“Tell me,” Cynan said in his native tongue.
Chapter 25
Beobrand groaned as Tatwine let out a shout of anger, the shrill sound sending a stab of pain through his skull. Cuthbert had grabbed Udela’s son by the collar, pulling him back to slow him down. The two scuffled briefly before Udela shouted at them to keep the noise down. Beobrand nodded his thanks. His head throbbed, as it sometimes did on days when the weather was on the turn. Udela recognised the signs and had brought him a cup of ale where he sat with Bassus beneath the great oak that Beobrand’s men referred to as “Sunniva’s tree”. She had loved to sit in its shadow and watch as the new hall had grown on the hilltop. The hall she had seen built had been destroyed by fire, but the men had built it anew and now it was hard to remember a time before this hall had stood there.
Beobrand took a sip of the ale and forced a smile at Udela, who lingered nearby. He felt a fleeting sense of guilt to be thinking of Sunniva with Udela at his side, but such feelings were foolish. Udela was the mother of his daughter, but no more than that. She tended to his hall and had lain with him once when first he had brought her north from Cantware. She was a good woman. A friend. But no more. Sunniva had lit a fire within him that had never truly gone out. Her body might be ash, but the embers of their passion still warmed his memories. Again, he felt a stab of guilt for his thoughts, wondering how Udela would react if she knew what passed through his mind.
“By Christ’s bones,” said Bassus, “that boy is not much more than a child.”
Beobrand followed his gaze. Tatwine had freed himself and was now sprinting away, with Cuthbert in close pursuit. Both of them were laughing. At thirteen summers, Tatwine was still more boy than man, but Beobrand knew instinctively that his old friend referred to Cuthbert.
“True enough,” he said. “Still, better to remain a child as long as possible, I say.”
“You do, do you?” Bassus raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m not so sure. We need men, not boys. Oswine is not defeated and there’ll be more battle before the end of the summer, mark my words.”
Beobrand frowned.
“You are probably right,” he said, wondering if there would ever be peace in the land. Not in his lifetime, it seemed to him. Not while the men who ruled sought ever more power and wealth. Trying to push aside thoughts of war, he watched the two boys run. “There will be time enough for the lad to grow up.”
“You say he fought well?” Bassus asked, sounding doubtful.
“He did.” Beobrand sipped at his ale. “I am glad to see him running again.”
“Aye, it is good to see,” replied Bassus. “Though before his wound, Tatwine would never have beaten Cuthbert in a race.”
Tatwine was several paces ahead of Cuthbert now, as they rounded a lone oak at the bottom of the slope that led down towards the settlement of Ubbanford. With a shout of defiance, the younger runner began to sprint up the hill with Cuthbert labouring behind him.
“True, but better to be slowed by his wound than killed by it. There was a time when it seemed he would succumb.” Beobrand grew silent. He took another swig of ale and rubbed his fingers against the spot on his forehead where a slingshot had hit him years before. Cuthbert had worried him, but now the boy was hale enough to race with Udela’s son. One thing Beobrand no longer needed to fret about. The gods knew there were plenty of others.
“Have you decided what to say to her?” Udela’s voice cut into his thoughts and he saw she had moved closer.
“To who?” he asked.
Udela nodded down the hill and Beobrand saw Ardith coming up the slope behind the running boys. She held a hand under her distended belly and the climb up the incline was clearly taking her some effort. He considered rising and going down to meet her, then disregarded the idea. They had already spoken on the issue, and he had given his answer. She was furious with him, but none of this was his doing.
“Well, have you?” prodded Udela.
“There is no more to say on the matter. I do not understand how she believes me to blame in this.”
Udela sighed.
“You are her father,” she said, her tone soft. “You have proven that you are able to save her when she is in trouble. It is a difficult draught to swallow to learn the mighty Beobrand is not able to right every wrong.”
