“Lord Ecgric of the East Angelfolc,” he said, his voice loud and clear, “we are indeed come from Northumbria, sent by our lord Oswald, King of Bernicia and Deira and Bretwalda of all Albion.” Wynhelm gave him a warning glance. It was Oswald’s ambition to be called Bretwalda, over-king of the kingdoms of Albion, but to utter the name before the king of another realm was like a slap.
To his surprise, Ecgric did not react to the title, which Beobrand had only spoken to provoke him.
“And you are?” the king asked, holding out his cup for yet another fill of wine. His voice was stronger now, the drink evidently giving him strength.
“I am Beobrand of Ubbanford. This is Wynhelm of Æscendene. We bring with us monks who bear a precious gift for Sigeberht, erstwhile king of this land. We heard from your man, Offa, that Sigeberht was here. Is that so?”
Ecgric ignored the question.
“Monks? I see two and a nun also. Did you forget her?” He laughed at his own jest.
Beobrand did not laugh.
“No, lord. We rescued Edmonda. Her monastery was under attack from a warband of Waelisc. We came to tell you of this. We rode hard to—”
Ecgric raised a hand to silence him.
“You can tell me this and more once you have all slaked your thirst and supped with me at my table. I believe the cooks have prepared swan and pike. You will not have tried finer.”
“But, lord,” Beobrand said, unsure how to proceed, “we have waited all this afternoon to speak with you.”
“Then a while longer will do you no harm,” replied Ecgric. The colour had returned to his cheeks now. “And we will all think better on full stomachs.”
Beobrand went to speak again, but the king turned away to talk to a man who had approached and now whispered in Ecgric’s ear.
All around them servants and thralls prepared the boards. Fires leapt from the logs freshly-placed on the embers. Men, with the aspect of shield-bearers and sword-brothers, the king’s comitatus he presumed, Ecgric’s hearth-warriors, sat at the benches readying themselves for the fine food their lord promised.
Beobrand looked about him in disbelief.
The land of the East Angelfolc was burning, and their king feasted.
*
“The man is a fool,” hissed Beobrand, his hand clutching his cup so tightly that his knuckles showed white.
All around them the hall was a hubbub of heat and sound. The smoke from the fire mingled with the smells of roasting meat, spilt ale and dozens of warriors. It was the fug of a hall in full feast, and normally he would have welcomed it. But a lord does not feast when his people are dying and his land is being raped by enemies.
Wynhelm placed a hand upon his arm.
“Watch your tongue,” he said in a voice that barely carried over the din. “Let us hope we can speak to Ecgric soon.”
“Why should we bother? The man is clearly not interested in what the sisters of Wyrd are weaving for his people. Oswald sent us to bring the monks safely to Sigeberht, I say we do just that.”
For a time Wynhelm did not respond, instead sipping his ale. Then he nodded.
“Very well. But it is late now, and we have not eaten well for more than a sennight, so let us fill our bellies and go to him at dawn.”
Despite his anger at the king’s treatment of them, Beobrand smiled, lifting a succulent chunk of swan to his mouth on the tip of his small knife.
“At least he spoke true. This swan is the best fowl I have ever tasted.”
“And we need to eat,” said Wynhelm, chuckling.
Beobrand swallowed the warm meat. It was tender, moist and full of flavour. He washed it down with a quaff of ale. The drink too was exquisite. Ecgric certainly knew how to feed his men and his guests. He had been offered wine and mead, but Beobrand had long since learnt his lesson in that regard. If they were to rise early in the morning, he would need to drink sparingly and nothing stronger than ale. Even so, Beobrand could feel himself relaxing as the drink soaked into him.
The men around him suddenly burst into a storm of laughter. He had not heard the riddle that had caused the reaction, but he could feel the tension seeping out of the hall. But despite the warmth and fine food, Beobrand could not relax. This was all wrong. What had these men to celebrate?
“Attor,” he beckoned to the slim warrior, who rose and came to Beobrand’s side. “Tell the men we will be leaving at sunrise. They are not to drink heavily.”
