Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  There had been less laughter and good cheer after that, and as they passed each new, pathetic, terrified group, the mood of the warband had soured. Their humour had worsened still further when they had reached the great dyke and the encamped fyrd of the East Angelfolc. The shambles of makeshift shelters and small campfires sprawled along a wide expanse of the eastern side of the deep ditch, but it was clear that the number of men who had answered the call to the fyrd was far smaller than those who marched with Penda. Ecgric’s eyes had flitted from one group of impoverished men to another. Few bore more weapons than a spear; some carried hoes, scythes and other farm implements. Most had no armour, save for their shields. These were farmers. Ceorls and freemen who had come to the defence of their land and now they watched the thegns and lords who rode by on their fine mounts with dark eyes and drawn faces. The setting sun shone from the riders’ byrnies. Shield bosses glittered, helms glimmered and the gold from brooches and sword hilts seemed aflame in the light from the lowering sun. None of the fyrd-men spoke as Ecgric and his warband trotted through the camp. Beobrand wondered what they thought of their king, a man who had chosen to remain in the comfort of his hall until the eve of battle.

  Not wishing to lose the chance to see their enemy in the last light of the day, they had ridden straight for the edge of the dyke. Ecgric had seemed shocked by the sea of men they beheld. He stared out into the west, making every effort to appear lordly. His shoulders were pulled back, his spine straight, his hand rested on the hilt of his great sword. Ecgric was the image of a warlord. Yet Beobrand wondered how many others had seen the king’s jaw drop open in disbelief. It had taken him a couple of heartbeats to catch himself, closing his mouth and jutting out his chin in a defiant pose, but in that moment Beobrand had seen again the true nature of the king. He may bear the trappings of war and carry himself as one born to lead men into battle, but behind the mask, he was as frightened as any of the ceorls in the fyrd.

  Beobrand hoped that the Christ would listen to Sigeberht and bring them victory, for it seemed to him that Ecgric would be of little use once the shieldwalls clashed and the battle-play began in earnest.

  Their hushed survey of the Mercian host was interrupted by the approach of a group of riders from the centre of the fyrd encampment. Beobrand swung Sceadugenga’s head round to face the riders. As they drew close, his eyes met those of the small band’s leader. Above a silver-streaked dark beard, Offa’s eyes glittered and smiled warmly. He acknowledged Beobrand with a nod before reining in a few paces from Ecgric and Sigeberht. The other riders halted with a jangle of harness. One of the mounts whickered and was answered by the steed of one of Ecgric’s hearth-warriors. It reminded Beobrand of how Sceadugenga and Acennan’s mare greeted one another after an absence. Gods, but he wished Acennan were here.

  “Well met, lord king,” said Offa. “And lord Sigeberht too,” he inclined his head to the white-robed monk. “We are blessed by your presence here.”

  “Where else would I be, Offa?” asked Ecgric.

  Offa did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Beobrand and swallowed.

  “The men’s hearts will be lifted to see you have come to lead them against the Mercians,” Offa said at last.

  “I will lead them to a great victory here,” said Ecgric, once again playing the part of the warrior king. “God is on our side and will guide our spears and blades and confound our enemies. But first,” he said with a magnanimous smile, “perhaps we should ride to your tent for refreshment. The day has been long and hot and we would slake our thirst.”

  Offa shook his head.

  “We will drink and eat later, lord,” he said.

  Ecgric paled, clearly shocked that the older man had contradicted him.

  “What is the meaning of this? You dare refuse me? Your rightful king?”

  Offa held up a hand.

  “I meant no ill, lord king,” he said, his voice soft as one who speaks to an upset child.

  “What did you mean then?” Colour had risen in Ecgric’s cheeks.

  “Just that I thought you would first wish to ride and see what they want.”

  They all turned and looked in the direction of Offa’s pointing finger.

  Chapter 14

  In the russet glow of the setting sun, a group of men had ridden from the ranks of the Mercian warhost. Now they waited beneath their standards on the far, lower side of the deep ditch. Beobrand shielded his eyes from the glare of the low sun to better make them out.

  “Penda is there,” he said, recognising the king’s bulk on a great grey steed.

  “You are certain?” asked Ecgric, his voice wavering slightly, just as the wolf tails that hung from the Mercian standard rippled in the wind.

