Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  “You couldn’t sleep either, I see,” said a voice close behind him, making him start. He had not heard any sound above the murmur of conversations from the men in the encampment, each of whom faced the imminent battle in his own way.

  Masking his surprise by turning slowly to face the newcomer, Beobrand saw it was Wynhelm. He grunted in response, not much wanting the older man’s company.

  “You think they’ll attack in the night?” Wynhelm asked.

  Beobrand shook his head, then realised Wynhelm could probably not see the movement.

  “No,” he said, “and I think Penda will wait till the sun is well up in the sky too. I’d wager we’ll be standing in the shieldwall waiting for a long while until the Mercians see fit to attack.”

  “Why do you think that?” asked Wynhelm.

  “They are going to have to attack into the east, up a steep slope. The odds are not in Penda’s favour. Having the sun in his warriors’ eyes is one more thing against them. Also, if the day is warm, the dew will burn off the grass in the ditch, making it easier to climb.”

  Wynhelm scratched at his beard in the gloom. His eyes glimmered.

  “You think the men will stand strong for Ecgric?” Wynhelm asked, his voice low now, so that he could not be overheard by the wardens.

  “Hard to say,” said Beobrand. “They love Sigeberht. Having him here will help.”

  “And having the great Beobrand Half-hand,” Wynhelm said.

  “I have no time for jesting,” Beobrand said, anger flaring instantly like fat dripped onto a fire.

  “I do not jest, Beobrand. You saw how Offa was when he met you. Do not belittle the impact your presence will have here on the hearts of the men.”

  For a long while Beobrand said nothing.

  “What can I do?” he said at last. “I am but one man, like any other.”

  Wynhelm chuckled quietly in the darkness. It was cold enough now that his breath steamed briefly.

  “Not like any other,” he said. “Your battle-fame is already the stuff of songs. The men will take courage from knowing you fight with them.”

  “I would rather not have the weight of this upon me.”

  “Ah, but that is the curse of the leader of men, is it not?” asked Wynhelm. Beobrand recalled Acennan saying something very similar. “I am sure that Ecgric feels the terrible weight of the kingdom’s fate on his shoulders.” He dropped his voice again. “I just hope his shoulders are broad enough to bear that burden. From what we have seen of him, I am not so sure.”

  Beobrand was silent. For a moment, he wondered at the fear and pressure that must be pressing down on Ecgric. It would be unbearable to carry the lives of so many in your hands. The thought of it made his mouth dry. He felt a terrible pity for the king then. In his place, he would surely have been driven to seek the distractions of wine and women.

  “Do you think he knew what I would do?” Beobrand asked.

  “Who? Ecgric?” Wynhelm sounded confused.

  “No, Oswald,” answered Beobrand. “He knew that Penda was marching on the East Angelfolc, who are his allies. But he also swore an oath of truce to Penda.” Beobrand’s words slowed as he picked his way through the thoughts that he had not voiced aloud before. “So, could it be that knowing my nature, Oswald foresaw that I would bring our small warband to the aid of Sigeberht?”

  For a time Wynhelm did not reply as he turned the thought over in his mind.

  “You mean that in that way he does not break the truce with Penda, but can feel he has offered some help to his ally?”

  “Aye,” said Beobrand. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “Who knows? Our king is as astute and wise as any man that lives, so I would say it is possible, even probable, that he expected this outcome. But he could never have been certain that you would lead us here.”

  Beobrand took a deep breath of the cool night air. It was redolent of wood smoke, cooking meat and the acrid stench from one of the midden pits.

  Oswald knew him well. The scops told of his rash anger and how he was quick to leap to action. Perhaps, some would say, without giving thought to the outcome. Had he been used as a piece in a great game of tafl that Oswald played with the kingdoms and kings of Albion?

  “Have I led us all here to our deaths, Wynhelm?” he asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.

  “Who knows what tomorrow brings? None can see the future. But I know this. Your men have sworn their oath to you and follow you gladly. They love you and would happily give their lives for you.”

  “I know this to be true. But I do not wish them to die because of my rashness.” On speaking the words, he realised this is what had most preyed on his mind.

  “All you can do,” said Wynhelm, reaching out and placing a hand on Beobrand’s shoulder, “is try your best to make the right decisions, be just and bring your gesithas fame and glory. That is all they seek from you. Nothing more. They know who they follow. It is too late to worry now. Tomorrow we will stand in the shieldwall and we will kill or be killed. That is our wyrd.”

  Wynhelm gave Beobrand’s shoulder a pat and walked away, back towards the camp. After a few paces he paused.

  “And know this, Beobrand,” he said from the darkness. “I too have led my men to this place. I have followed you here, and gladly.”

  Chapter 17

  A welter of dark feathers and screeching flapped into Ubba’s hall the moment Rowena opened the door. Letting out a yelp of surprise and terror, she stepped back from the creature that flew at her face. She lost her balance and sat down heavily on the rush-strewn floor. The fall rattled her bones and her teeth cracked together with a loud click. The seax fell from her grasp and she scrabbled for it in the rushes. Her hand touched the smooth bone handle and she gripped it with something like relief, as if the iron blade could protect her from whatever had burst into the hall. Surely it must be a nihtgenga, a night creature, come down from the hills and the forests to take her life. Rowena’s heart pounded, her blood roaring in her ears. Her breath came in short gasps as she tried to make out where the creature had gone.

