Killer of Kings

by Matthew Harffy

  “Save me?” he repeated, anger seeping into his tone as blood colours water. “From what? From defeat? From the shame of running from battle and leaving my sworn-men behind?” He felt as though his head would shatter with the force of his ire.

  “Beobrand—,” Acennan said.

  “No,” Beobrand cut his words off. “I do not need saving from this.” A sudden sobbing gripped him. Oh gods, were they all dead? “We must return,” he shouted. Tears pricked his eyes, their salt smearing with the blood and sweat that caked his face. A wave of dizziness washed over him. His skull felt twice its normal size. “They gave me their oath,” Beobrand said, swiping the tears from his face. “I must be with them. Even if that means death.”

  He tugged on the reins, turning his horse’s head back towards the slaughter in the ditch. Faintly, the noises of battle came to them on the breeze. But before he could ride back, Acennan urged his own mount forward and grabbed Beobrand’s horse’s bridle.

  “They would not wish you to perish, Beobrand,” he said. “Attor, Aethelwulf and the others would want you to live.” Beobrand kicked his heels into the flanks of his horse. The beast whinnied and strained against Acennan’s grip, but the short warrior pulled hard on the leather. The horse rolled its eyes, its ears lying flat against its head. “As do I,” Acennan said. “Do not forget that I too swore an oath to you. I will not have you die for nothing.”

  Beobrand feared he would vomit again, as once more dizziness swirled in his head.

  “Wybert was there…” he said, his voice trailing off.

  “And if he yet lives, we will take the blood-price from him as we swore it at Dor. But to ride back now to the ditch will gain us nothing. King Ecgric is slain. I saw him struck down. King Sigeberht too is gone. The men of Wessex were too few. They could not turn the tide. Besides,” he added, allowing a shadow of a smile to play over his lips, “even the great Beobrand could not defeat scores of men when his brains have been scrambled in his skull like a smashed egg.”

  Beobrand did not smile in return. There was no mirth to be found in him. After a long pause, he had nodded, instantly regretting the movement as his head shrieked in protest.

  “We must go to Beodericsworth. I left Coenred there. And a girl we found on our journey south.”

  “A girl?” Acennan had raised an eyebrow. He’d dismounted and retrieved Beobrand’s dented helm, tying it to his own saddle.

  Beobrand had no time for his friend’s humour.

  “A holy woman of the Christ god. We cannot leave them to Penda and his whoreson horde. There is a rich hall there. Penda will seek it out like a weasel sniffing out duck eggs.”

  They had ridden hard through the forest, passing those who had fled on foot from Penda’s force. Men shouted out to them, asking for news of the battle. But one look at Beobrand’s face, grim and dark with dried gore, told them the only tale they needed.

  When they eventually arrived at Beodericsworth, it was long after dark. Beobrand’s head still pounded, but his vision was steady, and he had not puked again, managing to hold down some water from a leather flask Acennan had handed him as they rode.

  All was quiet in the settlement and Beobrand wondered when the Christ followers would next be singing their strange prayers to their nailed god, for there never seemed to be long intervals between the services.

  They had made straight for the monastery, clattering their horses over the small timber bridge that crossed the vallum. They had found the new buildings deserted. All save an old man, whose wispy white hair floated around his face like a wreath of mist in the darkness. He had come from one of the smaller buildings, carrying a rush light that he shielded from the night breeze.

  “I remember you,” he’d said to Beobrand. “The Northumbrian.”

  “Where has everyone gone?” Beobrand asked.

  “That way.” The old monk pointed off to the south and east. “Bishop Felix led them. He said it would be better to move everyone to safety. The relics too.”

  “Why did you not go with them?” Acennan asked.

  “I believed God would protect us and see that the pagan Penda would be turned back from our lands. The bishop ordered me to go with him, but I thought I knew better. I thought they’d be back in a few days and I’d be spared the journey.” He laughed then, his rasping cackle unnerving in the silent gloom of the half-built buildings. “It seems the Lord wishes to teach me a lesson in obedience.”

