by Jayne Castel
Oswald’s face tightened, and he drew himself up. “I should bless the warriors,” he replied. “Give them words of courage before they go into battle.”
“We’ve heard enough from you to last a life-time,” another man—a heavy-set man with a mane of golden hair—called out. Hea cast a gaze over the warrior and noted that he wore Thunor’s hammer proudly around his neck. The iron pendant glinted, even in the day’s murk. Like many among the fyrd, he worshipped the old gods. “Get to the back,” the man snarled, “and say your prayers where I don’t need to hear them.”
Hea took this as her cue to depart. She climbed up onto Rowan’s back and guided him through the crowd of spearmen who were forming ranks, readying themselves for battle. Eventually, she reached the end of the column, where a collection of wagons bearing tents and supplies squelched over the waterlogged ground.
Falling in next to them, she noted that Oswald had followed her. However, he did not look pleased about it. The warriors had deliberately humiliated him, and spurned his assistance. Had the king been present, they would not have been so cruel; yet Ecgfrith was occupied farther ahead and there was no one to defend the priest.
Oswald knew when he was beaten.
“Heathens,” he growled under his breath as he reined his pony in next to Hea.
Hea quirked an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be praying for them?”
The priest huffed out a frustrated breath. “Cuthbert spoke the truth,” he replied. “We should never have traveled to this godforsaken place.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Retreat
They rode forward for a while; the creak of wooden wheels, the thump of heavy hooves and the hiss of rain accompanying them. Anticipation rippled through the army; Hea could taste it—even from this far back. Gone was the conversation, the easy banter between the men.
The army halted once more, and the wagons stayed where they were, protected by a tight circle of spearman, while the rest rode forward to engage the enemy.
Rowan snorted and jangled his bit, eager to follow the other horses. Hea leaned forward, stroking the pony’s furry neck. “Best stay here, boy,” she told him.
They had halted in a shallow vale, intersected by a burn. The rain had eased slightly; it was now falling in a heavy grey mist over the land, closing them in.
Hea looked north, peering through the mist at where the last of the men had disappeared. How far ahead were Bridei and his men?
Thinking upon Bridei made her stomach contract. For the first time in many months they were just a short distance apart, although he would not know that—and would likely not care either. She imagined him, tall and proud, his gaze hard as he watched Ecgfrith’s army approach. A moment later, she pushed the image away, cursing herself for allowing her mind to stray.
Thoughts of Bridei were the last thing she needed right now.
It was a long, tense wait.
Hea and Oswald exchanged few words, their gazes trained north, their ears straining for the shouts of victory, or wails of defeat. The afternoon dragged, and the rain eventually stopped, yet the men did not return. Hea dismounted from Rowan and loosened his girth, letting him crop grass, for it appeared they would wait longer still.
It grew unnaturally quiet, and an odd stillness seemed to settle across the land—like an indrawn breath.
Hea grew increasingly nervous. Her vision had been so clear, but now she started to doubt herself. What if the spirit world had been playing tricks on her?
The shadows lengthened and the afternoon slid into evening. As the light started to fade, those left behind set up shelters in-between the wagons and eased their hunger with hunks of stale bread and cheese.
Eventually, as the last of the day drained from the western sky, Oswald spoke. He had spent most of the afternoon brooding, but now frustration appeared to get the better of him. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” Hea replied, her gaze riveted north, “but I don’t like this silence. It bodes ill.”
Oswald frowned, his slim face hardening. “Not so confident now, are we? It was your vision that sent Ecgfrith charging north. If things don’t go as you predicted, you will have the blood of many on your hands.”
Hea flinched as if he had struck her. “I know what I saw,” she replied through gritted teeth. “The king trusts my word.”
“Aye … blindly.”
Hea glared at him, although her heart had started to pound against her ribs. She hated Oswald for pointing this out, yet she knew he spoke the truth. Ecgfrith’s belief in her vision was unshakable. He was blinkered.
