Hyfeidd halted and barked a command. His men, just as well-trained as Beobrand's it seemed, slipped effortlessly into a wall of interlocking shields.
There was nothing for it now. To face them shieldwall against shieldwall would be long and bloody, with no certainty as to the outcome. Hyfeidd's men numbered more and they were set to receive them. Beobrand remembered when he had faced Eowa, all those years before, on a dark forest path. Then too they had been outnumbered and he had risked all on one throw of the dice.
"Boar-snout!" he screamed, slowing slightly so that his men could fall into place. He offered up his thanks to Tiw, Woden and Thunor for all the long days of practice in Ubbanford. And thanks to Bassus for demanding so much of the men. Even when Beobrand would have rested, the old warrior would make them go through the drills again and again, until they cursed him and hated him for it. As his comitatus moved into position now, Beobrand loved Bassus for his diligence. Perhaps it would save them now.
They formed a spear-head, with Beobrand at the point. Acennan and Dreogan ran at either side, and behind them, the other men lent their weight to the formation. In their wake, the stragglers who had followed down the hill, slowed and marvelled at the skill needed to exact such a manoeuvre whilst running.
"If you ever had any luck," shouted Acennan, "I hope it has not left you yet, Beobrand."
Beobrand did not reply. He fixed Hyfeidd in his gaze and prepared for impact.
"Charge!" he screamed, and felt the men behind him give an extra push forward.
Beobrand's raven-black-shielded warband sped towards the white shieldwall of Hyfeidd the Tall, the undefeated champion of Powys. Fleetingly, Beobrand thought of Oswald's words and his vision of the dove, the hawk and the raven. What had the omen meant?
And then it was too late to ponder such things. Beobrand's spear-head-shaped formation smashed into Hyfeidd's shieldwall and all was clamour and chaos.
Chapter 28
Beobrand's boar-snout charge sundered the Powys shieldwall. The white shields were shoved aside as Beobrand used the strength, speed and weight of his men to carry him through the wall of willow, hide and iron. Beobrand was awestruck at the skill of Hyfeidd. The champion took a swipe at his head and it was all Beobrand could do to avoid it. Too late he saw it for what it was – a clever feint. He had not avoided the blow. Hyfeidd had never meant it to land. Instead his wicked blade slipped past Beobrand and found its true target. Dreogan grunted as the sharp sword found a gap in his defence and sliced deeply into his neck.
But the momentum of the boar's head charge could not be halted now. Dreogan powered on, ignoring the pain, or oblivious to it. Beobrand found himself almost lifted from his feet as his men surged forward, slashing and hacking with their weapons to either side as they went.
Hyfeidd's eyes opened wide in surprise, shocked that the Bernicians had broken through his shieldwall. A heartbeat later, Beobrand reached him.
The energy of battle-lust flowed through him like a torrent, but he knew that his body was close to exhaustion. He had fought all the previous day and had barely slept for the last three days. And he had watched this huge warrior of Powys from the distance of the hill, and had witnessed his easy speed and deadly skill now at close hand. A duel between them would be no sure thing.
Hyfeidd must have recognised Beobrand. His black-shielded warriors were famous throughout Albion. Seeing such a thegn, one whom he deemed worthy of his skills, Hyfeidd took a step back, preparing himself for the sword-play. Here was a man who loved to wield his blade. He clearly relished the joy of crossing blades with another great swordsman, and Beobrand's skill with a blade was sung of in mead halls in all the kingdoms of the land.
But Beobrand did not slow; did not enter into the well-loved game of taunts and boasts before a combat. This was no tourney in a king's hall. No game. Beobrand used the energy from his men to fling himself forward. He smashed into Hyfeidd, and the two huge men fell to the earth in a clatter of shields and swords. All about them stamped the feet of their gesithas. The anvil clash of steel on steel and the straining shouts of the battling men surrounded them. But their world was reduced to each other. Hyfeidd's shock at Beobrand's assault was short-lived. He quickly regained his composure and grappled with Beobrand's right hand, preventing him from bringing Hrunting to bear. Hyfeidd had discarded his shield, but Beobrand's was yet attached to his arm by the leather straps he used. This encumbered him, but also impeded Hyfeidd's movements. They rolled in the dirt, each trying to pin the other to the ground.