  They had urged the old man to seek shelter away from Beodericsworth’s buildings, but he had shaken his head, muttering something about God knowing best, and returned to his hut.

  Leaving Beodericsworth behind, they had rested some way off the path for a short while. Acennan woke Beobrand at the first glimmer of dawn and they rode on. Beobrand’s head still throbbed and ached, but his thoughts were less confused and he no longer felt he would either faint or retch. Acennan told him of how he had been in Wessex when news had arrived of Penda’s warhost marching on the East Angelfolc.

  “Well, Eadgyth’s father is a tough old goat,” he said over his shoulder as they rode. “He had kept me waiting for weeks for his answer. I think it was so that I would increase the brýdgifu and it worked.” He laughed. Beobrand had not replied, merely gritting his teeth against the pain in his head. “I’d already ended up agreeing to twice what I’d thought I’d have to pay. Not that Eadgyth’s not worth it, of course. I just wanted him to agree the damned price and be done with it, so that I could return north. Eadgyth will be worried.” For a moment, he looked wistfully into the distance, perhaps imagining Eadgyth’s raven-black hair. “Anyway,” Acennan shook his head, bringing himself back to the present, “then Wulfgar comes to his father’s hall and says he is riding to the aid of their East Angelfolc allies and the old bastard says, ‘I trust you will ride with my son too. Your king is also an ally of the folk in the east, is he not? And it is right for kinsmen to ride together.’”

  “And so you rode with the West Seaxons,” Beobrand managed.

  “Couldn’t say no, could I? Not without looking craven.”

  “You say Wulfgar rode with you?” asked Beobrand, wishing he had been able to see Eadgyth’s brother. He was a good man, one he considered a friend. “Did you see him in the battle?” A sudden pang of fear gripped him, twisting his stomach. Please, not Wulfgar too.

  “When we left, he was unharmed. It was he who saw you in the ditch. And it was his idea for me to ride to your rescue.”

  Beobrand frowned at the reminder of fleeing the battlefield and they rode on in silence. After some time, they crested a slight rise and scanned the horizon behind them. Several smudges of smoke rose to be lost in the rain clouds that now gathered, grey and heavy in the west. The heat of the previous day was gone, and a cool breeze tugged at their cloaks.

  “Penda has unleashed his wolves,” Acennan said, staring at the smoke in the distance.

  Beobrand did not answer. Instead, he dug his heels into his horse’s sides and cantered down the shallow hill towards the east. Towards the sea. There was no time to waste. He hoped that Bishop Felix had a plan, for he did not relish the idea of being trapped between the Whale Road and Penda’s host of marauding warriors.

  That afternoon, they had caught up with the straggling group of monks, priests and nuns. It was raining a drizzle that was cooled on the skin by blustery gusts of wind that came from the nearby sea. He could smell salt on the air and white sea birds were plentiful in the darkening sky.

  The weight that had pulled on him since the battle was lessened somewhat at seeing Coenred, Gothfraidh and Edmonda, walking in a small group towards the rear of the column of some two dozen men and women. Coenred was pushing a hand cart which was laden with chests and sacks. It was hard work to move it over the rutted track they followed and Coenred only paused to look up when Edmonda called out to him.

  “I am pleased to see you well, lord,” Edmonda said, lowering her eyes.

  “What happened?” asked Coenred, breathless from his ex
ertions and perhaps excited to hear of the battle. “Where are your gesithas?”

  Acennan shook his head by way of answer.

  “Acennan!” Coenred exclaimed, breaking the awkward stillness that smothered Beobrand like a great cloak. “How are you come to this place?”

  “You know me, Coenred,” said Acennan. “I don’t like to miss a fight. Besides, it seems my lord Beobrand needed saving.”

  Beobrand had spat then and without a word he had ridden off towards Felix.

  That had been over a week ago. Acennan had long ceased mentioning having saved Beobrand. In fact, they had spoken of little of consequence.

  Beobrand pushed himself to his feet. The ale was strong, he could feel its effects dulling the edges of the pain that was so sharp within him. Acennan made to stand too, but Beobrand waved him back.

