She did not move.
He drew his sword and stepped into the clearing. His eyes flicking from the still form of the thrall to each of the trees around the glade. All was still. There was no sign of an enemy. But who had done this? Sulis' assailant could not be far, the blood that soaked into her dress was fresh. And then his stomach twisted as he understood what had happened here.
In Sulis' lap lay his seax, it's fine blade besmeared with her death-dew. Her hands and wrists were covered in her lifeblood.
Gods, she had done this herself.
His heart clenched. Her grief must have been consuming her. Her life had been shattered when Fordraed rode his men into her settlement. She had lost everything except for her life. He knew what it was to be a thrall, to have no control over your destiny. But he had never been able to recall his family from before. He had been taken as a child and had only ever looked to the future, to the day he would be free.
It seemed Sulis had seen the only way to freedom was in death.
Cynan felt tears sting his eyes. He stared at Sulis' fragile form. If only he had watched her more carefully. If he had not allowed her to take his blade she would yet live. Guilt stabbed him as surely as if had drawn the sharp steel of his seax across her wrists. A terrible tiredness fell over him, like a heavy sodden blanket.
Sulis stirred. Letting out a whimpering moan, she shifted, her head slumping forward, chin resting on her chest.
His weariness fled and he rushed forward, dropping his sword on the earth beside her and catching her frail body as she slid to the side.
"I am here," he said, "I am here." He took up his bloodied seax and used it to cut strips of cloth from her dress. All the while he babbled. "I've got you, Sulis. You have nothing to fear now. I will save you." He bound her wounds tightly. They did not seem too deep. Perhaps she might live. He took in the amount of blood she had lost and the pallor of her skin, and he heard the desperation in his voice as he spoke inane promises to this young woman.
He cuffed the tears from his eyes, smudging blood on his cheek.
Cursing, he lifted her from where she lay and carried her to the horse. Angrily, he lashed her to the saddle with the cords he had used previously to tie her hands. All the while he grumbled and spat, swallowing the bitter ire that threatened to engulf him. He worked quickly, pulling the knots savagely tight and cursing under his breath, not stopping to wonder why he was so full of rage, or what it was that angered him so.
Chapter 6
War was in the air like the stench of rotting meat on a bitter breeze. There was no time to waste. Riders had already galloped out of Eoferwic in all directions to summon the Northumbrian spear-men to arms. Oswald had called the fyrd to gather and it would not be long before he took his retinue, his comitatus of hearth-warriors, to join with the ceorls and peasant fighters who would bring their spears to the warhost.
As the messengers assembled and mounted their fast horses that morning, Beobrand had asked Derian which man rode north to Berewic and the Tuidi valley. The bearded warmaster pointed to a slender, youthful man who was fussing with his horse's saddlebags.
"That's him. Rilberht has family near Gefrin, so knows the lands thereabout."
Beobrand had nodded his thanks and strode over to the man. Rilberht swung up onto his horse's back as Beobrand reached him.
"Hold a moment, Rilberht," Beobrand said. "I would have you take a message to my people in Ubbanford."
The man glanced down at Beobrand, an angry retort forming on his lips. The words died in a sighing breath as he saw who addressed him. Beobrand was well-known. Songs of his exploits were sung in mead halls throughout the land and his battle-skill was legendary. As was his temper.
"What message, lord?" he asked, swallowing.
"Tell my steward, Bassus, that I am joining the fyrd. That he is to leave enough men as needed to protect my lands and then to send all other spear-men to the service of our king."
Rilberht nodded.
"Is that all?"
Beobrand hesitated for a moment and then said, "Tell the lady of my hall that I am well."
When he had left Ubbanford, Reaghan had been angry with him. He wasn't certain why, but of late she was not often pleased with his company it seemed. If only things were as they had been when Octa had yet been a babe. But the years had gone by, and somehow, a distance had grown between Beobrand and Reaghan.
