Reaghan ignored Rowena now, instead offering her full attention to the smooth-faced bard. He stood tall, puffing out his chest and speaking with a clear, ringing tone that all could hear.
“I have heard tell of a great battle in the land of the East Angelfolc. Penda, son of Pybba, that fame-hungry king of Mercia, amassed a great host of his folk along with a horde of Waelisc and descended on the peace-loving Angelfolc. There, at a place called the great ditch, the Angelfolc, arrayed in all their battle-glory, stood strong before the dread king of the Mercians. The East Angelfolc had not one, but two good kings to lead them. Ecgric, the new king, and he who came before him, Sigeberht, that most holy of rulers who had given himself to the service of the Christ God.
“And other brave men had ridden to the aid of these Christian kings. Wulfgar, son of Ethelbert, led a warband of doughty Wessexmen into the fray. And there were even some of our own Bernician warriors who stood strong in the shieldwall there.”
He raked them all with his gaze, his eyes blazing in the shadowed darkness of the hall. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Silence fell on the hall. Two dogs growled over a scrap of meat that had fallen from the board. Bearn silenced them with a kick. Reaghan felt suddenly sick. She was certain now which men of Bernicia had lent their shields and spears to the defence of that realm so far to the south.
“Yes,” Cædmon continued, raising his voice almost to a shout, “the lord of Ubbanford himself stood in that thicket of spears and wall of linden-boards. Half-handed and yet they say blessed in the battle-skill by the gods themselves.”
“What foolishness is this?” shouted Bassus. “You have tidings of our lord and you did not think to tell us before now?” Bassus’ brows bristled and his chin jutted. Reaghan could see that he gripped his wooden cup so tightly that his knuckles were pale and his hand shook. Others of the gesithas shouted out their own displeasure at the scop.
Cædmon raised his hands, motioning for calm.
“Every tale has its time,” he said. His smile was less charming now. He was young, talented and attractive, Reaghan thought, but he was inexperienced. It seemed he had badly misjudged his audience. “And every story has its order.”
“Well, we would hear tell of our lord,” snapped Bassus.
“All in good time, mighty Bassus,” Cædmon smirked. “The tale must not be rushed or spoilt.”
Bassus surged to his feet, upsetting his cup. The hounds leapt up and started barking.
“I care nothing for your tale-craft, boy,” he thundered. “Tell me what befell Beobrand and his gesithas.”
Now, at last, Cædmon’s smile slipped. But only for a moment. He nodded and brushed invisible dust from his kirtle. He was silent for a few heartbeats, eyes closed as if he was remembering his story, or reminding himself of where he had left off.
Bassus’ face was thunder and Reaghan marvelled at how completely this youthful scop had failed to sense the mood in the hall.
At last he spoke again, and to his credit, his voice was clear, without a tremble of doubt.
“With such an amount of royalty, and the divine blessing of the Christ, you would think that the battle would be easily won by the East Angelfolc.” He paused for tension. Bassus growled and Reaghan thought he might launch himself over the boards and throttle the tale-spinner. But perhaps the young man was learning, for he quickly continued.
“But alas, it was not to be. The East Angelfolc were crushed, their fyrd-men and their allies slaughtered in a great blood-letting that turned the ditch into a marsh of gore and fed the foxes and crows of that land for many days.”
Reaghan heard someone let out a cry of anguish. Then, with a start, she realised it was her own voice. Without warning she felt tears on her cheeks.
No. No. It need not be such dark news. Perhaps Beobrand would yet return. Perhaps he had escaped from that awful battlefield where the birds gorged themselves on the flesh of the fallen. She wanted to speak, but she could not form words.
Instead, Bassus asked the question they all wanted the scop to answer.
“What tidings of our lord Beobrand? Did he fall in the battle?”
All eyes turned to Cædmon, who seemed to puff up with pride, revelling in the rapt attention.
“Well, that I cannot tell,” he said, a half-smile twisting his mouth.
