Warrior of Woden

by Matthew Harffy

  "No Picts have attacked us for years," said Nothelm.

  "And when was the last time that Mercians raided into the north of Bernicia?" asked Bassus, raising an eyebrow.

  Coenred had overheard many whispered conversations all that day questioning how it was that Mercians came to be so far north. There seemed to be only one conclusion and it was not a pleasant thought. If Beobrand was known to have fallen in battle along with his comitatus and warband, the Mercians would know that his famed treasure would be left unguarded.

  Nothelm frowned.

  "Those Mercians surely came in search of Beobrand's hoard. By now they will be riding south, bound for Mercia once more."

  "You may well speak the truth," answered Bassus, "but I know that the people of Ubbanford are more precious to our lord Beobrand than his gold and silver. We cannot leave them unprotected."

  Nothelm spat into the rushes in disgust, but said no more.

  Coenred let out his breath. Thank the Lord that Bassus would not abandon them. It seemed most likely that Nothelm had the right of it and that Halga and his Mercians would have taken all they were able to carry and set off southward once more. And yet the thought that they might once again descend upon them here in Stagga to finish what they had started in Ubbanford filled him with terror.

  "All will be well," he whispered to Dalston. "We are safe here."

  Dalston was pale, but offered Coenred a small nod of gratitude.

  And then, as if God sought to show him humility, to test him with yet more trials, a sudden shout once again shattered the subdued, hushed quiet of the hall.

  "To arms," yelled one of Cynethryth's gesithas who had been left outside watching the forest path. "Armed horsemen approach!"

  Chapter 52

  Beobrand kicked Sceadugenga forward. He wished to push the stallion into a gallop, but he held back. The gods alone knew how much further he might have to travel this day. The beast was strong and seemed always willing to run, but Beobrand was wary of exhausting the animal.

  The stench of burning and death still caught in his throat and clung to his clothes. As they had ridden from Rheged, Beobrand had dreaded reaching his home, for he knew that then he would need to give the darkest tidings imaginable. And yet he had also longed to be home in his hall. To see Reaghan and Octa. To be surrounded by familiar things and to be far from the stink of death and war. Each night he would sit and wonder how he would speak to Eadgyth and Cynethryth of their husbands' deaths. The men would try to talk to him, but he could not bear to speak. How could he? How could he tell his gesithas that he was done with death? It seemed to him he had carried so much anger within for so long that he had forgotten all else. And what had that ire brought him save pain? Oswald, the man who had given him everything was slain, his head rotting in a sack.

  As he rode through the dappled light of the forest path north of the Tuidi, he reached down with his left hand and reassured himself that the sack attached to his saddle was yet secure. Gods, he could not believe that Acennan too had left him. The stocky warrior had always seemed invincible. Solid and stable, like a rock in a storm-swept sea. And yet, nobody could escape the cold clutch of death. When the Sisters of Wyrd cut a man's life thread, no matter how great the man, there was no way to avoid the inevitable. But gods, if only he had not sent Acennan with the others to lead away the defenders from the tree at Maserfelth. He told himself on those dark nights, staring at the unblinking eyes of the stars, that Acennan had come up with the plan and had said he would lead the small band of men that would act as a diversion. Beobrand had not sent him to his death. Acennan had chosen his path and would have wanted it no other way. But his loss had left Beobrand hollow, devoid of anything but despair and gloom.

  The closer they had got to Ubbanford, the more anxious he had become at having to deliver his terrible tidings to women who would soon discover they were widows. But he also vowed to himself that he would embrace the small pleasures of life. He would talk with Reaghan. Perhaps he could rekindle the passion they had once felt. He would take an interest in Octa, rather than brushing him aside. His son was his only blood kin and he would grow into a man all too soon. Then he would look upon his father as a burden and not as someone to be revered. Beobrand would not send the boy away again to be fostered, no matter what Oswiu might order of him. He would see that the boy was well-trained with sword, shield and spear.

  Reaghan and Octa were his future and he wished to look to them, to lighter times. The past was dark, a land he did not wish to visit again in his thoughts.