Shortly after the riders had clattered out through the crumbling gates of Eoferwic, Beobrand led Bera out of the stable. The beast rolled its eyes at being saddled, as if it begrudged not being given time to rest after its recent exertions. Acennan and the rest of Beobrand's gesithas were readying their horses and securing hastily packed provisions. They were grim-faced, uncertain of what the future held. They knew that battle was brewing, but they would not be riding west towards the assembling Mercian host. No, they were to ride south once more. South into Mercia.
"Lord Beobrand," a small voice said.
Beobrand turned and saw Cyneburg, as radiant as an autumn dawn. Her overdress and braided belt shimmered in the sunlight, visible beneath her silken wimple, strands of her hair gleamed like gold. She was out of place here, surrounded by hulking warriors in battle-harness and horses stamping and snorting steam in the early morning. The two guards looked nervous, as if they feared one of the mounted warriors might trample their queen. There was no sign of Cyneburg’s gemæcce or of Œthelwald.
"May I speak with you before you leave?" she said.
Beobrand sighed. Handing his reins to Dreogan, he nodded and led Cyneburg away from the horsemen. She gestured for her guards to keep a discrete distance.
"Speak quickly, my queen, for I cannot tarry."
"My husband has sent you to Snodengaham." Her eyes sparkled.
Beobrand said nothing.
"I trust you will find your son well," Cyneburg said.
"I have heard no bad tidings from Eowa," Beobrand said. At the sound of the name, the queen started as if she had been stung by a bee. Gods, how he wished she would not burden him, but she was his queen. And she was so beautiful. Whenever he saw her he was reminded of Sunniva and his heart ached. He recalled the mad love between Eowa and Cyneburg. A love that had threatened to bring war. It seemed the queen still felt the same passion for the atheling of Mercia and Beobrand felt a stab of jealousy. He cleared his throat against the lump there. "I am sure Octa is well."
"Would you—" she began, hesitant and tremulous.
"Do not ask me to bear a message," Beobrand interrupted. He could not face the duplicity. "Oswald has my oath. I am his man." She recoiled, as if he had slapped her. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She looked away, perhaps watching the men and the horses, perhaps just wishing to hide her anguish from him. At last she gave the smallest of nods.
"Very well, Beobrand. I will not ask this of you. But should he enquire, tell him I am well." Her voice shrank and drifted so that he struggled to hear the words. "Yes, tell him I am as well as I am able to be."
"And if he does not ask?" Beobrand said, immediately regretting the question.
Cyneburg stared at him, her eyes liquid and shining.
"You are cruel, Beobrand," she said, before turning and leaving the courtyard without looking back.
Beobrand watched her slender form and the sway of her hips beneath her dress. He clenched his jaw. She was right. But if he was cruel, it was his envy that made him so. For he had once found an all-consuming love and then had it snatched from his grasp.
*
Cynan made slow progress. He walked, leading the horse as Sulis lolled in the saddle, slipping in and out of consciousness. They could not travel fast, even if he had been able to ride. To go at anything more than a walk would surely kill the woman. As it was, he was uncertain she would live. Her skin was pale and clammy to the touch and she murmured and mumbled nonsense. At times she would cry out, whimpering from some horror only she could see. Cynan gripped the leather of the reins so tightly that his hands cramped. He l
onged to be rid of this burden. Just as Sulis had longed to be rid of her grief, he supposed. He could sense the rest of his small band riding ever further from them. He wished he could mount up and gallop after them, but instead he swallowed his anxiety and led the horse in a slow, ponderous walk.
The day was warm. He halted for a moment and drank from the waterskin he carried. Then, gently, he dribbled some of the warm liquid onto Sulis' cracked lips. The water trickled down her chin and onto her blood-stained peplos, but he thought that perhaps some went into her mouth. She had lost a lot of blood and would need to drink if she had any chance of survival.
The sun was high in the cloudless sky. A movement caught Cynan's attention some way ahead. Squinting against the glare, he saw wood pigeons flap into the air. Cursing under his breath, his hand went to the seax that he had cleaned and replaced in its sheath. There were figures in the distance. A group of men in the shade of some oaks that grew close to the road.