  A squealing cry came from deep within the gloom at the far end of the hall. Tchack, tchack, tchack. The sound was terrifying. Gripping the seax tightly in her shaking fist, Rowena pushed herself to her feet. She would not face this monster sitting down. She was the widow of a thegn and would show she was brave, even in the face of death. Peering into the darkness, she made out the smallest of movements. Straining her eyes against the shadows, she saw it again. A twitch of black feathers. A smudge of grey. She took a tentative step closer. Her heart was slowing now, her breath coming more easily.

  Could it be? She shook her head. Just a bird?

  She felt suddenly foolish and was glad there was nobody there to see her. On the high-backed chair at the head of the hall sat a dark bird. A jackdaw, nothing more. Not a terrifying night-stalker. Just a bird.

  Tchack, tchack, tchack, it called again and she let out a ragged breath. The grey-capped bird tilted its head and stared at her with its white eye. Just a bird. By the gods, she had been terrified. Her hands trembled and she could feel the hairs on her arms bristling, as if with cold.

  “You’ll not be needing that seax,” said a voice, close behind her.

  Rowena screamed. Her heart lurched and she feared for a moment she would swoon. She spun around, brandishing the long blade. The dim light from the fire licked its edge with red. The face of the woman who now stood in the doorway to the hall was all shadows and fire-glow.

  The woman reached up and pushed the blade to one side with her slender fingers.

  “I said you would not need that,” she said, her teeth flashing in a smile. “I mean you no harm, Rowena.”

  Skeletal fingers of dread scratched down Rowena’s spine. She took a step backwards. The woman, still smiling, followed her into the hall, pushing the door closed behind her.

  “Who are you?” asked Rowena, her voice thin and high. “How do you know my name?” />
  As the woman stepped further into the hall, the flames from the fire cast more light on her face and the breath caught in Rowena’s throat. At first, she had thought this stranger beautiful, her frost-streaked black hair, so much like the jackdaw’s feathers, framed a pale face, with high cheek bones and lush lips, but now she saw that the left side of her face was a ruin. Scarred and twisted, the teeth behind those full lips shattered and jagged like grave markers. Rowena shuddered. Perhaps this was no woman, but a nihtgenga after all.

  “How I know you is of no concern, Rowena, daughter of Eorl. But what I can do for you is.”

  Behind Rowena, the bird suddenly called out again in its shrieking harsh voice, making her flinch. Tchack, tchack.

  “Hush now, Huginn,” said the woman with the split face. The jackdaw ceased its calling.

  Rowena’s head was spinning. What was happening? Who was this woman? But somewhere deep within her mind, she thought she knew. A sudden terrible panic descended on her. Her fear gave her strength.

  “If you have hurt my daughter,” she said, again raising the seax menacingly, “I shall kill you.”

  The woman ignored the blade and the threat.

  “Now why would I harm the lovely Edlyn? No, she is contentedly making eyes at that handsome gesith in the new hall. Do not fear for her.”

  To hear her daughter’s name on the woman’s lips brought another shiver down Rowena’s spine. She watched the woman’s eyes. They were dark and cold, but she could detect no hint of a lie in her words.

  “Who are you?” she repeated. “And why do you come to my hall in the dark of the night, unannounced and uninvited?”

  “I think you know my name,” the woman smiled and the scars and fire-flicker made her face a savage mask, “and as to why I have come, well, we lonely womenfolk should help one another. Men believe they wield all the power, but what do they know, eh? The world bends to the will of women. Sisters weave the threads of wyrd and it is women who decide the fate of men.”

  “How can you help me? And why should I help you, Nelda? For that is your name, is it not?”

  The woman’s smile broadened, twisting her features into something less than human.

  “Well, now we are both acquainted,” she said. “So perhaps now you would invite me to sit with you? It is cold outside and I would welcome some mead to warm my bones.”

  So this was the cunning woman who had tormented Beobrand. Cursed him. Joined forces with Torran, son of Nathair, coating the Pict’s blade in a deadly venom that had almost slain Beobrand. Rowena was suddenly cold and she had to fight against trembling uncontrollably. She should throw Nelda out of the hall and raise the alarm. Bassus and the other gesithas would come quickly. Perhaps she could hold Nelda until they arrived and could bring vengeance and justice upon the witch.

  And yet, something deep within her knew she would not send Nelda away, nor would she call for Beobrand’s warriors. No, the lonely old woman who felt powerless in the face of a new lord and his thrall whore wished to know what this cunning woman could offer her. The dark, hidden part of her that feared the day when her one remaining child would leave her all alone in this cold hall, a part of her that she never truly admitted was there at all, was intrigued.

  Having come to a decision, she returned to the hearth and pulled another stool up close. She placed the seax by her feet.

  Nelda approached with a swishing of her skirts. She sat on the vacant stool. From this position, only the unblemished, beautiful side of her face was in the light. Rowena poured mead into a fresh cup and held it out to Nelda.

