Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "It has been many years since last we met, Beobrand of Ubbanford," Gwalchmei shouted. Beobrand remembered clearly the man's self-assurance. The tinge of contempt in his voice was familiar even after all this time.

  "I would be content for many more to pass without seeing you again, Gwalchmei of Gwynedd," said Beobrand in a loud, firm voice. "Though I see you have something of mine still."

  Gwalchmei smiled broadly.

  "You mean Taranau? But no, I told you back in East Angeln, this stallion is mine, not yours. But you do have something that belongs to me, I believe. Something I would be willing to trade you for."

  "Indeed?" asked Beobrand. "And what would that be?"

  "You stole something from beneath the great tree at Maserfelth. Something that I had been tasked with protecting. Penda is not a forgiving man and I do not mean to return south without that which you stole. But still, I am reasonable. We can make a fair exchange. You have the head of your king, so shall we exchange heads?"

  With that, Gwalchmei lifted aloft the object he held in his left hand. The thin, watery light of the afternoon fell upon a pallid, gaping-mouthed, plump-faced severed head that the lord of Gwynedd held by the hair. Beobrand recognised the face at once, despite the pallor of death and the lack of the lively expression he had known so well.

  Acennan.

  His most loyal gesithas.

  His closest hearth warrior.

  His friend.

  Gwalchmei's mouth continued to move. He spoke, but Beobrand heard nothing past the rushing in his ears as his rage burst forth and engulfed him with terrible ferocity. Gone was thought. Plans for how best to defend his men in the face of so many enemy horsemen were burnt away in the immolating fire of his anger. Unknowing and unthinking, Beobrand sprang forward and sprinted towards Gwalchmei, bellowing his inchoate ire at the man who had stolen Acennan from him.

  Beobrand sped forward, his long strides covering the distance quickly. He was not aware of his gesithas surging after him. Their order was lost, but to a man, they charged forward to protect their lord. All Beobrand saw before him was Gwalchmei, the sneer fading from his face at Beobrand's sudden, careening rush. Beobrand fixed the lord of Gwynedd in his stare and pounded forward.

  Gwalchmei, realising he had miscalculated, dropped Acennan's head to the earth and tugged hard on Sceadugenga's reins, attempting to turn the stallion's head, to flee from Beobrand's precipitous attack.

  "Death!" screamed Beobrand. "Death!"

  Gwalchmei's face paled as he struggled to control his mount. Beobrand was almost upon him when the black stallion leapt forward, bunching its great muscles to send it flying towards Beobrand. The gap between them closed in an instant. Then, as quickly as the beast had lunged forward, it dug its hooves into the earth and came to an abrupt halt. At the same instant, the steed lowered its head. Gwalchmei lost his balance, tumbling forward, over Sceadugenga's head and onto the ground.

  He landed hard, with a bone-shaking crash, on his back. The fall must have knocked the wind from his lungs, but he did not stay down. With the speed of a cat he pushed himself to his feet to face Beobrand. Drawing his sword, he swung it before him in a fluid motion that showed skill and a bravado that the onlooking warriors approved of.

  But Beobrand cared nought for his enemy's prowess or his bravery. And nothing could stand before his fury. Gwalchmei lunged at his throat. Beobrand did not slow his charge. He swatted the blade away on the edge of his linden board and swung Hrunting's blade down with all his strength and anger. The patterned blade found the flesh of Gwalchmei's arm, passing easily through sinew and bone. Beobrand punched his shield boss into Gwalchmei's face. The lord of Gwynedd fell back onto the earth, face battered and bleeding. Dark, fresh blood gushed from his severed sword arm. His face was the white of sheep's wool now.

  For a moment, Beobrand was confused, as if awakening suddenly from a dark dream. Then he saw the back of Acennan's head where it lay someway behind the dying Gwalchmei and the great black stallion.

  This was no dream.

  "That is my friend!" Beobrand screamed, hacking down again. Gwalchmei raised his shield, cowering beneath the blows. Sceadugenga stood, head lowered, unflinching and patient behind him.

  "And I told you!" Beobrand kicked Gwalchmei's shield aside. He smashed Hrunting into the Waelisc lord's exposed shoulder. "That is my horse!" He swung a final scything cut into Gwalchmei's neck. Blood, hot and dark, fountained in the air. Gwalchmei's head tumbled back and his body slumped.

