Ástígend had slowed, waiting for Beobrand to reach him, but Beobrand did not pause. Kicking Bera forward, he waved at Ástígend.
"You have done well, Ástígend," he called. "If we live to see another sunrise I will reward you richly."
Riding on towards the mass of men, Beobrand squinted against the brilliance of the sun that was reflected from hundreds of byrnies and helms. This was a veritable forest of spears, and the wicked steel tips glittered and shone. For a moment he was confused as to what he saw. Where was the enemy? And then the picture made sense to him. Ástígend had said Oswald meant to make his stand atop a hill. He could not see Penda's host, for they were on the other side, beneath Oswald's force. Beobrand and his mounted warband approached from the rear of the Northumbrian lines.
The ground rose gently before them, sloping up to the brow of the hill where Oswald's host stood. Beobrand took in everything as he rode up the shallow incline. The glittering spear-points, pointing at the sky, not forward towards the unseen foe. The banners, held firm, their shafts unwavering. And the stillness, as if all the men on that hill held their breaths.
Oswald had not yet joined in battle.
In that unnatural quiet, the thump of horses' hooves and the jangle of the warriors' harness were strident.
"Hail, Oswald King!" Beobrand bellowed.
Men turned to see who approached from their rear. For a short time, there was uncertainty in the ranks. Spears jostled, as men shifted position and then a figure stepped forth from the mass of men.
He bore a bright shield, freshly-painted white with a red cross. The boss glinted in the sun. On his head he wore a fine helm with bronze and garnets glimmering around the eye guards and nasal. Beneath the protection of the decorated helm, jutted a grey-streaked black beard, from which flashed the white of strong teeth. The man planted his feet and roared at Beobrand.
"Well, if it isn't the lord of Ubbanford," he shouted. "You took your time, Beobrand. Did you tarry to pick flowers along the way?"
Beobrand pulled Bera to a halt and slid from the saddle. His black shield, held in place by leather straps, slapped against his back
"Well met, Derian," he said loudly, returning Oswald's warmaster's grin. "I trust we are not too late. My men and I tire of peace and would paint our blades with the blood of some Mercians."
Beobrand untied his helm from his saddle and placed it on his head.
Derian clapped Beobrand on the shoulder, and beckoned for a young thrall to take his horse's reins.
"See to their horses," he said. A short way down the slope, several mounts were tethered and grazing. Other boys came and took the reins of the newly-arrived warriors.
"There will be enough Mercian blood for us all, Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford," said Derian, his voice louder than was needed. Then, in a quieter tone, meant only for Beobrand's ears, his words coloured by anxiety, he asked, "Are these all the men you bring with you?"
"No," replied Beobrand. "Eowa is coming with many score more. They are less than a day away, but they are on foot. I thought you might wish us to hasten here."
Derian nodded, but his grin had vanished.
"The men will take heart at your arrival."
"What of Oswiu?" asked Beobrand.
"No sign, and no tidings," replied Derian, his face grim. "We must pray that Oswiu is close and Eowa arrives in time. Can we trust, Eowa?"
Derian had been in that dark hut in Din Eidyn. Both Beobrand and he had beaten the Mercian atheling. Years had passed, but the images from that night were as fresh and raw as recently scratched scabs in Beobrand's mind. Perhaps their actions that night still preyed on Derian's mind too.
"I do not think we need worry on that score," Beobrand replied, fumbling with the ties to his helm's cheek guards. "Eowa is a man of honour and he gave his oath to Oswald. Besides," he finished tying the helm in place, "Penda has made it easier for him."
"How so?"
"He sent a man to murder him in his own hall at Snodengaham."
Derian nodded.
"Yes, that would make a man less inclined to refuse to stand against his brother."
Beobrand shrugged his shield from his back and slipped his arm into the straps that he used to provide a stronger grip than his half-hand alone would allow. Like all of his gesithas, Beobrand's shield bore no emblem or sigil, it was simply painted black. Years before, Acennan had said that he should carry an emblem or banner for his men to follow. Beobrand had rejected the idea. He did not wish to be one of those thegns who preened and strutted beneath a gaudy standard. When he led his men into battle it was for one purpose only – to slay his enemies. When Acennan had insisted that they needed some way to know friend from foe, Fraomar had put forward the idea of painting all of their shields the same colour. The discussion of which colour had raged long into the night in the hall at Ubbanford. In the end, they had turned to Beobrand for the final decision. "Killing is a black business," he'd said. And so, the colour had been chosen and the battle-fame of Beobrand's black-shielded death-bringers had become the subject of scops' tales.
