Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  He sighed, too tired to worry about that which he could not control.

  "He will come, Beobrand. God has not forsaken us."

  The voice startled Beobrand from his thoughts. Oswald stood close to him. Derian, ever vigilant, scowled from a few paces away; close enough to guard the king, far enough not to overhear quietly spoken words.

  For a time, Beobrand did not respond. He stared into the east, at the gloom beneath the trees there. There was no movement, no glint from spear or helm in the last rays of the sun.

  "Yes. Eowa will come, my king," he said, at last. "He has given his oath on it."

  "And you trust him?"

  Beobrand nodded slowly.

  "I do, lord. Whatever you think of the man, Eowa is honourable."

  Oswald was silent. He had removed his great helm and his hair hung lank with the sweat of the day's fighting.

  “And what of your brother, lord?” Beobrand asked. “Is there news of his coming with his warband from Rheged?”

  Oswald sighed.

  “Oswiu should have been here days ago. I sent men north to seek him out, but I have had no word and I can spare no more riders. I know not what might have befallen him to make him tarry so.”

  The king's eyes were dark. Beobrand could see his own weariness mirrored there. He worried for himself. For his warband and his son. Oswald also had these concerns to fill his head. He too was a father and husband. And also a brother. And yet, these things were as nothing compared to the fate of the whole kingdom of Northumbria. If it was a game that kings played, pitting their realms and their hosts against each other like so many pieces on a tafl board, had Oswald made a terrible blunder in the move that brought them to this place?

  A sudden billow of fresh smoke signalled that one of the men had finally succeeded in lighting a fire. It was windy here, atop this hill, and the smoke blew into Beobrand's face as he looked at Oswald.

  "I considered fleeing," Oswald said, his voice not much more than a whisper. "Today, when neither Oswiu nor Eowa came. I looked upon Penda's force and I knew despair."

  Beobrand said nothing. He did not breathe. Was it possible he would yet be able to leave Maserfelth with his life. It was not death he feared, but to never see Octa grow. To never again see the way Reaghan's eyes shone when she looked upon him. No, he was not scared of death, but to his surprise, he understood in that moment he wished to live.

  Oswald pushed his greasy hair back from his face and gazed down at the numerous campfires on the marshy field beneath the hill.

  "My resolve faltered," he said, "but I should not have feared. For God is great. I prayed to Him and he sent me a sign, Beobrand."

  "What sign, lord?"

  "There was a lull in the fighting and so I prayed and the Lord showed me that we must remain here. Eowa will come and we will prevail." For a moment, the king was silent, his eyes focused on the past, on what he had seen during the battle. "I saw a dove of purest white in the clear sky over the forest there," he indicated the oak and birch woodland to the east. "As the bird flew, a hawk descended on it at great speed, striking it. I could see the blood from its wounds, the red on the white feathers, even at this distance. I thought then that the Lord was showing me my defeat, for it is well-known that the dove is a bird of God. But it does not do to try to understand the ways of the Lord. For even as I watched, another bird, as black as night, a raven, I think, flew out of the woods and attacked the hawk. The dove tumbled in the sky for a heartbeat, and then flew away, injured, but not dead."

  "And the raven and the hawk?" asked Beobrand.

  "I lost sight of them against the dark of the trees, and then the Mercians attacked up the hill once more and I could look no further. But the message is clear."

  "Is it?"

  "Yes," Oswald's voice took on a strained tone, as one exasperated with an obtuse child, "I am the dove, Penda is the hawk and Eowa is the raven. Eowa will come and we will be victorious."

  Beobrand did not reply. The fire of faith burnt in Oswald's eyes. He would not listen if Beobrand questioned the omen; if he asked why it was that the dove, that represented Oswald had flown away, and yet his king chose to stay and face Penda again on the morrow.

  Oswald seemed to sense Beobrand's unease.

  "Eowa will come, and so I pray will Oswiu. Together we will defeat Penda." Oswald’s tone had become more urgent. Did he seek to convince Beobrand or himself?