“What of the monks? And the nun?” Attor nodded in the direction of the three who had sat at the far corner of the hall, away from the raucous noise of the mead-benches.
“We will deliver them and the gift they carry to Sigeberht in the morn, and then we will ride from this place.”
Attor frowned and looked set to speak, but merely gave a curt nod and went to deliver the news to the men.
Beobrand took another bite of the swan, chewing absently while watching Coenred. The young monk was leaning in close to Edmonda, speaking to her. Their faces were grave and pale in the firelight.
Oswald had told him to leave Coenred and Gothfraidh with Sigeberht. But had the king known that battle was coming? The monks would not be safe here. And what of Edmonda? He had not rescued her from one burning monastery to leave her in another.
Thoughts and plans flapped inside his mind like the wings of bats trapped in a cave. He did not know what to do, but he was sure that war was coming.
And when war arrived, the gods laughed at the plans of men.
Chapter 9
Dawn barely paled the eastern sky when Beobrand roused Wynhelm, Coenred, Gothfraidh and Edmonda. Ecgric had drunk enough wine and mead to keep him asleep for most of the day. When Beobrand had approached the high table later in the evening to speak to the king, he had been dismissed with an imperious wave of a hand. Beobrand had stood there for a long while, the tumult of the hall echoing around him and stared at Ecgric. The man was clearly a fool. Or perhaps he was moon-struck. But no, he did not rave and jabber and Offa had said Sigeberht had chosen Ecgric to replace him. At that moment, Ecgric had turned away from the conversation he was having. He had looked directly into Beobrand’s eyes for a moment, and then lowered his gaze.
Beobrand had returned to his bench, and leant in close to Wynhelm, who had watched the silent exchange.
“Ecgric is not foolish or mad,” Beobrand had whispered.
“Indeed?” Wynhelm had said.
“No,” Beobrand had said, letting out a long breath, “the king is terrified.”
They had left their weapons with the door wardens of the great hall as they stepped out into the cool morning air; they would have no need for them. Attor had joined them, ever alert he had awoken and followed Beobrand out of the hall. They had allowed the others their rest.
It was not difficult to find the location of Sigeberht and his religious brethren. The chanting of their Christ songs drifted over the mist-wrapped settlement. The half-built structures of the buildings loomed in the darkness like the bones of wrecked ships at low tide. All was still and quiet, apart from the singing monks and the footfalls of Beobrand’s small band.
“What do they sing of?” asked Beobrand.
“They sing Prime,” said Coenred, “the first office of the day.”
The sound of the chants was still distant, but clear in the stillness of the dawn. First one voice spoke, then many responded. The words were in the sacred tongue of the Christ followers. Beobrand understood none of it.
“But what do the words mean?” he said.
“The Holy liturgy speaks of many things, young Beobrand,” said Gothfraidh. They walked on in silence for a few strides while Gothfraidh listened, mouthing the words to himself as they wafted to them.
“Dóminus nos benedícat, et ab omni malo deféndat, et ad vitam perdúcat ætérnam.”
“They are coming to the end now,” said Gothfraidh. “They ask that the Lord bless us, and defend us from all evil, and bring us to eternal life.”
“E
t fidélium ánimæ per misericórdiam Dei requiéscant in pace.”
“…and may the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace,” Gothfraidh translated.
Beobrand took in a deep breath of the damp, cold air. Did the Christ god really listen to these prayers? He had seen for himself the power of the Christ. But Coenred said he was the god of love and forgiveness. If that were so, why did he allow so many to die? If Christ could defend his faithful from evil, why did he choose not to? Beobrand spat into the mud of the path, as the sounds of the final prayer ended in a loud chant of “Amen”. The Christ god wielded power, of that there was no doubt, but would a loving god allow his own to be slaughtered? Beobrand recalled Tata’s broken form on the altar at Engelmynster, the fear-filled faces of the Christ worshippers they had left behind to their fate at the hands of Gwalchmei and his warriors. No, the Christ was as fickle and as callous as all the other gods. His priests talked of eternal life and an end of sacrifice, but it seemed to Beobrand the Christ demanded the blood of his own followers as tribute.
