“This Scrydan,” said Acennan, “he is a good man?” He unclasped his cloak pin and draped the cloth over his arm. The sun had burnt away the mist now and the day was already warm.
“He was,” answered Beobrand, thinking of the bruises on Udela’s face. “We were friends. Alwin, Scrydan and me.”
“And now he is the reeve here,” Acennan said. The reeve was a man of great influence, settling disputes and managing the collection of tribute for the lord of the land. “And he married your girl.”
Beobrand looked at him sharply.
“Udela was not my girl,” he said, feeling his cheeks grow hot.
“So you didn’t swive her then?” Acennan grinned, raising his eyebrows. When Beobrand hesitated, Acennan laughed. “I knew it, you dog. Well, she looks like she’d have plenty to hold on to while flattening the hay.”
Beobrand looked away. Down the hill the thrall was turning the oxen around a large oak. He knew the tree well and had often sat in its shade when helping plough the field. Gulls fluttered and wheeled in the air behind the plough like fine linen skirts blowing on the wind. For a fleeting moment, he remembered the scent of Udela’s skin as they had coupled. His face was burning now. He could feel beads of sweat forming on his brow. Certain that Acennan knew what he was thinking about, Beobrand wiped at his forehead, careful of the lump there, and resumed walking along the path.
“Do you suppose he beats her?” Beobrand asked suddenly.
Acennan shrugged.
“They are married. He can do what he wants.”
Beobrand brooded on this as they walked on.
Acennan placed a hand on his shoulder, halting him.
“I know how you feel about such things, my friend,” Acennan said. “A man should not raise his fist to a woman. But Udela is his wife. She is his to hit. And, who knows? Perhaps she deserved it. It is not your problem to solve.”
Beobrand nodded absently. Acennan was right. It was not his problem.
The feeling of walking in some half-remembered dream was stronger than ever now that he was on the land where he had grown up. He knew every tree, every rock beside the path, and yet everything had changed. They passed the bend in the track and before them stood a small hut where before there had been a stand of hornbeams. One great tree remained, as if standing guard over the tiny dwelling. The tall hornbeam’s branches were thick with foliage. It reached upward to the clear sky, the only reminder now of the copse that had once shaded the ground here.
The sight of the tree filled Beobrand with a sudden loneliness.
He paused outside the small building.
“Ready?” Acennan asked him.
He had no desire to see Selwyn brought down with age. He had always loved the man and admired him. Would that he had heard his uncle had already passed on to the afterlife. Then he could have grieved for the memory he had of the old warrior. But he had come too far to turn away now.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, and opened the door.
Chapter 29
The air inside the hut was stale and sour. Light from the open door sliced through the gloom, but for a long moment Beobrand could see nothing save darkness. And then his eyes began to adjust to the shadowed interior and he made out shapes beyond the motes of dust swirling in the shaft of sunlight. There was a pallet at the rear of the small room. A stool beside it. A wooden chest. All was still, the only movement the cold ash that swirled in the air, disturbed from the hearth stone by the breeze from the opened door.
Silence inside.
Far off in the distance, Beobrand heard the cries of the thrall as he goaded the oxen. The gulls that fluttered behind shrieked thinly as they fought each other over worms thrown up by the ploughshare. Closer, from the tall hornbeam that grew where once many had lifted their branches to the sky, came the wittering of sparrows and chaffinches. It was a cheery sound, at odds with the dark stillness of the hut.
Had his uncle already died? Despite his wish for just such an outcome moments before, Beobrand’s heart twisted at the thought.
“Is that you, you bastard son of a turd?”
The thin voice spoke from the far side of the hut. It rasped with age, and trembled as if the speaker shook with the ague, but Beobrand recognised it as that of his uncle, Selwyn. As sudden as a flash of sunlight from a blade, Beobrand was glad he had come. The thought of returning here, of raking over the embers of memories best left forgotten, had unnerved him. But now his heart soared at the sound of a familiar voice. Apart from his son, Octa, this was his last kin. And he was now overjoyed that he would have the chance to speak with Selwyn one last time.
