WARRIOR OF WODEN
Matthew Harffy
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About Warrior of Woden
Oswald has reigned over Northumbria for eight years and Beobrand has led the king to ever greater victories. Rewarded for his fealty and prowess in battle, Beobrand is now a wealthy warlord, with a sizable warband. Tales of Beobrand’s fearsome black-shielded warriors and the great treasure he has amassed are told throughout the halls of the land.
Many are the kings who bow to Oswald. And yet there are those who look upon his realm with a covetous eye. And there is one ruler who will never kneel before him.
When Penda of Mercia, the great killer of kings, invades Northumbria, Beobrand is once more called upon to stand in an epic battle where the blood of many will be shed in defence of the kingdom.
But in this climactic clash between the pagan Penda and the Christian Oswald there is much more at stake than sovereignty. This is a battle for the very souls of the people of Albion.
Contents
Welcome Page
About Warrior of Woden
Dedication
Place Names
Prologue
Tatecastre, AD 639
Part One: Gathering Storm
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Part Two: Maserfelth
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part Three: A Saint’s Journey
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part Four: Slaughter for the Slain God
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About Matthew Harffy
About The Bernicia Chronicles
Become an Aria Addict
Copyright
Warrior of Woden
is for Soelwin Oo,
1974 – 2015
"Dude (I totally miss you)" –Tenacious D
Map of Albion
Place Names
Place names in Dark Ages Britain vary according to time, language, dialect and the scribe who was writing. I have not followed a strict convention when choosing what spelling to use for a given place. In most cases, I have chosen the name I believe to be the closest to that used in the early seventh century, but like the scribes of all those centuries ago, I have taken artistic licence at times, and merely selected the one I liked most.
Æscendene Ashington, Northumberland
Afen River Avon
Albion Great Britain
Bebbanburg Bamburgh
Beodericsworth Bury St Edmunds
Berewic Berwick-upon-Tweed
Bernicia Northern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Tyne to the Firth of Forth
Caer Luel Carlisle
Cair Chaladain Kirkcaldy, Fife
Cantware Kent
Cantwareburh Canterbury
Carrec Dún Carrock Fell, Cumbria
Dál Riata Gaelic overkingdom, roughly encompassing modern-day Argyll and Bute and Lochaber in Scotland and also County Antrim in Northern Ireland
Deira Southern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Humber to the Tyne
Din Eidyn Edinburgh
Dommoc Dunwich, Suffolk
Dor Dore, Yorkshire
Dorcic Dorchester on Thames
Dun River Don
Dyvene River Devon
Elmet Native Briton kingdom, approximately equal to the West Riding of Yorkshire
Engelmynster Fictional location in Deira
Eoferwic York
Frankia France
Gefrin Yeavering
Gipeswic Ipswich
Gwynedd Gwynedd, North Wales
Hefenfelth Heavenfield
Hibernia Ireland
Hii Iona
Hithe Hythe, Kent
Inhrypum Ripon, North Yorkshire
Liminge Lyminge, Kent
Lindesege Lindsey
Lindisfarena Lindisfarne
Loidis Leeds
Mercia Kingdom centred on the valley of the River Trent and its tributaries, in the modern-day English Midlands
Maerse Mersey
Muile Mull
Northumbria Modern-day Yorkshire, Northumberland and south-east Scotland
Pocel's Hall Pocklington
Rendlæsham Rendlesham, Suffolk
Sandwic Sandwich, Kent
Scheth River Sheaf (border of Mercia and Deira)
Snodengaham Nottingham
Stanfordham Stamfordham, Northumberland
Tatecastre Tadcaster
Temes River Thames
Tuidi River Tweed
Ubbanford Norham, Northumberland
Prologue
Tatecastre, AD 639
"The king is struck. Oswald Whiteblade has fallen!"
Beobrand's stomach lurched at the cry.
"Shut your foolish mouth, Cynan," he snapped.
Cynan, a tall man with haunted eyes, dropped his gaze, abashed.
Beobrand stared over the frost-rimed moor to where the enemy shieldwall stood, linden boards still resting on the ground, spears held aloft, glinting in the early morning sun, not yet lowered and braced for a charge. Their enemies' banners hung limp, unmoving in the still air.
Glancing over to his left, Beobrand felt a stab of anguish, as if it had been him and not his lord who had been injured. Oswald had indeed been hit. A shaft of ash protruded from his shoulder where an unlucky arrow had found its mark and pierced the king's iron byrnie and flesh. Oswald was being held upright with difficulty by two thegns.
The great wooden cross that served King Oswald as his battle standard wavered and dipped in the air as his retainers jostled around him.
Beobrand slapped the shoulder of the stocky man to his right.
"Acennan, take command of the men." Acennan did not speak, but nodded his understanding.
"Cynan, with me," Beobrand said, his tone a sharp bark of command.
