For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  Halinard growled and cursed again, but this time in his own tongue. He glared at Cynan.

  “I see nothing for to smile,” he said, which only made Cynan’s grin widen.

  “Is it hot enough yet?” Cynan asked the gangly youth called Raedmund. The young man knelt beside the hearth fire and blew into the embers upon which he had placed fresh wood. Smoke billowed around him and he coughed. When he had finished spluttering, he turned his soot-stained face to Cynan.

  “No, lord,” he said. “Not yet.” Tears streamed down his cheeks. From the smoke, thought Cynan, but his tear-streaked face gave the young man a pathetic, beaten air. Without awaiting a reply, Raedmund resumed blowing into the fire. The smoke once more clouded about him, hazing the air in the hall.

  Cynan looked about the interior of the building and wondered if he had been right to spare Raedmund’s life. Time would tell. If the boy gave him any cause to doubt him, he would quickly join Sidrac and the rest of his men in the afterlife. Still, Eadwig had vouched for Raedmund, screaming for Cynan not to slay the tall youth. And if the boy who had been a captive here spoke well of Raedmund, Cynan supposed he deserved a chance to prove himself.

  The thralls in the hall did not seem to bear Raedmund a grudge either, which must also bode well for his character.

  Cynan beckoned to Cadoc.

  The old slave, still nervous of this warrior who had killed his master, bowed.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “I am not your lord,” Cynan said to him in his native Waelisc tongue. “You are free, I have told you so.”

  Cadoc bowed again, lower this time. Then he stepped forward and refilled Cynan’s cup from the pitcher of ale he held. He seemed to ignore Cynan’s words. Cynan frowned as the old thrall moved along to Leofman and filled his cup too. After that, he poured ale for Halinard and then Raedmund.

  Cynan caught Bleddyn’s eye from where he stood warily at a distance in the shadows of the hall. He approached and inclined his head, just as Cadoc had done.

  “Does the old one understand what I have told you all?” Cynan asked.

  The younger thrall had the same dark, deep-set eyes as Cadoc, but his hair was black and thick.

  “He understands, lord,” he whispered. “But my father has been a thrall for many years. He served Sidrac’s father for a long time. Tohrwulf was a good master. My father has always been loyal and this change has been as rapid as it has been unexpected.”

  Cynan nodded.

  He closed his eyes, tightening his grip on the cup of ale and feeling the bandage press on his forearm and the sting of the cut beneath it.

  The young thrall spoke the truth of it. Everything had happened very quickly once Cynan had decided on his course of action. He thanked the gods that Ingwald, Halinard and Brinin had all acted without hesitation. If they had been slow to react, things might well have ended very differently.

  Cynan drank the rest of his ale and when Cadoc once more approached with the pitcher, he placed his hand over the cup. He would need a clear head for what was to come.

  “Have you got anything stronger?” he asked.

  The old thrall barely hesitated.

  “Indeed, lord,” he said. “We have some fine mead.”

  “That is not yours to offer, Cadoc,” shouted one of the women from the back of the hall.

  “Silence!” snapped Cynan, suddenly exhausted. There was no time to waste and he would not spend precious moments on arguing with the women in this hall. “Make no mistake. Everything in this hall is now mine.” He fixed her with a cold stare. “Be thankful I let you live.”

  The woman clutched a small dark-haired girl to her breast and glowered at Cynan.

  He sighed.

  “I do not seek to make war on women and children. Keep quiet, and we will be gone soon.”

  She said nothing, but her gaze said much. They must not let their guard down.

  “Fetch the mead, Cadoc,” Cynan said, “and pour a horn for Halinard. He’ll need it.”

  Cadoc hurried away, seemingly happy to have been given another errand.

  “I not drink mead or wine,” Halinard said, his words clipped and breathless with the pain.

  When they had first found the Frank in Rodomo, he had been drunk, drinking to escape his feelings of helplessness at failing to protect his daughter from the monster, Vulmar. He had found a new purpose, helping Beobrand rescue Ardith from the Frankish nobleman. Since then, he refrained from drinking to excess.