  “I don’t need your help to piss,” he growled, and stalked out of Folca’s hall.

  *

  Beobrand was glad to be rid of the heat and noise of the hall. The sharp edges of his memories were smoothed by the drink, but not yet obliterated. He was tempted to continue drinking, until the world ceased to have meaning and he would fall into a deep stupor. But he knew that the memories would always return. He could flee from a battle, fail to protect his gesithas, allow those he loved to be defiled and killed, but there was no escape from his own thoughts.

  He relieved himself at the midden, the noise from Folca’s hall merging with the sounds of the night. The distant thump and grumble of waves came to him and he set off towards the beach. They had arrived in the late afternoon and there had been no time to reacquaint himself with the familiar settlement of Hithe. King Eadbald’s men had led them directly to meet Folca, and the thegn had welcomed Beobrand as if he were a returning son. Beobrand was surprised the lord of Hithe even remembered him.

  “Who would have thought it?” the grizzle-haired man had said, clapping him on the back and ushering him to a chair at his high table. “A son of old Grimgundi becoming a great warrior.”

  At the mention of his father, Beobrand had tensed. It had been a risk to come here, but after what he had heard in Cantwareburh, he could not turn away without visiting.

  “So sad,” Folca had continued, “your father’s death in that fire.” Beobrand had watched him warily for any sign of accusation in his words, but Folca continued without pause. “What a terrible year that was. So many died.”

  Beobrand had merely nodded, clenching his jaw. Folca spoke true. So many had died, then and since.

  “But come,” Folca had smiled, “let us not talk of sorrowful times. There are too many of those. Let us eat and drink and you can recount tales of your battle-prowess that is now legendary.”

  Beobrand had made a poor guest. Glowering into his ale horn, he answered requests for tales with a grunt or a couple of brusque words and, after some time, Folca and his retinue had grown tired of trying to draw him into conversation.

  Leaving the looming shadows of the buildings behind, Beobrand walked down towards the sea. The night was not warm, and as his feet crunched onto the shingle of the beach, he regretted not bringing his cloak. The cool wind from the Narrow Sea was helping to clear his head, but nothing was able to free him from the dark thoughts that tumbled in his mind.

  Folca had reminded him of the year when he had left this place. The year he left behind all he had known. He had buried his mother and sisters, before seeing his father taken by the flames.

  He sat down and watched the pale foam on the waves roll up the beach towards his feet, before fading and disappearing once more into the darkness with a sigh. In the years since leaving Cantware, people had entered his life and drifted away again as easily as the tide. He had gained much, but lost so much more.

  A night bird shrieked and Beobrand shivered.

  It seemed Nelda’s curse would come to pass. He would die alone. No tidings had reached him of those he had left at the great dyke. Tales of Penda’s host’s destruction of the land were rife in Cantware, brought by merchants who had fled by boat, just as Beobrand had. But nobody brought news of survivors from the great battle. Bitter bile filled his mouth as he thought again of his betrayal of his gesithas.

  When the group of monks and nuns, led by Bishop Felix, had finally arrived at Gipeswic, the harbour was in uproar. Households of wealthy men thronged the port, all eager for passage away from Penda’s advance. Some had retinues of spear-men, who guarded them and their possessions. Those fighting men, clean and unbloodied as they were, Beobrand had glared at. They had not answered their king’s call. Instead they had run.

  Running from an enemy was not the way of a warrior. Not the way of a man. And then the realisation of his own actions had come to him and he had turned his dirty and blood-streaked face away.

  He had allowed Felix to barter and haggle with the masters of the ships and boats that were huddled in the harbour. His head had ached terribly and his body felt weak. He had slid from his horse, and slumped down with his back to the wall of a building; a shed or storehouse. The rain had continued to fall and he had been glad of the shelter from the wind. All that afternoon and into the evening he had watched the people coming from the west. He had grasped at the small hope that Attor, Gram or Aethelwulf might have escaped the slaughter and would somehow find their way here.

  But nobody he knew had come.

