The tight shieldwall of Northumbrians was being forced backwards. Mercians and Waelisc warriors swarmed on three sides of the rough square of shields. Soon they would be totally surrounded, such were the numbers of attackers.
"What now?" asked Acennan, a twisted grin on his face.
"We fight," shouted Beobrand. He had no other answer. He strode closer, trying to find a point in the enemy ranks where his small band could hope to stem the flow of the assault. There were so many of the enemy. It was clear that the Northumbrians would be overrun, no matter where Beobrand directed an attack. But attack he would. He did not wish for death, but a life branded a coward would be worse. He would not flee.
Within the shifting sea of spears to the left of the Northumbrians, he spied Grimbold's bear's-head banner. Beneath the totem, he saw the flash of a red beard. Halga, Grimbold's brute of son. The man had been Wybert's friend. Beobrand's head throbbed still from the memory of the blow he had received from the red-headed giant. Beobrand rolled his shoulders, loosening the tight, tired muscles. He had slain the champion of Powys this day. Now, before he breathed his last, he would slay Halga, son of Grimbold. The man was huge, fast and deadly. It would be a battle worthy of a tale.
A death worthy of song.
They would form the boar-snout once more and smash into the ranks of Mercian's. It would be difficult to gain momentum running up the slope, but he did not doubt his gesithas. They would carry him through the enemy ranks and to the focus of his fury.
Filling his lungs with air, he prepared to bellow his defiance. His muscles bunched.
But before he could give the order, a familiar voice rose over the tumult of the battle. From the rear of the Northumbrian shieldwall stepped Derian. Oswald's warmaster waved his blood-smeared sword frantically and bellowed in a massive shout that carried over the battle din.
"Recall your oath to Oswald!" he roared.
What did Derian mean? Beobrand had brought his men back here to fulfil his oath, to give his life for his lord.
"You must flee to Oswiu," Derian roared. "Give your sword to the new king now!"
Beobrand shook his head, though he knew not whether Derian would see the movement. He remembered the oath he had given to Oswald when he had believed the king to be mortally wounded, but he could not run.
"We will stand here and hold them," Derian screamed. "I would not out-live another lord."
A fresh anger filled Beobrand, flaring as quickly as mutton fat dripping into a fire.
"But you would have me marked as a craven?" he yelled.
But Derian did not seem to hear him. The warmaster turned back to the battle and was swallowed into the press of warriors.
Beobrand panted, shaking at the impotent rage that burnt within him. He would fight, and die. A dead man cannot break an oath.
"There is no time for this, Beobrand," said Acennan. "We must go now. We can yet take our horses and leave this place."
"Men will think me a coward. An oath-breaker who flees, leaving his lord behind to be defended by better men."
"But Derian speaks true," replied Acennan, "you gave your word to Oswald. You swore you would serve Oswiu when he died."
Beobrand's head span. Oath upon oath. How should he best honour his king and his word? The gods must be cackling as the threads of his life twisted and knotted.
"Voice your anger at Oswald in the afterlife," said Acennan, "but on this middle earth, stay true to your oaths, Beobrand. It is all we warriors have."
Beobrand let out an inchoate scream at the ways of his wyrd. His cry was lost in the chaos of the battle on the hill above them.
Then, without another word, he turned and headed back down the slope.
Away from Halga.
Away from Derian.
Away from certain death.
He strode towards the horses, secretly hoping that a band of Mercians or Waelisc would confront them. Perhaps then he could leave his life here with that of his king and not need to live knowing that he had allowed Oswald to be slain and then had fled the field of battle.
But no men stood before them, and their horses remained tied and trembling, awaiting their riders, as if the gods themselves had protected the mounts from other deserters. Beobrand had thought that the magic words Nelda had screeched in the dark of her cavern on Muile all those years before had lost their power at her death. But now, as he pulled himself onto Bera's broad back, with the clash and cries of battle wafting to him on the soft summer breeze, he wondered whether he was yet cursed.
Chapter 31
"We are being followed," said Attor, as he pulled his steed from a gallop to a canter, falling in beside Beobrand and Acennan at the head of the mounted warband.