Beobrand cursed and gritted his teeth.
Woden, but the Powys bastard was strong. And lithe. Despite Beobrand's efforts and his prodigious strength, he found himself lying on his back with Hyfeidd straddling him. The Waelisc champion had pinned Beobrand's shield beneath his bulk, leaving only Beobrand's right hand free. Hyfeidd produced a slender knife from his belt, thrusting it at Beobrand's face. Beobrand caught Hyfeidd's wrist, halting the wicked-looking point of the weapon a hand's breadth from his eyes. Beobrand struggled and heaved, but he was unable to dislodge Hyfeidd, who leant forward, putting his weight behind the knife. Beobrand groaned. The knife point moved closer. Hyfeidd's left hand lashed out and grasped Beobrand's throat, squeezing, choking the life from him just as surely as any blade would do.
Beobrand's vision blurred.
Gods, he would die now. Not in some great show of skill and sword-play, but in the muck, brawling. Strangled and skewered on a knife like a common brigand. He roared his defiance, but the sounds were cut off by Hyfeidd's ever-tightening grip on his neck. Beobrand tried to hit Hyfeidd with his knees, anything to rid himself of him. But the Powys man smiled as his grip tightened and his knife descended.
All about them, their two warbands yet hacked and battled, shoving and yelling, spitting and screaming.
Beobrand's sight darkened. Sounds receded and grew muffled. His strength waned. Hyfeidd grinned, certain of victory now.
Close to the wrestling men, a white-shielded warrior fell hollering and mewling to the earth. A heartbeat later, a black shield boss clumped into the side of Hyfeidd's helmeted head. The champion fell to the side, releasing his grip on Beobrand's throat.
Beobrand wanted to lie there, to take in great gulps of summer air. His body screamed in agony, his head throbbed and blotches of shadow seemed to swim in the air before his eyes. Would that he could just rest here. Yet he did not pause. With scarcely a thought, he rolled over atop the stunned champion of Powys.
Hyfeidd's eyes were glazed, dulled from their bright intelligence by the great blow he had taken to his head. Even so, he recognised the danger and brandished his knife. Beobrand, gasping and coughing, paid no heed to the weapon. Raising himself to his knees he lifted his splintering shield and, holding it firm in both his hands, he brought it down with crushing strength. Hyfeidd's blade skittered away and the metal rim of the linden board hammered into his neck. Beobrand heaved it up and smashed it down again. A third time he brought the shield down on Hyfeidd's throat. The light had gone from the man's eyes now, and the swan feathers of his helm were smeared with mud and blood.
A strong hand reached down and pulled Beobrand to his feet. It was Dreogan, his soot-marked face set in a scowl. There was fresh blood on his throat. He spat onto Hyfeidd's corpse.
"That'll teach him not to kill me when he had the chance." He reached up and put his fingers to his neck. "Barely a scratch," he said, and spat again.
All about them, lay white shields. The remaining Powys warriors, seeing their lord slain, turned and fled at a run back into the forest.
"Let them go," Beobrand croaked. "There is more work for us to do this day on that hill." The distant noise of battle suddenly took on another tone. Gone was the boulder-crash rumble of the shieldwall, in its place came a great roaring cheer.
Could it be that they had seen how Beobrand and his gesithas had turned away the threat from the forest? After all, they had slain the undefeated and protected the Northumbrian host from a dead
ly attack from the rear.
He looked up the incline to the men massed there, and his heart clenched.
The Northumbrians were not cheering his victory over Hyfeidd the Tall. The cheer did not come from the Northumbrians at all. The Christ rood banner, stark and simple against the brilliance of the summer afternoon sky, no longer rose over the host.
King Oswald had fallen and men were streaming down the slope towards them.
Chapter 29
By the Mother of all, where had Sulis got to? Reaghan poked a stick angrily into the fire sending sparks spiralling up towards the soot-streaked rafters of the hall. To one side of the hearth sat the great pot that she used for brewing. Into it she had poured the malted barley and had been all set to boil it, when she had found there was not enough water. If she was to brew ale, she should make enough to last the household for at least three days. Not that the household would need as much as usual with so many away. Brewing was not something she enjoyed, but it needed to be done, and she would rather be involved than have the thralls do it unattended. She hated sitting idly by doing nothing.