How many were there? He peered, trying to make out details, but they were yet some way off. He could see no horses, but there were more men than he could fight on his own. Perhaps a dozen. Should it come to a fight, he could leap onto the horse and ride. Even with two riders, he was sure his steed would be able to outrun men on foot. But what of Sulis? If he rode hard, he was certain she would lose her fragile grip on life.
Cynan changed hands on the reins, freeing his right to draw his sword if needed. He continued forward warily.
As they got closer, an unusual chanting reached him. His horse nickered nervously. He could see more clearly now. There were ten men all dressed in long robes. They were standing in a circle beneath the oaks and singing. The sounds drifted to Cynan. The words of their songs meant nothing to him, but he let out a sigh of relief. For he had heard similar chants many times before. He cared little for the preachings of the Christ followers, but he knew they would offer him no harm.
Some of the tension left him and he released his grip on his sword. Stepping forward with more purpose, he approached the monks. As he reached them, they finished their song and all turned to him. One stepped forward.
He was a young man, with keen eyes. His hair, like all of his companions, was worn long at the back, but shaved from the forehead to the crown of his head.
"Well met, Cynan," the monk said, his gaze flicking to the senseless form on the horse. "May the Lord's blessings be upon you. We were expecting you."
*
They rode with haste southward. Beobrand's face was set as they passed fields of green flowering barley, waving and rippling in the warm summer breeze. He ignored the inquisitive faces of thralls and ceorls, and when his gesithas looked in his direction, they saw their lord in total control. They may have been nervous, worried about riding into Mercia, but Beobrand knew no fear. They had followed him into battle and seen him sweep all enemies before him. He was their hlaford. Their ring-giving lord. The greatest warlord in Northumbria, perhaps in all of Albion, and they were proud to serve him. Where he led, they would follow without question.
Behind his clenched jaw and cool blue eyes, Beobrand's head thronged with dark thoughts. Concerns he could not share with his men. Worries that he alone would dwell on until he knew the truth. He could not burden the men with his anxiety. It was ever thus for a leader of men. He knew this, but it did not make it easy.
Acennan rode close to Beobrand and glanced at his friend's impassive face.
"What troubles you?" he asked, keeping his tone quiet enough so only Beobrand would hear.
Beobrand smiled. Was it so easy for Acennan to see his thoughts?
"You would have a shorter answer if you asked me what does not trouble me."
Acennan nodded and they rode on a while in silence. The men behind them pulled back a few paces, instinctively sensing that the two men at the head of the column did not wish to be overheard.
"Do you worry about Octa?" Acennan asked. "I don't know how I would feel if Athulf were sent away to be fostered so far from Stagga. I am sure Eadgyth would not allow it. She is already so far from her kin in Wessex. To send our son away would break her heart."
Beobrand frowned. He had not spoken to Acennan about his feelings, or those of Reaghan. But her screaming and weeping were still fresh in his memory. Octa may not have been her son, but she loved him as if he were of her blood. And no matter how many times Beobrand had lain with Reaghan, she had never borne him another child.
She had taken the news of Octa's leaving very hard.
"Eowa is a worthy man," Beobrand said. "I am sure he will have treated Octa as one of his own children. Octa will be well."
Acennan glanced at Beobrand, perhaps gauging his mood.
"Still, it has been months since you saw him," he said, "and it is a long ride to Snodengaham. It would have been kinder to foster the boy in Bernicia. Closer to Ubbanford."
"Kindness was not a consideration, I feel," snapped Beobrand. His anger at the order to send his son away to be fostered by Eowa, atheling of Mercia, was still fresh even after all these months. By having Octa become part of Eowa's household, Oswald had seen a way to relay messages directly to Penda's brother and ruler of the northern marches of Mercia. Beobrand had protested, but Oswald had been adamant.
Reaghan had been distraught. She had cried for days, raging against Beobrand.
"You must not do this thing," she had yelled, tears streaking her face. "He is your only son. Your only blood kin. It is too dangerous."