  “I know it,” replied Cynan, “but for now, think of it as leechcraft.”

  “Leechcraft?”

  “Aye,” said Cynan, “like the wyrts or potions Odelyna gives people for the gripe or toothache. This is to dull the pain.”

  Halinard drew in a sharp intake of breath.

  “By Tiw’s cock,” he said again, repeatedly slamming his left fist into his thigh in frustrated agony, “it does hurt so!”

  Cadoc returned with a small jug and a horn. He proffered the drinking vessel to Halinard. Cynan was ready to argue with Halinard, but it seemed the Frank had already made up his mind for he snatched the horn from the old thrall. Cadoc poured from the jug. The horn shook in Halinard’s hand. Halinard nodded all the while, willing him to hurry. As soon as the horn was full, he placed it to his lips and drained it. Holding it out, he nodded again.

  “More,” he said.

  Cynan chuckled.

  “You didn’t take a lot of convincing.”

  “Nor would you, if it was you who had been stabbed,” replied Halinard, before once again drinking deeply.

  The heat from the fire was stifling now and Cynan looked over to see Raedmund, sweating and red-faced where before he had been pale. He had backed away from the blaze, but he was still much too close for comfort.

  “Raedmund,” Cynan said. “That blade must be hot enough now.”

  The young man wrapped his fist in a cloth and retrieved the long seax from within the fire’s hot core. The blade glowed a dull red in the gloom of the hall.

  “It is ready, lord,” he said.

  “Bring it here,” said Cynan, “and be careful. If you drop it in the rushes, the whole hall will burn, like as not.” For a fleeting moment Cynan wondered at the wisdom of having one of his recent foes hold the heated blade. Ingwald had told him not to split the group up when Cynan had sent him with Brinin to fetch the horses; now Cynan wondered whether the gesith had been right. If Raedmund chose to attack, and the thralls and women joined him, things would get bloody. Halinard was injured and Leofman still not recovered from his wounds. Cynan dropped his hand to his sword pommel, reassuring himself by its touch. He stared Raedmund in the eye as the lanky youth walked towards him. He needn’t have been concerned. There was no defiance in the boy’s eyes.

  “Halinard,” Cynan said. “It is time.”

  The older Frankish warrior emptied his horn of mead for a third time and handed the empty vessel to Cadoc. Nodding to Cynan, he lifted up his bloody kirtle to expose the dark-stained cloth binding beneath.

  “Unwind the bandage, Cadoc,” said Cynan, taking the hot seax from Raedmund, cloth wrapping and all. Heat emanated from the metal and it was almost unbearably hot to hold, despite the layers of linen protecting his hand. But it had already lost the bright glow as the metal cooled. There was the merest tinge of red on the edge of the blade now. “Hurry,” he snapped, moving closer. Cadoc was slowly pulling away the bandage. The cloth was soaked and stuck to Halinard’s skin. The Frank winced as the thrall tugged it free. “Out of the way,” hissed Cynan.

  Cadoc moved aside. Halinard’s wound still seeped blood, the flaps of skin peeled apart, exposing the raw flesh beneath. Cynan drew in a deep breath.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  Halinard nodded.

  “Look!” Cynan said, feigning sudden surprise. “What in Woden’s name is that?” He looked towards the rear of the hall where the women and children were huddled together, watching them.

  Halinard turned to look at whatever
it was that had caught Cynan’s attention. As he moved, Cynan reached out with his left hand, pinching the lips of the wound together and then, with his right, he immediately slapped the heated seax blade against the closed wound.

  The knife blade sizzled and the air was instantly filled with the scent of burning meat and singed hair. Halinard tried to pull away, but Cynan wrapped his left arm around his shoulders and held him close. Trails of fatty smoke drifted around them as Halinard grunted and shook with the pain.

  “Hold still,” whispered Cynan. “I want to take you home to Gisela in one piece.”

  After several heartbeats, Cynan let him go and stood back. He handed the seax to Raedmund who had not moved. Absently, Cynan thought that if the boy wished to attack him, now would be the time. He had his back to Raedmund, but the youth made no move against him. Perhaps Eadwig had been right about the lad.