They rode on for a time, none of them speaking. Beobrand could feel his men's gaze upon him. They looked to him for leadership; for guidance. But how could he lead them? These brave warriors deserved better than such as he.
"Beobrand?" Acennan said, speaking into the awkward silence.
Beobrand sighed. His body was a mass of bruises and aches. Around him, the men were dour-faced and solemn. They had all stood strong in the shieldwall. They too had lost their king, seen friends cut down. He felt a sudden pang at having left Renweard's corpse behind. Another failure that would nag at him when he had time to dwell on such things. He squared his shoulders and sat straighter in the saddle. His muscles screamed at him. All he wanted was to throw himself down by a fire and sleep. He prayed he would not dream then, for he did not relish the shades that might come to him in his slumber. Maybe there would be time for sleeping later. But for now, he must be the man his gesithas expected him to be.
"How far?" he asked.
Attor flicked a glance over his shoulder at the rolling hills that lay behind them, as if calculating the distance. Fraomar rode close to him and tossed him a half-filled waterskin. Attor caught it one-handed, unstopped it and took a swig, all without losing his balance or slowing his horse. Never having been a great horseman, Beobrand marvelled at the slender scout's riding skill. He was sure he would have either dropped the skin, or fallen from the saddle, had he attempted such a feat.
"Not far enough," Attor said, throwing the skin back to Fraomar with a nod of thanks. "Our mounts are not yet recovered from the ride westward to Maserfelth. If we push them, they will die."
"How many are there?" Beobrand said. "Can we turn and fight?"
Attor shrugged, clearly thinking such a decision was not his to make.
"I'd say about a score. Mercians by the looks of them."
Beobrand nodded. His warband numbered sixteen men. They were weary and battered from two days of fighting and their horses were almost as exhausted.
"We ride on," he said, touching his heels to Bera's flanks. The horse snorted but did not increase its speed. To their left, the sun was dipping towards the edge of the world. The land was tinged with a golden glow that spoke of firelight and cheery tales with good friends. There would be no comforting hearth fire for them at journey's end. They rode ahead of the tidings of Oswald's defeat. Beobrand knew not where Oswiu and his warband were, but Oswald's brother had been sent to bring aid from Rhoedd mab Rhun mab Urien, the king of Rheged, the land which lay to the west of Bernicia. And so Beobrand and his gesithas had pushed northward, hopeful that they would intercept Oswiu as he marched south towards Maserfelth.
In the distance, the ruddy light of the setting sun picked out the peaks of the great mountains to the north. Beobrand did not know this far western reach of Northumbria well. It was wild, and sparsely inhabited. The scops told tales of spirits and beasts haunting the tarns and meres of the craggy land that rose before them.
Acennan nudged his horse close to Beobrand's.
"It seems those Mercians will be upon us before nightfall."
"How do you know?" asked Beobrand. He had been hoping they could lose their pursuers in the mountains and valleys to the north.
By way of answer Acennan signalled the path behind them.
/> Beobrand shifted in his saddle. In the distance, the sun glinted on the battle-harness of some two dozen horsemen. They had just crested a low hill and now galloped at great haste down the slope. At that speed, they would catch Beobrand's warband all too soon. He frowned.
"By Tiw's cock," said Dreogan, "why are those Mercians so keen to chase us?" His neck was wrapped in a strip of blood-stained cloth and his tattooed cheeks seemed to pull his face into a permanent scowl. "There were surely pickings enough for all amongst the dead left at Maserfelth."
Grindan craned his neck to study the men who followed them. He had sharp eyes and Beobrand waited to hear what he saw.
"They are not Mercians," Grindan said, at last.
"No?" said Eadgard. "Who are they then?"
"They all bear white shields," replied Grindan. "They are men of Powys."
Beircheart let out a bark of laughter that startled them all. He had ridden in sullen silence until now, but Beobrand knew he had taken the death of Renweard hard. Leaving his fallen friend behind and fleeing must have been eating at him, as it had plagued Beobrand's own thoughts.
They all turned to Beircheart now, wondering at his mirth. There was no humour in his eyes.
"So, we leave behind our king and fallen brothers, unable to do them the honour of dying with them," Beircheart said, each word stabbing at Beobrand like a seax beneath the shieldwall, "and we are to be killed by some Waelisc scum who have more honour than us and come to seek vengeance for their fallen lord."
