They removed helmets and ran gore-sticky fingers through sweat-drenched hair. They were thirsty, but would not drink of the water befouled by so many dead.
Beobrand watched the Waelisc retreat. Could it be that he would live to see Sunniva again?
All around him men were staggering back towards Gefrin. Moving away from the charnel stench of the river. Some men sat down, shock and fatigue making them slack-jawed and slow. Acennan slapped Beobrand on the back. “Well, they won’t forget this day soon,” he said, smiling. His face was a mask of blood and mud splatter.
Beobrand couldn’t smile. He could feel his hands starting to tremble, his legs were weak. He just wanted to sit down and catch his breath. Then he could talk.
Acennan shook him by the shoulders. “Hey! No time to rest now. We are going to need to move. We cannot stay here.”
Scand seemed to have the same thought. He was clearly exhausted, but he pulled himself up to his full height, stood before them and raised his voice. His throat croaked from the constant shouting, but his words still carried.
“Men of Bernicia, you have fought with courage and honour today. You should be proud. You stood like rocks against the sea. Unmovable. Ours was the victory today. Eanfrith king looked on and he saw heroes. Men worthy to sit at his mead bench.
“We have lost many, but the battle of Gefrin’s ford will be remembered in song for generations. Where few stood against many and did not break.”
The mention of song brought Beobrand out of his lethargy. Where was Leofwine? What had befallen Hengist? Had it truly been him he had seen in the Waelisc shieldwall? He looked for Leofwine amongst the men listening to Scand, but he could not see the bard’s handsome face.
“Our loved ones will be halfway to safety by now, but we cannot rest,” the old lord continued. “Dark is almost upon us. We must follow them through the night. We have bought them the time they needed, but now we must join them.”
The men roused themselves and prepared to leave. The bodies were rich pickings for weapons, armour and jewellery and many men became rich in those few moments after the battle. Acennan collected things of value from the men they had slain, but Beobrand looked for only one thing. It didn’t take him long to find it.
Leofwine lay sprawled face down. His long golden hair was brown with drying blood and filth. He was unmoving. Beobrand’s stomach tightened. He fell to his knees next to Leofwine and turned him over.
The young tale-teller groaned. He was alive! But his skin was white. The splashes of dirt and blood stood out starkly on his pallid face. Looking down, Beobrand saw a gaping wound in Leofwine’s stomach. He knew then that his friend would die.
Leofwine’s eyes flickered open. “Did we win?”
Beobrand swallowed. Was this victory?
“I think so,” he answered, his voice cracking. “They retreated when Cadwallon was injured.”
“I recognised him,” Leofwine said.
“Who?”
“The man who has killed me. It was Hengist. You stood before him in Engelmynster. But I am no warrior, Beobrand.” He smiled a wan smile. “That much is clear.”
“I will kill him,” Beobrand said. “He has taken too much from me.”
Leofwine stared at Beobrand for a long time before speaking again. “I think you will. It will make a great tale.” He started to laugh, but it turned into a cough. A trickle of blood bubbled from his lips. He closed his eyes briefly against the pain. When he opened them again, they were unfocused, as if he was looking at something distant. “But I fear someone else will have to do the telling,” he said. He closed his eyes again and soon Beobrand understood that Leofwine’s spirit had departed.
Never again would men sit enthralled by the melodious voice of Leofwine, son of Alric. Beobrand stroked his long hair and his mind turned to Octa. So many dead. Why did he still live? He felt tears burning his eyes, but they did not fall. He had seen too much of death in this past year. His tears had dried up in him, like a stream can run dry in the heat of summer.
Victory should not be like this. He felt empty. All about him was death and dying.
He wanted to lie down next to Leofwine and weep for his friend. Or perhaps simply to sleep. But Acennan found him and drew him to his feet.
As if in a dream Beobrand carried the burdens Acennan handed to him. In a daze he traipsed along with the others leaving the battlefield to the ravens.
