“Selwyn,” he said, unable to utter the word ‘father’, “did this Nelda have a son?” The words fell heavily from his mouth, like hunks of granite falling into a frozen lake.
Selwyn frowned, confused.
“Did she have a son?” Beobrand snapped.
“No,” Selwyn replied, his voice once again the tremulous, fearful thing of the ancient greybeard awaiting death.
Beobrand let out a sigh of relief.
“But I have always felt ashamed of leaving her when I did,” Selwyn continued. “She was with child, you see? I have oft wondered what became of her and our child.”
Beobrand did not need to wonder. He knew. She had borne a son. And he had been named Hengist.
Beobrand turned from his father and staggered from the noisome hut, out into the bright sunlight of the summer’s morn. He blinked, hoping the light would burn away the darkness that swirled in his mind.
Acennan turned to him from where he leaned against the bole of the hornbeam, his expression concerned and questioning. Beobrand shook his head. He could scarcely comprehend that which Selwyn had revealed to him, speaking of it aloud to Acennan was more than he could bear to contemplate. For a long moment Acennan searched Beobrand’s face, clearly seeing that something was amiss, but he did not press him for an explanation.
Movement down the path, towards Udela’s house, drew their gaze.
“We have company,” said Acennan.
Four horsemen cantered along the track, the sun glinting on the horses’ harness. The crump of their hooves was loud in the still morning.
Beobrand said nothing, his head still swam with what he had just learnt.
“I don’t know why,” said Acennan, with a half-smile on his lips, “but I would swear they don’t look pleased to see you.”
Chapter 30
Reaghan liked being in the forest. The dappled shade under the canopy of trees was cool and soothing on a hot day such as today. She enjoyed the peace and solitude within the woodland that rose up on the northern bank of the Tuidi. She knew the path well, having visited the secluded glade regularly over the summer. Each time she left a gift for Danu and the other spirits and prayed for Beobrand’s safe return. And after each visit, when she returned to Ubbanford she half-expected to see Beobrand already there, or hear the pounding of the hooves of his warband as they galloped into the settlement. She would berate herself then. It was stupid to think Danu would answer her wishes so quickly. And then the days would drift by, each without tidings of Beobrand, and her faith would twist and squirm. At least they had not received news of Beobrand’s death, she would tell herself. Perhaps even now the goddess is guiding him homeward, but it takes time to travel the length of Albion. The lack of news weighed on her, and she would think that Danu needed just one more offering and then her man would be returned to her.
She patted the sack she carried. With each visit the gifts she brought became more valuable, in the hope that the voracious appetite of the old gods of the forest would be sated and they would heed her pleas.
A sudden blast of noise and movement made her start. A magpie, startled by her approach, flapped noisily away from the safety of the undergrowth.
Bassus placed his hand on her shoulder.
She offered him a thin smile. She would rather be alone with her thoughts, but Bassus would not hear of it.
“If anything happened to you,” he had said, “Beobrand would never forgive me.”
She had blushed at his words, warmed by the reminder that she was important to Beobrand.
And so it was that Bassus always accompanied her on these trips. She was accustomed to his presence now and he seemed to understand her moods well, seldom speaking on these treks into the wood. Truth be told, there were moments when she was glad of his silent bulk. There were parts of the forest that were unduly cold, where even on the warmest of summer days, their breath steamed before them and their skin prickled as if countless eyes roved over them from the gloom. They hurried past such areas of chill, both glad to be away from them.
All manner of spirits dwelt here. Some did not welcome the intrusion into their realm.
Reaghan felt the sack squirm and she clutched the cloth more tightly, scared that she might drop the bag and lose its precious contents. She hoped this offering would appease the gods, for it seemed they had not yet heeded her calls.
“Perhaps the old ones are angered,” Odelyna had said when Reaghan had asked her why they did not grant her wish and have the men return. “If they are angry, the only thing that might satisfy them is blood.”
Reaghan pressed on towards the glade, gripping the sack tightly enough to make her fingers ache. Grim-faced, Bassus lumbered behind her, his one hand resting on the hilt of his great seax.