Trusting that the younger warrior would obey, Beobrand left his position in the Northumbrian shieldwall and rushed along the lines, elbowing and pushing men aside with his bulk.
"See that the cross is held aloft," Beobrand hissed. "Whatever happens, do not let that rood fall. And Cynan," he gripped Cynan's shoulder tightly, halting his onward rush, "th
e king has not fallen. Do you hear me?"
Cynan stared wide-eyed at him for a moment before nodding. Beobrand left the Waelisc warrior to his task and pushed forward towards the king. His stomach roiled but he took some comfort when, from the corner of his eye, he noted that the carved wood cross rose once more into the sky, casting its long shadow over the icy ground and the fyrd-men gathered there. He knew he could rely on Cynan. The erstwhile thrall had proven his worth many times over since he had joined Beobrand's warband three years before.
The shieldwall was closing ranks, regaining some order at the bellowed commands of Derian, Oswald's battle-leader. Beobrand thanked the gods for the man. The bearded thegn knew his work. There was no warrior more doughty; none more steadfast. The shieldwall would not be allowed to break while Derian yet breathed.
Two men were half-dragging Oswald back from the front of the line.
"I must stand," Oswald protested, his voice muffled by the ornate faceplate of his grimhelm. "I will not retreat from this rabble. In God's name I must fight. Unhand me! I command it."
The warriors, who had been pulling the king backward, paused, unsure of themselves. They relaxed their grip on Oswald. His legs buckled and he almost fell to the cold earth. Beobrand leapt forward and caught him. Around them, men shuffled back to make room for their king.
"You must sit for a moment, lord," said Beobrand, his face close to the king's helm. "We must see to the wound."
Oswald murmured something that Beobrand could not make out, but he took it as assent.
"Lower him gently to the ground," he said to the two warriors.
Beobrand quickly scanned the faces and armour of those who surrounded them. His heart lifted when he spotted his old friend, Wynhelm. The older man looked on, lips pressed tightly together and brow furrowed, but Beobrand knew he was not a man to lose himself to dismay.
"Wynhelm," Beobrand said, his fingers already tugging at the leather thong that fastened his helm's cheek guards beneath his chin. Wynhelm stepped close. "See to it that nobody beyond your men here see that the king is wounded. Remember the great ditch. If the fyrd-men see their king fall, we are all doomed." Their eyes met for a heartbeat. They both recalled the morass of blood, mud and shit that had filled the great ditch in the land of the East Angelfolc. How the floor of the dyke had become a swamp of the uneven, slippery flesh of the fallen. Neither wished to be plunged once more into such a savage rout.
Wynhelm turned and addressed his men.
"Keep yourselves close together," he said, his tone quiet, yet urgent, "none must see what transpires here."
Oswald had stopped fighting against the men who had brought him from the shieldwall, and now sat upon the chill mud of the moor. One of the men had crouched beside the king, allowing Oswald to lean against him. Beobrand fumbled for a moment with his helmet strap. His mutilated left hand no longer pained him and he seldom missed the last two fingers he had lost, but he always felt he was clumsier than most. Grunting in annoyance, he finally managed to untie the knot and yanked the helmet free from his head. Despite the cold spring morning air, his hair was plastered against his head, wet with sweat.
He knelt beside Oswald.
"My lord. Let me remove your helm."
Oswald did not speak, but gave the slightest of nods.
Beobrand reached for the leather ties and, after a long clumsy moment, managed to loosen them. He pulled the great helm from Oswald's head. The king's shoulder-length chestnut hair hung lank, his face as pallid as the cloudless dawn sky. His eyes were dark, glazed with pain. Fear gripped Beobrand, but he could not allow his thoughts to show on his face. His gaze travelled over Oswald's fine iron-knit shirt to where the arrow jutted. The goose feather fletchings quivered with each of the king's breaths. The metal head had forced apart the links of the byrnie and buried itself deep beneath Oswald's collar bone. There were flecks of blood on the iron rings close to the wound, but not much. Beobrand knew that when they pulled the arrow free there would be great gouts of dark slaughter-sweat. It would be then that his king might die, if they could not staunch the flow. And even if they were able to stem the gush of blood, he might be elf-shot, the wound-rot eating into his body with its vile corruption.
Despite the obvious pain he felt, Oswald smiled.
"You never were a good tafl player, Beobrand. Your thoughts are as clear on your face as if written by a scribe on calfskin. But no need to hide from me what I already know. It is bad. I can feel it." He closed his eyes for a moment, perhaps offering up a prayer to his god, the Christ. He let out a slow trembling breath that steamed in the air before him. It smelt sour. Beobrand frowned.
Oswald suddenly lashed out with his left hand and gripped Beobrand's wrist. His fingers were pale and fragile against the iron splints that Beobrand wore there to protect his forearm in battle.
"If I die—" Oswald began, his voice intense and jagged.
