Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  Penda kicked his own steed forward to block Beobrand’s path to Wybert.

  “Perhaps tomorrow you will take your revenge,” he said, seemingly amused at Beobrand’s outburst, “if the gods smile upon you. Or mayhap it is your wyrd to feed the ravens. We shall see on the morrow.” Evidently deciding that the audience was over, Penda swung his mount’s head and trotted back towards the Mercian camp. “By the gods, Grimbold,” Penda shouted, laughter in his voice, “that half-handed bastard is a noisy one. I’d watch him, or he’ll cut his way through to your man tomorrow.”

  Grimbold replied something to his king, but the words were lost in the sound of the Mercian and Waelisc horsemen turning and riding back to their ranks.

  Beobrand cared nothing now for Penda and his taunts. He kept Wybert in his unflinching gaze, just as a hawk does a vole. Though Wybert was no defenceless woodland creature. He was broad and tall and had all the trappings of a wealthy warrior. Still, Beobrand did not fear him. He would kill Wybert or die in the attempt. He watched as Wybert turned his horse and followed his lord, Grimbold. Beside him, the warrior who bore Grimbold’s heavy bear-head standard leaned in and said something. Wybert laughed. The standard bearer was a giant of a man, taller even than Bassus. As if his size and the standard wouldn’t be enough to find him in the chaos of battle, his shock of fiery red hair and huge, matted beard would make him stand out even in a host of armed gesithas. As they rode away, Beobrand let out a long, shuddering breath.

  Woden, All-Father, he prayed silently, let me find Wybert on the field of battle tomorrow. Let me find him and guide my blade that I may make him pay in blood for what he did.

  He did not know whether Woden listened to him. Perhaps he listened to no man, but the gods loved mischief and audacity so he promised them a spectacle they would relish, should they allow him to face his blood-sworn foe.

  The shadowy shape of a horseman obscured his view of the retreating lords and thegns.

  For a moment, Beobrand could not make out the identity of the rider. He had been staring into the afterglow of the sunset for too long. His eyes took time to adjust, but at last the features began to make sense. The dark-bearded chin, the torc gleaming dully at the rider’s neck, and the flowing white cloak that was draped over the rump of the man’s steed. Gwalchmei ap Gwyar.

  “We meet once more, Beobrand the half-handed,” the Waelisc lord said. His horse pranced a few steps and Gwalchmei absently slapped its neck hard. Sceadugenga snorted and pawed the earth. “I see you are still riding my horse. By dusk tomorrow, your pitiful fyrd of farmers will be scattered and Taranau will be mine again.”

  He did not wait for Beobrand to reply. Kicking his heels viciously into his horse’s flanks, Gwalchmei galloped after his countrymen and allies.

  Chapter 15

  Rowena sipped at the cup of warm mead and stretched her feet out to the small fire in the central hearth of the hall. The flickering of the flames was the only light and the dancing shadows of the rafters and beams brought to her mind images and half-forgotten memories from times long past. She remembered sitting by such a fire late into the night with Ubba at her side. His strong arms had encircled her, his hands caressing her under the fur he had draped around them both. They had revelled in each other’s closeness, growing increasingly breathless as their hands fumbled in the warm darkness. Heat filled her belly as she recalled how their arousal had grown until he had taken her right there sitting beside the fire. She blushed now to remember how she had hoisted up her skirts and lowered herself onto him, even as his gesithas had snored and slumbered on the floor around them. A tremor ran through her and she sighed. She took another, larger sip of mead, enjoying the way the drink relaxed her into a warm glow where she could almost imagine she was that young woman again, full of lust and love.

  A log shifted on the hearth, throwing sparks into the air.

  But she was not young. And Ubba was dead. And there were no gesithas wrapped in blankets on the floor of the hall. Rowena was alone. She had sent the thrall girl, Alina, away and even Edlyn was up at Sunniva’s hall.

  No, not Sunniva’s. Reaghan’s hall now.

  She hadn’t wanted Edlyn to go. But the girl had pleaded with her.