  "I will stand with you, my king," Beobrand said. He knew not what else to say. But his words seemed enough for Oswald, for he smiled and let out a sigh, as if he had feared Beobrand would run, leaving him to defend the hill without his warband.

  "You have your luck, Beobrand," Oswald said, his dark eyes sparking with the reflection of the flickering fires of their enemies, "and I have God. With the two, how can we not be victorious?"

  Chapter 24

  After it was dark, and the moon had risen, gilding the land in silver, Acennan brought some food to Beobrand. But he had no stomach for it. He forced himself to chew and swallow some of the stew he was given, but it wadded in his throat and made him gag. The stench of death was heavy on the warm summer air and he could not rid himself of the knowledge of what awaited them when the sun rose. The sounds from the Mercian encampment wafted to them, making it impossible to forget even for an instant that their enemies rested only a few spear-throws distance from them.

  Grindan produced some mead he had somehow managed to save until now and Beobrand's gesithas drank in memory of Renweard, their fallen brother. Beobrand sipped the drink. It tasted sour in his mouth. He always drank sparingly before a battle. As tired as he was, he did not wish to have dulled wits in the morning. Usually, he would have admonished his men, telling them not to get drunk, but they all knew what awaited them, and he would not deny them this night of drinking and companionship.

  They set watches and Beobrand wrapped himself in his cloak and tried to sleep. His body ached, the old wounds to his chest and head throbbed, and new scrapes and cuts that he had not noticed during the heat of the day's fighting, now stung and itched. He had not slept for two days and was exhausted, craving sleep as a thirsty man lusts for water, and yet the release of slumber refused to come. He closed his eyes and his mind was flooded with images of those he had slain. His ears rang from the clangour of the shieldwall and the remembered screams of the dying filled his thoughts, allowing him no rest.

  He awoke with a start, disoriented and confused, surprised that he had indeed slept. Around him men were talking quietly, rousing themselves. Someway off towards where the horses were tethered, someone was retching noisily. Beobrand sat up, then climbed to his feet with a groan. His breath smoked in the cool air. The sky was cloudless, the eastern horizon the colour of burnished bronze. Dawn was moments away.

  Beobrand walked to the edge of the hill and looked down at Penda's host. The land was wreathed in mist, thick over the river and the marshes. The great ash tree rose from the sea of mist like a monstrous leafy island. The banners and standards of the different kings and warlords jutted out of the fog. There was no breeze, but the mist curled and eddied, wraith-like, as Mercians walked about the encampment.

  "It is going to be a hot day."

  Turning, Beobrand saw that Acennan was at his side. He nodded, but said nothing.

  Acennan hawked and spat. There was no mist up here to hide the grisly remains of the previous day's fighting.

  "That fog will burn away in moments once the sun is up," Acennan said. "I sent men to fetch water in the night. Killing so many Mercian bastards will be thirsty work."

  Beobrand offered him a thin smile, but his attention was elsewhere. The movement in the Mercian camp was strange. He could not make out what was happening down there in the mist by the great ash. As he watched, flames flared up from four fires, that had been placed at equal distance positioned around the huge tree.

  "I've got a bad feeling about this," said Acennan.

  Fear prickled Beobrand's neck.

 
A horn sounded from the field of Maserfelth then, long and lowing, like a calving cow. Several more times the horn was blown, and now the Northumbrians were gathering atop the hill to look down at what was taking place. Many were donning their helms, and hefting their shields as they came, cautious in case this was some trick and the Mercians meant to storm the hill while the defenders were distracted. Beobrand did not send for his helm or shield. He shivered and touched his hand to the hammer of Thunor that hung at his throat. This was no distraction for an attack with spear and shield. This was power of another sort. Dark and deadly.

  The sun pushed itself above the edge of the earth, and the land was filled with light. The mists turned the pink of blood-stained linen.

  Beobrand became aware of movement to his side. Acennan made way for their king. Oswald's face was ruddy in the warm light of the dawn, his eyes shadowed and dark as he looked down towards the tree and the men gathered there.

  "What are they doing?" Oswald asked.

  "I am no priest, Oswald King," Beobrand said, "but I think we are about to see a sacrifice to the All-father. To Woden."

