Chapter 11
"Allow Eumer to approach," Eowa said, his voice ringing clear in the hall. He reached for a cloth and wiped his hands. All conversation had died. The hall was silent, and all there peered with interest at the newcomer.
The door wardens had him remove his sword and seax. The decorated scabbard and pommel ornaments glittered and shone. They then made him unbuckle his belt and even relinquish his eating knife. The polished buckle flashed as he handed over the belt. When they were satisfied he bore no weapons, they ushered him forward. The messenger stepped into the light and walked nervously towards the high table, where Eowa awaited him. Eumer's clothes were shabby, dust-streaked and worn, in stark contrast to the fine blades and belt he had left with the door wards. His hair was cropped short. He was a stocky man, broad of shoulder, but more like a farmhand than a warrior. His gaze darted around the room.
"Do you think Eowa will switch his allegiance?" whispered Acennan from where he sat at Beobrand's left. "The messenger comes from Penda and blood is blood, after all."
"I know not," said Beobrand, without turning his gaze away from the messenger, "but I think with Eowa his word is stronger than blood."
There was something about Eumer that Beobrand did not like. He shook his head. There was nothing to fear here. They were safe in Eowa's hall. War would come all too soon, but for tonight, they were in no danger.
Cynethryth poured mead into a cup and stepped around the table to intercept Eumer before he reached Eowa.
"I bid you Waes Hael," she said, offering the cup to Eumer.
The man's features clouded with anger for a moment. But he took the cup and drank deeply of the liquid.
"I thank you, Lady Cynethryth," he said. His voice trembled. Beobrand noticed that drops of sweat glimmered on his forehead. He must be nervous to be addressing the lord and lady of the East Mercian marches before so many watching faces of thegns, gesithas and their families.
Cynethryth took back the cup and bowed to Eumer, who stepped forward to Eowa.
"Well, Eumer," said Eowa, "what message do you bring from my brother?"
Eumer glanced around him.
"My lord Penda ordered me to give the message to you alone."
Eowa frowned.
"Very well, let us step away from the tables where we can talk." Eowa turned to the expectant faces. "Continue with your feasting, friends," he said. "If this news is important, I am sure you will all hear of it soon enough. But for now, the message is for my ears alone it seems."
Conversations slowly started up again. Men spoke of this messenger from Penda. What tidings could he bring? He must have ridden hard to arrive so dishevelled before a great lord, and to come to the hall so late into the night the news must surely be portentous.
The drone of voices enveloped Beobrand. He watched keenly as Eowa and Eumer stepped towards the rear of the hall, away from the long boards and benches. Little light from the hearth reached the dark corner, but Scur scooped up a candle and followed them. The warrior placed the candle on a stool near where Eowa and Eumer conversed in hushed tones. He then moved a few paces away to allow them to speak without being overheard.
"I wonder what message he brings," said Octa.
"I know not," said Beobrand, reaching for the pitcher of ale once more, "but as Eowa said, we shall find out soon enough." He was pouring the last drops of ale into his horn when a sudden, violent movement snapped his attention to the darkened corner where Eowa, Eumer and Scur stood. For a moment, he was unsure what he was seeing, and then, as suddenly as if he had been plunged into the icy waters of the Whale Road in winter, it became shockingly clear.
Beobrand surged to his feet, overturning the board and sending food, drink, plates and cups crashing to the rush-strewn floor. All around the hall other men were leaping up and everyone was shouting.
Beobrand, his tiredness forgotten, leapt over the board and the spilt detritus of the feast and rushed towards Eowa and Penda's messenger. But he knew he would be too late. From somewhere hidden in his dirty clothing, Eumer had pulled a wicked-looking knife. Eowa had been leaning in close to hear the man's words over the noise of the throng in the hall. The blade flashed in the light of the candle, as Eumer swung a killing blow. Beobrand watched all of this in horror. He saw clearly that Eowa would be killed. There was nothing he could do. He was still several paces away and the knife was but an arm's length from Eowa's throat.
Eowa would die here. Killed in his own hall by the treachery of an assassin's blade.
