Cynan was in no mood for jesting.
“Who I am is not important,” he snapped.
“What is important then?” asked the man, with a half-smile playing on his lips.
“That you are not welcome on this land. Climb onto your horses now and ride away.”
The man looked about him at the five other men. They clearly had not come expecting a fight, but Cynan noted that they moved like warriors, spreading out across the path. They stared at Cynan coldly as Ingwald and Halinard joined him with their swords drawn and black shields in hand. The man in the tree moaned. Cynan flicked a look at him and felt another surge of ire. The men beneath the oak had no shields. They wore warrior jackets and cloaks. They might have had byrnies underneath their coats, but it seemed unlikely as they did not seem to be ready for war and none had a helm on his head. No, it appeared to Cynan that these men, warriors all, had come to this place for much easier prey.
“And what if we decide to stay?” said the fat-jowled man.
The rain picked up in intensity, filling the world with its sibilant song. Cynan met the man’s gaze. Water trickled into his eyes and he blinked it away.
“If you do not leave, we will make you. And you will look worse than him,” he nodded at the man dangling from the oak, “when we are done.” He held the fat man’s gaze, unblinking now in spite of the rain running into his eyes.
One of the warriors stepped forward. He was tall and slender of build, in a dark red leather warrior coat. His arms were adorned with silver rings and his belt had a gold and garnet buckle and trimmings. At his side hung a sword with a golden pommel cap. His right arm was held close to his chest, hanging in a sling made from a strip of stained linen.
“You would come here and insult us, Waelisc cur?” he sneered. Cynan’s lilting tone clearly marked him as one who was not of the Angelfolc, even though he now lived among them.
“I do not insult you,” Cynan replied, his voice as cold as the wind that shook the boughs of the oak. “But to do so would not be difficult. For only cowards torment and torture a man. Six of you, with swords, against one poor old man. No, it would not be hard to insult men such as you.” He hawked and spat. “If indeed you are men.”
“Why, you whoreson!” the man growled, making to approach. The fat leader pulled him back.
“No, Hunberht, now is not the time. Not with you injured.”
“I could take this one with my left hand.”
Cynan laughed then, a wave of mad fury washing through him.
“Go on then,” he said, dropping his shield to the mud and taking a step forward. “Just the two of us. No shields. Come on. If you are so brave, then show it.”
Hunberht twisted his left hand around and awkwardly dragged his sword from its scabbard. It was a fine blade, with flowing patterns on the metal and an elaborate carved hilt. This was the sword of a warrior. A weapon fit for a king’s hearth-warrior, or even a king himself. Cynan’s blade was less gaudy, but it would kill well enough.
The leader stepped forward and interposed himself between them.
“Hunberht, you cannot fight thus. This is madness.”
He began to push the slimmer man back towards the tree and the waiting horses.
“Just as I thought,” shouted Cynan. “Craven, all of you. It is one thing to torture an unarmed ceorl, quite another to stand toe to toe with a swordsman. Go on now.” He flicked his sword at them disdainfully. “Leave this land and do not return.”
“I am no coward,” said a man with a heavy brow and long black hair that tumbled over his muscular shoulders. In his hand, he held a sword. There was blood on the blade that must have come from the poor wretch bound to the tree. The sight of it made Cynan’s lips curl back to show his teeth. “I will fight you,” said the man.
“Aescferth,” said the leader, his tone imploring now, “we have not come here to fight.”
“Be silent, Bumoth,” said the one called Aescferth. “Nobody names me a coward and lives.” He strode forward, out of the shelter of the tree and into the heavy rain. “When I kill you, your two friends can ride away. But I’ll take your horse and your gear.” He let out a barking laugh and rolled his head around to ease the muscles of his thick neck. “I don’t kill for free.”
Cynan smiled.
“And if I slay you,” he shouted, so that the other men would hear him over the rain and the wind, “the five of you will ride away.” The leader was still restraining Hunberht who glowered at Cynan with undisguised loathing. The fat leader nodded.
“You’ll never beat Aescferth,” he said. Cynan did not take his eyes off the approaching warrior, who was swinging his sword in great arcs to limber up his long sword arm.
“You five will leave if I do,” Cynan repeated.