  Oswald made the sign of the Christ rood over his chest.

  The sounds of conversation from the ranks of Northumbrians died out. They could not tear their gaze away from what was unfolding beneath the ash tree.

  Beobrand's mouth was dry. To see this would weaken the men's resolve, but he was incapable of drawing them away from the spectacle. Grudgingly, he acknowledged that Penda was a canny king. Whether or not the old gods paid heed to his offering, the will of the Northumbrian host would be damaged.

  The hill was silent now. They watched in rapt horror as a dark-cloaked man made his way to the base of the ash tree. He was followed by another man leading a fabulous white stallion. Even from this distance, the quality of the beast was plain for all to see. Its muscles quivered and bunched beneath sleek hair. It's mane and tail had been brushed and plaited and the animal walked with its head held high, as if it was accustomed to being the focus of attention and admiration.

  It reminded Beobrand of Sceadugenga.

  The horn sounded again and the robed figure imprecated and screamed, raising his arms in the air and turning this way and that. He wielded a long staff, which he pointed in turn to each of the four bonfires that raged around the tree. The stallion snorted and stamped nervously at the priest's ranting. The animal pulled at its harness, but the man who led it held the rope tightly.

  Beobrand could not make out the words of the priest, but it was clear now to all the onlookers what was going to transpire.

  The mist was thinning, burnt away by the sun and the heat from the fires. A few paces from the massive ash tree, the Mercian warriors were gathered to witness the offering of blood to the father of the gods. All men knew that the ash was Woden's sacred tree, and the blood of a stallion was filled with potent magic. Claws of dread scratched down Beobrand's back and he fought the urge to shudder.

  Penda's priest came to the end of his incantations and drew close to the trembling horse. There was a flash, as the rising sun blazed from the blade of a wicked knife, followed by the gush of crimson on the beast's white neck. Its pitiable whinny reached them on the hill, thin and tremulous as the stallion faced its own death with terror and agony. The man holding the horse's rope was flung aside, and the horse reared up, pawing the air with its hooves. It shied away from the priest and his sharp knife, but the flames of the bonfires pushed it back towards the tree. Frantic and desperate for escape, it whinnied again. Blood pumped in a stream, painting its neck and flank red. The once proud beast turned a tight circle, eyes rolling in fear, and then its strength fled. It fell to its knees, chest heaving. Its plaited tail flicked and twitched.

  From the host stepped a broad-shouldered warrior. The sun glinted from his fine byrnie and the great grimhelm that covered his face. The fur of a massive wolf was draped about his shoulders. This was Penda, son of Pybba, Lord of Mercia. The king of Mercia stood before the dying stallion, and the horse, losing all strength now, dipped its head to the earth. It appeared as though the once proud animal had bowed to the king in the moment of its death.

  The Mercian host let out a huge cheer at the sight.

  Woden, All-father, had been given a grand sacrifice beneath the sacred tree, and had honoured their lord by having the noble stallion, that king of beasts, make obeisance to Penda.

  Their roaring cheer continued for a long time.

  As the sound of the Mercian horde subsided, a new voice filled the air. Oswald bellowed in a roaring voice that Beobrand had never heard before.

  "Hear me, brave men of Northumbria," Oswald shouted. "You have seen an animal killed under a tree. Any one of us could do this thing. To slay a defenceless creature is nothing. It is what we do at Blotmonath. What the ceorls who work the land do when meat is needed. This spilling of blood means nothing. We stand here atop this hill beneath the cross of Christ," he signalled his standard of the crossed beams of wood. "And Christ is all powerful!" Oswald's voice cracked with the force of his words. "Those who follow the one true God need not fear the magic of the old gods. They have no power over the true Lord."

  The Northumbrians shifted and shuffled. Their faces were pale, dirt-streaked and drawn from weariness and the omen of doom they had just observed. Beneath them, the men of Mercia, Powys and Gwynedd were once again preparing for battle.