Derian turned and began pushing his way through the gathered warriors, towards Oswald's cross and the front of the shieldwall. Beobrand followed him. Acennan had dismounted and fell into step beside them. Beobrand dropped his hand to Hrunting's hilt. He absently traced his fingers over the familiar carved pommel.
"How bad is it?" he asked Derian, in a quiet tone, barely more than a whisper.
Derian turned to face him. His eyes shone from behind the eye guard of the helmet.
"I'll show you," he said.
*
"God has listened to my prayers," Oswald said. His voice was muffled by the intricately wrought faceplate of his grimhelm, but Beobrand recognised well the softly intelligent tone, carrying the barest hint of the lilting tongue of the Hibernians amongst whom he had spent his youth in exile. Oswald had the voice of a Christ monk, but Beobrand knew him to be an implacable warrior. He would not shy away from strife. Beobrand recalled Cadwallon's severed head, lifeblood pumping into the earth while the king of Gwynedd's eyes stared blindly. Again he remembered the cold hut where Eowa had received his punishment for daring to cross Oswald.
Beobrand pushed the memories away. He looked out at the scene below them. Despite the bright sun blazing from a sky of the purest dunnock eggshell blue, this day was dark enough without dwelling on the past.
"If I am the answer to your prayers, lord," he said, "I hope I do not disappoint. I do not see how my meagre warband can make a difference against such a horde."
Below them, the hill fell away to a wide expanse of marshy land. Far in the distance, the sun glistened on the water of the wide Maerse. Several boats were beached on a broad mudflat on the north bank. Pools, meres and bogs dotted the land close to the river, but the ground must be drier closer to the hill on which he stood, for it was covered in tents and shelters. Smoke from dozens of cooking fires hazed the air above the encampment.
Beobrand could see why Oswald had chosen this spot. Having the higher ground would make it easier to defend, and the marshy field before them provided little in the way of cover or protection. There were clumps of waving purple loosestrife and beds of dense reeds, but no trees, save for a solitary ash that rose above the marsh. It was a huge tree, its great boughs heavy with summer foliage. It dominated the landscape and men had set up camp beneath it. The ground must be dry there, and it provided shelter under its soaring limbs.
"Nonsense, Beobrand," came the reply from Oswald. "You are not any man. You are God's instrument and with you by my side, I do not believe the good Lord will allow me to be defeated."
Beobrand looked away, unable to meet his king's eye. Gods, how had it come to this? He let out a long breath.
"You know my sword and my life is yours, Oswald King," he said. "But I have never before beheld such a host. Not at Elmet. Or Hefenfelth. Not even at the great ditch in East Angeln." He swallowed and scanned the men below them. He had no skill for counting,
but he saw many banners and standards, and each signified a lord or king. And each brought his own warriors. There, in the shadow of the great ash was the grey, wolf-pelt standard of Penda. Over to the left, he saw the grisly skull-and-scalp totem of Gwynedd. He wondered for a moment whether Gwalchmei ap Gwyar was there in the throng below. Of course he must be. He was a warrior lord of Gwynedd, and what enemy of Northumbria would not wish to be here? This was the greatest gathering of foe-men he had witnessed, and there was no way one such as Gwalchmei would miss it. Other banners fluttered in the soft breeze. A red wyrm and a white eagle, both on black backgrounds, the black lion on white of Powys. He knew not who all of the standards represented, but judging from the horde of men beneath them, they were numerous, rich and powerful.
Then he saw the bear's-head standard of Grimbold and underneath it a flash of red; a mane of flame-coloured hair and bristling beard on a hulking giant of a man. Halga, son of Grimbold. Beobrand had faced the brute twice before, and his body bore the scars as a constant reminder of the huge Mercian's deadly prowess.