"You will not die, lord," Beobrand interrupted. He caught the glance of the warrior against whom Oswald still leaned for support. The man's eyes were grim. "You will not die," Beobrand repeated firmly.
"All men die," whispered Oswald. Beobrand made to speak again, but Oswald raised his left hand. "Hush. I am your lord. Your king. And I would have you swear an oath to me."
Beobrand nodded. He did not trust himself to speak, his throat was thick with emotion.
"You must swear to me that if I die, you will serve my brother, as you have served me. Oswiu is a father and husband now." Beobrand recalled how three winters before Oswiu had wed the princess, Rhieinmelth of Rheged. She had quickly borne him a son and was again with child. "Oswiu must not die here today," Oswald continued. "The kingdom will be his. He will need strong men. Men like you. Lucky men."
Beobrand loathed it when Oswald referred to him thus. He was not lucky. But he had long ceased trying to correct his king on the matter.
"You are a father too, lord," said Beobrand, his voice catching. He thought of young Œthelwald and Queen Cyneburg, daughter of Cynegils. "And a husband."
Oswald sighed.
"I am. But I am king first, and I would have your oath before I breathe my last. Would you deny me that, Beobrand?"
Beobrand shook his head.
"Good. Then swear on whatever you deem sacred that you will give your oath to Oswiu when I die."
Beobrand clenched his right hand into a fist. By the gods, how had it come to this? Moments ago, he had been standing in the shieldwall, his gesithas by his side, ready to do that for which Oswald most valued him – to bring slaughter to the enemies of Northumbria in the steel-storm of battle. And now, here he was, kneeling in the gelid mud about to swear an oath that would see him tied to Oswiu atheling for the gods knew how many years. Oswiu. Brother of Oswald, son of Æthelfrith. Oswiu, atheling of Bernicia. A powerful man. A cunning man. A dangerous man.
Oswiu, who hated Beobrand.
Beobrand swallowed. The sun was rising red and burning into the empty sky. The men who crowded around them provided no warmth, only shade.
Of course, his oath would mean nothing should he die today. They had come to this place to fight, to put an end to the coalition between Mercia, the East Seaxons, Powys and Lindesege. The threads of Beobrand's wyrd had long been entangled with those of the sons of Æthelfrith, but he could not have foreseen this twist of destiny.
There was no time for this.
He stared into Oswald's brown eyes. The king was as pale as the snow atop the peaks of Rheged now. No, there was no time.
"Very well," Beobrand said, "you have my oath."
"Swear it on that which you hold most dear."
Beobrand hesitated.
"I swear on Octa's life. I give you my oath, sworn on my son's life." He shivered. Why had he uttered those words? To offer up his son's life so easily. Would that the gods had not heeded him. But he knew it mattered not. His word was iron. The oath was given. It was done. "But, lord, you cannot be seen to have fallen here today, before even a blow is struck. Penda's h
ost will take heart from such tidings. You must stand in the wall."
Oswald gritted his teeth and gripped Beobrand's wrist once more.
"Pull me up."
But Beobrand did not heave Oswald to his feet.
"No, lord, you cannot fight as you are. Have these two take you to the priests, that they may tend your wounds and pray over you." Beobrand had seen the magic the Christ priests could spin. He hoped they would be able to work their miracles for the king. The weight of the new oath weighed heavily upon him as if he had just donned another byrnie over his own.
Oswald looked confused.
"But the men…," he looked about them at the shadowed faces of Wynhelm's gesithas who watched them in silence, "the fyrd-men will know what has happened…"
Beobrand lifted his helm and placed it gently upon Oswald's head.
"No lord king, for it is Beobrand of Ubbanford who has been struck with an arrow, not the king."
Beobrand picked up Oswald's grimhelm. The faceplate was finely wrought with patterns; images of warriors and beasts embossed in the metal.
"And Oswald, son of Æthelfrith," said Beobrand, pulling the helm over his head and hiding his features completely, "yet stands in the shieldwall, hale and strong." The helmet was tight, pressing against his ears.
He stood, towering over the men around him
Oswald smiled again.
"It would seem that the king of Northumbria is indeed blessed," he said, "for he has grown in stature by almost a head's height when confronted by this host of Mercians, Waelisc and treacherous men of Lindesege."
Behind the helm's faceplate, Beobrand did not return the king's smile.
"Carry him to the priests," he said to the warriors, his voice booming strangely against the metal of the helm. "Make it quick and see that they heal him. And remember, it is Beobrand who has taken the arrow."
Beobrand reached down and hefted the king's shield from where it had fallen. The handle of the shield boss was cold in his half-hand. He would miss the straps he used in his own shield, but he would have to make do.
The ranks of men parted before him as he stepped towards the front of the shieldwall. He rolled his neck in an attempt to alleviate the tension there, but it was no good. He reached down to his belt and touched the hilt of his sword, Hrunting.
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