He guffawed again, but his eyes were as hard as flint.
They urged their mounts on, but another glance at the Waelisc behind them showed Beobrand the truth.
"We will need to turn and fight before the sun sets," he said. He pointed to a tree-topped escarpment someway to the left of the track they followed. "We will form a shieldwall there."
If the men from Powys attacked immediately, the sun would be in their eyes. Beobrand's men would be outnumbered, but with the higher ground, they might yet prevail. Turning towards the bluff, he urged Bera through the thick fringe of nettles and thistles that grew in a tangle beside the road.
"Perhaps you will get your wish after all," Acennan called to him, his expression somewhere between a smile and a frown.
"What wish?" snapped Beobrand. He had no time for Acennan's riddles and games.
"Well, you wanted us all to die in battle, didn't you?"
Chapter 32
The sun had touched the horizon when the men from Powys reached them. The sky had turned the hue of hot iron, but the slope before them was shadowed by a single downy birch on the bluff. They had tethered the horses beneath the tree. Beobrand had told the men to rest, while he stood, watching the road for their pursuers. The land was rough, dotted with heather, sedge and copses of trees, but they would have plenty of time in which to form a strong shieldwall once their enemy came into sight.
Grindan and Eadgard slumped in the shade and Beobrand was sure that the huge axeman was snoring within an eye-blink of lowering his great bulk to the ground. Would that he could find peace so easily. Dreogan and Elmer pulled out their blades, cleaning them of dried blood and then passing a small whetstone over them in long rasping sweeps. Attor, always tense and taut as a bowstring, would not rest, Beobrand knew, and the slight warrior and Fraomar both peered into the south-east for sign of Hyfeidd's men.
"With their sharp eyes," Acennan said, indicating the two men, "we'll know the instant the men from Powys approach."
Beobrand grunted.
"You don't need to keep watch," he said to Acennan. "Sit. Rest your bones."
"You make me sound like a greybeard, in need of a staff to walk." Acennan raised his arms above his head, stretching and then twisting his body to either side. He grunted as his body clicked and cracked. "I am not old yet," he said, "besides, we have been seated all afternoon in our saddles. I welcome the chance to stand again." He drew his seax from where it hung on his belt and examined its blade. With a shrug at what he saw, he slid it back into the hardened leather sheath. "And how can I rest, if you do not? I cannot have you making me look weak."
Beobrand's limbs quivered. He clenched his fists against the shaking of his hands.
"I cannot rest until the men are safe," he said. He glanced over at where Beircheart sat with his back against the gnarled bole of the birch. The man was sombre and silent, staring into the distance with unseeing eyes. Beobrand knew that Beircheart was seeing his fallen friend, Renweard, in his memories. Perhaps he was thinking of whether he could have done more to protect him. It was ever thus after a fight. The victorious relived the moments when their foes were slain, recounting every detail in great, ale-fuelled boasts. The defeated also thought of each moment they had witnessed in the shieldwall. Some sought confirmation that there was nothing more they could have done. Others berated themselves for poor decisions. Most blamed others for their lot. Bassus had said to him after the catastrophe of the battle of Cair Chaladain that it was easier to throw the stone of blame at someone than to swallow it yourself.
Beircheart's dark, grief-stricken eyes, turned to gaze at Beobrand. There was no doubt whom Beircheart found at fault. Beobrand looked away. It was right that he should. Gods, he blamed himself for all of it.
"Well, sword-sleep or slumber," said Acennan, his voice cutting through the morose hush that had settled upon them, "you will be able to rest soon." Beobrand followed Acennan's gaze.
At the same instant, Attor shouted, "To arms! They are here."
In an instant, the lethargy fell away from them, and the gesithas leapt to their feet. Beobrand marvelled at the speed with which Eadgard shook off sleep and readied himself. In an instant, he was standing tall, feet apart, chin jutting in defiance at any foe, his massive axe, chipped and nicked from its recent use, held before him menacingly. To either side of the tall axeman, the others took their places without complaint. Moments after Attor had called out, Beobrand stood at the centre of a wall of black shields.
