For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  “On the morrow we will send those cowardly Deirans back south with their tails between their legs.”

  “I wish there were some women in the camp,” said Octa. “I would like to put my own tail to use between a nice bed-thrall’s legs. Battle always gets my blood up.”

  Alhfrith and the other warriors of his comitatus laughed.

  “When we return to Bebbanburg with the news of our victory, there will be many willing women who will be as wet as this day for the returning heroes.”

  “But warmer, I hope,” shouted one of the young warriors.

  The men laughed again.

  Beobrand said nothing. Alhfrith was certainly no child, but he was no king either. As he listened to the young men bragging and boasting about their upcoming exploits, he was suddenly glad that Cuthbert was not there with them. The lad was so eager for battle, so filled with the desire for glory. Beobrand looked at Octa. Were all young men so? Surely he had been no different. Some would say he was still rash and prone to leap into combat when calm should prevail. But this fight against fellow Northumbrians? Not for the first time, he thought of the futility of this war between Oswiu and Oswine and wondered at where it would end.

  He knew that when the sun rose, he would do his duty and stand against the Deirans. His oath was to Oswiu and so he would fight. And when the blades sang and the men screamed in the clash of the shieldwalls, he would be lost to the fury of battle. But when the battle was over and the dead lay scattered across the land to feed the foxes, wolves and ravens, then, he thought, they would all regret not seeking a peaceful outcome.

  After a time, none of the others would engage the atheling in conversation or meet his gaze. The band of riders fell silent and they rode north with their heads dipped against the rain.

  Chapter 15

  Cynan pulled his sodden cloak about his shoulders and lowered his head, allowing Mierawin to walk where she would. She could follow the path well enough now. They had ridden for a long while across windswept moors where the rain had lashed at them. The wind whipped down from the slopes of the mountains to the north, slapping the rain into their faces like stones from a sling. It had rained incessantly for the last day and night, and for a long while there had been no trail to follow. But Sulis had led the way well enough, and at midday they had reached a muddy track that ran alongside a birch wood.

  “Soon we will be on my husband’s land,” she said.

  None of the men had replied, but Cynan had noted Ingwald checking his weapons, sliding his sword out of its scabbard to see that it would not stick if it was needed. Halinard’s hand dropped to the hefty seax that hung at his belt. For a time they all rode straighter in their saddles, more alert and ready for danger. But soon the constant soaking from the rain, the hiss of the downpour and the wind whispering through the trees, had them once again slumped in their saddles. Cynan shivered. The gods knew what the others were thinking, but his thoughts were dominated by warm halls, roaring hearth fires, good mead and greasy mutton. He could have been back in Stagga, sipping mead with Eadgyth in the comfortable hall. With a pang of guilt he thought of Acennan’s widow. He had left her with her question unanswered. He’d fled to Ubbanford and then embarked on this wild errand. He saw her eyes, beautiful and full of intelligence, in his memory. What he wouldn’t give to see her now. He longed for her counsel and her friendship. Did he desire more than that? The idea unnerved him. It did not sit well within his thoughts, but there was no denying that his mind returned to Eadgyth whenever it could. Still, it was uncomfortable. No matter how he approached the notion of Eadgyth and marriage, like a boot with a pebble inside, he could not find a way for the idea to fit correctly in his mind.

  He wiped away the water that slicked his face. Perhaps he would not have had an easy time of it if he’d returned to Stagga, but it would certainly have been drier and warmer than riding through this chill rain in Rheged.

  “How much further?” he asked, wishing to change the subject of his thoughts as much as anything.

  “Since we passed the thorn bush on the hill,” Sulis said, pointing back the way they had come, “we have been on our land. There is not far to go now.”

  Cynan raised himself up in his saddle and shielded his eyes against the rain. Some way off, the steep scarp of a mountain rose to be veiled by low-lying cloud. Closer to the riders, the path meandered down into a valley that was dotted with copses and small woods. A few pale sheep were scattered along the hillside.