  Cynan cantered up beside Beobrand. The Waelisc warrior had given him no peace on the ride homeward, seeming to have taken it upon himself to follow his lord wherever he went. It had irked Beobrand at first, but he had come to accept Cynan's presence. The erstwhile thrall had looked upon Acennan as a father, or perhaps an older brother. He too must be hurting at Acennan's death.

  "We are almost at Stagga," Cynan said.

  Beobrand nodded. He knew this path well. Soon they would leave the dense forest behind and the houses clustered around Stagga would be before them.

  "Ready yourselves, men," Beobrand shouted. "We know not what awaits us."

  He touched Hrunting's hilt. If the men who had destroyed Ubbanford were even now assaulting Acennan's folk, they would regret not having fled from these lands. Beobrand clenched his jaw and frowned. It would ever be thus, he thought grimly. He would wish to be rid of killing and death, but battle and blood would always seek him out. When the scops sang of him, they told tales of a great lord of war, but Beobrand wondered whether he was truly the master of anything and not merely a slave to battle and slaying.

  He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts. He may wish to be done with death, but it seemed death was not yet done with him.

  "Come, my brave gesithas," he bellowed, at last kicking Sceadugenga into a gallop. "Let us see whether any of our folk's slayers have been foolish enough to remain where our spears and swords can reach them."

  Sceadugenga surged forward, carrying him out of the tree-gloom and into the bright, late afternoon sunshine. Cynan rode at his shoulder, a savage grin upon his face. Behind them, ready for battle and vengeance, came his warband of black-shielded warriors.

  *

  Beobrand strode into the hall. It stank of sweat, smoke and the bitter iron tang of blood. It was the stench of battle and fear.

  "Father!" came the cry from within the gloom at the rear of the building where too many people cowered.

  Octa ran forward, his face tear-streaked and pallid. For a moment Beobrand thought his son would launch himself upon him, embracing him. But the boy slowed his rush, looking up at Beobrand with a sombre expression on his round child face.

  Beobrand's heart swelled to see Octa alive and hale.

  "Well met, son," he said, awkward in the gaze of so many.

  Stagga was crammed with the folk from Ubbanford, Acennan's people and also some of Cynethryth's retinue. There had been a moment when Beobrand and his warband had approached the hall when he had thought they would need to fight, that the attackers of Ubbanford had taken Acennan's hall. The warriors who had stood outside the great doors had been unknown to him. They had raised their shields and spears defensively. Bravely, Beobrand had thought, given the numbers in his band and the handful of defenders before the hall. He had been prepared to order the attack when a giant figure had emerged into the sunlight. Beobrand had recognised him at once.

  Bassus.

  Seeing the huge, one-armed warrior had shone some light into the darkened recesses of Beobrand's mind where for many days only gloom and despair had resided. He had jumped from Sceadugenga's back and run to Bassus. He had surprised the man by wrapping his arms about him, so glad was he to see him. Beobrand felt a thin pang of regret that Octa had not leapt into his arms. He could not recall when he had last held the boy. Before he had been able to walk, most likely.

  Looking upon all the people gathered in the hall, he turned to Bassus now.<
br />
  "You have done well, my friend."

  "Not well enough," Bassus grumbled. "Those bastard Mercians caught us by surprise."

  Beobrand noticed the stiffening in the faces of Cynethryth's men. These were proud Mercian warriors. They would soon hear that their lord was slain. Beobrand would do well to tread carefully here.

  "But by Tiw's cock," continued Bassus, "it could have been much worse. Or perhaps I should thank the Christ, for without His servants, brave Coenred and Dalston, we might all have perished, sealed in our halls and roasted."

  "Coenred is here?" asked Beobrand.

  In answer, the young monk stepped forward. He had a dark smudge on his shaved forehead. His eyes were shadowed and pinched. Beobrand saw his hands were encrusted in dried blood.

  "I am glad to see you well," Beobrand said. "So how is it you saved the folk of Ubbanford?"

  Coenred frowned and Beobrand wondered whether he would weep.

  "Not all the folk escaped," he said. "I did nothing. I was awake early and saw the warriors. Dalston and I were able to raise the alarm."

