They were all wary of him, feeling keenly his grief and sorrow. And yet this silent brooding unnerved them. Beobrand's ire was a savage thing that scops had spun into tales told throughout the halls of Albion. If their lord had raged and screamed, swearing vengeance and death upon his enemies, they would have felt more at ease. This sombre, all-consuming sadness, had cast a pall over them all.
"Acennan was his closest friend," Gram had said to Cynan one evening as they sat beside the fire whispering in hushed tones for fear that Beobrand might overhear them. "But that is not all of it. He pushes us to ride hard as he carries the burden of dire tidings for Eadgyth and Cynethryth. He knows it is his duty to bring the tale of their husbands' deaths to them and so we hurry forward, back to Ubbanford. And all the while we ride closer to the moment he must face those women."
They had sat silently for a time, listening to the crackle of the campfire and the murmured conversations of the other men. Eventually Gram had broken the silence. "Beobrand is one of the bravest men I have ever known," he said, "but it is one thing to rush at a shieldwall where you can rely on your strength and sword-skill to slay your enemies. It is quite something else to face grieving widows and orphans."
As each day had passed, Beobrand's mood had grown darker. He rode some way ahead of his gesithas astride the majestic Sceadugenga and his men trailed in his wake. Sometimes he would spur the black stallion into a gallop, disappearing from view into the distance. The first time he had done this, Cynan had ridden after him. Following a brief pursuit where it had become clear that Cynan would soon catch up with his hlaford, Beobrand had reined in his mount and spun round to face the Waelisc warrior. A flash of his fabled fury had played across his features.
"I ride to be alone," Beobrand had growled, "not to be followed. Go back to the others."
Cynan had pulled his horse to a halt.
"If you wish, I will ride at a distance. But I will not leave you to ride alone."
Beobrand had glowered at him and for a time Cynan had thought his lord would scream at him, unleashing the rage that surely burnt just beneath the surface. Or perhaps he would even strike him. He had gritted his teeth, ready for whatever punishment Beobrand flung at him. But in the end, Beobrand had merely spat and, without speaking further, he had kicked his heels into Sceadugenga's flanks and galloped away. After that day Cynan had become Beobrand's shadow. He always kept Beobrand in sight, but never rode close enough to disturb him.
Until today.
Cynan had seen Beobrand halt on the brow of a hill. Beyond him, further to the north, a grey, feathered line of smoke rose high into the afternoon sky. They were close to the Tuidi now. Close to Ubbanford.
"What do you think it could be?" Cynan asked.
Beobrand did not answer. Some way off in the distance Cynan made out a speck of movement. A rider, galloping towards them. He recognised the gait of the rider, how he leaned to one side in the saddle.
Attor.
Without responding to Cynan's question, Beobrand kicked Sceadugenga forward and galloped down the slope to meet the scout.
"Wait, lord," Cynan called, "it may be dangerous."
Beobrand did not slow his progress and Cynan once again felt foolish. Danger would not deter Beobrand.
Cursing, Cynan waved at the column of horsemen who were still some distance behind them, beckoning for them to hurry. He hoped they would understand his signal, but he could not wait to see if they responded. He would not leave Beobrand and Attor to ride towards that smoke alone. Tugging his horse's head to the north, he galloped after Beobrand.
*
He had been right. No good ever came of smoke on the horizon.
As they breasted the hill to the south of Ubbanford, they had already known what they would find. The air was redolent of smoke and crows flecked the sky above the bend in the Tuidi where Ubbanford nestled. Beobrand, Attor and Cynan slowed their panting steeds for a moment as the extent of the horror in the valley came into view.
Smoke billowed from the blackened bones of Ubba's hall. Flames, small and almost sated now, yet licked at the charred beams. A few of the other buildings had also been destroyed by fire. Looking up at the hill, Sunniva's hall was also a smoking ruin. This was no fire caused by a stray spark or a dropped rush light, Ubbanford had been attacked and its buildings razed.
