Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  He glanced over at the edge of the hall where Sulis lay curled up in a blanket. She had been quiet and taciturn as they'd ridden towards Ubbanford and further from the home she had known. She had not complained, but each night she'd fallen into a deep slumber. And when they halted to eat and rest, she would quickly lie down and sleep. Still weak from the loss of blood and subsequent fever he supposed, but perhaps it was something else.

  "This one looks to have had the worst time of the ride north," said Reaghan, her voice quiet. Beside her, Bassus and Rowena were deep in their own conversation. He smiled to see them thus, heads close together, eyes shining. Like two love-struck children.

  "It was not so much the ride that harmed her," Cynan replied. He looked at the still form of the sleeping woman for a long while, unsure how much to tell. Some things were best left silent and buried. But he would be leaving the following morning. He could not ride away, leaving Sulis with her anguish and Reaghan knowing nothing of the thrall's past.

  "She," he hesitated, and took another swig of mead, "she had been sorely used before Beobrand bought her." He lowered his voice. "They… they had questioned her. When she would not speak, they threatened her son."

  Reaghan's face paled.

  "Did she speak then?"

  "Yes," replied Cynan with a sigh. He stared up at the shadows lurking above the soot-stained roof beams. "Yes, she told them what they wanted," he said. His voice was hollow, empty. "But they killed her son anyway."

  Reaghan closed her eyes. Her hand flew to her mouth. When she opened her eyes again, there were tears there.

  "The poor woman," she said. Her voice was full of sadness.

  "You must watch her," Cynan said, surprised at the sound of urgency in his voice.

  "Watch her?"

  "She tried to take her life. She fled and slashed her wrists."

  "I cannot blame her for wanting death." A tear fell onto Reaghan's cheek. "To lose one's child is a terrible thing." Her tone was desolate.

  Cynan sipped at his mead. It tasted bitter on his tongue now.

  "If we hadn't found Coenred and his monks, she would be dead now," he said. "They tended for her and their skill in healing is greater than mine."

  "And you wouldn't want your precious lord's silver to go to waste, would you?" said a new voice.

  Reaghan and Cynan were both startled to see that Sulis had pushed herself into a sitting position and now glowered at them from where she sat on the rush-covered floor, the dark-coloured blanket clutched about her shoulders as if sheltering from the cold of a storm. These were the most words she had spoken since they had left the Christ monks in Deira.

  "I would not want to see you dead, Sulis," Cynan said. That was the simple truth.

  "Nor I," Reaghan said. "I am sorry to hear of your plight."

  "I do not want your pity, Waelisc," Sulis spat.

  Reaghan flinched, as if struck.

  "Very well, I will not offer you my pity," she replied. "But I will treat you fairly."

  Sulis said nothing. She loured at Reaghan.

  "I will be fair to you," Reaghan said, "I was once a thrall too."

  Sulis let out a great burst of laughter, brittle and cackling, like the chattering of a magpie. Cynan shuddered. He had never seen her laugh before. There was no mirth in the sound.

  "By all the gods," she said, tears smearing the dirt on her cheeks, "are all of Lord Beobrand's people thralls?"

  Part Two

  Maserfelth

  Chapter 16

  "Do you think it will rain?" asked Beobrand, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight and peering into the north. Despite the warmth of the day and the brilliance of the sun, dark clouds brooded there. He sucked a finger and held it up for a few heartbeats. The breeze was slight, but the north-facing side of his finger grew cold.

  "The wind blows from the north," he said.

  Acennan frowned and patted his mare's neck. "Then I think it likely we'll be getting wet before nightfall," he said. "Still, it might be good to wash some of this dust off. It's been dry for so long, I feel like a loaf that's been rolled in flour."

  "Sleeping in the wet is never pleasant," Beobrand said.

  "Well, there is nothing we can do about the weather," said Eowa with a twisted smile, "so let us not worry ourselves with it."

  Beobrand could find nothing to fault in Eowa's comment, so said, "Let's push on."

