the now-opened windows.

  “By all that is holy,” exclaimed a weak voice from the end of the hall, “my head feels like someone has buried an axe in it while I slept.”

  Beobrand blinked against the sudden brightness, peering into the shadows at the far end of the room.

  A man was slumped on a large chair with a high back. His head rested on one hand, while he shielded his eyes with the other. He was slim and fair, with high cheeks and a square jaw. His green tunic and tight blue breeches were of the finest quality, but looked blotched and stained. Gold and garnets glimmered at his throat and on his fingers.

  “God, my head,” he said and clicked his fingers. The gold of a ring caught the light with a flash. “Bring wine, ale and mead for my guests. And get the fire lit. They will think I do not know how to welcome visitors.”

  Thralls and servants scurried to do their lord’s bidding.

  Beobrand bit back a sharp retort. They had been waiting all this time while the king slept! He gripped his hands into fists at his side and walked forward stiffly.

  “My steward tells me you are come all the way from the north, from Oswald’s realm,” the man Beobrand assumed to be Ecgric said, his voice fraying and slurred. “Why did he send you? If it was to tell me Penda means to invade my lands, your message arrives late.” He cast about him, evidently looking for something. When he could not find it, he clicked his fingers again and raised his voice. “Wine, I said. Bring me a cup of wine.”

  A servant ran from the shadows with an ornate cup and a jug. She filled the cup and handed it to the king, who drained it and held it out to be refilled.

  Beobrand stood awkwardly, Wynhelm to his right, their men, dusty and travel-weary some paces behind. To one side, Coenred, Gothfraidh and Edmonda had their heads bowed, as if in silent prayer.

  Beobrand clenched his fists at his side. This was the second hall he had visited in this land in the last year and on both occasions the welcome had been sorely lacking. Where was the Waes Hael cup? Why had they not been introduced? He was not even sure that the bleary-eyed man on the throne, who was now well into his second cup of wine, was the king. Tiredness washed over Beobrand. He just wished to be gone from the place. To fulfil his duty by delivering the monks and their gift and then return as quickly as possible to Ubbanford. He was suddenly glad of the poor welcome, it would make it easier to be on their way. The kings of this land were poor lords and war was coming. This land was not safe.