“Aye, we’ll leave,” muttered Bumoth, his words almost lost in the wind-whisper and hiss of the rain. “You have my word.”
“I imagine the word of a coward is worth little,” said Cynan, stepping out to meet Aescferth.
The broad-shouldered man’s eyes narrowed and Cynan knew immediately that he was going to attack. With a growl, Aescferth charged, swiping his sword through the rain. Cynan let him come towards him, at the last moment dodging out of the deadly blade’s reach. Aescferth had long arms, which, coupled with formidable strength, made his attacks dangerous. But Cynan quickly saw that, whilst he had some sword-skill, Aescferth was no master. He relied on speed, reach and shock to overcome his opponents. Against a less-experienced man, one who had not stood in countless battles and skirmishes, a man who had not trained relentlessly with the famed Black Shields, such tactics would surely bear fruit. Cynan would not be so easily beaten.
Another series of slashes saw Cynan skipping away. Aescferth let out a guttural roar. Cynan laughed, easily dodging all of the warrior’s wild attacks. He did not want to risk the edge of his blade by clanging his sword against the swings of this bear of a man.
“Fight me,” shouted Aescferth, his anger building. Red-faced, he bellowed and rushed Cynan again. This time, his swiping blade came too close and Cynan was forced to parry the blow. Deflecting the attack as he sidestepped, Cynan allowed Aescferth to pass him by in a rush.
“You are not worthy to fight me,” hissed Cynan. “You are as clumsy as a child with a stick. And as harmless.”
Furious now, Aescferth spun about to renew his onslaught.
But Cynan had anticipated the man’s movement and had reversed his own, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. As Aescferth turned, Cynan sprang forward, for the first time using his own sword to attack. The grip tugged gently in his hand as the sword’s sharp blade cut through the man’s woollen warrior coat and opened his belly. Aescferth roared with anger, frustration and the pain that now swelled within him. He blundered towards Cynan, but the Waelisc warrior backed away quickly.
“Come to me, you craven whoreson,” he said, beckoning to Aescferth. “Not so easy when your enemy carries a sword, is it?”
With a cry, Aescferth rushed forward, raising once more the fine sword that was streaked with the blood of the man he had been torturing. Cynan stood his ground, ready to finish this now. But he would need no more blows to secure the victory. Aescferth halted his charge and staggered to a halt. His eyes grew wide and his face crumpled as he looked down at his midriff. It seemed that Cynan’s blade had cut more deeply than he had thought, for blood sheeted down Aescferth’s groin and legs, and, as Cynan watched, the man’s gut-ropes began to tumble from the gaping wound. Aescferth let out a pitiable moan and dropped to his knees. Relinquishing his grip on his sword, he fumbled at his innards in a useless attempt to shove them back into his body.
Cynan tasted bile in his throat as his gorge rose. He turned away from the dying man.
“Now, mount up and begone,” he shouted, his voice hoarse.
He wondered if the men beneath the tree would charge at the three black-shielded warriors standing in the pelting rain on the muddy path.
“Ready, lads?�
�� he muttered, stooping to retrieve his shield.
“Always,” replied Ingwald. He was at Cynan’s right in a heartbeat, Halinard at his left. Cynan was glad of their presence beside him.
After a few heartbeats of silent staring, the men in the oak’s shadow began to mount up. The one called Hunberht scowled at Cynan with death in his eyes. If any of them was going to attack, it would be him, but it seemed sense prevailed, for he too at last walked to his horse and with obvious athleticism, especially for a man only able to use one arm, he swung himself into the saddle.
“Well fought, lord,” Ingwald muttered.
Near to them, Aescferth was mewling like a new-born lamb.
“Don’t leave me, Hunberht,” he cried.
Cynan was not sure that the men would hear him, what with the clatter of their horses’ hooves and noise of the rain and wind in the leaves of the oak. Cynan looked to the man who was tied there. He was staring at him with an expression of desperate hope on his face. Moments before he had been certain of death, now he had been saved.
“Don’t leave me,” repeated Aescferth, his voice little more than a gasping sob now.
Cynan spat into the mud.
“They are leaving you to die,” he said, his words as vicious as blades. “It seems even cowards can keep their word.”
