For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  He shivered again. Perhaps he was growing old. Or his spirit had been broken along with his oath on that fell afternoon at Ediscum, when Heremod and his warriors had been slain.

  The sounds of battle grew louder now as they squelched past the line of willows that had kept them hidden from the causeway. Now would come the most dangerous moment, the time when they would be exposed to the men on the raised path and yet still gripped by the cold water and thick, clinging mud that seemed to hold them back, clutching their ankles with invisible hands intent on pulling them to their doom in the marsh.

  He waited for the others to reach him. The last rays of sun lit his face, warming it, despite the chill that enveloped him from the neck down. His arms ached from holding Nægling in its ornate scabbard above his head. He rested its weight on his helm and surveyed the men.

  Fraomar reached him first. He was covered in muck, his hair plastered dark to his face. Shortly after they had started along the line of trees, he had slipped beneath the waters, disappearing into the gloom, and it was only Garr’s quick reflexes that had saved him. The tall spear-man had plucked him from beneath the murky water. Fraomar had spluttered and coughed, spitting out foul water and cursing. He swore he had felt the claws of a creature take hold of his leg and drag him under towards its watery lair. Attor made the sign of the cross, as did some of the other men. Beobrand touched the Thunor’s hammer at his neck. All of the men spat or uttered prayers against the evil that lurked in the marsh. Lesser men would have turned back, but these were the Black Shields, and they would not turn away from danger, seen or unseen. They had pressed on, all the while hearing the fighting raging on the causeway to their left behind the willows. The sun was setting and there was no time to waste.

  “We must hurry now,” whispered Beobrand. “Cuthbert’s plan has got us this far.” The boy’s face was smeared with mud, but he smiled back, clearly glad of his lord’s praise. Above his broad grin, his eyes were wide and frightened. He was clearly terrified of what he had set in motion. Beobrand was proud of the boy’s courage, for a man who is not scared is not brave. “From here on they will be able to see us. The instant we head towards the path, we go as fast as we can. No shouting, unless they see us. The gods might smile on us yet. If we can get there without being seen, we form the shieldwall and attack the Mercians from the rear.”

  “And if they see us?” asked Grindan, his expression grave.

  “Then we hurry and kill the bastards!” Beobrand forced himself to grin. What the men needed now was for their hlaford to smile in the face of death, to show no fear. His actions had the power to lift the spirits of his men, and it was spirit above all that would see them triumph. “There is no time to waste. The sun is almost down and we can end this and save our allies before dusk.” He swept them all with his stern gaze. “If we make haste. Ready?”

  All of his men nodded in reply. They were bedraggled and muddy, their pale skin and bright eyes showing from beneath begrimed helms. They unslung their shields and drew their weapons. With a sigh of regret, Beobrand slung his baldric over his shoulder and allowed Nægling’s fine scabbard to splash into the foul-smelling marsh water. There was no way to keep it clean and dry now. He dragged the pattern-bladed sword free and the lowering sun set its blade afire. He wriggled his left arm into the leather straps he used on the rear of his shield to hold it firm and make up for the weak grip of his half-hand. With a final nod to his gesithas, he splashed past the twisted bole of the last willow tree and made his way as quickly as he could through the chest-deep water towards the causeway and the shieldwalls that struggled there.

  Nobody noticed them for a time and they made good progress. The water, catching the light of the afternoon sun, felt warmer here and, as he sloshed forward, it grew increasingly shallow. In a matter of half a dozen paces it was at his waist and the going was much easier. Swinging his legs in great strides he powered through the ever-shallower water. He could hear his men hurrying behind him, splashing and grunting with the effort of trying to run through the mud and murk of the mere. The water lapped about his thighs now and he was moving faster with every step. Ahead of him and to his left, he could see the rear of the Mercian shieldwall, writhing like a great beast. The setting sun glinted on the byrnies and blades of the warriors there. Beobrand offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Thunor and Woden. Cuthbert’s plan had worked. They had circled around through the marsh unseen and now they would fall on the Mercians from behind. The effect would be devastating.

