Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  Reaghan smiled to think of the fanciful tales that Rowena relished recounting.

  The lady Rowena was not a consistent weaver. She cared little for the work and, despite having a delicate touch and a fine eye for patterns, the cloth she worked on always took what seemed an age to complete. But she was good company. She was aloof, never truly letting her guard down, but she had ceased to treat Reaghan badly years ago, after that blustery day when they had visited the sacred glade in the forest. There they had witnessed the slaying of Nelda, the cunning woman who had wrought such misery. The witch had almost succeeded in convincing Rowena to murder Reaghan, but Bassus, ever the champion warrior, despite having lost an arm to a Pictish arrow, had stepped from the trees and hacked Nelda down in a savage instant of ferocious power.

  Reaghan tried not to think of what she had seen that day, but sometimes, when she lay alone in her bed, with the wind sighing beneath the eaves and the hall creaking and settling in the darkness, the vision of Nelda's dismembered corpse would come to her. On such nights, sleep would elude her and she would lie shivering until the dawn, terrified that outside in the gloom of the night Nelda's rotten body parts had somehow risen from death and were creeping towards Ubbanford to seek vengeance for her murder.

  Once, on a bright summer day when Rowena had come to weave at the hall without Maida, Reaghan had brought up the subject of Nelda. They had been sitting in the sun and evil felt very distant, so she had asked Rowena if she ever dreamt about Nelda. Rowena had taken a deep breath and sighed.

  "Let us never speak that name again," she had said. "She is gone, and I like to think of her as merely a bad dream that haunted us for a brief time." She had reached a hand out and squeezed Reaghan's hand in an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. "That witch can never hurt us again." She had offered another squeeze and had turned back to her threads.

  They had never spoken of the witch or her death again. But they had shared something that day in the forest clearing that had formed a strong bond. They might never be friends, but Rowena had always treated Reaghan with respect and dignity ever since.

  Reaghan glanced over at Bysen who silently brought into existence the patterned cloth from the tablets and the thread. Maida looked up and smiled at her. Reaghan felt a strange feeling of belonging and all at once being terribly alone. Maida and her daughter were very close, and the love they shared was clear to Reaghan. From the way they looked at each other, to casual touches, to the easy laughter with barely a word spoken. The love between a mother and a child was something she feared she would never know.

  The boys came around from behind the hall, screaming and hollering.

  Reaghan missed Octa. She had been furious when Beobrand had sent him away. She loved the boy as though he were her own. But he was not hers. Her womb had failed to take Beobrand's seed after that first time, when she had stupidly gone to Odelyna to help her rid her body of what she had believed to be a burden. Even now when she thought of it, she felt the echoes of the pangs of pain as her body had voided the unborn child.

  She had been so foolish. To think that such a thing would go unpunished. Danu, Mother of all, had made her barren for her terrible act, and now she would never bear Beobrand a child. The closest she would ever come would be to love another woman's son. She had resigned herself to this, and doted on Octa, caring for him and treating him as though he were of her own blood. But it seemed it was not her wyrd to know contentment, for the order had come from the king to send the child away, to be fostered by the atheling of Mercia.

  Gods, how she had raved and screamed at Beobrand then. She blushed to think of it. He had suffered her rage, but she had seen the violence building within him, and he had frightened her when at last he had bellowed at her to stop.

  Her eyes misted at the memory of his anger and the loss of Octa. She blinked the tears away, not wishing Maida to see her weep. Despite her blurring vision, her fingers knew their work and they continued to deftly push the weft scytel between the warp yarns, rotate the tablets, and then slip the wooden shuttle back through the threads.

  How had it come to this? She had been freed from thralldom and become the lady of the hall. The woman of a great thegn. Not the wife though, she thought. Beobrand had never offered to seal their union with a handfasting. And who was she to insist? She had been a slave, and then Beobrand had elevated her to a position she had never even dreamt of. He had treated her well. She had fine possessions and ate rich food. She had servants and thralls now to tend to her needs. And she still yearned for Beobrand. For the closeness they had shared in that first year following Sunniva's death, when Octa was a babe. But those happy days were in the past.