Reaghan jabbed the stick into the flames again and cursed. She had dislodged the logs from where she had so carefully positioned them. She prodded and pushed with the stick, trying to move them back to where the fire was hottest and they would burn best.
Gods, where was that woman? It should have only taken her moments to fetch water from the barrel outside the great hall. Yet Sulis had a way of making every chore take three times as long as needed.
"You should send her to Stagga, to serve Eadgyth," Bassus had said on more than one occasion in the days since Cynan had brought the Mercian slaves to Ubbanford. The day after he'd left with most of the remaining warriors, Bassus and Reaghan had gone to Acennan's hall. Reaghan really had no need for any more servants, in fact she disliked being served at all. It always made her uncomfortable. Rowena had no such qualms, so Reaghan had sent two slaves to Ubba's hall in the valley, and four to Eadgyth on the other side of the Tuidi. She had kept only Sulis in her own hall to help Domhnulla. The Mercian woman was sullen and morose, slow to help and always surly. And yet there was something about her story that spoke to Reaghan. She knew that Sulis despised her because she was Waelisc and also her mistress, but she understood the woman's resentment. And Sulis' despair at what Fordraed had done to her son.
"I do not understand why you wish to keep her in your hall," Bassus had said a couple of days previously, when Sulis had spilt the fresh milk she had been carrying up from the dairy hut. It had been a terrible waste, but the thrall had merely shrugged and not even begun to clean it up until Bassus had shouted at her.
Reaghan didn't really understand it either. It would have been easier to have no thrall, than Sulis. Reaghan was convinced the woman actively hindered any work they undertook. But she had seen the way that Cynan had gazed on her, and she did not wish the woman to come to harm. If she could keep a watch on her, have her near, surely Reaghan would be able to ensure that Sulis settled into her new life at Ubbanford.
Bassus shook his head whenever she told him of Sulis' behaviour.
"By Frige," he'd said, "you should give her a good hiding. That is what she needs. You'd see then how quickly she would go about her tasks."
But Reaghan would shake her head and frown at Bassus.
"I will not beat a thrall, Bassus," she had said. "You know this."
Abashed, he had turned away from her, before offering a small nod of comprehension.
"I hear you, girl," he'd said, his voice quiet and gravelly like distant thunder, "but that is part of the trouble. Mark what I say."
Perhaps he was right, but she knew she could never bring herself to strike a thrall. Her own back bore the scarred memories of the hazel switch and she well remembered the long painful nights lying on her belly, trying to find sleep as the blood from the welts on her back soaked into her dress.
Movement by the hall door drew her attention away from the fire. Sulis moved slowly from the warm, bright daylight and into the gloom of the building. Normally, on such a summer's day, the hall provided a welcome shady coolness after the heat of the sun. But today was brewing day, so the fire had been stoked and burnt hot, making the interior sweltering and smoky. Sulis shuffled towards Reaghan, holding the large buckets of water suspended from a wooden yoke over her shoulders. She trod slowly, perhaps taking extra care following the incident with the milk.
Perhaps, thought Reaghan, but more likely she just revelled in making her mistress wait yet further.
Reaghan watched as Sulis approached. The slave's eyes were downcast, watching each step carefully. Reaghan could see why she had captivated Cynan so. She was a pretty thing. Gone was the sickly pallor of her skin from when she had arrived at Ubbanford. Colour had returned to her cheeks; her hair had been brushed clean and braided and Reaghan had given her a new peplos. But despite the obvious return to health, Sulis' eyes were yet dark with barely hidden despair and she moved with a careful, fragile vulnerability, as if she feared she might break something at any moment.
Reaghan sighed.
Bassus might speak the truth that she spoilt the woman by not chastising her for tardiness or mistakes, but Reaghan knew she would never strike Sulis. She saw too much of herself in the woman.