  Chapter 18

  At some point in the night, Beobrand slept. But it was a fitful sleep that brought no comfort and he awoke to the echoes of nightmares, feeling more tired than when he had wrapped himself in his cloak by their small fire. It was still before dawn, cold and murky with mist. Most of the men were already up. Perhaps they had slept even less than him. He stood and stretched, letting out a long groan as his back clicked and cracked. His breath smoked and billowed before him.

  Attor looked up from where he was adding twigs to the fire. Dreogan checked the edge of his sword, as he had done countless times the night before.

  “No mead this morning,” said Beobrand to Ceawlin, who had just unstopped the flask, while Aethelwulf observed him with a rapt expression. Beobrand had ordered them to cease drinking the night before, but evidently now that the sun tinged the eastern sky with the colour of salmon-flesh, they believed the command was no longer valid. “I need you all sharp this day.”

  Beobrand smiled to see the bulk of Elmer, yet snoring beneath a blanket.

  “Where’s Gram?” he asked.

  Attor pointed with his chin towards the earthwork. The sky to the west was still dark, but Beobrand could just make out Gram’s tall form, leaning on a spear.

  Beobrand nodded at Attor.

  “Get some food ready,” he said. “We do not want to fight on empty stomachs.” Or die hungry, came the quick thought, as dark as the western sky. His stomach clenched. He spat and walked towards the great ditch.

  “Any sign of them readying for battle?” Beobrand asked as he climbed up the incline to where Gram stood watching over the Mercian host.

  Gram shook his head. His face was in shadow. Far across the mist-filled ditch, shone the watery glow of dozens of fires.

  “No,” he said without looking back. “But they’ll be coming soon enough.”

  For a long while they remained in silence. It had been a cloudless night and the land held the memory of winter in its chill. Beobrand wrapped his cloak about him. Like a shroud, he thought, and shuddered.

  “Will you stand at my side in the wall, Gram?” Beobrand asked at last.

  Gram glanced at him as the sun broke over the edge of the earth to the east. The warm light lent Gram’s face a softness that belied his prowess in battle. His eyes were dark-ringed. Lines pulled at the corners of his mouth.

  “Of course I’ll stand by you, lord,” he answered, as if Beobrand were moon-touched. “You have my oath.”

  “I know that,” Beobrand smiled grimly. “It is just that I am accustomed to having Acennan at my side, but the gods alone know where he has got himself to. You are used to standing with Bassus, are you not?”

  Gram’s lips pressed tightly together and he nodded.

  “I miss him too,” said Beobrand, thinking of Bassus’ gruff voice and easy laugh. “Gods, I miss them both.”

  “I’ll stand by your side, Beobrand,” Gram said. “And with your luck we’ll slay all of those Mercian and Waelisc bastards and be home in Ubbanford before the next full moon.”

  Beobrand clapped him on the shoulder.

  “I hope so. I truly do.” His eye caught movement further along the raised earthwork. “But first let us break our fast and don our battle-harness. It seems we are not the only ones to rise early, and I would hear what the king and his cousin have to say to the fyrd.”

  *

  “Gods, I need help with this,” said Beobrand.

  He had managed to thread the straps into the buckles, but he could not pull them tight enough and hold them secure for long enough to fasten them in place. It would have been difficult with a whole hand, but with his damaged left hand it was nigh impossible. Perhaps if they had more time, but he could see the fyrd gathering and he did not wish to miss what the leaders of the East Angelfolc had to say.

  Around him all of his gesithas were ready for war. Swords and seaxes had been checked again for a keen edge. If they were made to wait for battle, Beobrand knew they would all be checked many times more. Helms were polished and laced tight under chins. It was always so before battle. Warriors donned all of their war gear even if later they would remove helms, or set aside gloves while they waited for the enemy. The ritual of pulling the heavy byrnies on somehow set the warrior’s mind to the task at hand. Slipping the byrnie over head and shoulders, jumping up and down with arms reaching for the sky until the iron-knit shirt fell comfortingly
bulky on the shoulders, felt like sliding into the skin of a warrior. There was comfort in the heft of weapons pulling at the belt that was cinched tight about the waist to hold some of the weight of the byrnie.

  Byrnie, great helm, seax and sword, even his shield, with the straps fashioned to prevent him losing his grip on the boss-handle, all these things were familiar to Beobrand and he welcomed the feel of them against his body. It was only these damned splints of metal that did not feel right. He had first seen such splints of iron attached to leather and then fastened to the forearm on some of Eowa’s men the year before. He had described them to the smith at Berewic who had forged them for him for a price. He had carried them in his saddlebags until now. Now was the moment, with the fyrd gathered and preparing for battle, when a lord must be bedecked with all the armour he possessed. The splints were well-made, and would stop a slash at his arm during battle, if only he could fasten the accursed buckles.

  Gram came to his aid. Pulling the straps as tightly as possible over the wrappings Beobrand had wound around his arm, he buckled the straps with dexterous fingers.

  “I like it,” Gram said. “How does it feel? Can you move your arm freely?”