  When Beobrand was away from Ubbanford, as he often was, she thought of him regularly and prayed for his return. But when he was in the hall, there was a distance between them now, a wall that she felt as keenly as though it had been a physical thing.

  She knew he sensed it too. But they never spoke of it. Was she to blame? What could she do to mollify him? When he was present, he often sat in silence for long periods. He would stare into the hearth fire flames as if seeking to burn away memories he wished he had never seen. When he was in one of these dark humours, nobody would approach him, not even his friends Acennan or Bassus. His ire would wash off him like a stink and, over time, Reaghan had become convinced she was the cause of his anguish. He must feel trapped with this woman whom he had freed in a moment of madness and now, being an honourable man, he did not know how to be rid of her.

  It had been months since they had lain together. Perhaps this was the cause of the chill between them. When he next returned, Reaghan vowed she would bed Beobrand more often and with more vigour. She knew he still lusted for her, he could not hide the glances and the way he followed her movements around the hall. But he never forced himself upon her, instead waiting for her to offer herself to him. Surely renewed passion would rekindle his affection for her. And, though she could scarcely bring herself to countenance the thought, perhaps his seed would settle in her womb and she would bring him another child. Then she would be truly useful to him and he would love her.

  A horse's whinny and the thump of hooves on the dry, packed earth of the path broke her from her reverie. Reaghan looked up, suddenly alert. Could it be that Beobrand had come home? Her face grew hot. She set aside her weaving and stood. She rubbed her eyes, then pinched her cheeks.

  "How do I look?" she asked Maida. She was flustered and breathless.

  Maida smiled.

  "As pretty as ever," she said, also standing. She brushed her hands over her apron and Reaghan realised Maida too missed her man and hoped that Elmer was returned to Ubbanford.

  "Boys," Maida snapped, summoning her sons to her with a gesture of her hand. The two boys ran over and stood beside their mother and sister.

  They all stood there in the shade of the porch in silent expectation, listening to the riders' approach. The mounts came at a plodding walk, heavy and lumbering. Reaghan strained to hear more. She frowned. This was not the sound of Beobrand's mounted warband's return. There were fewer horses here. A scratch of worry ran down her back. Could these be raiders? Picts perhaps? She shook her head. That was madness. The sun was high in the sky. No brigands would dare openly attack Ubbanford or its inhabitants. Beobrand was too feared.

  The sounds grew closer, the riders were almost in view. She hardly breathed, and Maida and her children stood in hushed silence. Even the two boys, so full of noise and excitement moments before, now waited quietly beside their mother.

  Reaghan craned forward, leaning out to catch the first glimpse of the horses. And then, from beneath the rustling shade of the birch and hazel that lined the path, came the riders. The bright sun glittered from harness and spear-points. And for a moment, as the riders came into view, Reaghan was still unsure who it was that rode up to her hall.

  Chapter 15

  Reaghan squinted against the blinding glare of the sunshine. At first she could not make out wh
o rode astride the horses that plodded towards the new hall of Ubbanford.

  "Each horse carries two riders," keen-eyed Frethi said. Reaghan saw immediately that the boy was right. Her stomach twisted. Could it be that this was all that remained of Beobrand's warband that had ridden south to defend the marches of Northumbria? She counted the horses. Seven. Gods, could they truly have lost so many horses? And men?

  No, not men. Something about the riders snagged her attention. Each horse carried a man, and a woman. They were closer now, and finally she recognised the face of the leader of the band.

  "Cynan," she called, raising her hand in greeting. The Waelisc warrior returned her wave. She scanned the rest of the male riders. She recognised them all as Beobrand's gesithas. None of the women were known to her. Frowning, she stepped from the porch.