“The king is a warrior,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. “He knows how to conduct a campaign, how to fight his enemies. He will not do anything foolish.”
Oswald opened his mouth, no doubt to disagree with her, when the thunder of horses’ hooves reached them—approaching from the north.
Hea emerged from under the hide shelter and peered into the gloom. Suddenly, she felt exposed out here; for she carried no weapon save a small knife at her waist that she used for boning meat or filleting fish. Her argument with Oswald had unsettled her. What if she had misjudged everything? What if Ecgfrith had fallen and it was the Picts riding toward them?
Heart pounding, she fumbled at her waist and drew the knife.
“Wes hāl!”
Hea’s breath gusted out of her as she recognized the language of her own people. They were Angles rather than Picts that rode toward them. Behind her, Oswald struggled out of the shelter and rushed forward toward the group of horsemen that emerged from the darkness.
“What news?” he asked. “How fares the king?”
“We met them five furlongs north of here,” one of the warriors replied, gasping as he struggled to recover his breath, “and fought long. Their numbers are greater than we had expected, but we managed to push back against them, and they are now in retreat.”
Retreat? This news shocked Hea. She could not imagine Bridei mac Beli retreating from Ecgfrith … ever.
“Where is the king?” she asked.
“He and the bulk of the army have ridden north, tracking those Pict cowards,” the warrior informed her. “We must ride north and join him, for at first light we will set after our quarry once more.”
The sky had started to clear, and a waxing moon had risen high into the heavens, by the time the wagons and those who had waited behind with them reached the Northumbrian camp.
Yawning, for the stress of the day had exhausted her, Hea saw to her pony before making her way through the sea of weather-stained tents and smoldering fire pits, toward the center of the camp. The atmosphere was one of weariness but optimism. Men gathered around the fires, still in their battle armor.
Hea walked through their midst. She took note of the injured warriors she passed—for she would help them later—but first she had to see Ecgfrith. Oswald followed close at her heels. Like Hea, the priest was eager to see the king and hear of this afternoon’s battle.
Ecgfrith’s tent loomed before them in the center of the camp, the Northumbrian pennant fluttering from atop its peaked roof.
Hea entered Ecgfrith’s tent, suddenly hesitant, for she had not been summoned. She found him seated inside, finishing a frugal supper of seedcake and cheese. He glanced up, smiling when he spied Hea. Then his gaze alighted upon Oswald who emerged at her shoulder, and his smile faded.
“I was wondering when you two would catch us up,” he greeted them. “Sit down and pour yourselves a cup of mead. Tonight we have cause for celebration.”
Cautious, Hea did as bid, pouring her and Oswald cups of mead from a clay jug on the low table.
“Is it not premature for celebration, milord?” Oswald asked, clasping the cup in his hands as he lowered himself to the ground. “The enemy has not yet been defeated.”
The king waved away his words of caution and took a deep draft from his cup. Hea noted from the gleam in his eyes that Ecgfrith had already consumed a good
ly quantity of mead before their arrival.
Although things had been tense between her and Oswald since their argument earlier, she agreed with the priest. It tempted wyrd—fate—to cite victory before you had achieved it.
“What happened, sire?” she asked. “How did you manage to push Bridei’s fyrd back?”
Ecgfrith gave a tight smile. “We are the better army. My men are battle-hardened, and a Northumbrian shield wall is a force to be reckoned with. The warriors of Bebbanburg did me proud today—they fought like gods.”
Hea felt Oswald shift next to her. He did not like Ecgfrith’s reference, even though oblique, to the old ways. In his view there was only one God, and his name should not be taken in vain. Yet if Ecgfrith noticed the priest’s disapproval, he showed no sign of caring.
“How many of our men fell?” Hea asked.
“Two dozen at most,” Ecgfrith replied, his expression darkening. “But the Picts suffered greater losses before they turned tail and fled.”
“Did you see their leader?” Oswald asked, frowning. “Is he among the fallen?”