Bassus growled again at the man’s response, but Beircheart was closer and had also run out of patience. Leaping to his feet, he sprang forward and grasped the scop by his kirtle’s collar. The slight bard cowered. Beircheart shook him like a dog worrying a river rat.
“You will tell us, worm-tongue,” Beircheart said, “and you will tell us now. What of our lord and his hearth-men? Did they fall? Speak all you know, or I swear you will never tell another tale.”
Cædmon’s eyes bulged in fear. He was not so pleased to be the centre of attention in the hall now, Reaghan thought. Beircheart shook him hard.
“Speak!” he shouted.
“I cannot tell what happened to your lord,” Cædmon said, his voice now feeble and tremulous. “I cannot, for I know not. Many fell that day, so the merchant said. Both the kings of the East Angelfolc were slain and the host scattered. But he did not speak of Beobrand of Ubbanford. I asked him, but he did not know.”
Beircheart shook him again. His other hand was balled into a fist and he looked set to strike the scop. He looked to Bassus, who shook his head. Beircheart released the bard, who staggered away, breathless with fear.
“You have outstayed your welcome in this hall, scop,” snarled Bassus. Outside, through the open doors, Reaghan saw that it was now night. Moths flitted around the rush lights and oil lamps, causing the light to flicker.
“But, lord,” whimpered Cædmon, all semblance of control now lost, “it is dark and I have sung you songs and told you tales, surely this is enough for me to enjoy the shelter of this fine hall?”
Bassus was grim-faced.
“You have made light of the fate of our lord. Our friends. Now begone. I do not wish to see your face any further. To look on you reminds me that brave men die while cravens often live.” Bassus raised his one arm and pointed towards the doors and to the gloom of the night beyond. “Now get out.”
“Wait,” Reaghan said. Her stomach churned, but she rose to her feet for all to look upon her. Could it be that Beobrand was truly dead? Slain in some bloody battle far away? Tears ran down her cheeks. She cuffed them away. To speak out before all did not come easily to Reaghan. She had been a slave too long, more used to being shouted at or beaten, than giving orders to others. And yet, there was something about the young scop that spoke to her. He was young and foolish, but he was not evil.
Bassus raised his eyebrows, awaiting further words from her. She was the lady of the hall, after all. Yes, she was. She placed her hands upon the linen cloth that covered the high table, smoothing it, feeling crumbs of bread like grit beneath her fingers.
“Wait,” she repeated. Her mouth was dry as all those gathered stared at her. She cleared her throat. “Do not turn him into the night.”
“But, my lady,” protested Bassus.
“No,” she said, her voice firmer now. “He has made a mistake, but I do not believe he meant any malice by it. Did you?”
“Not at all, my lady,” Cædmon said. “I wished nobody ill. It is just that the sagas speak to me, they whisper how they must be best told, and who am I not to listen?”
Bassus tensed and made a guttural sound deep in his throat.
“Hush, Cædmon,” Reaghan said, “ere I change my mind and have you thrown out into the dark.” Cædmon stopped talking and lowered his gaze. “You may sleep in the hall this night and then you will leave.”
Bassus stared at her with a strange expression. She could not tell whether he was angry at her, or something else. After a long moment, he nodded and the outrage leeched away from the hall, to be replaced by a dark, brooding melancholy.
Reaghan sat back on her stool. She reached for the flask of mead, but her h
and shook, so she placed it on her lap beneath the board. She thought she might vomit. She trembled with the tension of having spoken out before all of those men, but that is not what made her truly sick. Her stomach turned and soured with the fear of what might have happened to Beobrand. All these long weeks she had prayed and dreamt of his return. What if he never came back? What then?