  Beobrand looked up, panting, searching for his next foe; the next man who would feel the bite of Hrunting's blade.

  Behind Sceadugenga, Gwalchmei's warband were turning their mounts, kicking them into a gallop. But not towards their fallen lord and the black-shielded warriors of Bernicia. They swung their steeds away. They were fleeing southward and away.

  Beobrand was dazed. He could make no sense of it. He looked to the grim faces of his gesithas. They stood a few paces from him in a ragged shieldwall. He saw confusion on their faces too. Surely his defeat of the Waelisc leader had not been enough to send his warband running in fear.

  And then, he understood.

  Riding out of the clouds that yet brimmed and rolled atop Carrec Dún, hiding the old stronghold from sight, came two score mounted warriors. Spear-points and helms caught the dim sunlight with a dull glow. Many of the riders bore the black shields of Beobrand's gesithas, but a banner also fluttered above the riders as they galloped down the slope out of the mists. It was Fordraed's black bull's head on red and it flapped and snapped as the horsemen approached.

  Beobrand had known Bearn would not let him down. He had come with the remainder of Beobrand's warband, and it seemed he had brought an unlikely ally with him in Fordraed. Beobrand nodded and the others turned to follow his bleak stare. Eadgard smiled. Elmer heaved a sigh of relief. He would see his family again.

  Beobrand closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. He felt empty and lost. He stepped over Gwalchmei's blood-soaked corpse, absently dropping Hrunting beside the body. He tugged at the ties of his helm and let that fall to the ground beside his sword.

  As if from a far distance he heard Fraomar and Gram call out to the approaching Bernicians, but he could not bring himself to meet the gaze of any of the warriors there. Instead, he reached for Sceadugenga. The horse snorted softly and nuzzled its great snout into Beobrand's shoulder.

  Beobrand wrapped his arms around the stallion's massive neck, entwining the fingers of his half-hand into the greasy mane and rubbing his right hand over the sleek, muscular, trembling flesh.

  He pushed his face into the warmth of the stallion.

  "Welcome back, my old friend," he whispered.

  Then, with a shuddering sob, the tears began to flow.

  Chapter 49

  "Your man defied my order," shouted Fordraed. Spittle flecked his chubby lips and Beobrand had a fleeting memory of what it felt to strike that flaccid face with his fist. But there was no fire of rage in him now. All his fury had left him as quickly as water drains from a smashed pot. In its place was a cold, empty lethargy. It was as though that part of him that rose up to confront battle and conflict with savage glee, the animal within that he so often struggled to hold in check, had fled. As if it had broken its bonds and after that last violent killing of Gwalchmei, there was no reason for its existence. Or perhaps the beast that frequently consumed him with rage now lay whimpering and shaking in a dark corner of his being, like a kicked hound. No amount of violence would return his friend to him.

  Acennan had been avenged, but Beobrand felt nothing save for a hollow emptiness. He had sought vengeance often in his life and he had grown to know this feeling. Despite what the scops would sing in the mead halls, when they stood before laughing and boasting warriors, of the joy of revenge, the regained honour and battle-fame, with the death of his enemies he never felt anything save despair. The shedding of their lifeblood would never bring back those they had wronged. Those they had slain would never
return.

  They were yet dead, those he had loved. His brother, Octa. Sunniva. Acennan. Slaying Hengist, Wybert and now Gwalchmei had not brought him peace. And yet, he knew he could do nothing else. Perhaps they looked on from the otherworld of death. If they did, he hoped vengeance pleased them.

  "Well?" yelled Fordraed, half-rising from his finely-carved seat. "You are his lord," he said the word as though it were as bitter as an oak gall, "do you have nothing to say?"

  The leather walls of the tent slapped and billowed against the wooden frame. The wind was fierce up here on the crest of the hill of Carrec Dún. Most of the men cowered with the horses in whatever shelter they could find in the wind-shadow of the ditches and mounds raised long generations before by men now lost to memory. Fordraed never travelled without this tent. He had it carried on several horses and it was constructed each evening by two thralls that rode with him. It slowed them down, and seemed a waste of effort to Beobrand, but he cared not for Fordraed's foibles.