  “Aye,” said Beobrand. “See there, beneath the wolf-pelt standard. At the centre. That is Penda.”

  “And the others?” Ecgric asked. His voice was stronger now, as he reclaimed control.

  “That other standard, the one with the skulls, is of Gwynedd. It was Cadwallon’s.”

  “Then whose is it now?” asked Ecgric. “Did Cadwallon have brothers?”

  “I know not, lord,” answered Beobrand, “but I believe one called Gwalchmei now rides under the skulls. He was Cadwallon’s man and we saw him on your land, to the north. He was burning a monastery there.”

  Ecgric frowned. Sigeberht made the sign of the Christ cross.

  “And the others?”

  There were other standards there. A black raven on a blood-red cloth. The skull of a bull. What looked like the shaggy head of a bear, claws and fur dangling beneath it. Beobrand could only imagine at the strength of the man needed to hold such a banner aloft. He shook his head.

  “The other standards mean nothing to me.”

  Ecgric sighed as if somehow Beobrand had let him down.

  “What do you suppose they want?” Ecgric mused.

  “I would say they wish to parley, lord,” said Beobrand. “Given that they ride beneath a bough of truce.”

  “Of course,” said Ecgric, but made no sign of moving.

  “If we wish to speak to them while there is yet light in the sky, we must ride now,” said Beobrand, struggling to keep his annoyance from his tone.

  “But what if it’s a trap,” asked Ecgric.

  “Do not fear, lord,” answered Beobrand, “Sigeberht will accompany us and God will protect us.”

  With that, he dug his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks and began the difficult ride down the steep slope of the ditch. He did not ride straight over the edge of the dyke, instead turning Sceadugenga to descend at an angle. This made it less steep but still he feared he might fall from the stallion’s back. Sceadugenga’s hooves slipped and dug great clods from the grass that grew on the bank. Beobrand hoped the others were following him, but more than that he prayed to all the gods that neither he nor any of the others would be unseated. Such a tumble would be a hard knock to a man’s pride, but here, before the enemy leaders, it would be seen as an omen. Morale was surely low enough already, if the men believed the gods had sent a sign of defeat, the battle would be lost before the first blow was struck.

  He clung to his reins, gripped tightly with his thighs and wrapped his right fist into Sceadugenga’s coarse mane, willing himself and the horse not to fall. He let out his breath in a rush of relief at reaching the muddy bottom of the dyke. Glancing back up the slope, he was pleased to see his gesithas following him. Behind them came the white-robed Sigeberht, closely followed by the cross-bearing thegn. The man must be a fine horseman, for he held the rood straight up while his mount picked its way down the grassy slope. Ecgric and his comitatus came next, and Beobrand recognised Wynhelm and his gesithas bringing up the rear of the band of horsemen who rode to parley.

  Beobrand stared up the lower western slope of the dyke. The Mercians and Waelisc gathered there were dark and foreboding against the red-tinged sky. Beobrand shivered. It was cool here in the shadow of the deep ditch. Again, he was struck by the strength of the po
sition of the defenders. To charge up this slope towards a shieldwall would take great bravery. Many would die. But there was nothing else for Penda to do than to attack. To the north lay the great expanse of waterways, marshes and lakes of the fens. To the south, dense forests of beech and oak, dark and tangled with brambles. No warhost could hope to traverse either natural obstacle. The only way to bring a host into the heart of East Angeln was along the old road and over this great dyke. And to cross this great ditch would not be easy. Blood would soak this ground before the next setting sun. But if they just held the shieldwall strong on the earthwork, perhaps the Christ would protect them, even outnumbered as they were.

  Beobrand shivered again and waited for his gesithas to reach him.

  “Come on, lads,” he said, forcing a grin, “let it be doughty Northumbrian warriors that lead the way. Let’s show them how it’s done.” He was not sure whether he wanted to impress the Mercians or the East Angelfolc. Probably both.