"Do you think I don't know of the dangers?" Beobrand had bellowed, his ire bubbling over. He had gripped the edge of the table in the hall so tightly he had believed the stout wood might splinter. But he did not trust himself not to raise his fists to Reaghan, if he released his grasp of the board. Could she not see that he too was terrified at the prospect of losing his son, the last reminder of his wife, Sunniva? Reaghan had bleated on as if Octa were more hers than his, and Beobrand had been consumed with rage. He knew what he was capable of. He had struck women before. Even killed women. But he had never raised his hand to Reaghan, and he had vowed he never would. As he now knew, he truly was not his father's son.
"Then why do you allow this to happen?" she had sobbed.
"I have no choice!" he had screamed and, unable to contain his anger any longer, he'd turned his back on Reaghan, picked up one of the heavy oak benches, and flung it across the hall. It had clattered into trestles and boards that were stacked against the wall. The sudden violence and noise had silenced Reaghan.
"I have no choice," Beobrand had repeated, his voice catching in his throat. "The king has willed it, and I am his oath-sworn thegn. I must obey."
Reaghan had questioned his decision no further, but from that day forth she wore a melancholic sadness about her like a cloak.
Acennan left Beobrand to his thoughts for a time and they rode on in silence.
The breeze felt good on Beobrand's face. The day was hot. There was a glint of sun on water ahead. They would halt there for a time and water the horses. They had no replacement mounts, so they must keep these animals hale.
"Do you think those Mercians told Fordraed the truth?" asked Acennan after a time.
Beobrand thought for a moment.
"I'm not sure, but it has the ring of truth to it," he said eventually.
"Still, it is a lot to gamble on one throw of the dice."
"Aye, it is. But what else could Oswald do? If Penda has been calling his men to arms for weeks, we cannot merely wait to see what happens."
Acennan nodded. They were near the water now. It was a broad river, its winding path flanked by willows and alder. Close to the water's edge, where the crumbling road forded the river, there was a small hut. A man stepped out of the building. He was hunched, but broad-shouldered. He held a huge hound on a short leash at his side. The wire-haired dog eyed the band of riders balefully, but made no sound. The man blinked in the sunlight, evidently surprised to see so many armed men at his door.
"Would you be wanting to cross the
Dyvene and keep your feet dry, lord?" he asked, not meeting Beobrand's gaze, instead looking at the ground somewhere in front of him.
There was a small boat tied to a wooden jetty. The timber of the jetty was moss-covered and mouldering, but the boat looked sound. Beobrand gave the river an appraising look. It had not rained in days and the water seemed shallow enough for them to ride across.
"I think not, boatman, but I would know what your eyes have seen these past weeks."
The man looked up and his eyes twinkled in the summer sun.
"I have seen many things," he said, his voice sly.
"Armed men? Warriors? Riders?"
"How much is this worth to you, lord? A man needs to eat."
Beobrand took a hunk of hack silver from his pouch, weighed it in his hand for the man to see. It was as long and wide as his finger. The jetty-man's eyes widened. Beobrand tossed him the silver. It flashed in the air like a fish darting through clear water. The man caught it.
"I have seen no warriors, lord, not for these past weeks. Been very quiet it has. And the river's been low since Eostremonath. No call for my boat when the river is low." He held the piece of silver close to his face and sunlight glimmered reflections on his dirt-seamed cheeks. "This will go a long way, lord, and I thank'ee."
The men let their horses drink from the slow-flowing river and filled their flasks. Beobrand and Acennan watched as the men rode into the water, sending up great sheets of glistening spray. Even at the deepest point the water did not reach the horses' bellies.
When all of his gesithas had reached the southern bank, Beobrand nodded to the old man who had stood watching the proceedings intently. The man offered him a gap-toothed grin and a wave. Beobrand touched his heels to Bera's flanks and trotted into the water.
The cold water splashed his legs and his hands and face. It felt good after the dusty heat of the road. When they were halfway across, Acennan turned to him and asked the question that had most troubled Beobrand since they had left Eoferwic.
Warrior of Woden Page 6