They could not carry their dead and hope to escape from the Waelisc warhost if they were pursued. So their companions were left were they had fallen and this weighed heavily on them all. Those who had survived the day could not rejoice. The cost had been too high.
Their shadows streamed long before them as they walked into the east.
Soon the sun fell below the horizon. The air grew cooler and darkness wrapped the land like a shroud.
That night was interminable. They were all so tired that walking a dozen steps would have seemed impossible and yet they trudged on through the night. They knew that if they were caught in the open by the Waelisc they would have no chance of surviving another battle. Many of the Waelisc had not stood in the shieldwall, so would be fresh. Their only chance was to get to the safety of Bebbanburg. And so they walked on.
There were not enough horses for them all to ride. Those mounts they had, carried the wounded.
Once all the light had gone from the western sky, they could clearly see the beacons that still burnt as a warning of attack.
The question went unspoken, but thought by many: Why had Oswald not ridden to his brother’s aid from Bebbanburg at the sign of the beacons? None knew the answer.
The warriors were too exhausted and disheartened at the loss of their king and hall-fellows to talk much. They lowered their heads, hoisted their weapons and shields on their backs and forced their feet to move them forwards towards the east. Towards the coast. Towards Bebbanburg.
Beobrand followed the man in front of him and tried not to think. But he could find no peace. The image of Leofwine’s pale face was etched into his mind’s eye. Leofwine joined the ranks of all the others killed by Hengist. Beobrand was filled with sorrow, but his sadness fuelled his anger the way a breeze fans the flames of a fire. And as he walked the flames of his anger forged his desire for vengeance into the strongest steel deep within him. He would meet Hengist again and when he did he would destroy him.
It was when they stopped to rest that they saw the fires in the west.
A huge conflagration illuminated the clouds as if the gods themselves had lit torches or dragons were sweeping down and razing all before them with their fiery breath. The men gazed at the distant flames for some time before Acennan broke the silence.
“And so the mighty hall of Gefrin is destroyed.”
They knew that he was right. The Waelisc must have moved up from the river to the buildings of Gefrin and put them to the torch. As they watched, more fires sprouted like yellow and red flowers in the black night.
No more was said. But it took no cajoling to get the men back to their feet. They had nothing to return to now. Behind them lay death and fire. Their only hope lay ahead.
The wounded were checked and those who had died were left at the resting place, so that others could ride.
And thus their numbers dwindled.
But the burning of their lord’s hall rekindled the spark of their spirits. It was a final insult and could not be ignored. The Waelisc would have to pay.
They walked on, straining to see the first light in the east that would presage the dawning of a new day.
CHAPTER 22
The first fingers of sunlight caressed the billowing clouds in the eastern sky with red. Below the clouds, silhouetted black against the dawn, rose Bebbanburg. It stood on a high, rocky crag that soared up from the low land around it. On the east it was protected by steep cliffs and the sea. Its palisades had never been broken. It had been the centre of Bernician power for generations. It was impregnable.
The men did not c
heer at the sight of their goal as the sun rose. Instead, there was an air of dejected resignation about the company. For before them, blocking their way to the cliff-bound fortress, stood a line of Waelisc warriors. It was not the whole of the surviving host they had faced, but it was a sizable number. Perhaps twice that of their own warband. The Waelisc had ridden through the night and cut them off within sight of their destination. It was a bitter draught to swallow. The men, already on the verge of collapse, could find no more vestiges of energy within themselves to stand against this new foe.
The Waelisc had only just arrived. They had galloped in from the north, having circled them. Now they dismounted, tethered their horses and began to form into a shieldwall. They meant to finish what they had started the day before.
Scand cursed the gods silently. Whether Cadwallon had died from his wounds and the Waelisc sought revenge, or he had ordered them to pursue Eanfrith’s men, he did not know. The outcome would be the same. His men were too tired to win a battle. The men before them would be tired too, but riding did not sap a man’s strength in the same way as walking and many of the Waelisc may not have even fought in the battle at the ford.