A light touch on her arm startled her from her reverie. It was Rowena. The older woman took up the flask of mead and filled Reaghan’s cup. Rowena handed her the cup, taking care that her hands were steady enough not to spill the contents. A tremor ran through Reaghan at Rowena’s touch. She could not recall the lady of Ubba’s hall ever having touched her without the intent to harm or chastise. She suppressed a shudder and raised the cup to her lips. The sweet liquid soothed her as well as moistening her parched throat.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“Perhaps the news is not so bad,” Rowena said, and Reaghan shot her a sharp look. How could these tidings not be bad? “The scop himself said that Beobrand is blessed in battle-skill, did he not?” Rowena continued. “And he could not say that Beobrand had fallen in the battle. So, it may not be as bad as we fear now, in the darkness of night. Everything is less grim in the light of day.”
Reaghan took another sip of the mead, but said nothing.
“But,” said Rowena, “it cannot hurt to ask the gods for their aid. Tomorrow I will travel with you to the sacred glade and together we will leave tribute. Perhaps the gods will hear when the voices of two ladies are combined.”
Chapter 35
“You really think that Waelisc boy can be trusted?” asked Acennan. Absently, he fingered the silver rood amulet he wore around his neck. It was similar in shape to the hammer of Thunor that Beobrand himself wore. Acennan had told Beobrand it had been a gift from Eadgyth when they had last met at Eoferwic. He wore it close to his heart, beneath his clothes, but Beobrand had noticed how he often pulled the thing free from his clothing and fiddled with it.
Beobrand shrugged.
“If he was going to betray us, we would have found out by now,” he said. A day, a night and part of another day had passed since they had approached the boy at Grimbold’s hall. Standing there, enveloped in the miasma of the midden-stench, they had listened to the slave’s idea and it had seemed sound. Or at least they had no better alternative. They had found the place he had told them of quite easily and although they were still uncomfortable and wished they could light a fire, they had set up camp in a dip in the earth that was sheltered by a large overhang of mossy rock. It kept them out of the worst of the wind and even offered some protection from the rain that had fallen from time to time the day before.
The boy seemed to have been speaking true about the place, for they found many signs of boar spoor and the path they had followed was studded with the beasts’ distinctive tracks of sharp cloven-hooves with trailing imprints of dew claws.
Beobrand looked up at the sky through the canopy of leaves. It was a warm day and the white clouds that scudded across the sky did not carry rain.
“They might come today,” he said. “It is a good day for hunting.”
Acennan grunted. He was irritable, and Beobrand could not blame him. He had been a poor companion these past weeks and now they crouched in a Mercian forest with only the prospect of death ahead of them. The plan seemed foolish now. How did they expect to escape after confronting Wybert? If the gods did not smile upon them, they would surely be caught and slain. Beobrand thought back to Hithe, to his meeting with Selwyn, and the fight with Scrydan. The loathing and fear in Udela’s eyes.
It seemed unlikely that the gods favoured him.
He wondered how much longer they could wait here before deciding Wybert would not come. A day? Two? They had already been lucky not to have been stumbled upon by some local ceorl or thrall. The day before, Acennan had been watching the path when he gave the signal for someone approaching. They alternated the positions, one in the shadow of the rock, looking down the track, while the other waited below, ready to circle round and come at their quarry from behind. Beobrand had seen the signal and snatched up Hrunting and his shield. But before he had headed for the path, Acennan signalled again that he was not to move. It turned out to be a swineherd, with six snuffling pigs rooting for pannage amongst the tree roots. Acennan had crept down the slope to Beobrand and the two of them had hidden behind a great oak. The man and his pigs had wandered off, but Beobrand didn’t know how much longer they could remain here without being discovered.
It was Beobrand’s turn to watch the path now, but before he clambered up the incline to the rock that had already become familiar to him, he placed a hand on Acennan’s shoulder.
“Thank you for coming for me,” he said. “Thank you for my life.”
Acennan nodded.
“You are my friend, lord,” he said, and his eyes twinkled in the green-tinged forest light. “You think we will kill that bastard now, once and for all?”
Beobrand held his gaze for a long while.
“We will,” he said, hoping it was true, “or we will die in the attempt. I feel this is where the threads of this story end.”
Acennan nodded again. He did not seem overly concerned.
“We could have ridden here with your warband. You still have men in Ubbanford. Though it might have started a war.”
