Leofman’s mind spun. He did not understand what was happening. Panic rose within him and he forced it down with an effort. All that mattered was keeping his son safe. There was nothing else.
“Eadwig, run!” Leofman shouted, taking a few steps backwards, to draw the blue-coated swordsman towards him and away from the cart. “Swiga, don’t let them near Eadwig.”
He flicked a glance over to his right and for a moment his heart swelled to see his son leap from the cart and sprint away. Eadwig rushed towards the yawning cave-mouth, but there was no escape that way. The mine was not deep and the entrance was still clogged with rubble. And Sidrac’s men blocked the path that led out of the ravine. With a pang of fear, Leofman realised there was nowhere for the boy to go.
Swiga, silent, but ever faithful, pulled a pick from the cart and stepped forward bravely to meet the two men. The nearest of them, a stocky young man with a sharp nose and a long moustache, dragged his sword from its tooled red leather scabbard and sprang forward in one smooth motion. He appeared very sure of himself, clearly not expecting Leofman’s wide-shouldered mute bondsman to cause him any problems. But Swiga was no fool. Despite not speaking, he was quick of wits and much faster than one would expect from his bulk. Side-stepping the swordsman’s swinging attack, Swiga allowed the blade to cut harmlessly through the cooling air of the afternoon. His attacker staggered, momentarily off balance. A heartbeat later, he collapsed to the dusty earth as Swiga’s pick crushed his skull with a sickening crunch.
Leofman gasped. The violence had come so suddenly that his mind struggled to take it in. Blood, obscenely bright, coated the dusty pick-head. For the briefest of moments it seemed that everybody held their breath.
Nobody moved.
Then Eadwig screamed. And, as if the shrill sound of the boy’s distress had awoken them, Sidrac’s remaining men began to move at the same time.
Bumoth shouted something, but Leofman barely heard. His mind was filled with what he had witnessed and the bloodletting that now unfolded before him like a nightmare.
He screamed a warning at Swiga, but there was nothing he could do and Leofman watched in dismay as the second attacker’s sword pierced the mute’s chest. Swiga grunted, still trying to bring his heavy pick to bear on his opponent, but the bearded warrior grinned as he twisted his blade in Swiga’s body. Blood gushed as he wrenched the steel free of his chest. The pick tumbled from Swiga’s hand and he sagged down to his knees.
Leofman reeled, but Eadwig’s cry of alarm brought him to his senses. Spinning back to face the sword-wielding warrior, Leofman raised his seax. His hand trembled.
“Ready for me now?” asked the man with a grin. It seemed he had waited for Leofman to face him when he could have cut him down while he was distracted by his bondsman’s death.
Leofman did not reply. He could not drag his gaze from the warrior’s cold eyes. His blood pounded, and beyond its rushing pulse his ears were filled with the sounds of his son being snatched up. Eadwig beat his tiny fists uselessly against his captor. The boy’s cries soon grew muffled and Leofman wanted to look to see what the bastard had done to him.
“Don’t hurt him,” he said, cursing himself for the pleading tone of his voice. As a young man he had fed the raven and the wolf with Mercian and Waelisc foe-men, and now he was reduced to an old man, begging for pity. He spat. These men would show no mercy. If he was to die here, he would not go easily. They would regret crossing Leofman, son of Hutha. “Don’t hurt my son,” he repeated, lifting his seax and readying himself to make them pay dearly for what they had done.
“Don’t worry,” the swordsman said, stepping in quickly and batting aside the seax blade with a clang, “we won’t.”
PART ONE
SHADOWS FROM THE PAST
Chapter 1
“It appears we are in time,” shouted Beobrand, raising his voice over the rush of the waves and the slap of the sail as it filled with the quickening wind blowing from the north-east. He shivered, despite the exhilaration from the speed of the ship and the relief at seeing no signs of battle on the beach before them. The wind coming off the slate-grey North Sea carried with it the bite of far-off winter.
Clutching the hemp stay tightly in his mutilated left hand, Beobrand turned to where Ferenbald leaned expertly against the steerboard. The skipper, his mane of hair and long unruly beard billowing about his face, grinned. He barked an order and a couple of the crewmen rushed to do his bidding, tightening cables and heaving on ropes to pull the sail about to better catch the wind and send the sleek ship skimming the waves towards the smudge of pale sand and the low-lying land behind it. There was a cluster of buildings there, and movement, but it was yet too far away for Beobrand to make out any detail.