  He touched his heels to Bera's sides and the three of them trotted forward. Many of the warriors of the host had already passed the point where the three men had paused. Beobrand nodded to Fraomar as they rode past. The young gesith led his horse, allowing one of Eowa's fyrd-men to ride for a while. The grey-bearded man had sprained his ankle and Fraomar had been quick to offer his mount to the man, so that he might recover. Fraomar was a good man.

  The host had settled into the rigours of the march well. The complaining had lessened considerably, as the men became accustomed to the pace and realised they only expended their energy by moaning. There were injuries, and that most common, but painful, of problems – blisters. But, as evidenced by Fraomar's loan of his horse, the fyrd – thegns, gesithas and ceorls alike – collaborated and helped one another as they trudged westward.

  "Where in the name of all that is sacred is Oswald?" asked Eowa suddenly, his frustration unexpectedly bubbling to the surface. He rarely voiced a complaint or concern, but the pressure of travelling into the unknown was taking its toll on them all.

  "If we travel much further west," said Acennan, "we will need a ship soon. Perhaps Oswald has decided against staying on the isle of Albion and has taken to the sea." His jest was a poor one, and nobody responded with anything more than a snort of derision.

  Shortly after leaving Snodengaham, as the men had waded across the river Dyvene under the watchful eye of the hunched boatman and his dog, five riders had galloped out of the north. They were Attor and the three scouts Beobrand had sent west. With them came a fifth man whom Beobrand recognised by the name of Ástígend. Attor had been returning with news of Penda's gathering forces and had intercepted Ástígend on the road with a message from the king. Oswald had assembled the fyrd and was making his way westward from Eoferwic. Beobrand and Eowa were to follow with all haste. After Ástígend had rested, they had sent him back on a fresh steed with word of their progress.

  Beobrand looked back the way they had come. Great hills rose there, like the backbone of Albion. The warhost had been walking for three days now, following the old Roman road that led south-west from Eoferwic. The road was clear here, with great slabs of stone still clearly paving a straight path across the land. Years of rain and frost had cracked and washed away parts, but here it yet deserved its name of street. Back in the hills, there had been places where the road had disappeared into the heath. The road was always easy enough to find once more though, as long as they continued travelling in the most obvious direct route possible. Eventually, they would see the stones once more through the grass and weeds, just where they expected to find them. Those men of old Roma were clearly single-minded when it came to planning routes across the land.

  When they had seen people they had asked for tidings of Oswald. At Loidis they had been told by some boys in a field of nodding barley that a great number of warriors had passed that way four days before. And so they had pressed on, each day hoping to reach Oswald's force. And, as the sun set on every hot, dust-filled day, with no sight of Oswald, the worry that they would be too late scratched at their nerves.

  They saw signs of the host's passing each day. An earthenware bowl, cracked and useless, discarded beside the ashes of one of many campfires. A single leather shoe, with a snapped cord. The men had joked about the man who had left that behind. Was he hopping like a lonely mistle thrush following the warhost? Attor even found a small silver amulet. It was the cross symbol of the Christ god.

  "Someone will be missing this when battle comes," he had said grimly, picking up the necklace and secreting it in his pouch.
Beobrand had not asked whether Attor meant to give it back to its rightful owner if he found him.

  At night, whoever was on guard duty, would stare into the west, hoping to see the points of light that would attest to Oswald's host being nearby. But it seemed the king of Northumbria had not yet halted his march and was still some days ahead of them, for they saw no multitude of campfires.

  One night, Beobrand had been unable to sleep and so had paced the perimeter of the camp. He had spied, far off in the west, on higher ground, the flickering light of a fire. He had stared at it for a long time. The following morning, he had sent Attor, Garr and Grindan into the hills to investigate. They had returned as the sun reached its zenith with news of a fresh fire and sign that three men had camped in a sheltered cleft in the rocks. Shepherds perhaps, Attor had thought. Unable to continue on horseback into the broken terrain, they had returned to Beobrand and the host.

  Attor and the other scouts worked tirelessly, riding out each day far ahead of the column of men. Beobrand would not allow them to be caught by surprise. It was unlikely, with Oswald's force only days ahead of them. But Penda was a wily warlord and Beobrand would take no chances.