  He spurred Sceadugenga on and the stallion powered up the slope. Beobrand felt a surge of pride as his gesithas, his oath-sworn men, urged their own mounts to match his. Attor crested the brow of the slope at the same instant as him. Elmer, Dreogan and Ceawlin were a heartbeat later, followed an eye-blink after by Aethelwulf. They all reined in their horses just paces before the gathered Mercian and Waelisc leaders. In a few short moments their spirits had lifted even as the horses had lifted them into the light. Beobrand blinked in the sudden brightness of the fiery sunset. Sceadugenga wheeled on the spot, ready for further racing. Beobrand grinned at Attor, who flashed his teeth in response.

  “On the way back we should place a wager,” Beobrand said, and his gesithas laughed.

  They pulled their now-restless mounts to a halt.

  Before them, Mercian and Waelisc warlords, thegns and kings, sat silently on their mounts. They were grim-faced and bedecked in their finest war harness. Sword pommels of gold inlaid with garnets glimmered on hilts jutting from finely-worked and decorated scabbards. Gold and silver torcs and arm rings burnt red in the sunlight. Their shields were newly-painted with sigils and signs in reds, yellows and greens. The byrnies they wore were free of iron-rot and burnished to a shine. Many had war-helms, some with intricately-wrought face-guards that covered the wearer’s face completely like a mask, others were simpler with check plates and nose guards. But all of them were fine and polished to a bright sheen that glowed in the sun. Apart from the larger standards and banners they had seen from the other side of the ditch, Beobrand now saw that from many of the spears hung small emblems, trinkets and woven symbols, like miniature standards on chains from short crossbars near the spear-tips.

  These were the finest warriors in all of Mercia and whichever Waelisc kingdoms had chosen to ally themselves under Penda’s wolf banner. They were rich, powerful and proud. And they had come to these lands in search of plunder. And blood.

  Under their gaze, Beobrand felt the excitement of the race ebb away, like ale from a cracked pot.

  Sigeberht, Ecgric and the other riders now joined them on the lip of the embankment and Beobrand was glad of the shift of focus from him and his men.

  There was some jostling for position. Horses stamped and snorted, but soon enough the newly-arrived riders were aligned before the waiting leaders of the Mercian invaders. Sigeberht, Ecgric and the others squinted into the setting sun, trying to make out the faces of the men who had come here to steal their land and their riches. Beobrand cursed silently at the position they found themselves in. They had lost their place of strength and now appeared weak, breathless from the climb, peering into the sun. He had been wrong to lead them here. They should have remained on the eastern side of the dyke and forced Penda to ride to them.

  “Who is king here?” said Penda. Despite the warmth of the evening sun, a huge wolf pelt was draped over his shoulders. His forked beard hid a sneering mouth. He scratched at his chin, and Beobrand saw the tracery of scars on his muscled forearm, the skin-memory of many battles. “Well?” Penda asked, frustration entering his voice.

  Ecgric raised his face so that the sun lit him in its glow. His handsome features were wreathed in hair that shone like gold. Once again Beobrand was impressed by the king’s poise. He looked every part the noble lord.

  “I, Ecgric, son of Rædwald, king of these lands that you have defiled.”

  Penda fixed him with a hard stare. Ecgric held his gaze for a few heartbeats before looking down at his mount. Penda turned to Sigeberht who stood out in his plain robe amongst so many iron-knit shirts and shining helms.

  “You must be Sigeberht,” Penda said with a smile. “Finally we meet.”

  Sigeberht inclined his head.

  “Penda, son of Pybba, I presume. I cannot say you are well met on this day.”

  Penda’s smile broadened.

  “Indeed,” he said. “I would make you an offer, lord Sigeberht. One you would do well to accept.”

  “What offer?” Ecgric asked, having regained his composure.

  Penda ignored him. When it was clear the king of the Mercians would not reply, Sigeberht sighed.

  “What is this offer?” he asked.

  “You bring us four score pounds of gold and I will lead my host back west.”

  “Why would we accept this offer from you, pagan?” Ecgric blurted out, his voice shrill. The colour in his cheeks was no longer just from the setting sun. He was furious.

  Penda rounded on him.

  “You would do well to keep your tongue from flapping, boy,” he said. “Were you not taught to remain silent when your betters were talking?” Some of the gathered Mercians chuckled at their king’s remarks. Ecgric’s face flushed.

  But before he could answer, Sigeberht held up his hand.