  That was the moment when a Mercian saw them.

  A shout of alarm rose not from Beobrand’s left where the men battled on the causeway, but to his right, further along the path. A man stood there, his head bandaged with a blood-stained rag. He was shouting and pointing at the approaching Bernicians as they splashed their way laboriously through the mire towards the path. As Beobrand watched, others joined him. Each of them was injured in some way. One hobbled forward, using a spear as a crutch. Another held a sword in his left hand, his right hanging awkwardly at his side, the sleeve of his kirtle dark with blood. In moments, there were about a dozen of the wounded warriors. They must have been left there, behind their lines, unable to stand in the shieldwall any longer due to their wounds. They might not have sufficient strength for the shieldwall, but seeing the new threat coming from the north, they were brave enough to move to block them.

  Beobrand surged forwards as quickly as he was able, cursing as the mud clung to him and the sodden kirtle beneath his iron-knit shirt weighed him down. A quick glance to his left showed him that the main Mercian force, fully engaged in their fight with King Anna’s warband, had not heard the warning from their injured comrades. Perhaps Cuthbert’s plan would yet work, thought Beobrand grimly. But they could not leave armed foe-men behind them. There was no honour in slaying wounded men, but such was the way of war.

  The injured Mercians had formed a ragged shieldwall along the side of the path and they still called out to their shield-brothers for help. Gone was the time for stealth. Beobrand let out a great roar and sprang from the cold water, splashing mud and muck about him like some marsh monster of legend.

  “Death! Death!” he bellowed, releasing the tethered beast of his battle-ire to do its work.

  The man before him was the Mercian with the bandaged head. He thrust a spear at Beobrand. Catching the point on his linden board without thinking, Beobrand sprang up the slope to tear out the man’s throat with Nægling in a spray of crimson. The Mercian fell back and Beobrand was amongst them, like a wolf among lambs. These were warriors, brave and true, but they were all lessened by their injuries and were no match for Beobrand. He lay about him with Nægling, feeling the blade bite deep into flesh, sinew and bone.

  All the while his voice rose over the clamour, tearing at his throat with its ferocious fury.

  “Death! Death!”

  In a few heartbeats his comitatus were with him. Grindan severed a Mercian’s arm at the shoulder. Fraomar, dark with mud like a fiend from the deep, hacked down a pleading man. There would be no quarter here, no mercy. Eadgard’s axe hewed into a tall Mercian’s chest, sundering the links of his byrnie and splintering his ribs. The dying man tumbled to the dust of the path, wailing like a woman in childbirth.

  All about Beobrand his gesithas were slaughtering the injured Mercians. They could not stand against the deadly prowess of the Black Shields. And yet one of his warband was not truly a Black Shield. Not yet.

  Beobrand felt a terrible chill wash over him, colder than the water of the marsh, as he saw Cuthbert, kirtle hanging lank against his youthful slim frame. The boy had found himself alone at the furthest point away from the battle on the causeway. He faced a tall brute of a warrior. It was the man with the ruined arm, who now held his sword in his left hand. He had no shield and was wielding his blade in his weaker hand. Any of Beobrand’s hearth-warriors would have taken him in an eye-blink. But Cuthbert was little more than a child. Beobrand’s heart twisted as he saw the young man a
im a thrust with his spear at the Mercian. Faster than he had any right to be for such a burly man, the injured warrior dodged the attack and smashed his sword into the ash haft of the spear. The wood splintered and Cuthbert lost his grip on the weapon. The warrior kicked the spear away, leaving Cuthbert unarmed.

  Nobody else had noticed Cuthbert’s plight. They were all intent on their own battles, the bloodletting that came so naturally to them. With a cry of anger and despair, Beobrand sped towards Cuthbert and his assailant. The boy caught a vicious sword blow on his shield, then stepped back quickly, out of reach of the stronger man. Good, the boy had remembered something of his training. Beobrand had to pull up short to avoid colliding with Ulf, who was locked in combat with a blond brute swinging a hefty axe. Almost without conscious thought, Beobrand sliced his sword blade into the Mercian’s neck. The axeman crumpled and Ulf flashed his teeth in thanks to his lord.