But even as the blow descended towards the wide-eyed Eowa, Scur bounded forward with a speed brought on from the desperate need to defend his oath-sworn lord.
A few more steps and Beobrand would be upon them, but it would be too late. As he watched, Eumer's blade sunk deep into Scur's chest. Scur let out a howl of rage and pain and locked his hands around the throat of the assassin. All three men crashed to the floor.
The hall was in uproar. Men were rushing to their lord's aid, screaming and shouting at the infamy that had unfolded before them. But Beobrand had been the first to react and was the closest. He arrived first.
Scur and Eumer were wrestling, thrashing around on the timber floor, scrabbling and kicking rushes up in their efforts to slay each other. Eowa lay to one side. He looked shocked, his face pale and eyes wide, but he seemed unharmed. Beobrand hauled him to his feet, pulling him away from the fighting men. He pushed Eowa towards his approaching gesithas, and turned back to help Scur.
It seemed Scur needed no help. He had climbed atop Eumer and gripped his head in both his hands. Eumer had yanked his knife free of Scur's flesh and stabbed it again into the warrior's chest. Scur bellowed, but appeared oblivious of the pain. Blood gushed from his wounds, soaking his kirtle and painting Eumer's hands and arms crimson. Scur strained and heaved. Before Beobrand could intervene, there was a crunching crack as Eumer's neck snapped. The messenger instantly went limp, and Scur rolled away from him, to lie panting and groaning staring up at the soot-clad roof beams. Lifeblood pumped and bubbled from his gaping wounds.
Eowa pushed past Beobrand and dropped to his knees beside Scur. He gripped the warrior's hands.
"You have saved me, brave Scur," he said. "You have killed my enemy and saved my life. You are the best of men."
Scur looked up at his lord, but his eyes were already dimming.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice weak. Gone was the bellowing power of moments before. "Sorry, my lord."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," said Eowa. "You have done your duty as you always have."
"I was too slow…" Scur said. His head lolled to one side and his breath left him with a wheezing crackle. The blood yet flowed from his wounds, but ever more slowly. Eowa gazed down at his trusty gesith, his face full of anguish and confusion. Letting out a ragged sigh, Eowa saw that Scur had departed middle earth. He stood and turned towards the men gathered there. His eyes met Beobrand's.
"What did he mean, he was too slow?" he asked.
For a heartbeat Beobrand knew not what to say to Eowa. And then he saw. Scur had been closest and he had been fast. Fast enough to take the killing blow that had been aimed at his lord. But Beobrand saw a blooming stain of red on Eowa's shoulder. The kirtle was sliced through cleanly there, and blood was trickling from a small wound.
Beobrand pointed.
"He meant that," he said. "He was too slow to prevent you being injured by that bastard's knife. It looks as though the blade went through Scur and the tip nicked you there."
Eowa looked down at the small cut.
"I didn't even feel it," he said, bemused. "It is nothing." Dismissing the insignificant injury, Eowa turned his attention to his people.
"Penda has sought to slay me in my own hall. My brother has long coveted my lands, but he fears me. He sends an assassin to kill me with a hidden blade in the dark. This is not the act of a good king, of a man to be followed and admired. No, this is the act of a craven. Penda fears me. And he fears you. And so he
should. For are you not the bravest of warriors?" A growl of assent from the warriors. "I know any of you would have done the same as Scur." He looked down at the blood-soaked corpse, before turning quickly back to his comitatus. He staggered slightly, but found his balance. "You are loyal and strong and you have always stood by me in moments of need. I trust that you are ready to stand once more at my side in the shieldwall." The men cheered and stamped their feet. They had seen one of their number slain and their lord attacked, they were eager for battle now. Such an affront could not go unanswered.
"Good," shouted Eowa, his face flushed, "for we march to war. Penda amasses his host in the west and we will join Oswald and the Northumbrians against him." There was a murmur at this news. Beobrand wondered how they would take to fighting against fellow Mercians. "See to it," continued Eowa, "that riders are sent out at first light to call the fyrd to arms. Send word to all ealdormen and thegns that their lord, Eowa, son of Pybba, is in need of their spears and their shields. We will avenge Scur's death and we will settle this score with my brother once and for all. Soon, I will be king of all Mercia, and we will all be rich."