  "Then once again I owe you," said Beobrand, forcing a smile onto his lips. "And this time it is not my life that I must thank you for, but something of much more import. The life of my folk," he reached out for Octa and pulled the boy to stand at his side, " and my son." He scanned the faces of the people in the hall. He spied Rowena and Eadgyth towards the rear.

  "Where is Reaghan?" he asked, and he heard the tremor in his voice and felt the prickle of fear scratch his neck.

  The hall was hushed and for several heartbeats nobody spoke. In that moment, Beobrand knew he had not heard the last of the bad tidings that day. His guts squirmed, anxiety making him feel sick. He opened his mouth to speak into the silence. His voice cracked. Octa's tiny shoulder trembled beneath Beobrand's hand. Beobrand cleared his throat with a guttural cough and managed to utter, "Is she killed?"

  Eadgyth stood. She was a beauty. With raven-black hair and ice-blue eyes. Acennan had been smitten the moment he had seen her. He had been lucky indeed to convince her kin to allow her to wed him. Beobrand thought of his friend's head, staring blindly into the darkness of the sack tied to Sceadugenga's saddle. He blinked back the sting of tears.

  All the while he had feared bringing the news of Acennan's death to Eadgyth, and now, to judge from the solemn expression on her face, she was about to tell him that he had lost his woman. He gripped Octa to him tightly and tried in vain not to think of a cold cavern on Muile where Nelda the cunning woman had cursed him to die alone.

  Eadgyth's eyes shone in the gloom. They had known each other for years, and each seemed to be sensing the words the other was about to speak. But then Eadgyth surprised him by saying, "Reaghan lives, lord." A great shudder racked his body. "But she is sorely wounded," she continued. "She may yet succumb to the wound."

  He thought of Reaghan as he had last seen her, watching him ride away from Ubbanford. Her long hair had blown about her features, the wind had pressed her dress against her slender form. She had been angry with him and had not smiled as he'd waved farewell. He could not remember now why they had argued.

  For a moment, Beobrand knew not what to say. He had prepared the words in his mind over and again as he had sat staring into the darkness each night and as he had ridden Sceadugenga over the hills and vales of Bernicia. But now, when faced with Acennan's widow, he was lost.

  "And my husband?" Eadgyth whispered.

  Beobrand's mouth was dry. He daren't speak. If he spoke the words, he knew that he would be unmanned before all his folk. And he was their lord. Their hlaford. He was Beobrand of Ubbanford, thegn of Bernicia and he must not weep before his people.

  He stared into Eadgyth's eyes. Tears brimmed there.

  He shook his head and cast his gaze down, unable to watch her misery. As if they had been waiting for his command, Eadgyth's tears fell. She turned away from him and gathered her children to her. Their shoulders shook and their sobs were loud in the still that had fallen over the hall.

  Beobrand wished he could cry with them. Acennan had been his friend, closer to him than any kinsman he had ever known. But no. He had shed his tears back in Rheged. Now was the time for strength.

  Besides, there was further sorrow he had to bring to this place.

  Steeling himself, he sought out Cynethryth amongst the womenfolk at the rear of the hall. There she was, standing tall and proud, her sons, wide-eyed and pale at her side. He was ashamed at himself for not offering the words he had prepared to Eadgyth. Cynethryth was the wife of an atheling. She deserved the respect of hearing the dire news from Beobrand's mouth.

  He squeezed Octa's shoulder briefly, signalling to the boy to remain where he was. Then Beobrand stepped solemnly towards Cynethryth. The hall was as still as a barrow mound, and silent save for the muffled sounds of grief from Eadgyth and her children. Beobrand clenched his fists and squared his shoulders. He must be strong. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he made a sound Cynethryth spoke in a clear voice.

  "Do not say the words, Beobrand," she said, her voice calm and controlled.

  "But, Lady—" he stammered.

  "No," she cut off his words, "I do not want to hear. There is too much sorrow and pain here this day. My husband is yet fighting his brother far to the south. I told you to protect him." Cynethryth stared into Beobrand's eyes. He could not hold her gaze.

  "You did," he whispered.

  "And did you?"