The spirits were not alone in their ire. Rowena had yet to set foot in the new hall on the hill, even though Edlyn was now a frequent guest. Reaghan thought of Ubba’s widow’s loathing for her. Rowena hated her for what she had been and was filled with envy at what she had become. The bitterness had grown within the old woman the way bruises will rot away an apple. With each day that passed her hatred for Reaghan seemed to blossom and flourish like some poisonous fruit. She understood that Rowena had never liked her. Why should she? Reaghan had been her husband’s thrall. She was Waelisc. Nothing to Rowena. Perhaps she had known that old Ubba and his sons bedded Reaghan whenever they felt the urge, but if so, she had never hinted at it. In fact, the flames of her hate seemed to have flowered from the spark of Sunniva’s death. Before then, Reaghan had been invisible to Rowena. Since, Rowena appeared to blame all of her ills on the slave who had become the lady of the new hall.
The latest blame she laid at Reaghan’s feet was for Edlyn spending time with Beircheart. Reaghan had heard of Rowena’s outburst at the warrior while Bassus trained the men. Everyone in Ubbanford had heard of Rowena’s anger, and her threats to the men. Word of her fury at Beircheart had probably reached as far as Berewic and perhaps even Bebbanburg, such was the fiery nature of Rowena’s encounter with the warrior. Reaghan understood Rowena’s worries for her daughter, but Edlyn was headstrong. Like her mother, Odelyna said, and Rowena’s confrontation had only served to make Edlyn more brazen. The girl flirted with Beircheart openly when she attended the hall and they would always slip away from the benches long before the gathering dispersed. It was worrying, but why Rowena thought it her fault, Reaghan could not fathom.
Reaghan and Bassus passed a huge fallen tree with great skirts of fungus. Looking down at the powdery, rotting wood, she saw that it was crawling with insects. It was as if the tree itself was moving, its bark a writhing mass of black beetles, ants and woodlice. The sight unnerved her and she shivered. Was it colder here? She breathed out of her mouth, but her breath did not steam. No, it was yet warm, but the wriggling surface of the dead tree unsettled her.
She rushed past, keen to leave the tree and its insect denizens behind. They were almost at the glade now.
Perhaps she should also wish for Rowena to cease her petty hatred; to come to the hall. She doubted they would ever be friends, but she would be glad of a respite from her neighbour’s enmity. But why should she waste her energies or any small amount of influence she might have with the goddess of the forest? Rowena had shown her nothing but disdain and open loathing and before Beobrand had freed her she had seemed to relish beating Reaghan for any infraction, real or otherwise. No, Rowena could rot in her husband’s old hall, with her sour memories and the ghosts of her dead menfolk for company.
Before them, the woodland path opened into a small clearing. It was still and hushed here, as if the forest itself held its breath. Reaghan paused on the edge of the glade. The burble of a stream was the only sound, the air redolent of ancient green decay.
“I come with gifts, Danu, Mother of all,” she said in her own tongue, as she always did.
She stepped into the open area, and, as usual, Bassus awaited her at the entrance to the glade. This was her ritual, and he wan
ted no part in it.
Reaghan looked around the clearing. Despite the warm day and the sun being high in the sky, it was dim and cool here. The water seeped up from some deep, secret place in the bowels of the earth and ran fresh and clear through the forest to the Tuidi. Wellsprings brought forth the power of the earth and Odelyna had told her of this place a long time ago. Gifts and totems dangled from the branches of the bushes. At the base of the old alder she could make out several small mounds of earth where offerings had been buried. Some of the items she remembered bringing to the goddess, some had been left here by others; women from Ubbanford or other nearby settlements probably.
Now that she was here, she was suddenly unsure of herself. She had never brought a blood sacrifice before, but death carried power and the goddess would surely not ignore her. Reaghan cast a look over at Bassus. He stood in the shade of the trees, as immobile as if he had been carved from the wood itself. He nodded to her in curt encouragement. She knew he did not like to be at this place of power. He was a brave man, a king’s champion once, but the thought of goddesses and sacrifice filled him with dread.