They all watched in silence as the Waelisc cantered towards them. They presented a sobering sight. The golden red of the setting sun reflected dazzlingly from helms, harness and weapons. Many of the Powys men wore torcs of silver and gold around their necks and arms. The horsemen reined in and dismounted well over a spear-throw distant, and with the same well-trained speed as Beobrand's men, they formed a shieldwall.
The warband of Hyfeidd the Tall, white shields stained red by the setting sun, walked in good order up the shallow slope towards the Bernicians.
"I count twenty-five," said Acennan.
Beobrand said nothing. In the warm stillness he could hear the buzzing of insects in the grass and plants that dotted the rocky hilltop. He scanned the Waelisc that approached them. These were hard men; killers. Their eyes were sharp and piercing beneath their burnished helms. And with their superior numbers they were confident.
Reaching his hand up to his neck, he clutched the Thunor hammer amulet that hung there and offered up a silent prayer that the gods had not abandoned him.
The men from Powys continued to slowly climb the hill. Soon they would be within the reach of a well-thrown spear. Beobrand sensed, rather than saw, movement to his left.
"Garr," he said, his voice hard and cold in the summer dusk air, "do not." He glanced over. Garr lowered the javelin he had been poised to throw. The lithe spearman gave him a curious look, but did not question the order.
Now, well within the range of Garr's spears, the erstwhile warriors of Hyfeidd the Tall halted at the raised hand of the one who must be their new leader. The Waelisc leader took a few steps forward from the line of white-limed shields.
He was slim and quite short, with a close-cropped beard and a handsome face. He wore fine armour and his neck was adorned with a golden torc, fashioned to look like twisted ropes of the precious metal. At his hip hung a long-bladed sword. This was not the huge warrior that Hyfeidd had been, but a man did not rise to lead a warband after a lord's death without being a warrior
of cunning and skill.
"Beobrand, the Half-handed," he shouted, his voice lilting and musical in the way of his people.
For a moment, Beobrand did not answer. His mind whirred, full of thoughts and ideas. A bee droned past as it headed for its nest, hidden somewhere in the branches of one of the nearby oak woods perhaps.
Beobrand stepped forth from the shieldwall.
"I am Beobrand of Ubbanford," he said, his voice carrying easily in the stillness. None of the men on either side made a sound.
"You took the life of my lord, Hyfeidd the Tall," the small warrior shouted, "and I would seek vengeance." His sing-song tone made the words sound less dire than their meaning.
"It is true that I slew Hyfeidd," Beobrand replied. "And if you lift your sword against me, you too will die. Who is it that I must kill?"
"I am Mynyddog Mwynfawr and I have bested taller and better men than you, Beobrand of Ubbanford." Mynyddog grinned and pulled his sword slowly from its scabbard. The sun burnt red and hot from its blade.
"Many men have died this day, Mynyddog Mwynfawr. Short and tall." Beobrand could not keep the smile from his tone. There was something about this Waelisc warrior that amused him. And yet this was no matter for mirth. Death was in the air, and blood would once again soak the land before nightfall. Beobrand drew Hrunting from its fur-lined scabbard, absently noting the few places where its notched blade snagged. He began to pace down the hill towards the Waelisc warrior.
"Beobrand," said Acennan, his voice low, but urgent.
Beobrand turned and raised a calming hand.
"All will be well," he said in a hushed tone, "but be ready for a fight." Then, retuning his attention to Mynyddog, "I will give you a chance at the vengeance you crave," he said, halting his downward progress where the land flattened out somewhat. Splashes of purple saxifrage and moss campion grew in thick clumps amongst the rocks, but there was a flattened expanse of meadow where the grass and shrubs had been cropped short, no doubt by sheep or goats. Perhaps there was a settlement nearby. Beobrand cast his gaze over the haze of the valley. A slight breeze whispered in the branches of the birch on the hill. This was a place of peace. He could imagine shepherds bringing their flocks here to pasture. Beobrand sighed. The calm would be shattered soon, the way Eadgard's axe splintered shields. The tranquillity would be replaced by the clash of weapons, and death would descend with the setting of the sun.
Warrior of Woden Page 19