  "Did Jesu Christ not bring us victory at Hefenfelth?" Oswald yelled. "Did we not survive yesterday against Penda's host?" A rumble of assent from the Bernician and Deiran warriors. "Pray with me again, as we did at Hefenfelth, and you will see that the Lord God Almighty will once again grant His children victory."

  Without hesitation, Beobrand knelt on the dew-damp grass. He knew not whether the Christ had more power than Woden and the old gods, but he understood that battles were won and lost on the morale of the men in the shieldwall. And the sacrifice had delivered a terrible blow to that morale.

  Acennan and the rest of his gesithas quickly copied their lord, and in a few heartbeats all of the Northumbrians were kneeling. Oswald alone stood before them, holding his arms out to his sides in the position it was said the Christ has been nailed to his death tree.

  "Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum."

  Oswald began to speak the familiar words of the Lord's prayer. All of the warriors joined him. The words were known to all, both those who believed and had been baptised into the ways of the Christ followers and those who yet paid heed to the old ways. Oswald had ensured that Aidan's brethren on Lindisfarena always uttered this most holy of prayers whenever and wherever they preached. And he had seen to it that they spoke it in the tongue of the Angelfolc, so that nobody of his kingdom would be unable to understand the word of God. Over the intervening years they had all heard the prayer hundreds of times.

  "Si þin nama gehalgod to becume þin rice…"

  Many of the thegns and warriors bowed their heads and held small talismans of the Christ rood. Attor was one such fervent believer in the Christ, ever since Aidan and his monks had cured him from a wound that all had been sure would take his life. The slender gesith spoke the words of the prayer with passion.

  "…gewurþe ðin willa on eorðan swa on heofonum."

  Beobrand said the words, but he did not close his eyes. He watched as the Mercians formed ranks on the field below in preparation for moving towards the hill. Beneath the ash, the dark-robed priest was hacking the recently slaughtered horse apart with a long-hafted axe. If they were victorious, they would eat the horseflesh in a feast that night. There was a wondrous power in such meat.

  "…urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us todæg and forgyf us ure gyltas swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum…"

  Beobrand's skin crawled and prickled. The air felt charged and pregnant with hidden energy, as it does before a storm. The gods, old and new, were looking upon this field of Maserfelth. The intense, quiet belief of the saving grace of the Christ vied against the blood and rage of Woden, who was known
as Frenzy.

  The dove pitted against the raven.

  "…and ne gelæd þu us on costnunge ac alys us of yfele…"

  Beobrand watched as the skull-and-scalp totem of the men of Gwynedd and the black lion of Powys, once more veered to the east to block the road. And what he saw there made the words of the Christ prayer catch in his throat.

  "Soþlice," intoned the kneeling Northumbrians, signalling the end of the prayer.

  Beobrand stood, and pointed to the east and the road out of the forest.

  Oswald followed his gaze and smiled.

  "You see," he said, his voice clear and loud in the crisp dawn air, "the Lord God is good and He answers His servants' prayers. Eowa of Mercia comes with his battlehost."

  From beneath the trees came a great throng of warriors. The sun was behind them and they were yet in the shadow of the forest, but they stood out clearly against the dark of the wood. Beobrand spied Eowa's standard of a scarlet boar on black raised high and proud. Perhaps they would survive after all. It seemed the gods had fought their own battle of wills and magic and Oswald's nailed god had won.

  "Christ has sent Penda's brother to our aid," Oswald continued, as the men on the hill rose to their feet and stared at the arriving warriors, "and today we will crush the pagans on this hill, as easily as soft lead is crushed against an anvil."

  The men let out a cheer, glad to be given hope after the doom-laden vision of the sacrifice under the tree.

  Beobrand smiled, despite himself. But he could not dispel the feeling of gloom that had descended upon him in the night. Had the dove truly beaten the raven? After all, it was he, Beobrand, not the Christ, who had ridden to Snodengaham and brought Eowa to this place. He looked upon the twisted, grey-skinned corpses on the slope below them. And it would be men, not gods, who would fall again today, hewn and hacked by sword, spear and axe.

  The horde of Mercians was almost ready at the foot of the hill now. Gods, there were so many of them. It would be a long and bloody day.