Cynan's stomach turned and he felt suddenly sick. Apart from the birds, those black corpse-feeding ravens and crows that gathered on a battlefield, all was still in Ubbanford. Cynan did not wish to ride down that slope. Ubbanford had been his home now for six years. These were his people. And he was scared of what he would find.
Unbidden, and with surprising ferocity, one name sprang into his mind.
Sulis.
Gods, please let her be spared.
As if on some unspoken signal, all three riders urged their mounts forward. The rest of the gesithas had caught up now and they rode behind them into Ubbanford, grim-faced and silent.
They made their way between the buildings warily, expecting an ambush at any time. But no attack came. Ubbanford was unnaturally still. Death had come to this place and had left none living after its passing.
In front of the small chapel that Beobrand had ordered built for the Christ followers, they found Gothfraidh. His head had been smashed, his brains splattered on the packed earth before the door. A crow had been gorging itself on the oozing matter from the monk's shattered skull, its black beak slick and shiny with gore. Attor leapt from his horse, chasing the bird away and it flapped onto the roof of the church, croaking angrily at being disturbed.
Near Ubba's hall they found signs of a fight. Two of Beobrand's warriors, who had remained behind to defend the village, lay dead before where the doors of the hall used to stand. The men wore no armour and bore no weapons.
"They probably came at night," said Gram.
They all knew how devastating a hall burning could be. Anyone trapped within would die from the fire or, if they were lucky enough to break out into the cool, life-giving air, they would meet with the iron and steel of those who had set the blaze. The gesithas had either rushed into the night without donning their battle-harness, or their bodies had been stripped by their killers.
Bearn stepped towards a third corpse. The man lay face down, pallid and blood-splattered. Again, he wore no armour. Bearn rolled him over onto his back. The man's throat had been cut and his head lolled at an impossible angle. Bearn shook his head.
"I do not recognise this one," he said.
The men gazed intently at the man's pale face. He had a thick beard of dark, wiry hair streaked with grey and there was an old, puckered scar on his left cheek. None of them knew him.
"At least those who attacked our folk felt the bite of their blades," said Fraomar. He hawked and spat into the stranger's face.
They found three more bodies in the settlement. Old Hunlaf's chest had been pierced with a spear that had been lodged so firmly between his ribs, that its haft had splintered, leaving the weapon still buried within his flesh. A pang of sorrow stabbed through Cynan. Seeing the shepherd thus, mouth gaping in agony, his kirtle soaked crimson, saddened him terribly. The old man had always been kindly to Cynan. Where others had sometimes derided him for his Waelisc blood, Hunlaf had always offered Cynan a smile and a wave when he passed with his dog and sheep.
On the path that led down to the Tuidi were the twisted bodies of two young men. Not much more than boys, they were both well-known to the warriors. They were inseparable friends and had dreamt of joining Beobrand's warband when they were of age. But they had yet been too young to fight. Their fathers had bade them to wait one more year until they were old enough to carry spears for their lord. Cynan turned away from the boys' corpses. Their pale limbs were thin and weak. Their blood was bright against their corpse-pallor. They may have been too young to stand in the shieldwall, but they had been old enough to kill.
One of the gesithas, a burly man with thinning, straggly straw-coloured hair, le
t out a wail of anguish. He jumped from his horse and collapsed beside the boys. For the first time since they had ridden into Ubbanford, Beobrand spoke.
"We will avenge your son, Ulf," he said and his voice was as brittle and cold as the ice that forms on the Tuidi in the deepest of winter. "We will find who did this, and we will slay them all. You have my word."
Beobrand left the man to his grief and spurred Sceadugenga up the hill towards the smouldering remains of Sunniva's hall. Cynan rode beside him, his stomach twisting and clenching with the fear of what they would find there. Was it possible that those from the village had sought shelter in the new hall? Would they find the rest of the people of Ubbanford slaughtered like so many cattle at Blotmonath?
They climbed the hill in silence. Again he offered up a silent prayer that Sulis would have escaped the horror that had descended upon Ubbanford. He knew she cared nothing for him. She was but a thrall and she despised him. And yet he could not bear the thought of her suffering more than she already had.