“You should never have doubted me,” said Ferenbald, his voice clear and filled with the joy of sailing. “I told you that Saeslaga would carry us to East Angeln before Penda could traipse his host across the fens from Mercia.”
“I do not doubt your sea-skill, master Ferenbald,” Beobrand replied with a smile, allowing himself to relax for the first time since they had left Ubbanford. “But even you cannot control the elements.”
Beobrand shuddered again and this time it was not just from the chill in the stiffening breeze. He recalled all too well the roaring waves of previous voyages.
Saeslaga topped a wave, splashing into the sea on the other side as it sped towards the coast. The spray on his tongue reminded Beobrand of swallowing mouthfuls of freezing brine when Ferenbald’s previous ship, Brimblæd, had capsized and the freezing deep had almost claimed him. He spat to clear his throat of the salty taste, the flavour like blood. His mood soured and his memories grew dark.
A slender warrior stepped up to the prow of the ship to stand close beside Beobrand. He moved with cat-like grace, seemingly oblivious of the shifting and rolling of the deck. He glanced at Beobrand, his angular face creased in a frown. Perhaps he too was thinking of the past, thought Beobrand. He had been with them when Ferenbald’s Brimblæd had borne them across the Narrow Sea to Frankia. And the slim gesith had also been witness to the slaughter on the storm-smashed strand after Brimblæd had broken apart. Their gazes met and yet neither of them made mention of those distant events. It had been years since then and, as Bassus, the huge warrior he had left back at Ubbanford, always said, it was better not to dwell on the past. In Beobrand’s experience, the threads of his wyrd were so tangled that his present and future were filled with worries enough.
Beobrand turned his attention to the rapidly approaching coastline once more, squinting into the lowering sun. He was able to pick out more details now.
“Is that a ship, Attor?” he asked, pointing with his whole, right hand at the dark shapes on the beach. The sun was bright and low in the western sky. The figures on the sand were starkly lit, their shadows dark and long before them.
The slim warrior peered into the west. Saeslaga sliced through another wave, sending a tremor through her strakes. The dazzling sunlight glittered on the fretted foam thrown up from the prow, turning the spray into gems.
“There are two ships, lord,” Attor said. “And many men. Monks, by the look of them.”
Beobrand trusted Attor’s eyes. Despite the warrior being older than him, his eyes were as sharp as they had ever been.
“No warriors?” said a new voice.
Beobrand turned. A young man, not much more than a boy really, stood there. He wore a fine kirtle with embroidered hems and a garnet-encrusted brooch fastened his bright blue cloak. The boy’s eyes gleamed. Beobrand could not help but smile at the boy’s eagerness. He had already taken up his shield and spear. As the ship pitched over another wave the young warrior lost his footing and would have fallen if Attor had not reached out a steadying hand.
“No, Cuthbert,” said Beobrand with a grin. He remembered when once he too had been so eager for battle. “It seems we have arrived before the Mercians. There will be no fighting today.”
The boy frowned.<
br />
“Do not look so sad, boy,” growled Attor, pushing Cuthbert upright. “Only a fool seeks battle when none is needed.”
Cuthbert’s face darkened. Beobrand and Attor both laughed at his pouting expression. Beobrand could not bring himself to be angry at the boy.
“We were all young once,” he said, slapping Cuthbert on the shoulder. “But Attor is right. Do not rush to find a fight.”
“It will find you soon enough with Beobrand as your lord, believe me,” said Fraomar, stepping forward to join them. He grinned and Beobrand returned his smile, hiding the pang of hurt he felt at the young warrior’s words. Was there a rebuke there? Beobrand searched Fraomar’s eyes, but saw no duplicity, no hint of guile. He knew better than to suspect Fraomar of a jibe. The man was honest and as straight as a spear haft. But Beobrand noticed the new wrinkles that lined Fraomar’s face, and how one of his eyes drooped slightly, as if he could not decide whether to frown. The young man’s hair had a premature sprinkling of frost too, and Beobrand could not forget that it was his poor judgement that had led to Fraomar’s injury. A blow to the head that had almost cost him his life. He knew the man bore him no ill-will, but Beobrand could not avoid a feeling of guilt whenever he saw what his actions had cost Fraomar.