The men cheered again. But as Beobrand scanned the throng, he saw many faces that were shocked and pale. The safety of the feast had been destroyed by Penda's deadly deceit. And now that Eowa had spoken, they all knew what Beobrand and his men had come here for.
War was upon them. They would once again face the terrifying maelstrom of battle and they would find what their wyrd had in store for them in the steel-storm of the shieldwall. Many would fall to feed the ravens and wolves. Some would rise from the ashes of battle with greater battle-fame and riches. The dice were cast, but as each man talked of what they had just witnessed and their lord's words, none of them knew how they would land. Or who would be winners and who would be losers in this great game played by kings and lords with the very lives of their people.
Some men and women were tending to Scur's body. They were solemn and grave-faced. One of the women was sobbing, her tears streaking her cheeks, but she brushed away the hands of those who offered her help. This was her man, and she would see that he was cleaned and prepared for his final journey.
Cynethryth came to Eowa's side.
"Are you well, lord?" she asked.
Eowa stepped back towards the high table, where people were righting the boards and benches. Acennan had a protective hand on Octa's shoulder. Beobrand smiled his thanks to his friend. As they neared the bench and the lord's gift-stool, Eowa stumbled again. He caught himself on Cynethryth's shoulder and Beobrand moved in to help him.
"What is it?" Cynethryth asked. "Are you hurt?"
"Only a small cut," panted Eowa, "it is nothing. But is does burn so."
Beobrand was suddenly cold, despite the warmth of the hearth fire and the summer's evening.
"You there," Beobrand snapped to one of the door wards. The man was shaken and sombre. He had allowed an armed man within reach of his lord. "Fetch Eumer's blade. And mind you are not cut on its blade," he said, "I fear it may be poisoned."
"Ah, yes," said Eowa, "that would explain things."
And with that, he collapsed.
Chapter 12
"Will he live?" whispered Cynethryth.
All was still in the hall now. Men and women had been sent away, leaving only Eowa's closest retinue, who sat in hushed vigil in the main hall. Here, in the sleeping chamber that was separated from the main room with its great hearth and benches, it was silent, apart from Eowa's shallow breathing. Two rush lights gave off a flickering, ghostly light. Cynethryth's face was shadowy and indistinct, but Beobrand could see the strain there. Strands of her hair had fallen from her plaits. She brushed them aside absently, hooking them behind her ear.
Beobrand looked down at Eowa. The atheling was bathed in sweat. He trembled beneath the furs and blankets that were piled atop him, but at least now he slept.
"I cannot say," said Beobrand. "I fear it is in the hands of the gods now. We have done all we can."
When the door ward had brought Eumer's knife to him, Beobrand had examined it closely, holding it out so that the light of the fire caught its blade. It was gore-slick, drenched with Scur's blood, but he thought he could detect the remnants of something else. A thick, translucent liquid. He had sniffed the blade and a pungent stench caught in the back of his throat.
"It is poisoned," he had shouted. The clamour in the hall had risen in pitch. "Stand back," he had commanded, using the voice he employed in battle. "We must remove as much of the venom as possible, before it is too late." He remembered well the burning agony of the poisoned wound from Torran's blade in Din Eidyn, and how Acennan had saved his life.
And so he had fallen to the rush-covered floor of the hall beside Eowa's stricken form. Beobrand had ripped Eowa's kirtle to expose the knife-cut beneath. Above them, Beobrand heard commotion as Eowa's gesithas surged forward, believing he meant to cause their lord further harm. Acennan's voice was loud over the turmoil.
"He is helping Eowa!" he bellowed. "Stand back. Give way."