  Halinard slumped back to lie on the bench. He was sweating and pallid.

  “I understand now,” he panted.

  “Understand what?” asked Cynan.

  “Why you need to heal me.”

  “Of course I want you healed, Halinard. You are a good man.”

  “But more than that,” said the Frank, grinning through the pain that must surely still have racked his body. “You are frightened of Gisela.”

  Cynan laughed.

  “You have me there. I can stand against a hundred men in a shieldwall, but the thought of facing your goodwife fills me with terror.”

  Halinard smiled and closed his eyes.

  Cynan sighed.

  “Let him rest for a while,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “With luck, he should be able to travel soon.” He noticed Raedmund still standing with the hot seax in his hand. “Put that down and have something to drink, man. You look ready to drop.”

  Raedmund seated himself on a bench on the other side of the hall. Cadoc scurried over and filled a cup of ale for him. Cynan sat down again and stared at the young man through the flames of the hearth fire. The stoked blaze now made the hall too hot. Cynan thought about going outside, but then remembered the corpses of the men they had slain and remained where he was.

  “What am I to do with you?” he asked Raedmund.

  “I do not know, lord,” Raedmund replied. His lip quivered and Cynan wondered if he was going to cry.

  “Why should I not kill you?” he asked.

  “I will serve you.”

  “As you served Sidrac? Throwing aside your weapon and begging for mercy at the first fight.”

  “I am no coward,” said Raedmund, lifting his chin, at last showing a spark of character.

  “No? Well you certainly looked like one out there.” Cynan nodded to the daylight spilling in from the open doors. The air of the hall was fogged with smoke and heavy with the stench of burnt meat.

  “I did not wish to die for Sidrac. He was not a worthy hlaford.”

  “Then why follow him?”

  Raedmund looked into his cup as if searching for the answer there. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and coloured with emotion.

  “I followed Cynehelm here.”

  Cynan had heard the name before, but could not place it.

  “The owner of the dogs?” said Leofman.

  Raedmund nodded sadly.

  “And what was this Cynehelm to you?” asked Cynan.

  “My brother, lord.”

  At this, Cynan grew silent.

  “You have other kin?” he asked.

  Raedmund shook his head.

  “I am sorry you lost your kin today,” said Cynan. “But that is what happens when you ride with men like Sidrac. Men who follow a lord with no honour often die with no honour.” Cynan glanced over at Eadwig. The boy was nestled in the crook of his father’s meaty arm. “Eadwig, you say Raedmund is a good man? He treated you decently while you were here?”

  The boy did not speak, but nodded, his eyes never leaving Cynan’s.

  “And you, Bleddyn?” Cynan addressed the thrall who was listening intently from a discreet distance. “What say you? Is Raedmund one to be trusted?”

  Bleddyn looked from Cynan to Raedmund.

  “You would trust the word of a thrall?” he asked.

  “I have told you,” said Cynan, “you are a thrall no longer. Your master is dead and I free you of your bonds.”

  Bleddyn stared at him for a long while.

  “Raedmund is not like the others,” he said at last. “He has ever been good to us. He looked after the boy. And,” he flicked a look at the women thralls at the rear of the hall, “he never forced himself on the womenfolk.”

  Cynan mulled over this.

  “It seems you have a second chance to serve a lord, Raedmund. If you can serve the man who had your brother killed.”

  “Are you a worthy lord?” Raedmund asked. “Are you just?”

  Cynan smiled, pleased to see the boy’s spirit.

  “If I were not, would I tell you so? Did Sidrac tell your brother and you of his plans to steal the land from Leofman here?”

  Raedmund shook his head, then looked at the rushes on the floor.

  “Cynehelm knew what Sidrac was like,” he said in a small voice. “He didn’t care.”

  “But you did?”

  “Yes.”

  Cynan stared at him until Raedmund looked up and met his gaze.