“I may be a son of a turd, uncle,” he said, “but not the one you expected, I’d wager.” Motioning for Acennan to wait outside, Beobrand went into the rank-smelling hut and crossed to the stool beside the bed.
“Octa?” Selwyn said, raising himself up weakly on an elbow to peer at the tall, broad-shouldered young man who had entered his house. As Beobrand drew closer, the old man’s rheumy eyes widened. “By the gods, no, not Octa,” he said. “Beobrand. Well, well…” The effort of lifting himself from the thin mattress where he lay seemed to have exhausted him and he fell back, breathing heavily, with long scratchy breaths.
A cup, half-full of liquid, stood on the coffer by the bed. Beobrand picked it up and sniffed the contents. Mead. He offered it to his uncle, who nodded and allowed Beobrand to support his head and shoulders while he drank. When Selwyn had drunk enough, Beobrand lowered him down gently onto the mattress.
“Thank you, my boy,” Selwyn said, his voice firmer. It seemed the mead had revived him somewhat. He had ever liked a drink. “You were always a good boy.” Beobrand thought of all he had done. He was not good. And no boy. But he said nothing.
“Ah, but I am gladdened to see you,” Selwyn continued, his beard cracking open in a gap-toothed smile. “That Udela girl cares for me well enough, but it is not the same as having kin around you. By all the gods, it has been years. I have heard tell of your deeds. It seems you are a great warrior. I always told your mother that you were born to wield a blade. Just like me… though I think that’s what worried her.” His voice drifted into silence and his gaze focused on some point beyond the walls of this hut. Beobrand did not want to lose him to the snare of distant memories so soon, so he tried to pull him back to the present.
“How is it you are living here, uncle?” Beobrand gestured to encompass the mean hut. “My father’s land should have fallen to you. I thought you would be comfortable.”
Selwyn’s gaze came slowly back to Beobrand from wherever it had roamed in his memories.
“It was not so simple,” he said. “There was some doubt as to how my brother had died.” Was there some reproach there? Beobrand detected none. “And,” Selwyn went on, “you left before a moot could be held. In the end, the land was given to the reeve. But that is of no import now. I will be gone from this earth soon and would talk of happier times.”
Beobrand’s jaw clenched. His uncle had lived like the poorest ceorl these past years while Scrydan had grown rich on Grimgundi’s land. Beobrand choked back his ire, forcing himself to remain calm.
“I hear you serve Oswald now,” Selwyn said, his voice bubbling with phlegm in his throat. He coughed and swallowed. “Wyrd, it is a strange thing.”
“How so, uncle?”
“Remember how I used to tell you tales of my travels in the north?” Beobrand remembered well how Octa and he had listened enthralled to his uncle’s stories of shieldwalls and sieges, thegns and kings, sword-song and spear-din. It was with those tales that the seeds had been sown that led to Octa and Beobrand travelling north in search of their own battle-fame. Sometimes, when he had thought back on those boyhood tales from his grizzled uncle, Beobrand had wondered at the truth of them. Perhaps Selwyn had merely been an old drunk who liked to see the sparkle of awe in his nephews’ eyes.
Beobrand nodded. If his uncle wished to tell him one more tale, then he would listen
, and gladly.
“It seems,” said Selwyn, “that the wyrd of the father is also woven into the weft and warp of the son’s life.” He hesitated then, as if considering whether to continue. Beobrand waited patiently. At last, Selwyn seemed to make up his mind and continued. “I served Oswald’s father, Æthelfrith.”
Beobrand started. Could this be true? Was it possible that his uncle had stood in the shieldwall with Æthelfrith? Oswald’s father had known great glory in his lifetime. He had ruled all of Northumbria before Edwin had slain him. That was more than twenty years ago now.
“He was a great man,” Selwyn continued. His voice cracked and he stifled a cough. Beobrand held out the cup for him to drink. “I don’t believe there was ever a finer warrior.”
“You told us you served a lord in Bernicia. You never said it was the king of that land.” Beobrand’s head was reeling. A sudden thought came to him. “Why did you not follow his sons into exile?”
