“Father,” his son replied with a nod of his head, but no other sign of recognition or warmth.
Beobrand met his son’s cold gaze for a few heartbeats, wondering at the young man who sat astride the horse before him. Octa wore a fine iron-knit shirt. Atop his head was a simple but well-made helm. His cloak was held in place by a brooch that glimmered with gold and garnets in spite of the louring clouds and rain that had dimmed the light of the sun. In his hand he carried a gold-hilted ring sword with patterned blade. This was a warrior of worth and renown. He was as tall as his father, broad of shoulder with the same ice-chip eyes. And yet Beobrand fancied he could see Sunniva in his son’s face. The thought twisted at his heart. He had lost the boy’s mother the day Octa was born. In the years since, he had lost his son too.
Offa and Attor drew in their steeds beside Beobrand. Another rider pushed his way through the jostling ranks to face them.
“Lord Beobrand,” he said. “Good of you to join us on this fine day.” The rain dripped from his great helm, trickling from the nose guard like an icicle in the spring thaw. The bristles of the boar crest on the crown of the helm were flattened and lank.
“I would not miss it for anything, Lord Ethelwin,” replied Beobrand.
Ethelwin looked beyond Beobrand and the riders that flanked him, peering into the rain-smudged distance. He was a thickset man with a solid, corded neck and strong shoulders. Beneath his helm. Beobrand could just make out the scar that he had picked up in some long-forgotten campaign. Behind the helm’s protection, Ethelwin’s nose was twisted and broad where it had been broken.
“The king did not ride with you?”
“Alas, no. His foot pains him terribly.” Beobrand thought that the excuse did not perhaps sound worthy of a king, so he added, “He can barely walk.”
Ethelwin nodded grimly.
“It shall pass soon enough,” he said. “He has been afflicted by this ailment before. Aidan told him it was a result of all that Frankish wine he likes so much, but I know not of any man who could dissuade Oswiu from drinking what he pleases.”
“He is stubborn indeed,” said Beobrand. “Few men can prevail on him when he sets his course.”
Ethelwin stared at him appraisingly, as if weighing his words for some hidden meaning.
“Talking of setting a course,” he said at last. “I heard you had sailed south. A pleasant trip, I hope.”
Beobrand chuckled at the man’s light tone.
“Pleasing enough, if you find pleasure in wading through fens and facing superior numbers in a shieldwall.”
Ethelwin grinned, showing the gaps where several of his teeth had been dislodged in brawls and combat.
“Such sounds like a warrior’s dream. But how came you to be fighting so far south?”
“It is a long story that can keep for later. But the fight ended in victory and me bringing to Bebbanburg King Anna of the East Angelfolc. This here is his man, Offa. He is a true friend. Brave and steadfast. We stood together years ago at the battle of the great ditch.”
Ethelwin whistled and nodded a welcome to Offa.
“You are a fighter then, Offa. If you have the praise of Beobrand here.”
“I fight when I need to,” replied Offa. He wiped a hand over his face, clearing it for a moment of the rain that pelted down on them. “And I am thankful for Beobrand’s appearance in the south. If not for him…” His voice trailed off as he thought of what might have been. He coughed to clear his throat. “His Black Shields rescued us and our king.”
“Perhaps I am in time to save another king this day,” said Beobrand, kicking his horse forward. “You ride to parley?”
Ethelwin frowned, but after a moment’s hesitation, swung his horse around to follow Beobrand to the head of the band of warriors. Offa and Attor joined the group who rode behind, beneath the banners and standards that hung lank and dripping from their crossbeams.
At the front of the small column Beobrand found another face he recognised. He rode up close to Wynhelm and held out his hand to the old thegn. Wynhelm leaned over in his saddle and grasped Beobrand’s forearm in the warrior grip. His grip was firm and strong, despite the increasing amount of silver in his hair.
“It is good to see you, Beobrand,” he said.
They kicked their horses into a trot. In the distance Beobrand could make out the shadowed shapes of horsemen waiting beneath standards of their own. They were yet too far away for him to make out details, but there seemed to be a similar number of them as the Bernicians. A dozen or so.
“It has been too long,” replied Beobrand. “And you are getting old.”