  He dug his fingers into the beach beside him now, lifting a fist-sized pebble. For a heartbeat he weighed it in his hand, before throwing it out into the darkness of the sea. He did not hear its splash.

  A crunching step on the pebbles behind him made Beobrand turn suddenly. A bulky figure stood close by. His face was hidden by the gloom of the night. Beobrand jumped to his feet, his hand reaching for Hrunting’s hilt. But his sword was not here; it hung in its scabbard in Folca’s hall. Pulling himself up to his full height, Beobrand squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “Who are you, that you would creep up on a man in the night, like a thief?” Beobrand’s words were as hard as the flint he had just tossed into the waves.

  “Well that is some way to greet me, I’m sure,” replied the stranger, a smile in his voice.

  “I cannot greet you, for I know not who you are.”

  For a moment, the man did not reply. The waves rolled and sighed on the beach. The wind tugged at Beobrand’s pale hair.

  “Well, it would seem that becoming a thegn has made you even more of a disagreeable bastard than you were before. I heard you had come back, but couldn’t believe it.”

  Beobrand’s ear finally made sense of the voice it was hearing, and he felt his mouth pull into a smile. Moments before he had been caught in the darkest of moods, now he felt as though he could laugh.

  “Alwin?” Beobrand asked.

  “Well, I’m not King Eadbald, am I?” the man replied with a laugh. “I can hardly believe you are alive. It is good to see you.” The man opened his arms then and stepped closer.

  Beobrand only hesitated for an instant and then he embraced him. He had almost forgotten the friends he had left behind.

  “By the gods,” he whispered, “it is good to see you too.”

  Chapter 25

  Gods, how could the girl be so stupid?

  Rowena shook her head, swatting at the midges that flitted around her face. The last house of Ubbanford was some way behind her now, the settlement quiet, getting ready for the night that would soon fall. She hoped nobody had seen her walking away. To leave so soon before night, and alone, would be hard to explain. But she could not remain in the hall alone tonight. Edlyn’s words still rung in her ears. Her hand still smarted where she had struck her daughter’s face.

  Rowena needed wise counsel. It had been several days since Nelda’s night-time visit and she had pondered what they had talked about as much as she had thought about anything in her life. She wanted what was best for Edlyn. Didn’t every mother seek the best for her children? Rowena had fretted over the problem of her daughter until her thoug
hts had jumbled together in a mess like so many skeins of yarn. She had picked and tugged at the tangle of thoughts so, that now she could make no sense of them.

  But she was clear about one thing. Edlyn would not marry beneath her.

  Rowena raised a hand to her tightly braided hair. Beads of sweat pricked her neck. The day had been hot and the evening was stifling. It would not be dark for quite some time yet, but Rowena knew that the darkness would not bring much in the way of welcome relief from the heat. A thick haze of clouds hung over the world like a blanket. A storm might be coming. Rain would wash some of the cloying heat away. Rowena looked up at the red sky. A storm might come, but not soon. She would be back in Ubbanford before then, she was sure.

  She pressed on towards the place that Nelda had spoken of.

  Again, her mind returned to Edlyn’s words. Rowena had confronted her daughter as she prepared to leave. Once again Edlyn was to be a guest of Reaghan in the new hall.

  “Do not get too fond of Beircheart,” Rowena had said, as she had finished brushing her daughter’s long hair. Edlyn had pulled away, rounding on her with sudden fury. It seemed she had been waiting for her mother to voice her opinion.

  “I will grow fond of whom I like, mother,” she had said. “Why should I not? Things are not the way they were when you were young.”

  Rowena had stood there, mouth agape. Speechless. Edlyn had never spoken to her like this before. What devil had possessed her?

  “I will not live like you did,” the girl had continued, warming to her subject. “I will not marry a man I do not love, just to manage his household and provide him with sons. Look at what that life has done to you. You are old and alone. I will not have your life.”

  Rowena had slapped her then. Hard. She had not known she would until the crack of her palm striking the girl’s cheek had resounded in the hall. She had hit her hard enough for her hand to sting.