  The inside of the shelter was cramped and dark. Fordraed had commanded rush lights to be lit, yet their feeble flames cast but a dim light. They flickered and danced with each gust of wind. To either side of Fordraed were gathered his closest warriors, his comitatus. They glared at Beobrand from beneath shadowed brows. He ignored them.

  He had ignored Fordraed too when he had attempted to speak to him in the valley at the site of Gwalchmei's death. Beobrand had scarcely heard Fordraed's angry words. He had swung himself into the unfamiliar saddle on Sceadugenga's familiar back and had followed Bearn and the others back to the encampment on the hill.

  There, he had known a brief moment of respite from the overwhelming sense of gloom that had settled upon him. Garr and Attor, both hollow-eyed and travel-weary, but seemingly unharmed and whole, had rushed to his side as he dismounted. He had embraced them both, and Attor had stuttered through the tale of how Acennan and Ástígend had led their Waelisc pursuers away. Beobrand's eyes had again filled with tears, and he had looked into the wind, blinking away his sorrow.

  He had been summoned soon after to Fordraed's tent.

  "The lord Beobrand is to come alone," Heremod had said. The gruff warrior had approached Beobrand and his men with three others of Fordraed's hearth-warriors. They were all dour and taciturn, perhaps expecting a fight.

  His gesithas protested that he was not a ceorl to be called like a dog to stand before Fordraed, but Beobrand had gone with Fordraed's men without complaint. The feeling of emptiness was upon him. It was as though he were in another man's dream.

  Or a nightmare.

  He thought of Acennan's face, mouth hanging open, above the ragged cut of his neck and shuddered.

  Gods, what would he tell Eadgyth and the children?

  Another widow to whom he would need to impart the most bitter of tidings. The oppressive weight of the responsibility to Acennan's and Eowa's kin pressed upon him, causing him almost as much anguish as his own grief.

  Now, standing silent and sullen before Fordraed in the overcrowded tent that stank of sweat and burning pig fat, he noticed with a start that Gram and Attor had both defied Heremod and had followed their lord. They flanked Beobrand. He sighed. They were good men, steadfast and true.

  "What do you say in defence of your man, Bearn?" Fordraed asked, his voice rising as he grew increasingly angry at Beobrand's insolent silence.

  "I do not need to defend him," Beobrand answered at last. The tension that had been building within the tent like a thunderstorm shifted somewhat. Whether it lessened or increased was not clear. "Bearn is my man, as you say. And he follows my commands, not yours."

  "But Oswiu commanded me to patrol these western lands of Rheged," Fordraed blustered. Beobrand thought that the flapping of the tent appeared to be caused by the wind of Fordraed's words. "But Bearn would not listen to me. He demanded we head to this place. He ignored me and in the end I was forced to bring my own men here too, rather than split the force left under my control. Bearn was left under my command."

  "But he is my oath-sworn man, is he not?" asked Beobrand, his voice quiet and dull. He could not summon the energy to fight with the fool.

  "He is," stammered Fordraed, off balance, "But—"

  "Then there is nothing for him to answer for," interrupted Beobrand. "He was obeying his hlaford. For I commanded that he come here." Beobrand wished to be done with this. He wanted to find some mead or ale and to drink himself into a dreamless sleep where the faces of his failures could not reach him.

  "But I speak with the voice of the king!" screamed Fordraed. Perhaps he had expected some apology from Beobrand, or a recompense, weregild from Beobrand's fabled coffers of treasure. He would be sorely disappointed.

  As quickly as it had fled, Beobrand's rage returned, like a great wave crashing onto the rocks below Bebbanburg, lifting pebbles and flotsam with its force. The strength of it shocked Beobrand. With a shaking hand he reached down to the dark, stained sack he grasped in his left half-hand. He had held it with reverence and as they had ridden from Maserfelth none had gazed upon that which lay within. He hesitated for a heartbeat, not wishing to touch the object in the bag, but his anger dispelled his dread, his fear of unsettling Oswald's spirit. Clenching his jaw, he thrust his right hand into the dark opening of the sack. The sour stench of corruption billowed out of the gloom and his fingers recoiled at the damp, slick texture of the lank hair.