  Ahead of the main body of men now, Beobrand slowed Bera to a walk. Acennan and Eowa rode at either side. The clouds off to their right were closer now. And darker. Smudged skirts of rain painted the sky beneath them. A sudden gust of wind tugged at his cloak. An end to the heat was welcome, but Beobrand did not look forward to a night trying to find sleep in driving rain.

  They rode on in silence for a long while. There was nothing to say. They had voiced all of their concerns and worries in the preceding days. They could make no further plans until they reached Oswald and understood where they would face Penda.

  The wind picked up, rattling the branches of a stand of hawthorn and elder that stood some way off to the north of the road. Bera snorted and shook its great, shaggy head. On the hot, still days, flies had settled around the horses' eyes and noses. Perhaps rain and wind would be a welcome change for the beasts too.

  They cleared a rise. In the west, the sun was low in the sky. It had been hidden behind the dark band of cloud and now it burst forth, painting the hills with gold one final time before darkness and rain would swallow the land.

  "Look there," said Acennan, pointing. "Isn't that Attor?"

  Beobrand strained to see, but the sun was glaring.

  "I expect he is coming to guide us to a good campsite. I hope he's found some shelter." Beobrand looked at the small copses of trees and the rocky scrub land that the road ran through. "But I doubt it. Gods how I hate sleeping in the rain."

  "He's not alone," said Eowa.

  The atheling was right. There was not one rider, but two. They were closer now, and Beobrand recognised Attor's lean form, and the easy way in which he rode. He kicked Bera forward to meet them.

  The other rider was Ástígend, the messenger who had come to them many days before with news of Oswald. His horse was lathered with sweat and its eyes rolled white. He pulled the animal to a halt, and it stood panting and shivering before them.

  "What news?" snapped Beobrand. There was no time for niceties.

  "Penda has crossed the Maerse," he said.

  "And Oswald?"

  "He had thought to hold Penda south of the river until you arrived with Eowa and Oswiu came with warriors from Rheged."

  "Oswiu has not yet come?"

  Ástígend shook his head and spat. Acennan handed him a water skin and he took a draught, spat again and then drank deeply. He nodded his thanks.

  "What of Penda's host? How many are they?"

  Ástígend's jaw clenched. He looked around to make sure that he would not be overheard.

  "He has many allies. Men of Powys and Gwynedd march with him. I have never before seen such a host."

  Beobrand touched the whale-tooth Thunor's hammer amulet that hung at his throat.

  "The more men to kill, the more battle-fame for us," he said, and forced a grin. But beneath the smile, his mind roiled. Without Eowa's fyrd or Oswiu's warband from Rheged, how could Oswald hope to stand in the face of Penda and his allies?

  Ástígend did not return his smile.

  "Our lord Oswald King means to hold Penda at a place called Maserfelth. But he is sorely outnumbered. He is in dire need of more men. Riders have also gone out north to seek Oswiu, but I know not how far away the atheling is, nor how long Oswald can hold against Penda."

  Beobrand took in Ástígend's quivering, sweat-streaked mount.

  "Your horse is spent. When did you set out?"

  Ástígend patted the horse's neck, looking down with sadness in his eyes, as if he had only just realised the state of his mount.

  "I fear I have killed trusty Léoma. I have ridden him hard since first light this morning."

  Beobrand looked back at where the fyrd marched, flanked by the few mounted men of his gesithas and Eowa's hearth-warriors.

  "You have done well, Ástígend," he said. "It seems our course is set for us. We will march through the night. And pray to whichever gods you hold dear that we reach this Maserfelth in time to aid our king." He reached over and clapped Ástígend on the back. "Come now, Eowa," Beobrand said. "Let us give the men the tidings. There will be no rest tonight. We will eat and then march into the west. And on the morrow, we will push Penda and his host back into the Maerse."

  He swung Bera's head around, ready to canter back to the column, when Acennan stopped him with a shout.

  "There is good to come of this, Beobrand," he said, grinning widely.