Scand surveyed his men. They were wounded and broken. Some had sat down as soon as the Waelisc had been sighted, content just to have a moment’s respite from the march. Scand knew despair at that moment. They would die now. It was like a bad joke of the gods to have had them walk all night only to be killed now, so close to sanctuary.
Beobrand looked at the grey-haired lord. Scand’s face was grim. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He had the aspect of a man who had lost hope.
In the long, painful march through the darkness, Beobrand had pictured how he would exact his revenge on Hengist. He had become convinced that it was what wyrd had planned for him. The threads of their lives were inextricably entwined, but the next time they met, he would cut Hengist’s thread. Then he would be free from the shame and heartache he felt at not having been able to protect those he loved.
He had not travelled all this way to be cut down now by these Waelisc who blocked their path. Sunniva must be inside Bebbanburg and, by Woden, he would see her this day. He looked around him. None of the men looked able to fight.
Acennan was as done in as the next man, but Beobrand clapped him on the shoulder. “Stand up straight,” he said. “Get ready.”
What for? Thought Acennan, bemused at the sudden change in Beobrand.
Beobrand put down the items he had been carrying. He had hardly noticed them when Acennan had handed them to him the previous sunset. But having accepted them, it seemed important to him not to let them go. So he had clutched them through the night, not stopping to think about them. When they had rested he had gripped them tightly, refusing to give them up. Now, in the daylight he was almost surprised to see a shirt of metal rings and a couple of seaxes clatter to the dew-damp grass.
He stretched his arms, massaging the cramps from them and took a few steps towards the Waelisc. He then turned to face the Bernicians. He could feel the Waelisc eyes boring into his back. He felt exposed and nervous, but he ignored the feeling and addressed the men who had marched from Gefrin.
“Hear me!” he bellowed. “Hear me, men of Bernicia. You are tired. We are all tired. But we have already beaten these Waelisc curs once. Shall we lose hope now, in the shadow of the fortress of Bebbanburg? Your families are there. We gave them the time they needed to reach safety. Do you want them to see you dishonoured now? Defeated by these whoresons?”
All the faces were turned towards him now. Scand raised himself up to his full height and joined Beobrand. He gave the young man a nod and said in a hoarse whisper, “You speak well, Beobrand. I had forgotten myself.” He grasped Beobrand’s shoulder “Thank you for reminding me who I am. Who we all are.”
Scand faced the men and said in a strong voice, “Beobrand speaks true. We are men of Bernicia. We are the victors of the battle of the ford of Gefrin. We will stand again shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield, and we will exact more vengeance for the death of our lord king, Eanfrith.”
The mood amongst the men had shifted, like the breeze that changes direction and blows out a torch. Or breathes life into dying embers. A few men heaved themselves to their feet, ready to do their duty once more.
“Stand, my shield brothers. Stand and show these Waelisc that they should fear us. Stand and fight for Bernicia.”
Beobrand picked up the words and repeated them. “For Bernicia!” he shouted. “For Bernicia!”
Acennan joined in, then a few more, and soon all the men were chanting. The noise gave them heart and the last men sitting raised themselves up.
Shields were hefted. The men crowded together into a tight wedge. The warband bristled with spear points.
Pride swelled in Scand’s chest. Moments before, the men had been defeated and now they were a formidable force once more. Hope began to return to him. Perhaps they could win through after all.
Before them, the line of Waelisc stood watching.
Scand could make out the black-clad Gwalchmei leading the troop. Treacherous bastard. He spat. He would put that fine head of his on display from the walls of Bebbanburg before the day was through.
“Nicely done,” Acennan said to Beobrand with a wry smile. “I think you’ve talked us into dying with honour.”
“I have no intention of dying today. I thought that much was clear.” Beobrand reached down and picked up the fine iron-knit shirt he had been carrying all night. “Help me on with this,” he said.