Aescferth gazed up at him. He knelt where he had fallen, his arms clutched about his stomach and a large puddle of blood oozing around him. His skin was white and his lips held the blue tinge of death.
“Not long now,” said Cynan savagely.
Aescferth sobbed again and fumbled in the blood-drenched mud. At last, his fingers found the hilt of his sword. He grasped it. With a rattling sigh and a shudder, he died, slumping into the muck.
The warriors beneath the tree were all mounted now. The leader, Bumoth, kicked his brown gelding towards Cynan a few paces.
“You’re a dead man,” he said.
“No,” replied Cynan, nodding at Aescferth’s corpse. “He is.”
“This isn’t the end of it,” shouted Bumoth. “We’ll be seeing you!”
“Good. I can kill the rest of you then.”
“You’re a dead man,” Bumoth repeated, swinging his horse around. The four other riders had already touched heels to their horses and were now galloping away. Bumoth kicked his own mount to follow them, but after only a few quick steps, he reined in his gelding and turned it again.
Cynan expected some parting insult, some clever quip the fat man had thought of, but instead, Bumoth spurred his horse towards the oak. Too late, Cynan realised what he was going to do. He started to run, but he was too far away and would never reach Bumoth in time.
“No!” he shouted, but Bumoth ignored him.
The man who was tied to the tree screamed.
As Cynan watched, the fat man drew his sword and hacked its blade into the bound man’s throat. Blood fountained in the grey shade of the oak. Cynan was still some way off and yet he sprinted as fast as he could, as if he hoped he might staunch the man’s blood. But even as he ran, he knew with a terrible certainty that the man was as doomed as Aescferth.
Bumoth wheeled his horse around and, with a yell, he kicked it into a gallop.
When Cynan reached the oak, the man was dead. His blood covered his limp, pale body and streaked the bark. It dripped from his bare feet, pooling on the moss-covered earth between the tree’s roots. Looking up at the old man, Cynan could not shake the impression that his open eyes were staring accusingly into his. You could have saved me, they seemed to say.
Cynan let out a ragged breath. Ingwald and Halinard came running up. Neither man spoke. They merely looked from the dead man on the tree to the retreating riders, already blurred by the rain and the distance.
“Help me cut him down,” said Cynan.
Chapter 18
“Watch out!” yelled Beobrand.
Even as he shouted the warning, he threw himself forward, his scarred and splintered shield raised. He could see that Elmer would never react in time to defend against the spear thrust. The big man, who had led the remainder of the Black Shields from Ubbanford, was fully occupied with a heavily armoured warrior whose face was hidden behind the metal plates of a grimhelm. The Deiran was tall and strong and hammered blow after blow upon Elmer’s shield. The ferocity of the attacks gave Elmer no time to counter. It was all he could do to deflect the strikes, his movement hampered as it was by the crush of men around him.
Beobrand grunted as the spear-point that had been aimed at Elmer rammed hard into his shield. For a moment, there was pressure on the linden board, and then the iron point scored across the hide-covered wood and skittered dangerously off the shield’s surface and into his chest. Beobrand twisted, taking much of the force from the blow, but it still felt as if he had been struck in the ribs by a hammer. He breathed thanks to Woden, Thunor and all the gods that his byrnie was strong and the rings had not sundered. Almost without thought, he pushed himself forward, allowing the spear to scratch across his chest. An instant later, he wrapped his sword arm over the spear’s ash haft, clamping it tight to his body. Using all his weight, he heaved on the spear. There was resistance as its owner pulled back, but Beobrand applied all his considerable bulk, leaning onto the shaft as well as tugging it. He staggered as it came away from the hands of the Deiran who had held it. Beobrand laughed, filled with the joyful lust of battle now. He swung Nægling again, letting the spear fall to the churned earth of the battlefield. It disappeared and was quickly trampled into the muck.
Beside him, Elmer, lips pulled back in a savage snarl, was still taking the brunt of the attacks from the thegn in the grimhelm. Beobrand watched for a moment. A heartbeat seemed an age to him when he was in the flow of battle. When the swords sang and the stink of slaughter caught in his throat, Beobrand could anticipate the movements of his enemies almost before they knew themselves what they would do. The steel-storm roared like an inchoate beast, terrifying and cacophonous to most, but to Beobrand it was the sword-song, and by its music he could gauge the way a battle was going as a fisherman might sense the play of a trout on a line.