Selwyn sighed.
“Perhaps I should have, but they were just boys then and I had had my fill of blood-letting.” Again, Selwyn went silent as his mind took him to those distant times and places; when he was a young man, proud and strong in the service of a king. From outside, Beobrand could hear the finches and sparrows chittering and chirping in the branches of the hornbeam. After a long moment, Selwyn looked once more into Beobrand’s eyes. “Besides,” he said, “there was always something pulling me back to Cantware. To Hithe.”
“Your kin?” Beobrand had never thought Selwyn put much stock in his family. The old man had never taken a wife, which had always been a subject of gossip amongst the womenfolk of Hithe.
Selwyn seemed not to have heard Beobrand’s question.
“You have a wife?” he asked.
Beobrand’s face clouded. He took a long breath. The air was redolent of old sweat, stale breath and the sickly sweetness of ill health. He wished he were out in the warm light of day, with the smell of green things growing and the warbling of the birds on the breeze. But he would not flee from his uncle’s question, much as it pained him to think of it.
“I did,” he answered, his words clipped, “for a time.” He swallowed the lump that had suddenly filled his throat. “She died.”
“Ah, I am sorry to hear that, Beobrand. Every man needs the love of a good woman.”
“But you never married, uncle.”
“True. True.” Selwyn sighed and stared up at the darkness of the thatch above them. “But there was one I loved in Hithe. I had travelled far, seeking battle-glory or perhaps a warrior’s death, rather than see her with another. But in the end, the memory of her beckoned me back. I could not bear to be parted from her.”
Beobrand frowned, uneasy at the path the tale was taking. He could not recall ever having heard his uncle speak thus; of his feelings for a woman, or his love of family.
“I have done much in my life that does not fill me with pride, Beobrand,” said Selwyn. “I sought death in battle, hoping to be rid of the anguish of a desire for a woman I could never have. And yet, I returned home whole. And now, I will have a straw death it seems.” He laughed then, a short bark that changed to a cough. At last, the coughing abated. “All of the fighting, all the killing and I will die in my bed, old and feeble. Well, perhaps this is my wyrd. Mayhap I am being punished for my sins, as the Christ priests would have us believe. Well, it seems to me that one more sin, one more broken oath, won’t make much of a difference now.”
Selwyn reached out and gripped Beobrand’s half-hand. His hand was cold, his bones jutting from underneath taut, thin skin. Beobrand fought not to shudder at the touch.
“I promised your mother I would never speak of this to you, or anyone. But she is now long gone, and I will be joining her soon.” He drew a shuddering breath. “And I do not wish to carry this secret with me.”
Beobrand knew then, as he watched Selwyn’s eyes brim with tears. He knew what secret he was about to be told. His stomach twisted and he suddenly felt sick. It was as if some power had drawn him back here just for this moment. He did not wish to hear Selwyn’s words, and yet he did not pull away, instead he remained motionless, the old man’s bony grip cool on his hand. For a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes. There was no reason now for the words to be spoken. Beobrand remembered his mother’s dying words to him, “You are not your father’s son…”, and their mystery was gone, burnt away like the summer morning mist outside the hut.
Beobrand squeezed Selwyn’s hand.
“I loved her, Beobrand,” the old man said, his voice catching. “And my brother was a brute…” Beobrand remembered all too well Grimgundi’s terrible anger; the violence that had often seen Octa and himself beaten and bloody. For a long time, Beobrand had been terrified that his own violent nature stemmed from the shared blood with that monster. But if Grimgundi was not his father…
He gazed down at Selwyn as if seeing him for the first time. The old man’s hair was unkempt, ragged and thin like tattered cobwebs. When he had been a young man, had it been the same fair hue as his own? Both Grimgundi and Selwyn had been tall men, each heavily-muscled and broad chested, but Selwyn, like Beobrand, was slightly shorter, his muscles bulkier. Had Grimgundi looked at Beobrand and seen his own brother? Had Beobrand been a constant reminder of his cuckolding? But if anything, Grimgundi had singled out Octa more frequently than Beobrand. Surely this secret had never been known to him.