  “Bassus has said they are going to have goose,” she had said. She had been wide-eyed and excited. “Reaghan has asked me to sit beside her at the high table. Oh please, mother, say I can go.” Rowena had shaken her head and Edlyn had merely pleaded more loudly, more shrilly. But Rowena had not been refusing to let her go, she had merely been incredulous at the fickleness of youth. Only weeks before Edlyn had joined her in pouring scorn on Reaghan. Edlyn had loved Sunniva and had taken her death almost as hard as Beobrand. And yet here she was now happy to be invited to the Waelisc bitch’s hall for a feast.

  “You are invited too, mother,” Edlyn had said, perhaps mistaking the cause of her mother’s mood. “Bassus said you must come. And sit at the high table, as is your rightful place,” she’d added quickly.

  In the end, Rowena had let her go. She could not bear to see her daughter sad and she had smiled so rarely of late. Life was hard and there were precious few moments of joy, let her have this one. Soon she would be married and Ubbanford would be a memory for her to look back to on long nights. Rowena rubbed at her eyes. Gods, she was not going to weep here like a maid.

  She stood and poured more mead into her cup, then sat down, once more enjoying the sensation of the fire on her outstretched feet, and the warmth on her face. Frowning, she worried at a thought that had been scratching at her mind since dusk. What had brought on this sudden change in Edlyn? She had thought it the way of young girls to hate one day and love the next. She had thought Edlyn had mistaken attention from Reaghan as friendship. That thrall whore was a wily one. Surely she had offered her daughter gifts from her new-found wealth, given her trinkets that she’d brought from Aart the peddler, perhaps. Inviting them to the new hall was just a clever way to buy their loyalty. Well, Rowena was no fool. She was not so venal to be controlled by an offer of choice meats and a place at the high table. But something had needled her all that long afternoon and into the cool, dark loneliness of the night. Reaghan sent Bassus to invite them both to the hall at least once every sennight. Every time, Rowena had politely, but firmly, declined. And every time, Edlyn had seemed happy to remain in Ubba’s hall with her mother.

  Until this afternoon.

  What had changed? The fleeting memory of Ubba’s touch caressed her thoughts again and as sudden as lightning from a clear sky she knew. What would make a young girl, no, a young woman, change her mind so? A young man, of course. And just like that, she was certain. It was that new warrior, Beircheart. He had not long been a member of Beobrand’s retinue, having joined with Dreogan and Renweard the previous autumn, but Rowena was sure it was Beircheart who had given her daughter the urge to visit Reaghan’s table, where she had spurned her before.

  She even recalled the moment Edlyn’s interest must have been sparked in the young gesith. Beircheart had been stripped to the waist, his finely muscled chest glistening with sweat from his exertions in weapon practice. He had offered Rowena and Edlyn a beaming smile as they had passed. Rowena had grumbled and hurried Edlyn along, but now she remembered how her daughter had blushed and had looked back over her shoulder. And Beircheart had waved, grinning.

  Rowena took a long draught of the mead and its sweet heat soothed her.

  Gods, what should she do? Would they still be feasting? Surely they would. The night was not so old that they would have set aside the food and drink. The hall would still be loud with laughter, talk and riddles. And all the while, Edlyn would be gazing, moon-eyed at Beircheart, the slim-waisted, broad-shouldered warrior who was easily ten years her senior. Rowena had seen him practising with Renweard. He was fast and skilled with a blade, his body lithe and powerful. How had she not seen the danger before? Beircheart was a warrior who had stood in shieldwalls. A killer. Such a man would not be content with lingering looks and
perhaps a stolen kiss behind the dairy hut.

  But surely he wouldn’t dare touch Edlyn. She was a maid, unmarried and untouched. But what if Edlyn offered herself to him? He was only a man, after all, and he would have drunk much ale and mead. Perhaps she should fetch her cloak and hurry up the hill to the hall before it was too late. Edlyn needed to marry well, and no man of worth would want to take her if she was sullied.

  But Rowena could not face that Waelisc bitch. She imagined Reaghan’s smile, so meek, so timid. Rowena knew Reaghan hated her as much as she loathed the thrall. No amount of smiles could cover the truth. No. Rowena emptied her cup and forced herself to breathe deeply. No. She would wait for Edlyn to return.