  “I will let others tell you what manner of man I am,” Cynan said after a time. “But know this, if you swear your oath to me, it will bind you till one of us departs middle earth and I will expect from you loyalty in all things, even if that means your death. My men do not violate women, nor harm children. They do not lie, cheat or steal. Those things are for lesser men, and I will not tolerate them. Such is the rule of my lord, too.”

  “Who do you serve?” Raedmund asked.

  “My lord is Beobrand of Ubbanford.”

  “Beobrand Half-hand?” Raedmund’s tone was full of awe.

  “Aye,” said Cynan, “the same.”

  Raedmund’s eyes widened.

  “I see you have heard of my lord’s exploits.”

  The young man nodded. There were tales of Beobrand told throughout Albion. Many were exaggerated, but most had a kernel of truth at their centre.

  “If you swear your oath to me, know that you will also follow Beobrand into battle. You will carry a black shield. You will learn to stand strong, or you will fall in the shieldwall, for this is the way of the Black Shields.”

  Raedmund swallowed and wiped his hand across his face, smearing the soot there.

  “What say you, Raedmund,” asked Cynan, “will you give me your oath?”

  For several heartbeats the tall youth stared at Cynan, perhaps thinking of his future and what alternative paths he might choose. At last he nodded.

  “I will swear to you,” he said.

  “Good. I imagine I will have need of all the men I can get before we leave Rheged.”

  Cynan had a sudden idea and turned to face Bleddyn.

  “What about you?”

  “Me, lord?” The Waelisc thrall frowned.

  “You seem strong and quick-witted. I could use a man such as you in my warband.”

  “But I am no warrior. I am a…” His voice trailed off.

  “You are no thrall now,” said Cynan. “You are free and now you have a choice. You can leave this place and head back to your people, or you can pledge fealty to me.”

  Bleddyn looked about the hall as if searching for the answer to the question of what he should do with his life. Cadoc stared at him with sad eyes. Sighing, Bleddyn turned back to Cynan.

  “I do not know how to fight. What use would I be to you?”

  “I was a thrall once, until Beobrand freed me. You can learn, as I did.” Cynan held Bleddyn’s gaze, staring directly into his eyes. “I believe you are a man of worth. I see it in you.”

  It took Bleddyn some time to make his decision. He led his father into a shadowed corner of the hall where they talked in tense, hisse
d whispers.

  When Ingwald and Brinin returned with the horses they found young Raedmund and the erstwhile thrall, Bleddyn, kneeling before Cynan, earnestly pledging to be true and faithful, to love all which he loved and shun all which he shunned.

  They observed the solemn moment as both men swore never to do anything which would displease their new lord. Then they slapped the men on the back after Cynan had raised them up.

  “Halinard,” said Cynan, “can you ride? I fear we cannot tarry any longer.”

  Halinard heaved himself up into a sitting position with a groan and a grimace. He was pale and his face was sheened with sweat.

  “I can ride, lord,” he said, his words clipped.

  “Good man. Brinin, prepare the horses. We leave at once. Ingwald, find Bleddyn a byrnie and weapons. Raedmund, do you have your own heregeat?”

  “I have a shield and spear, but I do not own a horse or sword.”

  “Are there more horses in the stable?” Cynan asked, turning to Bleddyn.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “Take a mount each,” Cynan said to his two new gesithas. “And whatever weapons and armour you can find. Anything that is left when we leave,” he turned to face Cadoc and the women, “is yours.”

  With each passing moment, he imagined Bumoth and the others closing on Sulis. By remaining here to fight, had he condemned her to death at the hands of Sidrac’s men and her husband’s brother?

  Clapping his hands together, he shouted, “Come on, there is no time to waste.”

  His men hurried to do his bidding.

  Bleddyn did not rush off with the others, instead, he stepped in close. Cynan was considerably taller and looked down at the man impatiently.

  “Yes?”

  “Before we leave this place to my father and the others, there is something you should know.”

  Cynan looked Bleddyn in the eye and saw a sharp intelligence there. He was pleased at his decision to ask this man to join his comitatus, and equally pleased Bleddyn had accepted.