Beobrand grunted, her words stirring up mixed emotions within him. He pushed himself up, no longer able to watch impassively as Ardith struggled up the hill. He stalked down the slope towards her, his head aching with each step. The clouds to the north were dark, and there was a coolness in the air. He thought he could smell rain. The summer had been changeable and he wished for the long hot days they had been blessed with in the spring. Glancing back, he saw that neither Bassus nor Udela had made an effort to follow him.
Tatwine and Cuthbert passed him, both panting heavily, but grinning at the thrill of pitting themselves against each other.
Reaching Ardith, Beobrand met her icy blue stare with his own. Her jaw was set and she stiffened at his approach. Gods, but the girl was stubborn. Her eyes narrowed and he could feel the strength of her will in them. Was this how people felt when confronted with his cold gaze?
“I have told you,” he said, holding out his arm to assist her on the last stretch of the path. “I cannot ride west in search of Brinin and the others.”
“I know, Father,” she replied, with a resigned sigh. “Your word is iron and you must await the king’s orders.”
The mention of the strength of his word dismayed Beobrand. Once his oath had been unbreakable, but now he knew that everything had its limit. Iron could rust. It could bend and break. And yet it was true that he had given his word to Oswiu that he would await his command at Ubbanford. He could not risk breaking this promise. The king was already angry at him for sailing south without his knowledge, and then finding Cynan gone without Beobrand’s leave.
Ardith brushed past him, ignoring his proffered arm. He felt his anger suddenly well up within him. By Woden, the girl was infuriating.
“None of this is my doing, girl,” he snapped, falling into step beside her. “It was you, was it not, who urged your husband to run off with Cynan?”
She did not reply.
“Cynan has lost his mind,” he said, clenching his fists at his side. To think that the woman who had slain Reaghan had somehow managed to convince the Waelisc to follow her filled him with fury. Cynan must have been bewitched to have listened to her. He shuddered. Perhaps that was the answer. Had Sulis used dark powers to bend people to her will? There seemed no other plausible explanation.
Looking up the hill towards the great oak, he saw Udela and Bassus waiting there. Hadn’t he once risked everything for Udela and this young woman who walked beside him? That was different, he told himself. They were family. And yet who could understand the bonds that tied people together. Beobrand remembered the contorted face of the screeching woman who had attacked him by the Wall and he recalled Cynan’s impassioned intervention. Surely there had been more than simple compassion there. Had the man loved Sulis even then?
“I do not understand why Cynan would go with Sulis,” he said, his exasperation evident in his voice, “but at least he knew the woman. There is history there. But Brinin! And you so close to your time. It is madness!”
“You came to my aid,” Ardith said, her voice so quiet he had to strain to hear it. “And you did not know me. Brinin and Halinard merely did what you would do. Cynan too.”
“That was different, and you know it.”
“How so?” she asked.
“That woman is a murdering bitch!” Beobrand snapped, his anger getting the better of him. “She deserves no help.” He sighed. The ache in his head was worse than ever. “You are my child. It was my duty to go after you.”
She halted, and turned to stare at him. Tears welled in her eyes. By Woden, what now? Could he not talk to a woman without her weeping? Udela, perhaps sensing the conversation between father and daughter had reached
its conclusion, walked towards them.
“Waes hael, Mother,” Ardith said, embracing Udela warmly. “Can we go inside, please? This wind is cold.”
“Of course,” Udela replied, leading Ardith towards the great hall and flicking a disapproving glance at Beobrand.
Beobrand frowned as he watched them walk away. Angrily, he stomped back to where Bassus was sitting beneath the oak. Throwing himself down beside him, he snatched up his cup of ale and drained it.
“Women!” he said. “I will never understand them.”
“I wonder if any man ever does,” replied Bassus. “Rowena is a mystery to me, that is for certain.” The huge warrior stared out at the dark clouds that filled the sky beyond the Tuidi. “She is ill,” he said without warning.
“Rowena?”
The huge, one-armed warrior let out a ragged breath.
“She tried to keep it from me, but I knew something was wrong. In the end, I made Odelyna tell me.”
Beobrand looked sidelong at his old friend. Bassus’ eyes glimmered, brimming with tears.