Wynhelm laughed.
“And you are as brash as ever, I see. Do not forget, we ride to parley, not to fight.”
Beobrand offered him a smile.
“I will not forget. I too am growing older, Wynhelm.”
“And wiser?”
Beobrand puffed out his cheeks.
“I doubt it, but perhaps less rash than I once was.”
“Do you admit then that the mighty Beobrand is slowing down with age? Next you will be telling me you have seen the light of the Lord and that you watch angels flying in the heavens.”
Beobrand started at the mention of angels. He thought of Cuthbert and the boy’s vision. Unbidden, he glanced up at the dark sky above, but the only thing he saw were the brooding clouds. Rain spattered into his eyes and he wiped them with the back of his hand. Wynhelm laughed again, thinking he was making jest.
“No. No Christ for me, and no angels,” said Beobrand. “But believe it or not, I am to be a grandfather this summer.” He touched the Thunor’s hammer amulet at his neck and spat into the mud to ward off any evil that might come from speaking of Ardith’s child before it was born. “If the gods will it.”
“Have you heard that, Octa?” shouted a young man who rode beside Wynhelm on a tall white horse. It was Alhfrith, the atheling, heir to Oswiu’s throne. There was much of his father in him, and little of it endeared the atheling to Beobrand. He was a valiant warrior, of that there was no doubt. But he was young and filled with the certainty of his position. His tone made Beobrand clutch his reins tightly. He was tempted to tumble Alhfrith from his horse. Alhfrith turned in his saddle to look back at where Beobrand’s son rode. “You are to be an uncle. Your sister is carrying that smith’s brat.”
“She is not my sister,” replied Octa, and Beobrand sighed. He had not been close to Octa for many years. The boy had spent too long in Oswiu’s household and Beobrand had done little to bridge the gap he had felt growing between them. But ever since he had returned from the voyage to Cantware and Frankia, bearing Ardith and Udela with him, Octa had grown ever more belligerent towards him, especially whenever there was a mention that he was not Beobrand’s only child. For a time, Beobrand had hoped his children would grow to love each other. To have the bond with a sibling was something he had known and lost. He craved it for his son, but now he was certain Octa and Ardith would never be more than distant kin. They shared blood, but that did not make them friends.
“It seems you have much to tell us, Beobrand,” said Wynhelm.
“But not now,” snapped Ethelwin. They were close to the waiting Deirans now and Ethelwin addressed the Bernician party before they were near enough to be overheard. “Keep your mouths shut and let me do the talking.” He looked pointedly at Beobrand, who ignored him. Wynhelm caught Beobrand’s eye and held out a steadying hand. He patted the air before him gently. His meaning was clear. Be calm. Do nothing foolish.
In response Beobrand kicked his horse forward into a gallop ahead of the others.
“Wait, you fool,” shouted Alhfrith, but Beobrand did not slow down.
A few heartbeats later he was reining in his mount before the gathered Deirans. He could hear the rest of the Bernicians urging their horses forward to join him, but he did not turn to see their progress.
“You always like to make an entrance, don’t you, Lord Beobrand,” said one of the th
egns in the centre of the Deiran ranks. He was a handsome, dark-bearded man. His helm was plain, his byrnie dull from the grease that had been rubbed on it to protect from the damp. The sword that hung at his side had an elaborate hilt, garnet encrusted and gleaming, but the brooch that pinned his cloak was a simple ring and pin of bronze. He smiled at Beobrand.
“I find it the best way not to be forgotten or overlooked, Wulfstan,” replied Beobrand with a grin.
Wulfstan chuckled and touched his heels to his horse. Beobrand stood his ground and awaited the Deiran thegn’s approach. When he reached him, Wulfstan leaned across his horse’s neck and clasped Beobrand’s arm in the greeting of equals. Around them, Ethelwin, Wynhelm, Alhfrith and the other Bernicians were clattering to a halt.
“Watch yourself,” hissed Wulfstan for Beobrand’s ears alone. “Odda has Oswine’s ear. He is desperate for war.”
Beobrand gave him a slight nod to show he had understood his words. But there could be no further talking without being overheard, so Wulfstan spun his horse around.