Like all of his gesithas, Fraomar’s allegiance could not be questioned. Beobrand scanned the faces of the rest of the men who had travelled south with him. There was Dreogan, his soot-tattooed face marred with a long puckered scar, another reminder of the price for being oath-sworn to Beobrand. Beircheart, his handsome bearded face sombre, was helping tall Gram wriggle into his iron-knit byrnie. Despite Beobrand’s assurance there would be no fighting, it seemed his comitatus, his closest hearth-warriors, were not so sure. Beobrand grunted, unsurprised. They had walked this path with him for a long time.
In the belly of the ship, the warriors were all readying themselves for battle. Huge Eadgard had already donned his byrnie and now hefted his massive axe. He muttered something to his brother, Grindan, and the smaller man chuckled.
Willow-slim Garr placed a small, open-faced helm on his head and snatched up his long-bladed spear. Finally, Beobrand watched as Ulf brushed back his straggly straw-coloured hair and secured it with a strip of leather at the nape of his neck. His was not a face prone to laughter, and the lines there spoke of hardship and pain rather than mirth. For a fleeting moment, Beobrand recalled finding the man’s son slaughtered by Mercian raiders. He had considered leaving Ulf behind at Ubbanford. He needed doughty men there to defend his lands and his people. But when Ulf had heard they were heading south, that they might have to fight Mercians, Beobrand had realised he could not keep him away from another opportunity to exact vengeance on the people who had caused him such misery. Those responsible for the death of Ulf’s son were all long dead, slain by Beobrand and his men in a great blood offering to Woden, but Beobrand knew that there was a void within Ulf that no amount of killing could fill.
Beobrand sighed. All of these men had suffered because of his actions, his decisions. They had killed for him and, when he had broken his oath to King Oswiu, they had stood by him. They were good men and they deserved better than he as their hlaford. He could feel his thoughts clouding with the self-doubt that often threatened to engulf him in the quiet of long nights. But now was not the time for worries and questioning. He had accepted the oaths of these men and he knew they would all sacrifice their very lives if he asked them to. He must lead them as best he could. He had their oaths and their trust, it was his duty to earn both each day.
A shout snapped him back to the present and he was glad of it.
“One of the ships has put to sea,” Ferenbald yelled. “What would you have me do?”
Beobrand swung back to survey the surf and the shoreline. They were much closer now and he could see the monks thronging there. They were carrying objects down from the minster buildings and passing them along a chain of men who had waded out into the shallow water. There they loaded the chests and bales into the ship that was canted over as its keel rested on the sand beneath the water’s surface.
Nearer to them, limned in the ruddy glow of the sun, came the other ship. It was low in the water, rowed by a rank of long oars. As he watched, the sail was unfurled and the ship tacked south, following the coastline away from the minster and Saeslaga with its cargo of armed Bernicians.
“They are running for it,” said Ferenbald.
Beobrand looked from the beach and the monks labouring around the stationary ship to the seaborne vessel. Its sail luffed once as it lost the wind and then its crew adjusted the rigging and it filled, gravid with the cold breeze.
“Can you catch her?” Beobrand asked.
Ferenbald laughed.
“I am Ferenbald, son of Hrothgar, and this is Saeslaga. We have made the run from Rodomo to Hastingas in under a day.”
Beobrand glanced back at the hirsute sailor. In spite of the concerns of moments before, he could not suppress a grin at the man’s boasting.
“You should have no trouble bringing us close to her then,” he yelled.
Ferenbald must have anticipated the order, for he leant on the steerboard and snapped out a command. Instantly, Saeslaga veered to larboard, and after a moment of readjustment as the waves caught her amidships, causing young Cuthbert to stumble again, the fine ship that had once belonged to the pirates who stole Beobrand’s daughter away from Hithe, righted herself and sped off on a course that would see her intercept the fleeing ship.
“Who do you think they are?” asked Cuthbert, his voice high and full of excitement.
“I am not sure,” replied Beobrand, peering into the distance. The wind pulled his cloak about his face and he shrugged it away. “What can you see? You have young eyes.”