“How bad is it?” he asked, unable to find any other words.
For a long while Bassus said nothing. He stared at the brooding clouds and cuffed the tears from his eyes.
“Bad,” he said at last. He coughed to clear his throat.
Beobrand did not know what to say. He raised his cup and found it empty.
“I’m sorry, my friend.”
Bassus offered a grunt of acknowledgement, but did not look at him.
“Women,” he said, his voice hoarse and rasping. “They cause us such trouble. They nag and cry and we complain. But who truly wishes to be free of them?”
They fell silent and Beobrand wondered at the pull women had on all men. The wind rustled the leaves above them and he thought of Sunniva again. It was hard to picture her face now; the memory of her only became clear when he looked on the features of their son. Perhaps that was why seeing Octa always saddened him.
“I always thought I would die in battle,” said Bassus. “But look at me now.” He shrugged and looked down at the stump where his left arm should have been. “I will never fight again. I am old. I will have a straw death, lying in my bed. Once that would have terrified me, to imagine I would not die with a sword in my hand, listening to the crash of the shieldwall. Now the only thing I am afraid of is that Rowena will go before me and I will die alone.”
Beobrand reached out and placed his half-hand on Bassus’ shoulder.
“You will never be alone, my friend,” he said. “Not while I yet live.”
Despite his sadness, Bassus chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his throat.
“I do not mean to offend, Beobrand,” he said with a twisted smile, “but I would rather have Rowena warming my bed.”
Chapter 26
The pony snorted, scratching at the gravelly floor of the bothy with one of its front hooves.
“Easy, boy,” Sulis murmured.
The pony rolled its eyes at her. Its ears were flat against its head. It stared out of the doorway that led to the open land of the hills of Rheged and freedom. The beast longed to be gone from this prison. It was nervous and she could not blame him. She had pushed the poor animal as fast as it could go into the hills. It was sure-footed and strong, and not prone to skittishness. But her own anxieties had seeped into the creature. She’d had a devil of a job to get the pony into the dark interior of the dry-stone hut. Eventually, she had needed to resort to brute force and sharp words, tugging hard on his harness until, the pony’s baleful eyes showing white-rimmed in the darkness, the frightened animal had finally relented and made its way into the gloom.
There was little space in the small hut, but Sulis did not wish to leave the pony outside to be spotted by anyone wandering the land. She could scarcely imagine who would be abroad in these hills if it were not someone from Sidrac’s steading in search of mischief, but the idea of leaving the animal outside had become something she could not countenance.
At the thought of Sidrac, Sulis shivered. It was cool inside the windowless hut, with damp seeping up from the ground. The rough stones with which the walls had been constructed were green with lichen and moss. Outside, the day was bright, the rain of the night having blown over. Through the doorway, she could see a thin swathe of clover-speckled grass and heather. Bees buzzed over the flowers. But she could not risk going out to warm herself beneath the afternoon glow of the sun. No, she would remain hidden. She pondered the foolishness of her thoughts. There would be nobody up here. If there were, they would be looking for her, and hiding herself inside this hut would not keep her safe from Sidrac’s men. And yet, the solid stone walls gave her a sensation of security, even if she knew it to be folly.
Rising, she wrapped her arms about the pony’s neck, revelling in the warmth of the animal’s body.
“There, there,” she cooed. “We are safe in here.”
She hoped she was right.
All through that rain-drenched night and the long summer day that followed, her mind had been full of dark thoughts. She had tried to imagine how far Cynan, Leofman and the others had ridden. Were they at Sidrac’s hall already? Had they found Eadwig? Was the boy well? God, let him be safe! As she had ridden, she had prayed over and over for her son’s safe return to her. The Lord would look after him, she told herself. Moments later despair would threaten to engulf her as she remembered Osgar; the brilliant red of his blood, his pleading eyes. Where had God been then? But she had not known the word of the one true God then. Maybe if she had known the true faith, Osgar would yet live. Could that be possible?