“Alhfrith Atheling,” he said with a nod. “Lord Ethelwin.”
And with that, Wulfstan walked his horse back to his own people.
Before he had turned his mount around once more to face the Bernicians, another thegn nudged his horse a step forward. Beobrand recognised him as Odda. His face was unblemished and handsome. His chin was shaved, but a wispy moustache adorned his upper lip. Odda’s byrnie shimmered, his arms were decorated with several warrior rings, and his cloak was pinned with a gold and garnet brooch of lavish and cunning design. Where the rest of the Deirans bore no shields, or carried them strapped to their backs, this young thegn held his brightly painted shield with its red star on a black field as if he were proud to display it. Or perhaps, Beobrand thought, he felt in need of protection.
“Do you come to offer your surrender?” Odda barked. “Does Oswiu renounce his claim to the throne of Deira?”
Alhfrith spurred his white horse forward, tugging angrily at the reins after a couple of paces to halt the animal.
“We come to do no such thing, Odda, son of Orc,” he snapped. His horse stamped and snorted, the beast’s breath billowing around its head in the cool afternoon air. “We come to defend what is ours by right of blood and marriage. Deira is ours.”
“Yours, is it?”
It was King Oswine who spoke now, his voice calm and soothing. The king of Deira wore no helm, but his chestnut-colour wet hair was held out of his eyes by a circlet of gold. Beneath the fine white cloak around his shoulders, he was bedecked in a burnished shirt of iron rings. Oswine was tall and elegant, with an earnest mien and deep, intelligent dark eyes. Beobrand had always liked the man. He reminded him of Oswald. Oswine now stared at Alhfrith. The atheling held his gaze for a long moment, before looking away.
“Deira is my father’s by right,” he said, his voice less forceful under the king’s glare.
“We have come to talk,” said Ethelwin, his tone placatory. “There is no need for further bloodshed.”
“It is a little late for that, Lord Ethelwin,” said Oswine, shifting his attention to the warmaster of Bernicia. “The time for talk has passed.”
Beobrand took a deep breath.
“No, lord king,” he said. “It is never too late to parley for peace. We can form the shieldwalls and drench the earth in the slaughter-sweat of good men, both Deiran and Bernician, but to what end?” He met the king’s gaze. Out of the edge of his vision he saw Wulfstan nodding. “Let us talk.”
“On what authority do you speak for Bernicia?” asked Oswine.
Beobrand sighed.
“With the authority of one who has seen too much senseless killing for one lifetime. The gods know I have sent my share of enemies to the afterlife. I do not wish to slay more of those I think of as friends. Allies.”
“This is a trick, lord,” said Odda, and Oswine flicked a glance his way.
“A trick?”
“It must be, lord king. A ruse. For when has Beobrand ever wished for peace?”
“I think there is sense in what Lord Beobrand says,” Wulfstan said. “I have known him for many years and he is no fool.” He looked pointedly at Odda as he uttered these last words.
Odda scowled.
“Fool, am I?” he snarled.
Wulfstan smiled and shrugged.
“If the helm fits the head.”
Odda’s cheeks flushed. Beobrand snorted.
“Laugh at me, would you?” Odda said, turning to face Beobrand.
Beobrand held him in his stern glare.
“Battle is no laughing matter.”
Another Deiran rode forward, urging his stocky mount to shove past the tightly packed horses and riders. He was a thickset man, with a long dark beard and jutting eyebrows. His hair was streaked with silver and his nose was scarred from a past battle. Beobrand recognised the man as Brunwine, who men called “The Blessed” after his seemingly miraculous ability to triumph in combat. Brunwine was the champion of Deira. Feared in combat, he was as respected as he was loud when at the mead benches; famed as much for his booming voice as for his prowess in battle. Now, he raised his famous voice so that nobody could ignore it. Like thunder it rolled over them all.
“Lord Beobrand is right,” he roared. “There is little to laugh about in war. And there is certainly no mirth in seeing your countrymen slain. Which is why we are here, is it not?” These last words were almost shouted.
“Nobody is laughing,” said Beobrand, keeping his voice low and even. “I do not wish to fight you, Brunwine.”
The huge champion let out a roar of laughter.