Heat still wafted from the embers of the hall. The roof had collapsed and most of the structure had been consumed by what must have been a terrible conflagration. Flames yet flickered around the few remaining pillars that jutted from the blackened debris. How many corpses did the rubble hide? Were the rest of the folk buried there? Had Sunniva's hall become the funeral pyre of Ubbanford?
Two bodies lay on the grass near the building. One was Lanferth, a man they all knew to be strong and dependable. Like the others, he too was devoid of weapons and armour. Beside him was the corpse of a man none of them recognised.
Beobrand dismounted and walked around the charred, smoking remains of his great hall. His face was thunder. His half-hand gripped Hrunting's pommel tightly while his right hand grasped in a white-knuckled fist the hammer amulet of Thunor that he always wore at his neck. His lips moved, but if he spoke aloud, the words were too quiet for Cynan to hear.
Cynan slid from his saddle and moved as close as he could to the wreck of the hall. The heat and smoke prevented him from getting too close. The acrid smoke stung his eyes. Peering into the debris, straining his eyes to pick out any detail, Cynan searched for a sign of people within the stricken building. But he saw none. At last he turned from the hall and walked to stand beside the great oak that grew some way off. He had often sat in the shade of this tree on summer evenings. He reached out and ran his hand over the rough bark. Its touch comforted him. He drew in a deep breath. Here, away from the smoking ruins, the air was clear and sweet in his lungs.
A sudden commotion drew his attention back to Ubbanford. The men had dispersed throughout the settlement, each checking for survivors or any other grisly reminders of the attack they had missed. Now Attor galloped up the slope towards the new hall. He reined in but did not dismount.
"What is it?" snapped Beobrand. His voice cracked in his throat, as raw as a crow's croak.
"They fled, lord," said Attor. He was breathless, panting.
"Fled?"
"Yes," said Attor, allowing a small smile to play on his lips, "they are not all dead, lord. I have followed their tracks across the Tuidi. There were many of them. They crossed the river and headed towards Stagga. Many of our folk, your folk, may yet live."
For a moment Cynan thought that Beobrand would not respond. He stared down at the charred remains of his hall, the home he had built with Sunniva, for a long while but then, with the alarming speed that made him such a formidable warrior, he turned and sprinted towards Sceadugenga. Springing up onto the stallion's back, Beobrand shouted in his battle-voice.
"We ride, men!" he bellowed and Cynan thought that even those far below in the valley must have heard him. "We ride to defend our loved ones, our people. And when we have found them and we have seen them safe, we will ride to slaughter their attackers."
The men mounted quickly and followed their leader as Beobrand rode down the hill towards the ford. Gone was the sombre, silent Beobrand of the past days. In his stead was the fury-fuelled, savage, death-dealing thegn of Bernicia, Lord of the Black Shields. Beobrand had once again found an enemy, and Cynan pitied them. They may yet be breathing, but Beobrand and his warband would hunt them down. And they would find them. And they would kill them.
Chapter 51
The hall was filled with misery. Coenred wiped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of his robe. The hall was hot and the air felt thick. Coenred did not believe there had ever been as many people in Stagga as there were at that moment. Most of the population of Ubbanford and the major part of Acennan's folk, those who had once sworn allegiance to Nathair, were inside the dark confines of the hall. Those men hale enough to bear arms were near the entrance. Bassus and Cynethryth's men had positioned themselves by the double doors, watching the path that came from the forest in case the Mercians decided to pursue them.
It seemed unlikely now to Coenred that their purpose had been to kill. For the Mercians had outnumbered their warriors many times over. And yet they had allowed the people of Ubbanford to splash across the ford and to flee into the shadows beneath the trees on the northern bank. It was true that the door wardens and gesithas who remained in Ubbanford had put up a doughty resistance, slaying at least one of the Mercians. But it still seemed to Coenred that their attackers had allowed them to escape when it would have been all too easy for them to have cut them down, or to have enslaved them.