  It was a peaceful-looking place, much as Sulis had described it. Remote and hilly. A great gift from King Oswald to a trusty warrior no doubt. Some good grazing, some forests for wood and mast. Enough to provide for a few families, but nothing that would make a man rich.

  Cynan reined in and flicked his gaze back over the valley below. Something had pulled at his senses. Sulis pulled her pony to a halt beside him.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  By way of answer, he held his hand up for silence.

  Halinard, Ingwald and Brinin rode up.

  “What have you seen?” asked Ingwald, peering in the direction that Cynan was looking.

  “Listen,” Cynan said. “I heard something on the wind.”

  “What?” asked Brinin.

  Cynan hissed for silence and for several heartbeats they all sat astride their mounts without speaking. Mierawin snorted and shook her great head. Without thinking, Cynan patted her thick mane. Perhaps he had imagined it after all. He was about to kick the mare into motion once more when he heard it again. A thin sound, reedy with distance, almost drowned by the rain and the wind. But it had been piercing enough to make out.

  He looked at the others and saw on their faces that they had heard it too.

  “Was that a scream?” asked Brinin.

  “Could it have been a bird?” asked Ingwald.

  “No,” shouted Sulis, her voice rending the quiet that had fallen around them as they strained to hear. “It was a scream.”

  Cynan looked at her. She was pale, her wet skin as white as a gull’s wing. She was pointing down into the valley. For a time he could see nothing to explain her reaction. Then, with a start, he saw movement. There were men down there. And horses. As he watched he saw the dull gleam of steel. A moment later, the piteous thin scream reached them again. Whatever was happening, someone was being hurt and Cynan felt his anger flare like a beacon within him.

  “This is your land?” he snapped at Sulis.

  “It is.”

  “And the only people here are Leofman and your bondsman?”

  She nodded.

  “Alfwold, yes.”

  Cynan watched the movement on the path below for a heartbeat and made his decision.

  “Brinin,” he barked, “stay with Sulis. Protect her. Watch what happens. If things go badly for us, flee. Keep her safe.”

  Brinin opened his mouth as if to respond, then closed it and just nodded.

  Cynan pulled his sword from its tooled leather scabbard. He drew in a great breath of the cold moist air.

  “Halinard, Ingwald,” he said. “With me.”

  He dug his heels into Mierawin’s flanks, and the mare shot off at a gallop down the hill. Ingwald and Halinard rode with him. He did not know what they were riding towards. But he had heard the screams and, as they sped down the path, he thought he could see a lone figure being tormented by several mounted men. Whatever the man had done to deserve such abuse, Cynan did not know. Nor did he truly care. He had been wrestling with his worries and concerns ever since leaving Ubbanford like a thief in the dark of the night. He could feel those worries falling away from him as he galloped towards the clump of men beside the towering tree on the track. It felt good to be done with his turmoil of concerns for a while. There was no time for such things now. He kicked Mierawin on to renewed haste. The man closest to him turned, his mouth a dark circle of surprise. In his hand he held a sword, its blade cold and grey in the rain-slick afternoon light. No, the time for thoughts was done. Now was the
time for action, and Cynan felt the thrill of it thrumming in his blood.

  They had ridden across Albion expecting trouble. It seemed at last, they had found it.

  Chapter 16

  “Death! Death!” Beobrand yelled in his battle-voice, rallying his men. Beside him, his black-shielded gesithas held firm, stepping forward slowly as their foe-men fell back or were slain by the implacable onslaught. As inexorable as wyrd, the shieldwall advanced. It was slower going now, the earth churned to a mire of mud, spilt guts and blood. The world was filled with the screams of the dying, the roars of rage of the killers and the soon-to-be killed, the cataclysmic crash of shields on shields and the smithy clang of metal on metal.

  The first attack had come shortly after dawn, just as Oswine had said. Beobrand had worried that the Deirans might attack at night, and had told Ethelwin to double the watches on the pickets around the camp. The warmaster, recalling Beobrand’s warning at Bebbanburg that had prevented the fortress falling to a stealthy night-time sortie, had nodded and ordered more guards to be posted and for the fyrd to be alert and ready for action. None of the men had slept well, but there had been no night attack. Oswine was a good follower of Christ and would not lie, not even to defeat an enemy. Such honesty would surely be his downfall, Beobrand had thought, as the Deiran shieldwall had formed in the drizzle-damp dawn.