She took a steadying breath and went to the foot of the alder. There she knelt, placing her sack on the ground before her. The earth was moss-covered and damp, cold on her flesh as the moisture seeped through her dress. Before opening the sack, she pulled from her belt the sharp knife she had brought from the hall. She placed this on the ground and reached for the bag. It had ceased moving now, as if the creature inside was resigned to its fate. Or dead already. She shivered and pushed her hand into the darkness. She half-expected the bird to fight back, to peck at her in a bid to escape, but the hen was docile now, as if it had fallen asleep in the bag. Perhaps it had. It came easily enough, she drew it out of the warm darkness of the sack and it blinked in the pale forest gloaming. One of its clawed feet snagged on the sack rim and she had to prize the talon free. But even then, the hen remained calm and still.
She placed it on the ground before her knees, making sure it did not run away, and picked up the knife. Its blade gleamed, the edge as sharp as she could make it. That morning she had taken Bassus’ whetstone and worked at the thing until he had told her she would wear the blade clean away if she did not stop. He had looked as the edge, testing it with his thumb and nodded.
“You will not be making that any sharper, girl,” he had said.
Placing a hand firmly on the hen’s back to hold it still, Reaghan began to recite the words that Odelyna had taught her.
“In the eye of the Mother who gave me birth. In the eye of the Maiden who loves me. In the eye of the Crone who guides me in wisdom. Through your gift of nature, O Goddess, bestow upon me fullness in my need. Danu, Mother of all, I bring you blood. Danu, Mother of all, I bring you life. Danu, Mother of all, I offer you this blood that you may hear my plea.”
She repeated the words again and again. The words began to blur and merge into each other, to lose their meaning. Around her the air felt heavy, laden with energy as before a thunderstorm.
Reaghan could hear nothing now apart from her own words, running together into a gibberish of ancient lore.
“Danu, Mother of all, I bring you blood. Danu, Mother of all, I bring you life. Danu, Mother of all, I offer you this blood that you may hear my plea.”
There was nothing now apart from the words, the hen and the knife. She chanted the words until they lost all meaning, but then, as if at some unheard command from the forest spirits themselves the hen stretched out its neck, offering itself for her need. Proffering its life and its blood for Danu, mother of all the gods. Its feathers were warm, dusty and soft under her hand. The bird trembled and pushed its neck out further.
Then, without realising what she had done, she brought down the knife. It was sharp and her aim was true. The head parted cleanly from the neck and a small spurt of blood soaked the earth.
Reaghan gasped. She had not known that she was going to act. It was as if she had killed the bird in a dream.
“I offer you this blood that you may hear my plea, Danu, Mother of all,” she said, her voice sounding distant to her own ears.
She gazed down at the hen, but where it had lain so peacefully before its death, now it flapped and shook. Reaghan’s stomach clenched and she choked back bile as the hen jerkily rose to its feet and then, without warning, ran away from her into the clearing. Drops of blood spattered from its ragged neck. On the moss by her knees the bird’s head lay, beak open as if in disbelief, eye staring accusingly up at her.
With horror and amazement, she watched as the hen crossed the clearing towards Bassus.
“Woden protect us,” he shouted, terror in his voice.
He looked set to flee from the approaching bird, when the hen turned and clattered into something. It toppled to the loam and there scratched at the forest mould a moment with its hook-like talons before finally coming to rest.
Bassus spat and drew his seax.
“By Woden and all the gods,” he said, his voice still trembling.
He stepped into the clearing, moving cautiously towards the hen, as if he expected it to leap up and attack him with its sharp claws. Reaghan rose on shaky legs. Her body shook and her head span, as if she had drunk strong mead.
She was only halfway across the glade when Bassus turned to her. His face was pallid above his beard, he was as pale as the night the monks had sawed off his arm. Reaghan swallowed.
“What is it?” she croaked, her mouth dry.
“We must be gone from this place,” Bassus replied, his voice urgent, jagged. “There is evil here.”