“I am sure you do not! You would rather talk, it seems.”
“I would spare bloodshed, if we are able.”
Brunwine’s face was set in a furious scowl now, all trace of humour gone.
“Perhaps you should have told that to your bastard of a king before he sent his men to raid Deiran lands.”
Alhfrith growled at the insult to his father.
“Enough!” snapped Oswine, in the tone of a father tired with his children’s arguing. The men fell silent. Oswine chewed his lip, looking from his thegns to Beobrand, Ethelwin and Alhfrith.
“Is Oswiu here?” he asked. “Perhaps it would be prudent to talk.”
“My father is not with us,” snapped Alhfrith. “But I speak with his voice.”
“Hush, Alhfrith,” Beobrand murmured, though he doubted his words would have any effect on the headstrong atheling.
“I will not be silenced by you or any other thegn,” Alhfrith hissed.
Beobrand sighed.
Oswine narrowed his eyes.
“Where is your father, boy?” Oswine asked.
“I am no child,” said Alhfrith, his voice as hard and cold as iron. Beobrand turned in his saddle and found Octa staring at him with undisguised contempt. He had seen both Alhfrith and Octa fight; had watched them batter their enemies into submission and death. The atheling was right, he was no child. And yet, he was that most dangerous of things: a man, with a warrior’s strength and battle-skill, with the fleet mind and quick temper of a boy.
“My father is at Bebbanburg,” Alhfrith continued, when Oswine said nothing. “He is ill, but I am here in his stead.” He drew himself up in the saddle and squared his shoulders.
Oswine was silent. Odda leaned in close and whispered into his king’s ear. Beobrand cursed inwardly.
“If you speak with Oswiu King’s words, young Alhfrith Atheling,” Oswine said, “what does Oswiu say?”
Alhfrith puffed out his chest and Beobrand knew then that any chance of averting battle had been lost.
“He says that you are an invading warhost and we have a God-given right and duty to defend our land and our people. You must disperse and return immediately to Deira, or face the might of Bernicia, shieldwall to shieldwall.”
“What you deem invasion, I call retribution,” said Oswine, all softness gone now from his tone. “Too long have I born
e the insults of your raids into my lands. Too many of my people have been slain. There is only one way that we will return to Deira without spilling Bernician blood.”
“And what is that?” asked Ethelwin. Ever the pragmatist, the warmaster was keen to seek a peaceful outcome.
“That your king pays in silver and gold for the lives of those Deirans who have been killed at his people’s hands. Pay the blood-price, and we will return home. He can renounce his claim to the throne another time. For now, I cannot return empty-handed. I must give my men plunder. They demand payment for their ceorls slain; for the steadings burnt and the cattle stolen away by Bernician raiders. What say you, Ethelwin warmaster?”
“Bernicia will never pay!” said Alhfrith, his voice as harsh as a crow’s croak. The rain pelted the land and thunder rumbled in the distance, like the sound of a memory from the battle between Oswald and Cadwallon that had been fought here all those years before. Water trickled down Beobrand’s spine, but he would not allow himself to shiver.
Oswine stared at the atheling for several heartbeats.
“Then prepare your men,” he said at last. “For tomorrow at dawn, we shall meet them in the field.”
Brunwine shook his head.
“Too late for words, it seems,” he said in his echoing voice.
Without waiting for a response, the king and his champion swung their horses around to the south and began their way back through the driving rain towards the miasma of smoke that hung over the Deiran battle host.
Odda glowered at Beobrand.
“I will look for you tomorrow.”
“It will not be hard to find me. Just look for the heap of Deiran dead.”
Odda squared his shoulders, perhaps searching for a cutting reply. But after a couple of heartbeats, he turned his horse around and followed Oswine. As soon as they were certain their king was a safe distance from the Bernicians, the rest of the Deiran thegns and ealdormen rode away. The last warrior to leave was Wulfstan. Before he did so, he met Beobrand’s gaze and gave a small shake of his head.
Beobrand sighed and pulled his mare’s head around to begin the wet ride back to the Bernician camp.
Alhfrith’s voice, loud and stark, boomed out for all to hear.
For Lord and Land Page 15