  In that initial clash in the watery grey light, with the rain still falling from a slate-hued sky, the ranks of both forces had been thinned of the inexperienced and the unlucky. Like chaff separated from the wheat by the thresher’s flail, that unfortunate crop of warriors had fallen. After a gruelling time of bloodletting, each side had grown tired and, as if by mutual agreement, the two shieldwalls had fallen back several paces. Men had bound wounds and taken the opportunity to take a gulp of water before the next furious assault. Some had dashed out to drag back injured comrades who were too weak to walk or crawl behind their lines. Others were left between the shieldwalls; a blood-soaked harvest of the scything blades of these grim-faced reapers, these trained and hardened warriors. These killers of men.

  The second coming together of the warhosts was different from the outset. Each enemy that remained had been tempered in battle and would not break easily. Every step was hard-earned and each encounter between individual warriors was drawn out and filled with peril. Along the Bernician line several men fell, but the shieldwall stood strong, and the gaps were plugged quickly. And still, Beobrand and his Black Shields advanced. No Deiran lord’s warband could withstand the brunt of the Black Shields’ assault. The combination of strength, well-drilled coordination and bravery made them almost unstoppable. When coupled with their battle-fame and the reputation of their half-handed leader, they seemed invincible.

  Beobrand caught an axe blow on the rim of his shield. With a twist of his wrist, the Deiran’s attack was deflected away from Beobrand’s face and, too slow to recover his balance, Nægling tore out the man’s throat. As the warrior collapsed to his knees, hands clutching uselessly to stem the flow of blood from the gash in his neck, Beobrand hammered his sword blade into the crown of the man’s helm. It rang like one of the church bells he had heard tolling for the Christ’s prayers at Eoferwic, and the Deiran went limp and sprawled to the earth, unmoving. Dead or dying was all the same to Beobrand, just as long as he was no longer a threat. Quickly, Beobrand looked at Nægling’s blade. It was patterned like the skin of a snake, or rippling water, and it was smeared with the blood of many foes. With relief he saw the metal was not bent and its edge still held. It was a risk to batter the blade against a helm, but now was not the time to be protective of his sword’s edge. Now was the killing time, and he would ensure that any foe who fell before him was no longer able to wield a weapon. He would not risk an injured man’s knife stabbing up from under the shieldwall. He had lost his lord, Scand, that way and he would never make that mistake himself.

  To his right, Attor, shield in hand for once and one of his wicked seaxes in the other, grinned with savage glee.

  “Come to die, you piss-guzzling, goat-swiving, sons of pox-riddled whores!”

  As Beobrand watched, Attor pushed an opponent back and, dropping low, hacked his seax into the Deiran’s shin. The man had no armour there and he screamed pitifully. He tried to stand, but staggered, unsteady and disoriented by the pain. Grindan, who fought on Attor’s right, drove his sword into the wounded man’s belly. Beyond Grindan was his brother, Eadgard. His huge axe slashed up and down, flicking rain and blood from its heavy head as it splintered shields, sundered helms and snapped sword blades. The Deirans were falling back in the face of such ferocious opposition and Beobrand dragged his attention back to the enemies who stood directly in front of him.

  Dreogan was on his left, and as they stepped forward, adding pressure on the Deiran ranks, the tattooed warrior pointed with his dripping sword further along the line, towards the left where Ethelwin had placed Alhfrith and his comitatus. Octa was there, and Beobrand’s breath caught in his throat as he glanced in the direction of Dreogan’s bloody sword tip. The line had lost its shape and was bending. All was chaos, a surging mass of fighting and dying. Where was Alhfrith’s blue stallion banner? Had the atheling and his warband been overrun?

  “The young ones are showing us how it’s done,” grumbled Dreogan.