They had arrived at a recently dug ditch, with a raised embankment on the far side. The path cut across this ditch over a small timber bridge. The stripped planks still oozed resin, such was their freshness. Gothfraidh, Coenred and Edmonda all paused at the bridge and made the sign of the rood over themselves.
“Once we cross this vallum, we are entering Holy ground,” explained Gothfraidh.
Beobrand spat into the ditch and crossed the bridge. The others hurried behind him.
There were many small buildings, but at the centre of the enclosure stood a larger hall. Figures emerged from the hall, leaving in small groups to go about whatever errands the Christ god or his priests demanded of them. Beobrand strode forward.
“You there,” he shouted, his voice strident in the dawn-quiet. “Where is Sigeberht?”
The group he addressed were all young men and boys, none more than thirteen or fourteen years of age. They gaped at him with wide eyes and open mouths. He was unarmed, but he was clearly a man of war, broad-shouldered, and as tall as any man they were ever likely to have seen.
“Well?” he asked, his tone hardening, his scarred face pulling into a frown. “Where is he? We bring him tidings.” Still they did not reply, instead they seemed set to run. Fearing that the boys would flee without helping him, he tried to soften his words. “We also bring a gift from afar.” He gestured towards Coenred and his ornately-carved wooden casket. The sight of the monk, with his shaved forehead and long robes much like their own appeared to put them at ease somewhat.
The shortest of the novice monks pointed towards the large building they had just left.
“He is in there, with Bishop Felix,” he said, his voice squeaking like a field mouse. Beobrand didn’t know if that was due to his age or his fear, but he nodded to the boy and made for the hall.
More boys scattered at his determined approach. He was done with waiting. Penda’s host might even now be at the great ditch. Beobrand could imagine them swarming up the slope towards Offa’s ragged defence. They must be gone from this realm before Penda swept all in his path.
Inside, the hall was dark and cold. The smell of freshly-worked timber hung in the air and on top of that a more pungent scent, one that Beobrand could not place. As his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness within the building, he saw smoke wafting from a small copper bowl that hung by three chains attached to a long rope from the roof beams. He knew not what burnt within that bowl, but the stink of it caught in his throat, making him cough.
At the sound, two men who had been deep in conversation at the end of the building turned towards him. Beobrand recognised one as Sigeberht. The man who had been king wore the same white robe as he had the year before, but now the crown of his head had been shaved, marking him out as one of the Christ’s monks. Beobrand knew that Sigeberht had given up his kingdom for the ways of the Christ, but seeing him thus, garbed in simple clothes with his hair shaved into a tonsure, made him start. Why a king would give up his right to rule his people, Beobrand could not comprehend. Sigeberht took in the people who had entered the chapel in a heartbeat. He held up a hand to the man he had been conversing with, warning him to stay behind him, as he squared his shoulders and walked down between the wooden pillars toward Beobrand. He moved with the natural grace of a warrior and Beobrand sensed that he was being appraised even as Sigeberht held out his hands in a sign of welcome and peace.
Sigeberht halted a few paces before Beobrand. He was tall and broad, with the same strong features as Ecgric. Behind him, the other man, shorter and altogether smaller, hesitantly followed.
“I recognise you,” said Sigeberht, his voice strong. “You were with the lord Oswald when he came to my hall at Dommoc.”
“It is so, Lord Sigeberht,” replied Beobrand.
“I am a lord no longer. I am now a servant of God.”
“I have heard as much,” said Beobrand, his incredulity making his tone sharp.
Sigeberht smiled, as if he was accustomed to men’s disbelief at his choices.
“I remember you, but not your name.”
“I am Beobrand of Ubbanford.”