Reaghan reached out and took one of the brimming buckets from her. Sulis frowned and did not reply. They each emptied their bucket into the huge ale pot. And then, without a word, each took hold of one side and hefted the cauldron over the fire. They fumbled with the hook attached to the long chain that hung from the oaken roof beams. For a moment, Reaghan thought they would surely drop the pot. It was heavy and their arms quivered with the strain of holding it aloft. Reaghan muttered a curse. They should have filled the thing after lifting it over the fire. Their eyes met. Reaghan steadied the hook against the handle of the ale bowl, and then, just as she thought they were sure to let it fall, losing the contents and extinguishing the fire at the same time, the hook caught. With visible relief they lowered the vessel.
Reaghan let out a long breath.
"By the all-mother," she said, "I thought we were sure to lose it all then."
"You needn't have worried," Sulis replied, her face expressionless, "it wasn't full of fresh milk."
Reaghan met her gaze and, for a moment, was unsure she had caught Sulis' meaning. Then she noticed the glint in the thrall's eye, the slight twist of the mouth. Blessed Mother, had the woman made a jest?
Reaghan smirked. Perhaps she had been wrong about Sulis. Maybe they merely needed to spend more time together. The Mercian would come to know that Reaghan treated her fairly and they could be friends. She searched Sulis' face for any sign that her icy demeanour was thawing. But she saw none.
"Hail the hall," a voice boomed from the open doorway, startling both women. It was Bassus. His huge bulk almost completely blocked out the light from the door.
"Hail, Bassus," she replied, her voice light and breathless. "What brings you to the hall this fine day? The ale will not be ready for some time." She smiled.
"I do not come for ale," he said, striding into the hall. "But it is good that you are brewing fresh ale. I come with tidings, so that you may prepare."
"What tidings?" she asked.
"We are to be visited by royalty before the sun reaches its peak."
Chapter 30
By all the gods, what had he done?
Beobrand stared in confusion at the Northumbrian warriors who ran down the hill. He stood, solid and unmoving, like a boulder in a river as the flood of fleeing men streamed around him. For several heartbeats he could not think. His battered body trembled and he gulped in great heaving gasps of air. His throat burnt where Hyfeidd had attempted to crush the life from him. Beobrand had slain the champion; avenged Eowa. But at what cost? Slack-jawed and dazed, he stared about him.
His gesithas stood close by, instinctively moving in to protect their lord.
Pale-faced, blood-streaked Northumbrian
s rushed past them, some running towards the shelter of the forest, others making their way to the tethered horses.
Tears stung Beobrand's eyes.
Woden, what had he done? His lord, Oswald, had fallen and where had he been? He had abandoned his king on the hill and now Oswald was slain.
"Shieldwall," shouted Acennan, bringing order to the warband. The gesithas drew in and interlocked their black-painted boards.
Beobrand shook his head, trying to free it of the shock; the amazement at the sudden shift in the tide of fortune.
"We should get our horses," Acennan said.
Beobrand shook his head. On the hilltop, there yet stood a tight clump of Oswald's hearth-warriors; the king's most trusted thegns. Beobrand should have been there with them. If he had not left his position in the shieldwall, the king might yet live.
"Beobrand," Acennan's voice was urgent, "the horses."
Beobrand spat. His mind cleared at last.
"No, Acennan," he said, "our place is with our king. We will not run like those cravens." He indicated the fleeing men all about them. "Follow me, my brave gesithas," Beobrand screamed, his voice cracking painfully in his throat. Battle-ire once again flamed within him, burning away the confusion and self-pity of moments before. "Oaths are not ended by death," he shouted. "I was oath-sworn to Oswald King, and I will fulfil my vow to my lord. The king has fallen," he swung Hrunting above his head, flicking gobbets of gore and blood in the warm afternoon sunlight, "and we will surely also fall. But what a death we will have!"
Letting out a savage roar, he surged up the hill. Without hesitation, his comitatus followed him. Despite the pain he felt at the loss of Oswald, his heart swelled with pride at their loyalty.
The flow of routed defenders had lessened now, and a few Mercian and Waelisc warriors ran down the hill in pursuit. Easier to face cowards who fled the battle than the hardened hearth-men of a great king. Nobody stood before Beobrand and his grim-faced, black-shielded warriors and soon they were within a spear's throw of the knot of fighting that yet raged on the summit overlooking Maserfelth.
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