  Everyone within the shelter was silent now, captivated by his movements, awaiting to see what he would produce. Attor and Gram tensed beside him. Next to Fordraed, Heremod took a pace forward, as if he expected Beobrand to pull a blade from the sack.

  Turning his face away from the sack's opening and the sickly, stomach-churning scent of death, Beobrand fixed his gaze on Fordraed and tugged on the hair that was now entwined in his grip. He raised Oswald's head from the sack and, as one, Fordraed and his gesithas let out a gasp. Heremod stepped backwards, colliding with his lord.

  "You say you speak with the voice of the king," Beobrand said. "Behold my king!"

  Oswald's face was sunken, drawn and devoid of colour. The dark eye sockets stared blindly at Fordraed and the gathered men, the once bright orbs within now shrivelled and dark.

  Outside, the wind died as if the gods held their breath. The rush light flames burnt straight, sending their thin streams of foul-smelling smoke straight up in trembling lines to the stretched leather of the tent's roof. For a long while, nobody spoke.

  At last, Fordraed recovered and pushed himself up out of his chair. He squared his shoulders and looked at Beobrand with difficulty, barely able to draw his gaze away from Oswald's grim corpse-face.

  "Oswiu is your king now," he said, his voice small and timid, like a child. As though he were scared that Oswald's head might overhear him and reply in a voice from the afterlife. Fordraed shuddered. "You swore your oath to him, Beobrand. Do not forget that."

  "I never forget an oath. My word is iron."

  Fordraed nodded.

  "Then you will do as I command," he smiled in triumph. "As will your men."

  "I have sworn my oath to Oswiu," Beobrand said, the words tasting like bile in his throat, "but until the Witena Ġemōt has been convened, he is not my king. Nor yours."

  Fordraed's eyes flickered nervously from Beobrand to Oswald's deathly pallid, rotting face.

  "You riddle with me, Beobrand. You know as well as I that the wise men of the moot will declare Oswiu king."

  "Perhaps, but we are here and Oswiu has ridden east. To Bebbanburg."

  "Then," said Fordraed, his voice rising once more as his impotent anger bubbled up within him, "we will ride to Bebbanburg and there you will hear what the Witena Ġemōt has surely already proclaimed."

  Beobrand carefully returned Oswald's head to the sack, closing the opening and once again hiding the terrible reminder of their king's death. The stink of death hung in the air, but the men in the shelter visibly relaxed. As soon as the head was once more concealed, the wind gusted out
side, buffeting the tent walls and causing the tapers' flames to gutter and dance.

  "No," said Beobrand, "I will ride to Ubbanford and to the hall of Stagga. I must give the grievous news of two great men's deaths to their wives and children." He stepped forward and thrust the sack towards Fordraed. "You can take the head of this great king to his brother and the wise men of the moot."

  The corpulent thegn blinked and stared at the sack, but did not reach out to take it.

  "You should heed me, Beobrand," he said, his tone growing strident, "I have the ear of Oswiu. Gone is the favour you found under Oswald. Oswiu is not like his brother."

  "No," said Beobrand, shoving the sack at Heremod, who reluctantly took it. "He is not."

  He did not wait for a reply. He could no longer bear to be in this noisome tent. If he remained here, nothing would stop him from throttling the bag of piss who stood before him. Turning, Beobrand pushed the leather tent flap aside and stalked out into the wind-blown night.

  Part Four

  Slaughter for the Slain God

  Chapter 50

  "That doesn't look good," Cynan said. Beobrand glared at him before turning back to stare into the distance. Cynan felt foolish. Of course the smudge of smoke beyond the hills was not good. Good seldom came from a column of smoke on the horizon.

  Looking back over his shoulder Cynan saw that the warband were not far behind. He had ridden ahead to join Beobrand.

  As they had ridden from Rheged into the east, back into the heartlands of Bernicia, Beobrand had taken to riding at the head of the band of horsemen. He seldom spoke and the men had grown cautious in his company, scared of setting a spark to his infamous anger. At night Beobrand sat apart from them and whenever Cynan had approached him, to offer food or drink, he had found his lord staring away from the fire, peering into the night sky as if searching for something he had lost. Each morning Beobrand roused them with the first light of dawn, urging them to ride hard and not allowing them to set up camp until their shadows were long before them as the sun sank into the west.