  Rowena settled herself for what might be a long wait. The fire cracked and popped. A small flame suddenly burst to life from one of the logs with a hiss, as if the wood itself were breathing fire. The tiny gout of flame gushed forth for a few moments, as if a baby wyrm were curled on the hearth. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the hissing flame vanished. The shadows of the hall seemed to grow darker. A few paces from the fire, the edges of the hall were cloaked in darkness. Despite the heat from the fire, Rowena shivered.

  Perhaps Edlyn and Beircheart were even now in such a dark corner of the new hall. Or had they left the hall in search of somewhere more secluded? If she allowed her mind to wander thus, it was going to be a very long night. Rowena poured herself another drink and was surprised at how light the flask was. She would have to be careful, or she would not be able to keep her eyes open.

  Still watching the hearth fire, she listened to the familiar sounds of the hall. She recognised each creak and groan as the building settled into the night. A certain slow cracking sound spoke of the cool night after a clear, warm afternoon. The beams of the roof protested at the change in temperature, like old men complaining as they lowered themselves onto a chair by a fire. Or like an old woman. She smiled to herself. A dull moaning, which had used to frighten the children, Ealdian in particular, was merely the wind blowing from the west under the eaves.

  The familiar sounds soothed her. This was her home. Her place on middle earth. It was as if the hall itself was her kin, protecting her in its embrace from the chill and darkness of the night.

  She raised her cup to her lips. Just a small sip now. She would have to make this cup last.

  What was that?

  The cup had barely touched her lip when something made her pause.

  There it was again. A scratching. Then nothing save for the crackle of the fire and the settling groans of the cooling hall. She sipped the mead. Rowena strained her ears now, closing her eyes to better focus.

  There again. A scratch, scratch, scratch, followed by silence. Could it be an animal? A rat perhaps, or a mouse? She would have to get another cat. Old Pangur had died in the winter, and she had not bothered to replace him. She was not keen on cats, but if there were rats in the hall, she would need one. She would talk to Odelyna about it, her cat had given birth to a litter of six recently. Perhaps some yet lived.

  She was sitting on the edge of her stool now. Without realising it, she was leaning in the direction of the scratching, her ears ready to pick up the slightest of sounds. She breathed shallowly through her mouth.

  There! Another scratch, this time followed by a sharp knock on the timber of the hall doors. Rowena started. That was no rat. The hairs on her arms and neck prickled. She did not breathe, silently waiting for another sound. She felt very alone. The scraping sound on the timber comes again, then a sharp crack of something hard against the door.

  Standing quickly, careful not to upset the flask and cup, Rowena padded through the gloom of the hall to a particular chest where Ubba’s seax lay buried beneath an old kirtle and cloak of his that she could not bear to be rid of. As she rummaged under the wool and linen, there was another scratch and knock on the door. Unbidden, she let out a small sound in the back of her throat. Cursing silently at her own foolishness, her hands found the leather scabbard with its studs, buckles and straps. She freed the seax from the grasp of the clothes in the chest and pulled the weapon from the scabbard. The smooth bone handle was surprisingly warm in her hand, but the weight of the blade was more than she had imagined. The blade was thick and easily as long as her forearm. Its heft gave her courage.

  Turning to the doors, she walked slowly and stealthily towards them. This time she did not whimper or start when the sounds came once more. She felt foolish. It was probably Edlyn come back from the new hall sooner than expected. But then why would she not enter?

  “Edlyn?” Rowena called out, her voice thin and sharp in the still gloom of the hall. “Edlyn?” she repeated, but again there was no answer.

  Another long scraping scratch and then a knock.

  “Who’s there?” she asked the night, pleased that her voice sounded less fearful now. In her hand, the seax trembled.

  No reply came from outside.

  Rowena took a long, steadying breath. This is madness. She was the lady of this hall. Wife of a thegn of Bernicia. She was not a maid to be scared by the sounds of the night. There must surely be a simple explanation for these sounds. An animal, or perhaps a branch had fallen from the wych elm that grew close to the hall. That was it. A branch would scratch as it was caught by the wind, and from time to time it might rap against the wood. Yes, it would be a branch, or an animal. Nothing to fear.

  And yet her hands shook as she reached for the door. She wished she had finished that last cup of mead.

  Her left hand touched the latch just as another scrape and knock echoed in the hall. Her breath caught in her throat, and she pulled her hand away. It will be nothing but a branch, she told herself. You’ll see, you foolish woman.