  All at once, the picture fell into place and Beobrand made sense of what he saw. The atheling’s stallion standard had not fallen. The Deirans had not overwhelmed Oswiu’s son. Alhfrith had pushed his warband like a wedge into the Deiran ranks! There was his banner, surrounded by Deirans as the atheling and his hearth-warriors fought with bold abandon. Beobrand thought he caught a glimpse of Octa, towering over the enemy warriors, but then he was lost to view in the jostle and shove of the heaving warhost that surrounded them.

  “By Tiw’s cock,” shouted Beobrand, “what is that fool doing?”

  Dreogan grunted as a stocky Deiran clattered into his shield. Beobrand, still with no enemy of his own close enough to strike, swung Nægling, cleaving into the man’s neck. Dreogan’s opponent bellowed like a bull and turned with an almost comical expression of fury towards Beobrand. Dreogan leaned over his shield and pulled his sword viciously across the man’s exposed throat. He crumpled to the quagmire beneath their feet, clawing at his throat and gurgling on his own lifeblood.

  “Maybe not such a fool,” said Dreogan, pointing again with his sword. Beobrand looked at where he indicated and saw Oswine’s golden cross and lions standard.

  Looking back at Alhfrith’s position, Beobrand nodded.

  “He is going to try and take Oswine,” he said, shocked at the audacity of it. He may be foolhardy, he thought, but he was brave.

  “That’s the sort of thing you would do, lord,” yelled Fraomar from further down the line.

  By Woden, it was. Perhaps he was getting old after all. A few years earlier he would not have hesitated to undertake such a daring attack. He shook his head and blinked the rain, sweat and blood from his eyes. He was dismayed at his own hesitation. And Octa was with Alhfrith. He could not let them be surrounded and overcome.

  “Come, my brave gesithas,” he shouted in his loudest voice. “The atheling needs us. See there? The cross and lions of Oswine King?” He pointed with Nægling’s patterned blade at the Deiran king’s banner. “We will meet Alhfrith there and, if the gods will it, we shall take our lord king’s enemy and put an end to this war.”

  The Black Shields roared their appreciation of their lord’s words.

  “With me then!” he yelled. “Let us race the atheling and his young warband to the king’s banner. And men.” They paused expectantly. “Let us be the first ones to our destination.”

  With a roar, they redoubled their efforts, surging forward and cutting deeply into the Deiran shieldwall.

  Chapter 17

  Cynan surveyed the scene as he galloped towards the small group of men clustered on the muddy path in the shadow of the towering oak. There were six of them st
anding beneath the massive tree. Their horses looked up from where they had been cropping at the grass beside the path. One of them whinnied an anxious greeting to the approaching horses. Mierawin did not respond. Her ears were flattened against her head and her thrumming hooves ate up the remaining distance to the tree in a few heartbeats.

  It was only when they were within a spear-throw of the men on the path that Cynan saw the object of their attention and surely the man they had heard screaming from far off on the ridge of the hill. He was not a young man, with a bald pate and wisps of grey hair at his temples. But his body had a wiry strength and his arms and face bore the weathered tan of one who spends all of his life outdoors. He had been stripped of his kirtle and was lashed to the broad bole of the oak. A rope was looped about his throat, while others bound his arms and body, holding him tight against the rough bark of the tree’s trunk. He strained at his bonds, his chest, arms and stomach all corded muscles, hard and angular as he grunted with effort and pain. The pallid skin of his chest and stomach was streaked with blood from several deep cuts.

  Cynan pulled on Mierawin’s reins. Throwing his right leg over her neck, he slid from her back before she had stopped moving. Without pause, he tugged his black shield from where it was tied to the saddle. Ingwald and Halinard, not such accomplished riders, were reining in and dismounting some paces away. Cynan slapped Mierawin’s rump, sending the mare cantering out of harm’s way.

  The men on the path had all turned to face the threat of these three strangers who had galloped out of the rain. They abandoned the man hanging from the tree to his moans and grunts as he struggled in vain to free himself.

  “Who in the name of Woden and all his children are you?” said a thickset man with a close-cropped beard that accentuated the roll of fat beneath his chin. His tone was part angry and part amused, as if the sight of the three riders was some kind of jest that only he understood.