“Ah, the mighty Beobrand. And why do you come to me here, Beobrand?”
“I am come once more from Northumbria, bearing tidings and a gift from my lord King Oswald.”
“Indeed? What tidings do you bring, and what gift?”
Beobrand could not answer. His cheeks reddening, he indicated to Coenred.
“Coenred, who comes from brethren of the isle of Lindisfarena, bears both the gift and the message.”
Coenred, pale and timid stepped forward.
“I bear not one, but two gifts of the utmost value. Gifts from King Oswald and Abbot Aidan to help you in your Holy endeavours to teach the Lord’s word in these lands.” He held out the casket in his trembling hands. “If I may place this casket upon the altar, then I could open it with no fear of dropping the precious contents.” His voice shook at finally speaking these words to the intended recipient of the contents of the box.
Sigeberht stared long at the carved oak. It was clearly of exquisite craftsmanship, a thing of great value.
“Only holy sacraments and vestments may be placed on the altar, Coenred,” he said.
“Oh, lord,” replied Coenred in hushed tones of awe, “these are the holiest of items. Relics from the land of our Lord himself.”
The short figure crossed himself, and hurried forward.
“Come, boy,” he said, his words carrying the strange lilt of one who did not learn to speak on the isle of Albion. His accent reminded Beobrand of Bishop Birinus of Dorcic. “Come, come,” he continued breathlessly, ushering Coenred forward toward the altar at the end of the hall.
Reverently, Coenred carried the box to the cloth-covered table and placed it there. Beobrand and the others followed him, spreading out to better see what the casket contained.
“Go on then, boy,” said the short man, “open it.”
Coenred ran his slim fingers through his long, unruly hair.
Then, reaching forward with caution, he lifted the lid on delicate silver hinges to expose what lay inside.
*
Beobrand peered forward to see what thing of great value nestled in the box that Coenred had guarded so jealously throughout the long journey south. At first he could see nothing, save a parchment that covered the contents of the box. Coenred gently plucked the vellum from the casket, revealing what lay beneath. Still Beobrand strained to see anything inside. As he stepped closer, leaning over the altar in an attempt to get a better view in the dim light of the chapel, Coenred spoke in a tone that told of having learnt the words to be recited here.
“Behold, a piece of cloth from the very habit that the holy Colm Cille wore on the day of his burial. All the way from the isle of Hii has this come.” He paused. The short man exclaimed something in a tongue Beobrand did not understand and clasped his hands together, as if in prayer
. He made the sign of the cross over himself. Coenred, Gothfraidh, Edmonda and Sigeberht all did the same. A moment later, to Beobrand’s surprise, Attor hesitantly emulated them.
“A precious and holy relic indeed,” said Sigeberht. Beobrand glanced at his face. His strong features were filled with awe. What power could a scrap of cloth hold? Perhaps this Colm Cille had imbued it with magic.
“You spoke of two objects,” prompted the short man with the strange voice. His words came in rapid gasps of excitement.
“Yes,” said Coenred. “Look inside the casket and you will see the most fabulous of relics. From the Holy Land itself, from the very ground where our Lord God walked the earth.” Despite himself, Beobrand found he was once again leaning forward to spy what artefact lay within the box. All around him the others crowded and peered with rapt expressions. Beobrand realised with a start that he was not breathing. Coenred paused, surveying all of their faces. Gothfraidh, clearly knowing what the young monk was about to announce, smiled in anticipation.
“See here before you, a pebble from the very slopes of Golgotha.”
Edmonda let out a small cry.
Sigeberht exclaimed, “Praise the Lord our God, and may He bring eternal peace to Abbot Aidan and King Oswald for their generosity.”
Beobrand leant in close. In the shadowed recesses of the wooden box he saw a frayed shred of dark cloth, woollen it seemed to him. Beside it lay a grey, smooth-edged stone, not half the size of his fist.
“Golgotha?” he asked.
In their excitement both Sigeberht and the short stranger began to speak at once.
Killer of Kings Page 7