Beobrand thought of the great ditch; of Ceawlin’s sacrifice. Elmer, Gram and the rest of them lost in the bloody-mire. Dead because of his decision to fight.
“No,” Beobrand said, his voice hollow, “this is not their fight. I could not lead them here to their certain death.”
“If we live, they will not thank you for this. Sunniva was dear to them and all who knew her would like to be part in the collection of her blood-price.”
“They will have to be content with the tale we will tell.”
Acennan looked grim. Beobrand wondered whether he believed they would escape this place with their lives.
“Or the tale they hear sung in halls by others.”
Beobrand squeezed Acennan’s arm and climbed up to the lookout spot by the rock that provided a good view of the path. Acennan was probably right. It was more likely others would recount their tale. Mayhap a scop of Mercia would hear tell of the events here and spin a saga worthy of the gods themselves. Beobrand smiled thinly. Songs and tales always grew in the telling.
He remembered Alwin’s bright eyes when he talked of the stories he had heard concerning Beobrand’s battle-skill. They had been friends since childhood, but it was as if he believed Beobrand was somehow truly a hero of legend. It was true that he had stood in shieldwalls and killed many men, but Beobrand could scarcely remember how those things came to pass. Before a battle he was all jangly nerves and a need to piss, then came the blood, crash and screaming of combat. He dealt death easily, of that there could be no doubt, but when a battle was over, the thrill of the blood-letting drained away as quickly as mead from a cracked pot, leaving only a hollow emptiness of trembling hands and nightmares. The faces of men he had slain often came to him in his dreams and he would awaken trembling, as if he had just stepped from a shieldwall. He thought he cried out at times, but if he did, none ever spoke of it.
Scops sang of battle-fame and glory. The truth of whimpering boys holding their gut-ropes and the sickly stench of shit, piss and blood would be less exciting. And yet, Beobrand could not deny there was something inside him that thrilled at the approach of a fight. He was certain his true father had felt the same. And he shuddered to recall the glimmer in Hengist’s eyes when he scented suffering and a chance for blade-play.
Gods, but the man had been savage. Did he too have such a beast within him? He pushed the thought away, all too certain of the answer.
Beobrand leaned his head against the cool moss on the rock and gazed down the path. There was no movement in the dappled sunlight that lanced through the trees. His mind wandered even while his eyes watched.
A
lwin had been so disappointed when he had come to Beobrand and Acennan on that last day in Hithe. They had made their way quickly to Folca’s hall, eager to be gone from the place before news of their fight with Scrydan and his men reached the lord. Beobrand thought that Scrydan would not dare to cross him again, but he could make it difficult for them to leave. There were too many questions that could be asked about Grimgundi’s death.
Alwin had come upon them as they were mounting their steeds, a gift from King Eadbald’s stable. His face was aglow in the warm sunshine.
“Take me with you,” he had blurted out, flushing with embarrassment as soon as the words were spoken.
Beobrand’s hands had ceased shaking, but he’d still felt as though his body were taut, humming like a bow string. He had looked at Alwin for a long while.
“Take me with you,” Alwin had repeated. “You know I can fight and I am loyal. I would swear my oath to you, Beobrand.”
Beobrand had looked down at his old friend’s open face. He’d swallowed against the thickness in his throat and dismounted, handing the reins to Acennan.
Placing his hands upon Alwin’s shoulders, he’d looked him in the eye. He’d seen nothing but honesty there. For a heartbeat he’d imagined the blood he had seen spilt, the men he had sent wailing to the afterlife, the loved ones he had lost. He’d shaken his head.
“No, Alwin. You are a good man, and any lord would be honoured to have your oath. But you are sworn to others. You have a wife, a child, and a parcel of land. Your father’s land must be tended to, and you are the man to do it.” Alwin had been crestfallen. “You are a good man,” Beobrand had repeated. “Stay here. See your children grow. Tend the land, plant seeds and watch them bear fruit. Bring life to the world, Alwin. You are not a killer.”
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