The hen had been unnerving, it was true, but it was not unheard of for the birds to run about for a few moments even though they had been separated from their heads. Her heart yet raced and she could hear her blood pumping in her ears, but surely that was just from the shock of it, and the power of the blood-incantation.
“No, Bassus,” she said, trying to reassure him, “all is well. I must finish what I came to do here. Danu is listening now.”
“No,” replied Bassus, his voice as hard as iron, “we leave here now. This place is evil.” He was staring at the ground. She followed his gaze and realised he was not looking at the dead hen. He was staring aghast at the object the hen had collided with. It was a large, long pale thing, a stone she thought at first. Then she saw it was no stone, it was a horse’s skull, part buried and stained brown in places, perhaps with mud, or maybe with some other substance. Atop the brow of the skull, between the dark cavities of the eye sockets, rested a small pile of twig-like bones and a tiny beaked skull. The skeleton of a bird. Another sacrifice of blood perhaps.
Then she saw the object that had unsettled Bassus so. She was certain it was this thing and not the bones that had filled him with such fear.
On the crown of the great skull sat a small figure. It was crudely fashioned from straw and scraps of cloth, but it was clearly meant to represent a man. Around its neck was tied a miniature noose of cord.
And then she knew what had terrified Bassus. The straw man had no left arm.
Chapter 31
“I never thought you’d have the nerve to come back here,” the leader of the riders said in a brash tone. The four horses threw up dust from the path as they were reined in before Selwyn’s hut.
Beobrand recognised the man instantly. He wore fine clothes, a dark red tunic, girdled with a tooled leather belt. His shoes were made from supple calfskin and his cloak was held with a silver clasp at his shoulder. The man had gained weight since Beobrand had last seen him, but there could be no mistaking that toothy grin and those bushy brows beneath the shock of dark, wavy hair. Beobrand took in the other men with a quick sweep of his gaze. One he had never seen before, the other two he recalled as brawlers; the kind of men who were always eager for a fight. They would have no qualms doing whatever was asked of them, for a price. They were older than Beobrand by maybe half a dozen years, and when he had been growing up, these bullies would often cause him and
his friends mischief. It seemed now at least one of his childhood friends had found a way to make use of their particular talents, such as they were. All of them remained mounted, their horses snorting and stamping.
Beobrand was forced to look up at them, squinting into the bright sky. The words of his uncle – no, his father – yet rang in his mind. Was it truly possible that Hengist had been his kin? Could it be that Selwyn, who he now knew to be his father, had also sired the man who had taken the fingers from his left hand? The man who had committed such awful deeds? Around him the mounted men jostled, allowing their steeds to pace around in an attempt to intimidate Beobrand and Acennan.
Acennan stepped out from the shade of the hornbeam. Beobrand, having now sized up his adversaries, ignored the riders, instead addressing their leader.
“And I never thought you would steal from my family,” Beobrand said, his tone light, but his eyes glowing with a cold fire. “Or beat your wife, Scrydan, son of Scryda.”
Scrydan bristled.
“This land ceased to be yours the moment you boarded Hrothgar’s ship. You were lucky old Cyneheard allowed you to leave. You should have been questioned. I would never have allowed such a thing.”
“Questioned me about what?” Beobrand could feel his focus narrowing. His words came out clipped and sharp as shards of slate. The pain and anguish over the loss of his men had been burning just beneath the surface these past days, the way an ember can burn beneath a peat bog, to later burst free when disturbed. Selwyn’s tidings had shaken him terribly. Scrydan would soon regret upsetting the simmering fire that roiled within him.
“You know full well what, Beobrand,” Scrydan said, blustering in the face of Beobrand’s calm. “There were those who wondered how it was your father came to be inside the house when it burnt. How it was that his one remaining son survived and did not seek to rescue his father from the flames.”
Beobrand could stomach no more of Scrydan’s words. He took a couple of quick paces towards Scrydan. The reeve’s horse tossed its head. Scrydan tugged hard on the reins, sawing the bit into the animal’s mouth.
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