Pleased to be given a task, Cuthbert relinquished his grip on his weapons and, climbing onto the wale, he clasped hold of the bowline and leaned out precariously over the rushing water.
“Careful, boy,” said Beobrand, suddenly fearful that in his eagerness Cuthbert would fall to his doom. As far as he knew the lad could not swim, so a tumble into the sea would spell his death as surely as a sword blade to the throat. He thought again of all the injuries and death that had befallen his black-shielded warriors over the years. They all understood that life as a gesithas was fraught, that nothing was certain and a man’s wyrd could never be foreseen. But Beobrand could not bear the thought of this youth dying. Beobrand recalled when Cuthbert’s grandmother had brought him to his hall at Ubbanford and begged the thegn to take the boy into his household.
“He is not a bad boy, lord,” she said, “but he is rash. He has too much wildness about him. He is never still. Always running, wrestling and fighting. He needs a firm hand. Ever since his father died, he has lacked discipline.”
Bassus and the rest of Beobrand’s men had been surprised when he accepted the boy into his retinue. They knew Beobrand as a dour, sullen man, prone to drink too much. Quick to anger and slow to laugh. He did not have time for children and frequently seemed aloof and distant.
But the boy’s father had been slain in battle against Oswine at Wudeburna, and Beobrand could not help feeling in some way responsible for the events that had led to the war between Bernicia and Deira. Besides, he had seen something in Cuthbert’s open gaze and enthusiasm that had called to him. A few days after he had taken the boy in, Rowena, Bassus’ woman, had broached the subject. The two old friends had been drinking mead late into the night in the relative quiet of Ubba’s old hall, where Bassus lived with Ubba’s widow. The rest of the warriors, with their raucous laughter, riddling and boasting, were in the new hall on the hill. It was pleasant to sit peacefully with Bassus and Rowena. Beobrand didn’t feel the need to be the lord of Ubbanford here. Here he could merely drink and eat, rather than presiding over the antics in the hall.
“I know why you accepted Cuthbert,” Rowena had said, as she refilled their horns with the good mead that Odelyna brewed. Bassus’ brow furrowed and he s
hot the woman a glare. “Oh, don’t you mind me,” she said, shooing away his concerns. “Beobrand is no fool. He must see why he took the boy in so readily.”
“The boy’s father is gone,” Beobrand said, his words slurring slightly. “He needs discipline and it is a good thing to train young men in the ways of war.”
“Yes, yes,” she replied, shaking her head and filling her own wooden cup. “But there is more here, is there not?”
“What do you mean?” asked Beobrand, wary at being confronted with something he had chosen not to think of too closely. Rowena always made him uneasy. She was as direct and fearless in conversation as he was in a shieldwall and, like his sword, her words often found their mark.
“You know what I mean,” she replied, meeting his gaze.
“I like the lad,” he said. “It is true. Even though at times he is as difficult to control as a wild cat.” Just that day Cuthbert had got himself into a fight with Eldred, Elmer’s oldest son, over a race. Cuthbert was exceedingly competitive and when he believed Eldred to have cheated by using a shortcut, he had knocked him to the ground and beaten him almost senseless. It had taken Beircheart and Gram to drag Cuthbert off the bleeding young man. Beobrand shook his head and took another sip of the mead. Could it be that he recognised himself in Cuthbert? The single-mindedness, the sudden flares of violent anger? “Maybe I see some of myself in the boy,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Rowena smiled and shook her head again.
“Perhaps,” she said, “but I think it is more than that.”
“What, woman? Speak clearly. I have never enjoyed riddles.”
Rowena sighed.
“You wish for a son.”
Her words had stunned him to silence for a heartbeat. Then his cheeks had grown hot.
“I have a son,” he said. But even as he said the words, he sensed the truth in what the grey-haired lady of Ubba’s Hall had said. It was true that he had a son, Octa, but the boy had spent many years in the household of King Oswiu. Now he was a warrior in the atheling Alhfrith’s comitatus. He was closer to the king and his son than he was to Beobrand. He barely saw the boy anymore, especially as he had been avoiding Bebbanburg ever since the fight with Heremod at Wulfstan’s hall in Deira.
For Lord and Land Page 2