  Beobrand looked up and his breath caught in his throat.

  “Cuthbert!” he bellowed and sprang onward through the melee.

  The boy was sprawled on the earth and for a sickening heartbeat Beobrand was sure the Mercian had slain him. But then he saw Cuthbert raise his shield to deflect a downward thrust from the one-armed assailant. With a savage grin, the warrior kicked the board aside, pinning it beneath his foot. He raised his sword for the killing blow. Cuthbert’s eyes were wide with terror. Beobrand knew in that instant that he would not reach the boy in time to save him.

  The Mercian’s sword began its downward arc at the same moment that Beobrand flung Nægling. It was a wild throw, borne of desperation. But despite being too far from the Mercian to slay him in hand to hand combat, only a dozen paces separated them, and at such a distance, it was hard for Beobrand to miss. He watched as Nægling spun flashing through the warm afternoon air. Cuthbert closed his eyes in preparation for the death strike that would pierce his chest.

  The Mercian’s blade never found its target. Beobrand’s sword struck the side of the man’s head with enough force to fling him from his feet. The blade hit point first, burying itself deep in the man’s skull. He was dead before he hit the earth alongside Cuthbert. His sword tumbled harmlessly into the dust beside the young Bernician.

  The slaughter of the injured was almost over as Beobrand skidded to a halt beside Cuthbert and the dead swordsman. Beobrand placed his foot against the Mercian’s head and, stooping to grasp Nægling’s grip, he tugged it free of the man’s skull. Glancing back at the causeway, he saw some of the Mercians at the rear of the shieldwall peering back at what was happening behind them.

  “Shieldwall!” he shouted, and his gesithas began to fall into place around him with slick, practised ease.

  Beobrand kicked the Mercian’s sword towards Cuthbert who was still sprawled, pale and shaking in the dust.

  “Take it,” Beobrand said. “It is your sword now.”

  Cuthbert grasped the hilt and pushed himself up, trembling and unsteady.

  Attor, his two vicious seaxes dripping with blood, moved to stand beside Fraomar, who had taken his place to Beobrand’s right. To his left, Dreogan was shuffling into position. Cuthbert swayed, and then collapsed.

  “Come on, lad,” said Dreogan. “There’ll be time to rest later.”

  It was then that Beobrand noticed the bloom of blood on the boy’s breeches. The wool was already dark with the mud from the mere, so the blood had not been immediately evident. Now the sunlight picked out vividly the slick red sheen on Cuthbert’s left leg. The boy’s face was as pallid as lamb’s wool.

  Beobrand grimaced at the sight. Had he been too late after all? He had brought the boy here, but this was no place for a child. This was a realm of killers, of butchers of men.

  “Beobrand!” Attor spoke his name, his tone sharp. “No time now to mourn the fallen. Those Mercian bastards know we’re here. If we are to have any chance of victory, we must attack now.”

  Beobrand pulled his gaze away from Cuthbert’s inert form. Attor was right. Some of the Mercians were turning to face them. The longer they were given to regroup and plan to defend against this fresh threat, the slimmer the chance Beobrand and his Black Shields would have. Cuthbert’s plan had brought them this far. Now to see it all the way through.

  “My brave gesithas,” Beobrand shouted. “Now is the time these Mercians learn what it is to face Bernicians!” He glanced to either side to check that all of his men were in place. The ground between them and the Mercian line was strewn with the corpses of the injured men they had just slain. It would make the footing treacherous, but he could see no better way to break the enemy line.

  “Boar-snout!” he bellowed and, knowing his men would execute the manoeuvre with precision, he sprinted forward at the tip of the wedge that would drive into the Mercian shieldwall.