Beobrand became aware of Selwyn’s eyes upon him. They glistened in the gloom. The old man seemed to be holding his breath and had grown very still. For a sickening moment Beobrand thought that the old man’s spirit had left him. But then he realised that Selwyn was silently awaiting his reaction to the momentous tidings. After holding a secret for so long, his uncle must have been fearful of what Beobrand might do.
No, not his uncle. His father. The thought felt strange to him. In the same way that he had fumbled with his missing fingers, so now his mind fumbled with the new knowledge about his kin. He let out a long breath. Looking down, he saw that he still held Selwyn’s hand. The man had been more of a father to him than Grimgundi ever had. He had taught him to use sword and spear, had always had time for a word of advice. And he had never struck him in anger.
Beobrand stared down at the frail form of the old man.
Father.
He smiled and squeezed Selwyn’s hand again.
Selwyn pulled his hand away and swiped tears from his cheeks. He turned his face away, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes.
“Why did you never wed?” Beobrand asked. Selwyn’s life would have been easier with a woman to tend to his needs.
Selwyn coughed and turned back to Beobrand.
“I could not face living without your mother. That’s the truth of it.” He waved a hand towards the rush-covered ground. “There should be a flask down there with some more mead. I have not talked so long for months and my throat is as dry as a Christ nun’s cunny.”
Beobrand squinted into the dim light and found the flask. He shook it, and some liquid sloshed in its depths, though it was far from full. He emptied it into Selwyn’s cup, then helped him to sit up. Selwyn took a great swig with as much pleasure as a man who has travelled all day in glaring sun with no water.
“At least that bastard, Scrydan, gives me good mead,” he said, smacking his lips. “There were other women, of course,” he continued, finding new strength for talking from the mead. His eyes hazed for a moment, staring back into the mists of time. He grinned, his eyes twinkling at his memories. “There was one real vixen in Bernicia. I shacked up with her for a while. I was young then and for a time I could think of little else but ploughing that woman’s field. By the gods, she was a beauty. Hair as black as raven wings and curves as fine as the best fighting ship. Oh, those hips…” His gaze again pulled away into the unseen past. The smile faded on his lips.
“What happened?” asked Beobrand.
“Hmmm?” Selwyn’s focus came back to the present but for a few hea
rtbeats Beobrand wondered whether he knew where he was, or what they were talking about. “Oh,” Selwyn said at last, “she frightened me in the end, with her potions and spells. She wanted to do things… dark things…” The old man shuddered. “A cunning woman, she was, you see? I would do many things to keep her happy, for she really was a beauty. Like one of the goddesses she prayed to. But she asked too much… I left one morning and never saw her again.”
Beobrand was suddenly cold, as if a thunderhead had smothered the sun. And yet the hut was warm, the sun outside warming the interior. Fingers of dread scratched down his spine.
“Do you recall her name?” he asked.
“Oh, I would never forget it,” said Selwyn with a toothy grin. “Such a beauty is never forgotten. Even now, sometimes, if the gods smile on me, I see her in my dreams. There was a darkness to her, but oh, her skin… I loved your mother, but I was bewitched for a time by Nelda.”
Beobrand recoiled as if struck. He pulled his hand away from Selwyn and stood, the stool clattering to the ground behind him.
To hear the witch’s name here, in this small hut in Hithe, filled him with a terrible dread. Could it be that the woman Selwyn spoke of was the same Nelda who had cursed Beobrand from within that echoing maw in the earth on Muile? Was it truly possible that all of their wyrds were so intertwined and tangled? But somehow, he knew that it must be so. His uncle, no, his father, had for a time lived with the very woman who had repeatedly sought to kill him in revenge for his killing of her son, Hengist.
He was shaking now, and breathing hard as though he had run a great distance. This could not be. It was too much. Had all of his life been a great riddle of the gods that he was only now beginning to unravel?
Selwyn looked up at him, his face a mask of shocked fear. He cowered upon the straw-filled mattress, as if he expected Beobrand to rain down blows upon him. Beobrand took a steadying breath, unclenching his fists with difficulty.
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