Acennan helped him get the byrnie over his head. He then showed him how to cinch it with his belt, to take some of the weight off of his shoulders.
“It is a fine war harness. Here, see if this fits.” He handed him a helmet that he had been carrying. Beobrand recognised it as having been worn by one of Scand’s closest retinue. It was iron with bronze boars above the cheek guards. They would protect the wearer of the helm. Beobrand chose not to dwell on what had happened to the helmet’s previous owner.
“I cannot take this. It was Beorn’s.”
“Nonsense, he won’t be needing it now.”
He placed it on his head. It was a snug fit, and the metal shirt weighed heavily on his shoulders.
“I’ve seen you fight like a warrior from a saga, now you look the part too.” Acennan slapped him on the back and handed him a shield.
Scand’s battle voice carried over the talking men. “Stand firm, men. The Waelisc approach.”
Acennan and Beobrand raised their shields with the rest of the men. They stood at the centre of the shieldwall. The Waelisc were advancing at a walk. Beobrand scanned their line, looking for Hengist. He could not see him.
All along the Bernician line men began to shout abuse, hammering spear staves and sword hilts into shields. The noise rose to a tumultuous roar.
Someone started the chant again. “For Bernicia! For Bernicia!” With surprise, Beobrand realised it was his voice. Others joined him. The rhythm of the words and the beating crash of iron against linden sounded like a threnody.
The sun rose from behind the rocky outcrop of Bebbanburg. The Bernicians squinted into the light.
Javelins and hand axes flew from the Waelisc shieldwall, arcing across the sky towards them. The projectiles were almost invisible against the harsh sunlight. Men raised their shields instinctively. Someone screamed in pain to Beobrand’s right.
And the Waelisc advanced.
Sunniva’s feet ached. The sole of her left foot hurt whenever she put weight on it. They had walked fast all through the day and well into the night and a blister had formed where her shoe rubbed. The pain and aches of her body from the long walk to Bebbanburg were as nothing when compared to the anguish she felt. She had slept fitfully on the floor of the great hall with the rest of the people of Gefrin. They had been welcomed and the gates of the fortress were thrown open, but no amount of pleading from any of them, not even Queen Finola, could convince Oswald, the lord of Bebbanburg, to
go to the aid of Scand. He had been sure that they had been killed. Leaving the safety of the walled fort would bring no good.
The women had cried and wailed that their men should not be abandoned. But the lord would not be swayed.
When the burning of the buildings of Gefrin had lit up the western horizon, they all assumed the worst: Scand had been defeated and the Waelisc were destroying all in their path.
Sunniva had made her way up onto the palisade to see the blaze for herself. She had stared disconsolately into the night. The fires in the distance burnt away her chances at any semblance of happiness. Orphaned, her home destroyed, her lover killed, she wondered why her life had been cursed. Only days ago she had been happily in love. Her father had been warming to Beobrand grudgingly, and she had been blissfully content. Since then her life had been a litany of sadness. Her father’s murder. Burying him next to her mother. Beobrand going away, leaving her alone with her grief. Then, on his return, the attack of the Waelisc and the destruction of her home. Now, seeing the flames, she had known that her happiness was a thing of the past. Beobrand was dead along with her parents and she was alone.
She had awoken early. Unable to rest. The floor was hard and unyielding, her mind full of darkness and despair. It was barely dawn, the courtyard between the buildings was still in shadow from the wooden walls that surrounded Bebbanburg. Above them, clouds were tinged with the pink of sunrise. She stepped gingerly into the coolness of the morning, wincing absently at the stinging in her foot.
All around her was activity. Men ran from buildings. They carried shields and spears. A stocky warrior in a padded jerkin and wearing a visored helm almost ran into her. She sidestepped lithely and wondered what was happening. Had the Waelisc marched on Bebbanburg? It was clear that the men were readying for battle. She could think of no other explanation.
The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) Page 30