  Chapter 5

  “Stop staring at me like that,” Cynan said. “I know what you are thinking.” He kicked Mierawin, his bay mare, into an easy gallop that he knew Ingwald would not be able to match on his stocky, short-legged gelding. The man was not much of a rider and could never rival Cynan on horseback.

  “Lord! Wait for me,” Ingwald shouted over the drum of the horses’ hooves and the rush of the wind through the trees that loomed at either side of the path. In many places, the oaks and beech trees arched their boughs over the trail, forming a living tunnel. Cynan usually loved riding between his hall, Stagga, and Ubbanford along this tree-lined path that he knew as well as he knew his own palm. But today his mind was swirling with concerns and worries. If only Beobrand had taken him south with him. That was where he should have been and, not for the first time, he cursed his hlaford for leaving without him. Instead Cynan had received word from Bassus after Beobrand had already left with Ferenbald aboard the ship they had taken from the pirates on the coast of the Narrow Sea. Cynan did not begrudge them the sea voyage. He remembered the fear of drowning in the cold, unforgiving depths. He was much more at home on the back of a horse.

  Cynan nudged Mierawin with his knees, turning her slightly in anticipation of the beech branch that he knew jutted out into the path around the next bend.

  “Careful of the branch coming up,” he shouted over his shoulder. Ingwald was urging his mount into a reckless run and Cynan did not want the man to be hurt. All he wanted was a moment of peace. A moment to collect his thoughts and not have to contend with his hearth-warrior’s knowing glances. He had been happy to ride with only Ingwald for company. There should be no danger on the oft-travelled track between Stagga and Ubbanford, and Ingwald was usually a good companion. He did not speak too much, only offering his opinion when asked. But today, his silence seemed to carry a host of unspoken questions. His sidelong glances were pregnant with accusations. Cynan wished he had ridden alone.

  Gods, why had Eadgyth said such a thing?

  The beech bough whipped past on his right and Cynan allowed Mierawin to slow her pace slightly. It felt good to let the mare have her head, but he would never forgive himself if she came up lame as a result of his madcap dash through the shadowy forest. The trees overhung the path here and it was as dark as dusk, easy for his mount to miss her footing.

  He pulled gently on the reins, slowing Mierawin to a comfortable canter.

  The trees passed more slowly now, but he barely noticed. All he could think of was what had occurred that morning. Life had been good. Everything was as it should be. Apart from the annoyance at Beobrand leaving him behind, all was well. In fact, Bassus had said it was an honour to be asked to watch over Ubbanford in the lord’s absence. After all, someone needed to protect the folk and there would be other chances to add to his hoard of battle-fame. Yes, Bassus was right. After a day of sullenly stalking about Stagga, Cynan had finally come to terms with the situation. He would keep the warriors occupied, training them for when Oswine of Deira chose to march again. His mind was at ease once more and he had told Eadgyth as much just the night before as they sipped their mead in the fire-lit shadows of the hall.

  She had
known he was happy with his lot again, and so it had come as a shock when she had voiced her question without warning. What madness had possessed her to ask such a thing of him?

  Mierawin carried him on along the forest path, but he was barely conscious of the movement of her cantering. He witnessed absently the light lancing through the canopy of leaves, lowered his head without thinking to avoid low hanging boughs, but his mind was elsewhere.

  Was it truly such a foolish notion? She was a comely woman and he liked her well enough. But to even consider her request filled him with a dreadful sense of betrayal. She was Acennan’s widow!

  If they wed, nobody could consider it a hasty marriage. It had been nine long years since Acennan’s death. So much had changed since then. The last time he had seen Acennan alive Cynan had been a headstrong young gesith, an erstwhile thrall with nothing more to his name than that which Beobrand and Acennan had given him. Now he was the master of the hall at Stagga; hlaford to a warband of his own. He could scarcely believe it when Ingwald and the others had remained with him after the battle at the gates of Bebbanburg. More warriors had come too, bringing their shields and their oaths when they had heard that Cynan the Waelisc Black Shield now resided in the great hall of Stagga.