  "I did my best," Beobrand said, his tone desolate.

  Cynethryth nodded.

  "Very well. Now, come and see your lady. She is drifting in and out of slumber, but your presence will surely bring her some comfort."

  *

  "You are sure they were Mercians?" Beobrand asked, his tone sharp, brittle.

  He had drained two horns full of strong mead, but the potent brew had not appeared to have dulled any of the jagged edges of his suffering. The hall was subdued. People talked in hushed tones as though they half-listened to the night outside the hall, for sounds of another attack from the darkness. Beobrand was confident they would be safe that night. He had positioned guards all around the settlement and there was no way an enemy could approach without the alarm being raised. Besides, if the attackers were truly Mercians, they were surely heading back south. He still found it hard to believe.

  "Cynethryth knew the leader," said Bassus, picking up a hunk of bread and tearing off a piece with his teeth. He paused to chew, picked up his horn and drank deeply. "He was a huge brute of a man. Taller than me even, and looked to have the strength of a bear."

  "Could she not be mistaken?"

  Bassus shook his head.

  "He was the kind of man you would never forget. A giant with a thick beard as red as fire."

  "Halga," breathed Beobrand.

  "Aye, the same," said Bassus.

  Beobrand frowned. How could this be? He had seen the son of Grimbold at the battle of Maserfelth. Why would the Mercian risk riding so deep into Northumbrian territory? If Beobrand had returned home directly after Oswald's death, Halga would have found Ubbanford thick with Bernician spear-men. And yet… Beobrand had not come home, because he had been sent south once more on an errand as likely to see him killed as to succeed. And who was it who had sent him on that foolhardy mission into the jaws of the wolf?

  Beobrand thought back to the last time he had faced Halga in combat in the forest glade near Grimbold's hall in Mercia. That had been years before, but he still recalled the giant's speed and prodigious strength. And how he had needed to use all his guile to best him.

  And he remembered Wybert's last whispered word to him before he had delivered the thrust that had sent Sunniva's defiler to the afterlife.

  He had thought that Oswiu had ordered him south not to find his brother's head, but to die. Now he wondered. He lifted his horn to his lips and found it empty. Eadgyth, face sombre and strained, made to refill it with mead. Beobrand shook his head.

  "Ale,
please, dear Eadgyth," he said. He was surprised that she had not retired to her sleeping quarters, but she was a strong woman who knew her mind, and he would not send her away. She lifted a second pitcher and poured ale. "My thanks," he said, "I will be needing my wits about me tomorrow."

  "You will ride then, lord?" she asked.

  He nodded and took a draught of the ale. It was bitter after the mead, but it was good. He had no appetite, but he picked up a piece of the bread and some cheese and ate. He needed to keep strong. Grief threatened to engulf him in its black wings, but he must fend it off. He had wished to be done with death, but that had been before he had seen the smoking, crumbled and charred ruin of his home, the pale corpses of his people. And the tiny, deathly white face of sweet Reaghan, sheened with sweat. To see her thus, in a slumber so deep from loss of blood that she was more in the otherworld than on middle earth, had filled him with dread. Would he lose her too, as he had lost so many?

  And then he had heard the tale of how she had been struck down by one of the very women he had rescued from Fordraed. He had grown morose, gulping down great mouthfuls of mead in the hope they would wash away the taste of his failure.

  "You cannot change wyrd," Bassus had said, placing his hand on Beobrand's shoulder, "but you can put up a good fight."

  Bassus had grinned, despite the sadness in the hall. Beobrand had not smiled, but he had listened to the old warrior's words and heard the truth in them.

  "Wyrd may be inexorable, Beobrand," Bassus had continued, "but you will never lie down and give in to your fate. It is not in your nature."

  Beobrand had nodded, silent anger burning away the sorrow within him, replacing it with a raging furnace of fury.

  He reached out and gripped Eadgyth's hand tightly.

  "Yes, we will ride at first light," he said. She held his stern stare for a long while.

  "It is almost harvest," she said, her voice so quiet that he had to strain to hear. Her words surprised him. He was consumed by the all too familiar need for vengeance and she spoke of bringing in the crops for the winter.