"Do you hear that, my brave warriors?" Oswald raised his voice, and it boomed, strangely hollow from behind his great helm. "Beobrand has never seen so many men to slaughter in one place. God has blessed us with a great many enemies that we may smite them all and then find peace." Beobrand had said similar to men before battles. But now, with the exhaustion of the long ride heavy upon him like a wet cloak and the grittiness of eyes that had not known sleep for two days, Oswald's words sounded empty to him. A few of the warriors laughed at the king's comment, but there was no joy in the sound.
"How long have you stood here watching the enemy?" Beobrand asked in a quiet voice.
"We believed they would attack yesterday," Derian replied, "but they just brought more men across the Maerse."
By all the gods, it was no wonder the men lacked the lust for battle. They had stood these past two days watching their foe grow stronger. And they had done nothing to hamper their enemy. How he wished he had arrived sooner. They might have gone down at night and burnt the boats. Such a thing would have fanned the flames of Oswald's host's courage and disheartened the Mercians. Instead, they had stood by, at the mercy of Penda of Mercia, as he gathered his allies to him. They all knew the king of Mercia was a great warlord. He was a killer of kings. A warrior of Woden who had never been defeated in battle. Stories about him were oft told in the mead halls throughout the land. It was said that he was Woden-touched, favoured by the old gods. He yet offered blood and sacrifice to the gods in the way of his forefathers, and many believed the gods had made him invincible as a gift for his faith.
Beobrand knew not the truth of that, but there was no doubt that Penda was a mighty warrior. Death sang to his tune, and it seemed the gods smiled upon him.
To stand atop this hill and offer no resistance to the man as he crossed the river that bounded the frontier between Mercia and Northumbria was foolishness. Each moment that had passed would have seen the resolve of the defenders weaken and wither.
Beobrand took a step out in front of the shieldwall. He could go no further for he would then be lower than Oswald's battlehost and his voice would be lost to those behind the front rank.
"Men of Northumbria," he shouted in the battle-voice he had learnt from his old lord, Scand, "you know me. I am Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford, who many of you will know as Half-hand." He held his shield aloft, showing the straps on the inside of the board and the severed fingers of his mutilated hand. "You have watched as Penda has brought his warriors across the Maerse. They now camp below us on Northumbrian soil. Do they have a right to be here?"
A few men muttered a response.
"I asked if the Mercian and Waelisc scum," he spat the words as he bellowed, "gathered there on the boggy field of Maserfelth have a right to be on Northumbrian soil. On our soil!"
This time the reply was loud.
"No!"
"No," he shouted. "Penda leads our enemies here to take what is ours. Do men of Northumbria allow their enemies to come into their land?"
"No!"
"No, we fight!" he screamed, his voice cracking. "We fight, and we kill! We will send these dogs back into the river bleeding so hard that the Maerse will run red." The men of the fyrd cheered. An inchoate roar of outrage and anger that had finally been unleashed. His hands shook at his side now. His body trembled, the fire of battle burning away his exhaustion. Acennan grinned at him. Beside him Beobrand saw Dreogan, Attor and the others. They raised spears and swords into the air, adding their voices to those of the men who had stood on this hill watching Penda's force grow.
Beobrand waited for the noise to abate and then he raised his voice once more.
"Hear me, men of Northumbria. Oswald King speaks true when he says there are more men gathered below us than I have seen before. And those Mercian and Waelisc men down there will be quaking with fear as they behold us atop this hill. For know this. They have never before faced the likes of us. We are men of Northumbria and our king is Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, and he has the ear of the one true God. He brought us victory at Hefenfelth, and he will do so again."
Acennan caught his attention, gesturing with his chin that Beobrand should look behind him, towards Maserfelth and the river. He turned and saw that Penda's host was moving. It seemed the men of Gwynedd and Powys were being sent to the eastern flank, while the Mercians were moving towards the foot of the hill.
"The time for waiting is over," said Beobrand, once again facing the Northumbrians. "Penda knows that a great warband marches from the east to our aid. They will be upon them before the day is out, so he can tarry no longer." Beobrand cast another glance back down the slope. There was no question; the warriors were forming a shieldwall to the south of the hill. It would not be long now.