She remembered Leofman’s gaping wound. He had been lucky to have survived such an injury. But was it truly luck? Was it not divine providence? Perhaps it was Leofman’s faith in Christ that had seen him heal from the deep gash in his thigh. Did not Scyldsung say that “the Lord thy God, He it is that doth go with thee; He will not fail thee, nor forsake thee”? But if the Lord protected his own, why had he allowed Swiga to be killed? The mute had travelled with them to Dacor whenever they attended mass. He could not speak, but Scyldsung had allowed him to partake of the Holy Eucharist with the other believers.
“Actions are important to Christ, not words,” Scyldsung had said. “As long as the Lord knows you are repentant in your heart, you are one of his flock.” Sulis remembered vividly the beaming smile on Swiga’s face on hearing the priest’s words. The bondsman had always loved that the priest treated him normally, despite his affliction for which others often derided or spurned him.
Sulis felt her eyes brimming as she recalled Swiga’s pallid, stiffening corpse; his blood dark and coagulated in the woollen kirtle she had made for him. Then she remembered the broken, tortured form of Alfwold. At the thought of Swiga and Alfwold, she let out a sob and the tears rolled down her cheeks.
Why had Sidrac’s men done these things? Did they mean to kill them all? They had taken Eadwig, so they surely believed that having the boy alive was necessary for their plan to work. She had clung to that thought as she now held on tightly to the pony.
How had Sidrac known about the mine? They had told nobody. Beyond the small sample they had processed with the help of Scyldsung, they had not even begun to properly remove the stone from the earth. However Sidrac had learnt of the mine’s existence, could it really yield so much that it would be worth murdering everyone in Leofman’s household to obtain its riches?
She thought of all the suffering she had witnessed in her life. She knew that men would stoop to any sin in their quest for pleasure, wealth or fame. Why was she shocked that young Sidrac would resort to murder for the promise of precious metal?
Outside, the wind picked up, sighing through the mildewed thatch above her. A thin stream of water trickled from the thatch and ran down her back like the touch of chill fingers; the hand of the dead. She shuddered.
The wind died down and the world was silent again apart from the sound of dripping from the eaves.
What was
that? Something had tugged at her senses. A sound she could not place.
She pushed away from the pony and strained to hear anything untoward. Nothing. It was just the wind. Patting the pony’s neck again, as much to comfort herself as to calm the animal, she stepped towards the doorway. There she could see nothing but the swaying grass, the clover and the heather, the bees droning about their toil. Perhaps she would lean out of the hut and risk a peek. Before she reached the opening, she heard it again.
The distinct clop of a horse’s hoof on stone. Sulis’ heart thudded and her hands dropped instinctively to her belly. God, they had found her!
Terror welled within her like a stagnant mere, black and impenetrable, bobbing with the bloated corpses of her fears. If Sidrac’s men had come for her, Leofman and Cynan must be dead. Was Eadwig yet alive? Her stomach churned at the thought her beautiful boy might be dead. But surely Sidrac wanted the boy alive…
The sound of another horse’s tread reached her, and she pulled the sharp seax from its scabbard. She could easily imagine what would happen to her the moment Sidrac’s brutes found her. She had suffered at the hands of their ilk before. Gazing down at the iron blade of the seax, she remembered how easily she had once sliced into her wrists, hoping to end her pain. Perhaps this was the answer after all. Her left hand touched her swollen belly, caressing it anxiously. Could she bring herself to kill her unborn child along with her? And what of Eadwig? If he yet lived, she would leave him an orphan. But better that she slay herself than endure the torments these violent men would inflict on her. So much of her life had been at the mercy of such men. At least now she could choose the manner of her ending.
Outside, close now, a horse whinnied. Another snorted.
The sound of harness creaking. The crunch of men’s shoes hitting the earth as they dismounted. Voices spoke in sibilant whispers. Sulis held her breath. There was no denying now that the men had found her. She gripped the seax hilt tightly, preparing to face her wyrd.
For Lord and Land Page 25