The king’s expression darkened further. “I saw no sign of that craven. No doubt he was hiding at the back of his army, sending his men forward to die upon our swords.”
Hea tensed at these words, as she had earlier when the warrior had called the Picts cowards. This act made no sense—Bridei would not turn and run. Could no one see that such behavior was unusual?
She glanced over at Oswald then, and their gazes fused for a moment. In his blue eyes, she saw an unspoken challenge: you have influence over the king, wield it.
Inhaling deeply, she turned her attention back to Ecgfrith. “Bridei mac Beli is a warlord, sire,” she reminded him gently. “Such a man does not retreat unless he has some other plan.”
A chill settled over the interior of the tent. Hea watched, unease settling in the pit of her belly, as Ecgfrith’s face hardened.
“You think we didn’t beat them today then?” he asked, his voice deceptively soft. “That instead this is some clever deception, and I am a fool.”
Hea’s throat closed. She was aware that Oswald’s gaze was flicking between her and the king, but she did not glance his way. He could not help her. “I do not think that, sire,” she replied.
“You foresaw our victory, Hea … did you lie to me?”
Hea held his gaze. For the first time, she realized why folk feared Ecgfrith. It did not matter that he was her father, that until now he had valued her opinion—at that moment she walked a knife-edge.
She swallowed, choosing her words carefully now. “I spoke the truth. I just ask you to look beyond what your eyes tell you. Bridei has earned his reputation for a reason. Maybe it is not wise to chase him into lands you do not know.”
Ecgfrith stared at her for a moment longer before his face twisted. “Leave me.” He reached for the jug of mead and refilled his cup. “Go to the healing tent and make yourself useful. I have no wish to listen to the prattle of a witless female who knows nothing of war.”
“Milord …” Hea begun, her heart in her throat. “Please listen to me. I only—”
“Go.”
Hea rose to her feet, and cast a beseeching look at Oswald, who had gone pale and wide-eyed. Feeling sick, she turned away and moved toward the tent’s exit. However, Ecgfrith’s voice, cold and hard stopped her mid-step.
“You know a little too much about my enemy for my liking, Heahburh.” The chill in his voice made her catch her breath and she froze, like a deer poised to flee before the hunter. “You may think your king is blind, but I know you made yourself his hōre when he visited Bebbanburg. I overlooked it for many reasons, but now I see where your true loyalties lie.”
Hea did not move, did not breathe. The silence inside the tent was like being inside a cold barrow, the tomb of a long-dead king. Goose bumps rose on her skin, and for the first time in her life she felt as if she might faint.
Yet Ecgfrith’s final words slammed into her, propelling Hea forward, out through the flap and into the night. “When Bridei falls tomorrow I will let you weep over his corpse.”
“What’s wrong with you, woman?” Rinan snarled. “Stop fumbling.”
Hea cast the warrior a quelling look and picked up the bandage she had dropped. She then began to wrap it tightly around his right bicep. Rinan had received a deep gash during the battle, and she had done her best to clean it. Under usual circumstances, standing so close to this man would have put her on edge. Yet after the encounter she had just had with the king, Hea barely noted Rinan’s presence.
They were inside the healing tent, and Rinan sat upon a leather pack while Hea knelt at his side, tending his wound. He was the fifth man she had seen to; she was exhausted but she welcomed the industry.
Best to keep busy. Best not think on Ecgfrith’s words.
Even so, bile stung the back of her throat, making it difficult to focus on the task at hand. Mastering her inner turmoil, she attempted to distract herself by making conversation with Rinan.
“The king says the Pict army is weaker than ours,” she said finally, avoiding Rinan’s gaze as she worked, “that they ran from you today. Is he right?”
A heavy silence fell between them, and Hea was aware of Rinan watching her. Eventually, guessing that he would not answer her, Hea glanced up to find him frowning. “The king makes it sound like an easy victory,” he muttered, his voice low as if he was taking care the others in the tent would not hear him. “But he didn’t fight in the shield wall.”