Beobrand saw an opening. Without hesitation he smashed Nægling into Elmer’s adversary’s iron-clad chest. The hit was strong, but the byrnie was stronger still and did not give. And yet the attack served its purpose. The man’s vision was impeded by the great helm he wore and so he turned involuntarily to see who had delivered the bruising blow to his side. In that instant, Elmer seized his chance. He lowered his tattered shield and sent a perfectly aimed sword slash into the tall man’s neck, between his byrnie and his great helm.
Blood flowed in a glut, spraying Beobrand and Elmer. The Deiran thegn, blood pumping from the wound that would take his life, still tried to batter down Elmer’s defences, forcing him once again to raise his shield to catch the shower of strikes.
Another Deiran stepped forward and Beobrand stabbed him beneath his shield, opening the big artery that ran down the inner thigh. As the man collapsed in agony, Beobrand finished him off with a hacking chop to his neck.
Elmer’s opponent, weakening quickly now, stopped swinging his sword and finally toppled onto the corpse of Beobrand’s latest foe.
“Onward, my brave gesithas!” Beobrand bellowed.
They were so close now. They had fought hard for what seemed an age, moving forward step by step as the Deirans fell to the skill and tenacity of the men of Bernicia. There was no give in Beobrand’s Black Shields, and soon enemies had sought to push back into their own ranks when they saw they must face the half-handed thegn of Ubbanford and his warband.
And so the mass of enemies had begun to part before them and now they were at the tight throng of Oswine’s hearth-warriors. The thegn in the grimhelm had been the first, but there were more now, forming a wall of wood and steel around their king. Over to his left, Beobrand could see Octa, his face lathered in a mask of blood, sword flinging up gobbets of flesh and sprays of blood in the rain-streaked air. Alhfrith was by
his side and the two young men were hacking a swathe through the Deirans. Brunwine was there too, bellowing and roaring like a great aurochs. Blood speckled his face and ran dark in his full beard. The Deiran champion was a terrifying sight, and he stood directly in the path of Octa and the atheling.
Beobrand offered up a silent prayer to Woden to watch over his son, and glanced about him.
He was unsure when or how their battle line had shifted, but Elmer was now on his left, Gram on his right. There was no sign of Offa and the other East Angelfolc and Beobrand wondered briefly where they were. He could see Fraomar, Attor, Grindan and Eadgard too, but none were in the positions in which they had begun the battle. It had been a deadly seething mass of shoving and hacking, slipping in the mud, warriors falling to be pulled back to their feet moments later or to be cut down where they lay, adding their lifeblood to the quagmire. The stench of shit and piss and the iron-sharp tang of blood filled his nose.
“Oswine is ours!” shouted Beobrand. “Let’s end this now! To me!”
His gesithas began to form up around their hlaford as quickly as they could. They tightened up their shieldwall, pulling back and forming into the boar-snout, preparing for another push.
“Ready?” Beobrand yelled. “Onwards!”
They rushed forwards as fast as they were able, which was not much more than a walk. The mud was strewn with corpses, shields, helms and weapons, and the men tripped and stumbled as they moved over the uneven footing. Despite this, they still drove a wedge into the protective line around Oswine. The king’s cross and lions banner, lank and bedraggled in the rain, swung limply from the pole that was raised only a spear’s length behind the shieldwall.
A cheer went up from the left and the Deiran line shuddered.
“For Bernicia!” screamed Beobrand, and his men took up the chant. With a surge of effort, they heaved and he felt himself shoved forward. A warrior before him had somehow snagged his seax in his own baldric. The man looked up at Beobrand with wide eyes as he struggled to free his blade. Beobrand did not blink as he sliced Nægling’s blade across the man’s eyes. Blood sheeted. The man screamed, adding his horror and pain to the tumult. Blinded, he finally tugged the seax loose and swung it about him desperately. Without hesitation, Beobrand slammed Nægling once more into the man’s face. Bone crunched beneath the blade and the Deiran dropped like a bull under the butcher’s blade at Blotmonath.
For Lord and Land Page 17