  Cynan reined in his mount and slid from the saddle. Then, before speaking, he turned to his companion and lifted her down. She was a slight, pale woman, with dark, haunted eyes. She might have been pretty, had she not looked so weary and soiled from the road. As Cynan lowered the woman gently from the horse, the sleeves of her dress fell back to reveal slender, freckled arms. Each wrist was bound in bandages. Behind Cynan, the other warriors were dismounting and helping the other women from their horses.

  "Caladh," Reaghan called though the open doors of the hall. A young man was there in an instant, evidently already close, drawn by the new arrivals.

  "I am here, my lady," he said.

  "See to the horses," Reaghan said. "And find Domhnulla and see that food is prepared for the men." She hesitated. "And these women. They must be hungry from their journey."

  The young thrall nodded and went to do his mistress's bidding.

  "You are well come home, Cynan," Reaghan said, with a dip of her head. "But what of my lord Beobrand?" She glanced at Maida and saw the hard look of worry etched on her features. Reaghan clenched her jaw. She was sure her own face wore a similar expression. They had both seen that neither Beobrand nor Elmer rode with the newly-arrived men and women. "And the others?"

  "Do not fear," answered Cynan, "we left our lord and the rest of the men hale and whole still in Deira." Maida said nothing, but she let out a ragged sigh. She must have been holding her breath. Reaghan too, felt a rush of relief, coupled with a prickling of disappointment. She had so hoped Beobrand would have been amongst the men.

  "And why do you return now?" she asked. "Without your lord," she flicked a glance around the women who now thronged about the entrance of the hall, "and with these women?"

  "They are thralls," Cynan answered. His tone was clipped, he would not meet her gaze. He knew of her past and she of his. Talk of slaves was ever awkward for them.

  "I see. And how did Beobrand come by them?"

  Cynan handed the reins of his mount to Caladh.

  "He bought them," he said. "But there is more to the tale than that. I will tell you all over mead and meat."

  Reaghan nodded.

  "Very well," she said, but was not ready to end the conversation just yet. Not without learning the thing that most preyed on her thoughts. "But what of our lord? Why did Beobrand not ride north with you?"

  "He is needed in the south, Lady Reaghan," Cynan said, his voice taking on a sombre tone. "As am I and the rest of the men. We will not tarry here. We ride south with the dawn."

  "Why?" she asked, though she knew there could only be one reason.

  Cynan met her gaze at last and nodded, confirming what she had feared.

  "War is upon us once more," he said.

  *

  Cynan stifled a belch. The warmth of the food and the strong mead soothed him. As they had ridden north, he had become increasingly tense and now, for this brief moment of respite, he felt his body and mind uncoiling its tight knots of worry.

  Sulis and he had caught up with the rest of the party a day's ride north of Eoferwic. Gram had decided to rest in the city for a day, allowing Cynan and the thrall time to close the gap. Bearn had told Cynan that, when after the day of rest there was still no sign of him and the missing woman, some of the gesithas had said they should ride back southward in search of them, but Gram had been adamant. They had their orders to ride to Ubbanford and then return as quickly as possible to Beobrand and Oswald's battlehost. Cynan had told him he had done the right thing. Though he was sure that Gram had decided not to push the horses, thus giving the stragglers more chance to reach them on the journey.

  The ride itself had been peaceful enough. Sulis had not attempted to run or harm herself again, and the weather had been kind to them. And yet Cynan had not been able to relax. He'd watched Sulis obsessively, scared of what she might do. She had remained sullen, barely speaking. She'd ignored the other men completely, grudgingly accepting food from Cynan and his help to mount and dismount. Cynan cursed himself for a fool at the flush of joy he'd felt whenever the Mercian woman deigned to meet his gaze or utter a word to him.