  “Penda, my cousin, Ecgric, is now king of this land and its people. I cannot answer for him or our folk.”

  Penda, frowned, his face dark and shadowed. Behind him, far beyond the host of warriors he had marched into this land, the red orb of the sun sank to the horizon.

  “That is a pity, Sigeberht. I would talk with men, not boys. And you Christ followers at least keep your word.” Beobrand was unsure, but it seemed to him that Penda shot him a glance as he spoke the last words.

  “Well, boy?” Penda continued, speaking to Ecgric once more. “Do you accept my terms? One way or another, my men will have their plunder. Best to give it to us than have them take it. They have marched a long way and until now I have held their leash tight.” Beobrand shook his head at Penda’s lies. He thought of Edmonda’s monastery and the other fires they had seen to the west. The terrified, tear-streaked faces of the families fleeing Penda’s host. “If you refuse me now, boy, I will have no choice but to unleash them. They will make widows of your women, burn your farms and your precious Christ halls. They will enslave your womenfolk and your children and they will still steal your gold. Much more than four score pounds of gold. A wise king would accept my offer.”

  Ecgric looked as if he might charge at Penda, such was his rage. His hand fell to his sword hilt, his whole body tensed, ready to urge his steed forward. Beobrand liked the king of the Angelfolc then. He remembered vividly his own ire when goaded by the fork-bearded king of the Mercians. The impotent rage that had coursed through him when he had been ordered to take Anhaga’s life.

  “Easy now, cousin,” said Sigeberht, his tone firm. Final. “They ride beneath the bough of peace.”

  “You listen to Sigeberht,” said Penda. “And be a wise king. Accept my deal.”

  Ecgric took his hand from his sword, but still his body thrummed with pent-up anger. The muscles at his jaw bulged and flexed.

  “I will accept nothing from you,” he spat the words from between clenched teeth.

  Penda shrugged, grinning. He seemed pleased at the reaction he had provoked in the younger man. He turned his attention back to Sigeberht.

  “That is the trouble with kin.” he said. “They never listen to advice from their elders. Isn’t that right,
Eowa?”

  With a start Beobrand recognised the warrior to Penda’s right. Eowa, Penda’s brother, wore a helm with large cheek guards which hid the scars Beobrand knew to be on his face. He remembered the savage beating in the dark shed in Din Eidyn. How Oswiu had cut Eowa. How he had given the Mercian atheling his cloak and sent him off into the snow-riven night. Above all else, Beobrand recalled the honour and dignity of the man. Their eyes met and Eowa gave the smallest of nods.

  The sun had fallen beyond the edge of the world now, and darkness would be upon them soon. But still they remained, beneath the green bough of truce and Penda appeared to be enjoying himself.

  “And I know you,” he said, voice loud and brash. “I never forget a bastard!”

  Beobrand’s heart lurched as he realised the king spoke to him.

  “You were at Dor,” Penda continued. “There was that terrible business with your man. The cripple.” Beobrand felt himself grow cold. “Attacked one of your gesithas, didn’t he, Grimbold?” He turned in the saddle and addressed the last words to a large man who rode beneath the bear-head banner.

  “Aye, lord,” Grimbold replied. “The cripple nearly took the life of Wybert here.”

  In the gathering gloom Beobrand made out the features of the man who rode with Grimbold. His was a face Beobrand could never forget. It haunted his sleep. Wybert sat astride a large dappled horse. He wore a heavy woollen warrior-coat of blue with an ornate trimming of red and yellow weave. His cloak was the red-brown of old blood. There were rings on his arms and a sword at his side.

  Sceadugenga took a step towards the Mercians. Beobrand was not aware of nudging the horse forward.

  “Your man is a craven,” he shouted, the words leaping from him unbidden. “I have sworn the bloodfeud with Wybert, son of Alric, and I will have my vengeance.” His breath came in short gasps. His heartbeat pounded in his ears. His body seethed as if liquid fire ran through his veins. He trembled with the force of emotion that had gripped him. He fixed Wybert with a baleful stare. Sceadugenga took another pace forward, sensing his master’s intention. Beobrand judged the distance. With luck, he could kick the stallion through the mass of warriors and reach Wybert. He would surely die, but that was a price he would willingly pay to slay Sunniva’s defiler.