Beobrand ignored it all, trusting that his friend and his gesithas would give him enough time to do what he must. The cut was small, not much more than a nick. Without poison, Eowa would barely have noticed it. Beobrand took a deep breath, and without pause leaned over Eowa's prostrate body and clamped his lips to the wound. He sucked as hard as he was able, feeling his mouth fill with blood. He rose for a moment and spat into the rushes. One of the hounds pushed through the legs of the gathered men and went to lick where the gobbet of blood and spittle had fallen. Beobrand cuffed the dog and spat again. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He had tasted his own blood enough times in battle to know there was an evil taint to Eowa's. He fell to again and sucked more blood and poison from the cut. He spat again, feeling some of the liquid drooling into his beard. The dog was no longer there, pushed away no doubt by one of the watching warriors. There was more space around them now too, and more light.
For a third time Beobrand sucked at Eowa's wound, like a carrion crow dipping its beak into a corpse. He shuddered at the thought and spat once more. The acrid taste had gone now, but his mouth felt numb, as if he had filled it with snow. He had stood shakily then.
"Give me mead or ale," he had called out. He felt light-headed, as if he had drunk many cups of strong mead. "Now!"
A hand had thrust a cup into his hand and he had filled his mouth quickly. Strong mead. He swilled it around his mouth and then spat the contents onto the rushes. Again he'd rinsed his mouth with the mead and spat. Finally he'd drained the remainder of the sweet liquid before passing the cup back with a nod of thanks.
Now, gazing down at Eowa shaking and sweating in his bed, Beobrand wondered whether he had been too late. Perhaps enough of the venom had remained in Eowa's body to slay him yet. He remembered that night in the hall of Din Eidyn when his own body had battled Nelda's deadly dew.
"Eowa is strong," he said to Cynethryth. "It is his battle now."
Cynethryth nodded.
"He will survive this," she said, with certainty in her voice. Whether she believed it or was trying to convince herself, Beobrand could not tell.
Beobrand said nothing.
"I have spoken to the men," Cynethryth continued. "The messengers will ride tomorrow. And Eowa will recover from this treachery. And you will ride for war, as you had planned." Was there recrimination in her tone?
"It is not my plan, Lady Cynethryth," Beobrand said. "Penda has provoked this, and my lord Oswald has called in an oath that Eowa swore to him long ago. Before he knew you," he added awkwardly.
Cynethryth brushed the errant strands of hair behind her ear again.
"I had long known this day would come. When Oswald would call upon him for what he did."
Beobrand tensed. He did not wish to be here speaking of these things with this noble lady. His tiredness washed over him again. When he had most needed rest, the night had exploded in a tumult of violence and terror. Now that a
ll was calm again, he felt his hands shaking at his side. He clenched his fists against the trembling.
"I see you are uncomfortable, Lord Beobrand," she said. "You have no need. Eowa told me all. I know about how you met." She looked directly at him, her eyes thoughtful and glimmering. "I know it all." She sighed, and smoothed her dress with her slender hands. "But no matter the past. He is my man now, father of my sons. I need him alive. You must swear to me that you will protect him."
Beobrand swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat. He wanted to say that he would keep Eowa alive, that he would bring him home to his family safely. But he had seen too many battles; lost too many friends to the spear and the sword.
"If he pulls through, we will ride to face Penda in battle. I will do what I can to protect him. But I cannot control wyrd, and many will fall."
She looked away.
"If he falls," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper in the dark room, "Penda will send his wolves here. He will not allow my sons to live. We cannot remain here hoping that the gods, or the Sisters of Wyrd, will see Penda defeated. When you march to war, I must flee with the children."
Beobrand nodded. He thought of King Edwin's male kinfolk, sent far away to Frankia after his death. They had been killed by Wybert at the behest of one of the royal line of Æthelfrith. Cynethryth was right. Penda would not hesitate to snuff out any spark of a rival claim to the kingdom of Mercia before it could grow into a flame. And of course, Octa was here with Penda's nephews.
"You will take the boys and ride north. I will provide a couple of my men to lead you, and you must take some of your most trusted gesithas for protection. You will go to Ubbanford on the river Tuidi. That is my land and you will be safe there. After the battle, if we yet live, Eowa will come for you there." He rubbed his hand across his face in an attempt to wipe away his exhaustion.
Warrior of Woden Page 9