“But you will pursue the Picts?”
“Aye … Ecgfrith will not rest till Bridei’s dead.”
Hea did not appreciate the glint in Rinan’s eyes as he said those last words; although the warrior’s hatred of the Pict leader was nothing new to her.
She finished wrapping the linen bandage and fastened it tightly. The cut had been deep and blood was already soaking through, but it would have to do for now.
“It’s done,” she said briskly, rising to her feet. “If you’re still alive tomorrow eve, I’ll change the bandages again.”
Bridei stood by the firepit and watched the flames lick hungrily at the night. Moths fluttered around the fire, some dancing perilously close before being consumed by it. Around him, the rise and fall of men’s voices drifted through the narrow vale where the Pict army had camped for the night.
He inhaled the odor of peat smoke, laced with the aroma of roast venison—for two of his men were spit-roasting a haunch over the glowing coals of a fire a few yards away. He ached all over and the graze to his right shoulder, where a Northumbrian axe had clipped him, was throbbing dully. Nonetheless, a grim sense of satisfaction filled Bridei. The day had been hard … harder than expected, but everything was going to plan.
Heolstor appeared at his side then, his face smudged with dirt, his blue eyes hollowed with fatigue.
“How many dead?” Bridei greeted him softly, not taking his gaze from the fire. He had been awaiting Heolstor’s return, and had not looked forward to the tidings the warrior would bring.
“Thirty-five dead, another twenty too badly injured to fight,” Heolstor rasped.
Bridei frowned. The numbers were higher than he had expected. Those warriors had made a great sacrifice for their people, although he knew that would not bring the families of the fallen men much solace.
“And the others … they’re ready?” Heolstor asked.
Bridei heard the misgiving in his friend’s voice. He glanced away from the dancing flames and met Heolstor’s gaze. “Do you doubt them?”
Heolstor shrugged, although Bridei could see the skepticism in his eyes. “It was humiliating today, a loss of honor,” he murmured. “To retreat in midst of battle … we could have taken them. We could have won.”
Bridei smiled. “Aye, but at great cost to ourselves.”
Silence fell between the two men for a few moments before Heolstor spoke once more. “What if he doesn’t take the bait?”
�
�He will.”
“You sound so sure.”
Bridei gave a soft laugh. “Ecgfrith won’t let this go. He’d follow me over the edge of the world.”
Heolstor’s mouth thinned. “I hope you’re right … or he’s about to make a fool of us all.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The Valley of Death
The next morning dawned cool and bright. A seeking wind blew in from the northeast, but the sun warmed the backs of the Northumbrian fyrd as they rode.
Like the day before, Hea and Oswald traveled with the supply wagons at the back of the rearguard, while the rest of the army rode some distance ahead. As they rode, the landscape became gradually hillier, rocks jutting out from the deep-green of the hillsides.
Hea watched her surroundings, her breathing gradually becoming shallower; anxiety curled in the pit of her belly. Although she had never been so far north, this rugged land felt familiar somehow to her.
I’ve seen it before.
Yes she had … in that vision. The one where she had also witnessed the slaughter of the Pict army. The sight disquieted her. Last night, unable to sleep, she had sat in her tent and beaten her seeing drum, in an attempt to cross to the other side. Yet the trance state that usually came so easily had eluded Hea. The spirit world did not reach out to her. It was the first time that had ever happened, and it unnerved her.
What if I have lost my gift?
The worry plagued her once more as Rowan picked his way up a stone-strewn hillside. They had just passed a still, dark mere and traveled toward higher ground.
This is my doing …
Hea’s stomach twisted. If she had not had that vision, Ecgfrith would not have been so confident in this campaign. She had seen his victory, but now she doubted everything. All her instincts screamed danger, but her attempts to dissuade the king had fallen upon deaf ears. And now he had turned on her.