"Prepare to stand strong," Beobrand roared. "Gird yourselves and see to your weapons, for now comes the time of blood-letting. We are men of Deira and Bernicia. Northumbrians all! We stand with our king, and we shall let none pass!"
The men cheered.
"For Oswald!" he cried, repeating the chant until every man took it up.
He returned to the shieldwall and Oswald clapped him on the shoulder in thanks. Beobrand leant in close to the king so that he alone would hear his voice over the cacophony of the host who still chanted his name.
"I hope your Christ god truly listens to your prayers," he said to Oswald.
"Of course He does," Oswald replied. Beobrand could see his brown eyes glistening from behind the elaborate grimhelm that he himself had once worn into battle at Tatecastre.
"That is good, lord king," he said, taking hold of a spear that Dreogan handed him, and looking back at the hundreds of men forming ranks at the bottom of the slope. "Otherwise, I think we'd be as fucked as one of Fordraed's thralls."
Chapter 20
"Shields," yelled Beobrand, raising his linden board over his head as yet another rain of projectiles fell amongst the Northumbrian ranks. Stones and arrows clattered from shields and helms. Something cracked against his unprotected midriff. Looking down, Beobrand saw the pebble fall harmlessly to the grass. It was impossible to remain completely covered by the hide-covered board of his round shield, especially with the angle of the attacking archers and slingers. Some of their missiles arched overhead to drop from above, while others were sent on a straighter path, up the slope and into the first rank of the shieldwall. Beobrand offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Tiw, god of war, for his byrnie. The metal shirt would stop all but the unluckiest of arrows and no pebble or slingshot could hope to penetrate its iron-riveted links.
He did worry about his legs. They were the most exposed part of his body, and being clad only in breeches and leg bindings, should an arrow find its mark there, he would suffer from it. He glanced over at where Oswald crouched behind his own shield, and recalled the stray arrow that had pierced his king's shoulder at the Tatecastre. Beobrand had also felt the sting of an arrow's bite before, and his calf still ached
in memory of Torran's barb when the weather turned cold.
The arrows and stones ceased falling and the Northumbrians lowered their shields once more to peer over the rims and look at the Mercians below. Thus it had been for a long while. The Mercians shot arrows and stones at the defenders, wounding a few every now and then, but causing no great damage to Oswald's force. Then, they would pause for a time, before starting the process again. Each time, Beobrand thought the shieldwall would advance under the cover of the missiles, but every time when the arrows and stones stopped falling, the grim-faced Mercian warriors yet stood resolutely at the base of the hill.
"This reminds me of the scrap in the ditch," said Dreogan, his savage grin stretching the soot-stained tattoos on his cheeks.
Beobrand grimaced.
At the ditch, Penda had ordered his archers and slingers to pound them before the attack with spear and sword. Beobrand thought of the mud, shit and blood that had formed a quagmire of death at the bottom of the ditch, and how the defenders had broken their ranks and rushed down the slope to their doom.
"Let's hold our position then," he shouted back.
Dreogan laughed.
"That would seem wise," he said.
Beside him, a figure took a quick step out from the line. It was Garr, his slender, tall form in stark contrast to Dreogan's bullish shoulders and thick muscled neck. As Beobrand watched, Garr flung a light throwing spear high and far. Did he expect to hit a target at such a range? If anyone could, it would be Garr. He was a natural with a spear and Beobrand's gesithas had often won wagers on the distance he could throw. The host fell silent and everyone followed the arcing flight of the javelin out into the bright afternoon. The throw was good and true. The weapon seemed to hang in the air for a moment, dark against the blue of the sky, and then it sped down towards the Mercians. They too must have observed the single spear hurtling towards them, for some of them jostled, trying frantically to get out of the path of the deadly dart.
But Garr was the greatest spearman Beobrand had ever seen, and it was as though he controlled the weapon with his mind even after it had left his hand, such was its accuracy. The Mercians scattered, hastily raising shields, their faces pale as they gazed up at the heavens and the death that plummeted towards them. The javelin found its target, burying itself deep within a bearded archer's chest. He fell to his knees, mouth agape, eyes wide in the shock of sudden and unexpected death. Slumping to the side, he shuddered once, and was still.
Warrior of Woden Page 14