  Bera, excited now, would not stand still and circled on the spot.

  "What good is that?" asked Beobrand.

  "Well," laughed Acennan, "we won't have to sleep in the rain!"

  Chapter 17

  The night was dark and miserable. The clouds had rolled in from the north, smothering the land and hiding the light, first from the setting sun, later from the moon and stars. For a short time, the wind had picked up, throwing dust and grit into the warriors' faces before the rain arrived. Then the wind had abated somewhat and Eowa's fyrd had trudged into the west under a constant dousing drizzle.

  "You think we will arrive in time?" asked Acennan, leaning over close to Beobrand from atop his horse to make himself heard above the crunch and clatter of the marching host and the steady murmur of the rain.

  "Perhaps," answered Beobrand. He tried to pull his cloak more tightly about his shoulders, his left hand clumsy with its two missing fingers. After a moment, he gave up, letting the sodden cloak slip back. He was already drenched. He hated sleeping in rain, but riding and marching in it were no better. "We will know soon enough," he said.

  He did not wish to talk of the possibility that Penda had already faced Oswald and defeated the Northumbrian host; that they might march out of the dawn to find their assistance no longer needed. In the rain-soaked darkness it was not hard to imagine a corpse-strewn field and a victorious Penda, standing beneath his wolf-pelt banner, awaiting his brother.

  The host marched in a sombre silence, with none of the singing and conversation he had come to expect from this group of men. They were well aware this was a desperate thing they did. They had known they were marching to war, but now they walked into the drear blackness of night and the force they were meant to bolster might already have been destroyed.

  After Ástígend had given his message, with the sun falling into the clouds in the west, Beobrand had ridden to the head of the column, meaning to rally the men with a rousing speech. But he was not their lord. Few of the warriors were his, and his gesithas would fight to the death without silver-edged words from him. No, it was the men who had joined Eowa, the freemen and farmers, who had come from homesteads and settlements of Mercia, who were most unnerved at hearing they must travel through the night in the hope of arriving in time to relieve Oswald's host. Oswald was not their king, and this was not their land. They followed Eowa, and so it fell to the bearded atheling to address them befo
re the night-time march. Eowa had ridden up beside Beobrand and said quietly, "I will speak to my people, Beobrand."

  Despite the tiredness and cold rain that wrapped around him like another cloak, Beobrand could not help smiling as he recalled Eowa's words.

  "You may think we march towards death," he had shouted, his voice carrying over the tired men. They had murmured and muttered. The news of Penda's host's proximity and the plan to walk through the night had unsettled them. "You are right," Eowa had continued. Stunned silence from the men. "We do truly march towards death." He had paused then, allowing his words to be weighed by the listening men. None had uttered a sound. "We march towards the death of traitors!" Eowa had bellowed. A skylark had burst from the foliage that grew near the crumbling road, startled by the sudden outburst. Eowa's horse had snorted and shied, but Eowa had shaken its reins and it had calmed. "We ride towards the death of oath-breakers and cowards. For did not Penda send a craven to slay me in my own hall?" A grumble of assent from the men, like distant thunder presaging a storm. "My own brother sent a killer to drink of my Waes Hael cup and then to strike me with a venom-dipped blade. Is this how a man fights? How a lord fights? How a king fights? With a knife in the back? With poison wielded by a coward's hand?"

  Someone in the throng shouted, "No!"

  "No," said Eowa. "And now my brother will know what it is to stand against one of his own blood. A man who leads the best of men. Strong men. Honest men. Men who will stand by their lord because, have I not stood by you? Have I not been a good hlaford to you?" Some of Eowa's hearth-warriors had let out a cheer. "Have I not kept my oath to you in all things?" More men had cheered then. "And I will keep my oath to you now. I will lead you into battle and you will be rewarded with battle-glory and a share of the spoils from our fallen enemies. Penda has broken his oath to me and to Oswald, King of Northumbria, with whom he had sworn a truce. Penda believes he is like a wolf, but he is as a dog. A cur that bites the hand of its lord. And what do you do with a dog that bites?"