  Gripping the bone handle of the seax so tightly that her knuckles popped like pine cones thrown on a fire, she reached once more for the latch. Then, before her mind could conjure up any further terrors lurking in the night, she flung the door wide.

  Chapter 16

  Beobrand stared out westward at the campfires that dotted the night like so many stars. He rubbed at his eyes. They were prickly, as if he had blinked in grit on the breeze, but he knew it was tiredness. His body craved sleep, but it would not come. For a long while he had lain near the fire with his men, willing himself to fall asleep, but the release of slumber was refused him. Dark thoughts had fluttered around his head as he listened to Dreogan and Attor discussing the best way to gut a man who is wearing a byrnie. As Gram imparted his experience from countless battles to Elmer, worries had clustered and nagged at Beobrand’s mind like blowflies on a corpse. Ceawlin and Aethelwulf had remained still and quiet as the night grew chill. The only sound from them came from dragging whetstones along the blades of their seaxes and swords. They had found a flask of mead from somewhere, which they passed between them without a word.

  Eventually, Beobrand had left the camp and walked back to the edge of the great ditch, where wardens stood watch. He wished that he too could drink of the mead, to soften the fear and worry that gnawed at him. But his life had taught him that to flee his duty thus was the craven’s way. At least for him it was so. He cared not that other men sought the solace of drink before battle, but he would not do so. Bassus had told him years before that often those who drank most were the first to die in battle. Beobrand would never forget that first shieldwall in Elmet. The stench of death, the clamour of metal on metal, the screams of the dying and their killers alike. His stomach churned and he spat. He could not die in the battle. He must lead his gesithas to safety. It would not do if they were drunk. He would return to their fire shortly and make them set aside their drink.

  A man to his left coughed and hawked something up, spitting noisily. Sentinels had been placed at regular intervals along the length of the earthwork, watching for any approach from the Mercian host in the darkness. It seemed mad to most that anyone might consider attacking without the light of the sun to guide them, but Beobrand had told Sigeberht and Ecgric of the victori
ous night assault on the Waelisc at Hefenfelth. The king had appeared doubtful, but Offa had spoken up, lending his voice to Beobrand’s and thus the number of night wards had been doubled with instructions to remain vigilant for a surprise attack. Offa had even sent some of the men over to the other side of the dyke, ready to holler in the darkness should Penda decide to bring his host to battle.

  Beobrand gazed up at the sky. It was clear of clouds and the half-moon gilded the land with a silver light. They would not attack until daylight. It would be impossible to approach undetected on such a still and well-lit night. But Beobrand had been glad of Offa’s support. The king and lord Sigeberht both clearly trusted Offa. He was a good man. One to stand with in the shieldwall. Sigeberht too was a man of honour, who must have been a formidable foe before he set aside the sword and shield for the vellum and the rood. What would happen to the man in the coming battle Beobrand did not know. Had he been wrong to cajole Sigeberht into coming here? He was almost certain that Ecgric would not have ridden to the dyke until it was too late to save his kingdom without his cousin’s urging. But had Beobrand’s actions condemned Sigeberht to death? The man said he would pray for them, raise a cross as Oswald had and bless the fyrd. But he would not bear weapons or don battle-harness. If Ecgric and the shieldwall faltered, he would be cut down in a heartbeat.

  Beobrand frowned, ran his hands through his hair and massaged the back of his neck. The uneven pressure from the two hands, the whole right and the damaged left, still unsettled him. He wondered whether he would ever be used to it; the feeling of the missing fingers. Years had passed, and yet he still sometimes forgot and fumbled his grasp on something. It was frustrating, but each time it served to remind him of who he was, what he had confronted and what he had overcome. Gods, how he wished Acennan was there. He missed his friend’s easy humour and knew he would miss him in the shieldwall. Without Acennan’s skill to defend his left, he would rely on Attor. The slim warrior was as deadly as any man in combat, but when Beobrand and Acennan stood shoulder to shoulder, they made music of the sword-song. Besides, he could not confide in Attor. To lead men was lonely and he would not burden his gesithas with his worries. Acennan had seen him in the worst of times, and Beobrand knew he could tell him anything. But his friend was not there.