  Once they had rejoined the group, they had ridden as fast as they were able. With two riders apiece, this proved to be more slowly than any of the men would have liked. Despite riding into the familiar lands of Bernicia under clear, warm skies, they could feel the chill clouds of war gathering in the south and west. They followed their lord's command, but even so, they felt the twinge of cowardice at riding away from battle. Were their shield-brothers and their hlaford even now hefting linden board and spear in defence of their king? It was the gesithas' duty to be at their oath-sworn lord's side. They had pledged to protect him, and he would bring them glory, battle-fame and riches in return. Riding away from war, they could neither protect Beobrand, nor weave their own sword-song into the tales that would be told of this conflict.

  And so, short-tempered and nervous, they had travelled north to Ubbanford, that they might leave their charges and then rush back south, in search of their wyrd, in which they saw glory and glittering treasure plucked from their foes' corpses.

  Cynan had not been aware quite how on edge he had been until that moment. He took another sip of the good mead that old Odelyna brewed. He relished the warmth of it as it trickled down his throat. Stretching out his legs, he arched his back, causing it to pop and crackle satisfyingly. It had been a long ride. He could feel his muscles loosening. Around him the men laughed and chattered with the happiness of coming home.

  Home.

  Yes, it was good to have a place to call home. And yet, he was not certain he would ever feel completely at ease here. He was grateful to Beobrand and would die before breaking his oath to his lord, but there was always something missing.

  Cynan took another gulp of mead. Woden's teeth, he needed a good night's sleep. He must be exhausted to allow his thoughts to become so gloom-laden. He was young, skilled with weapon and shield, a trusted gesith of a ring-giving lord. Before fleeing Grimbold's hall he had been a thrall, beaten and abused. How could he think anything was missing in his life now?

  Bassus' great roar of a laugh, cut through his thoughts. The giant, one-armed warrior sat beside the lady Rowena. Between them and Cynan, sat Reaghan. She had honoured Cynan with a seat at the high table. He had already given them an explanation of how Beobrand had come to own the thralls. It had proven to be an awkward conversation. He had given little detail, merely saying that Lord Fordraed had acquired the women and Beobrand had offered him payment for them.

  "But why would Beobrand do such a thing?" Rowena had asked, incredulity raising her voice's pitch. "We have plenty of thralls. Perhaps we could have done with one or two more," she'd mused. "Ciorstag is old now, to be sure, and is not much use for anything. But seven! Surely my daughter's husband had need of some of them."

  Cynan had not known what to say. He felt like a man who has walked blindly into a swamp, and cannot remember the steps he must take to return to dry land.

  "I am not sure of my lord's reasoning," he had stuttered. "I think perhaps he meant for some of them to be sent to Stagga, to help Eadgyth with her household." He'd hoped he had not spoken o
ut of turn, but he knew better than to talk of Fordraed's actions with the Mercian womenfolk. Rowena would not care to hear ill spoken of her son-in-law. Bassus had caught his gaze and given a slight shake of his head. The old warrior knew well enough of Fordraed and what he was capable of. When Beobrand had returned from Cair Chaladain, the warriors had told the tale of that long night of violence and violation. But Edlyn had already been wed by then, and Rowena was happy with the match she had found for her daughter. And so Bassus had warned the men never to shine a light on the darkness of Fordraed's character for Rowena. It would only cause her pain and worry, and he would rather have her content and free of anguish.

  "Well," Rowena had said, outrage colouring her voice, "I still do not understand how we are supposed to make good use of seven new thralls. However, it is not for me to say," she sniffed. "If Beobrand chooses to be extravagant, that is his concern."

  Bassus, no doubt surmising some sort of confrontation between Beobrand and Fordraed, had offered Cynan a smile of thanks. The conversation had moved on to what was known of the preparations for war. Cynan had not been able to offer them much information and his frustration at having been made to ride away became evident in his snapped answers to their questions. For a time they had allowed him to eat and drink in peace. It felt good to allow his nerves to unwind, surrounded by friends and the warmth of the familiar hall. It would not last, he knew. Tomorrow they would ride south to war. But for this one day, he allowed himself to relax.