In the darkest corner of the hall, some of the children were crying. Coenred felt like weeping too. He looked down at his hands. They were covered in blood, crusted and brown now that it had dried. There had been no time yet for him to scrub them free of the gore. Much of that blood was Reaghan's. He could still barely believe what he had witnessed. Sulis' treachery had been sudden and desperate. She had plunged her knife into Reaghan, leaving her for dead. Coenred thought of how his fingers had slipped against the bubbling blood that swelled in the deep gash to Reaghan's midriff. He had done his best. There had been no time to pause, to heat water and to make poultices, but he had bound the wound as best he could, putting pressure on it as Aidan had shown him. He looked over to where she now lay surrounded by the women. The old woman Odelyna was there with them, burning her wyrts and whispering her ancient incantations. Coenred was tempted to chase her away from Reaghan. The foul-smelling smoke from the sage and mugwort would bring no benefit to Reaghan. But he was too tired. His hands trembled and he could not face the old witch. He frowned. The stench of the herb smoke would do Reaghan no good, but he was sure it would do her no harm either. Whether she lived or died would depend on his skill and on God's will. He prayed he had done enough. Reaghan's life was in God's hands now. There was nothing more that he could do.
"Do you think they will come for us?" asked Dalston, his voice tremulous and high-pitched.
Coenred sighed. Dalston's whining always irritated him. Coenred knew that his feelings were not those of a good monk. Gothfraidh always told him to think how Jesus would have reacted. "It is your duty to seek the strength of God and to behave more like Him. To put aside your petty annoyances." Gothfraidh had always been good at telling Coenred what he should do. Coenred felt tears welling and cuffed at his eyes with his already damp and stained sleeve. No longer would the old monk be there to guide him, to make him act more like Christ. One of the men had told Coenred how he had seen the old monk struck down by the Mercians. Coenred had hoped that perhaps the man had been mistaken, that perhaps Gothfraidh was only injured and would yet find his way here to Acennan's hall. But the warrior had shaken his head. "No, Coenred," the gruff man had said, with an unusual tenderness in his voice, "the good monk has gone to sit with God in his Mead Hall in heaven." Coenred had not replied that he doubted that God drank mead; that the Almighty was not Woden, not one of the old gods. He was touched that the man had thought to console him with words that he must have half-remembered from the preachings he had heard from Gothfraidh and the other monks.
"Will they come for us?" asked Dalston again, his voice scratching y
et further at Coenred's frayed nerves.
Coenred took a deep breath of the heavy air of the hall.
"No, Dalston," he said, fighting to keep the frustration from his voice, "I don't think they will follow us here. They let us go easily enough."
"Easily?" squeaked Dalston. "They killed Gothfraidh…"
"I know and I mourn him. But had they been intent on killing us, they would not have allowed us to cross the Tuidi."
Dalston's brow furrowed. He did not seem convinced, but he fell silent.
A strident voice cut through the hubbub of the hall, drawing Coenred's attention to the men gathered in the doorway.
"I would never have thought you craven, Bassus!" shouted Nothelm, a tall man with black hair and close-cropped beard. "And yet you would have us remain here with the women and children."
Bassus stepped forward, towering over the man.
"Do not forget yourself, boy," he said, his voice a deep rumble, like the grumbling of an angry boar. "I was a king's champion while you were still sucking on your mother's teats. I may only have one arm, but I am no coward and could still send the likes of you to the afterlife without breaking a sweat."
Nothelm glared at Bassus for a moment and Coenred worried he would strike the one-armed warrior. But at last, he took a step back and lowered his gaze. Bassus nodded, but did not speak.
"Then why are we to remain here?" Nothelm asked. The sharp edge had gone from his tone. "With Acennan's few men, ours, and Cynethryth's, we would number as many as those Mercian bastards. And this time we would not be surprised. We should return to Ubbanford and slay them. Shieldwall to shieldwall, as warriors."
"And who would protect our folk? What if the Mercians came here? Or perhaps a band of Picts?"
Some of the listeners scowled at Bassus. They had been Nathair's folk. They may have sworn their oaths to Acennan and Bernicia, but they were still Picts.
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