For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  She could hear her blood rushing. The silence was suddenly shattered by her pony nickering in welcome to the horses outside. Sulis started, almost dropping the seax in her alarm.

  Heavy footfalls approached the bothy.

  There was no more time. Please, Lord, help me decide. Should she try to defend herself with the knife in her hand, exacting what payment she could for what these men had done to her and her loved ones, or should she plunge the blade into her own flesh, releasing herself and her unborn babe from the miseries of middle earth?

  Trembling, Sulis stood there in the gloom, holding the seax before her. Her breath was coming in short gasps now. Her terror was complete. As the bulky shape of the warrior loomed in the doorway, there was no more time to ponder which path to take. Letting out a shriek, she stabbed down with the seax.

  Chapter 27

  Cuthbert clenched and unclenched his right hand, holding his horse’s reins in his left.

  “Your hand paining you?” asked Gram. The warrior’s scarred and craggy face reminded Cuthbert of the cliffs to the south of Bebbanburg; hard and unyielding. “It was your leg that was wounded, I thought.” Gram grinned, spoiling his image of toughness. Cuthbert had seen him fight on the causeway in East Angeln and knew the tall man to be deadly, despite his age. Yet Gram was quick to smile. He often told riddles and jested with the younger gesithas. Cuthbert liked him.

  Cuthbert stretched his fingers and closed them again. Shaking his hand in the cool air of the forest shade, he finally took hold of the reins with both hands once more.

  “My fingers ache. That is all.”

  “It is from all that scribbling you have been doing,” said Attor, who rode just ahead of them, close beside Beobrand, who led the small group along the tree-lined path to Stagga. “How you can read the marks on the pages of that book and then scratch words onto that wax tablet of yours, I will never understand.”

  “It is not so hard,” said Cuthbert, though he knew that none of the men of Beobrand’s comitatus, nor Beobrand himself, truly understood his desire to spend so much time poring over the Psalter that the queen had given him. And yet, in the minds of the warriors, at least the book was a thing of beauty, with illuminated letters and small images in gold and red ink. Why he would wish to scratch symbols into the wax-coated wooden tablet that Eanflæd had gifted him was truly beyond them.

  But to Cuthbert it was intoxicating, this magic of being able to form letters and words in silence, that he, or anyone with the right skill, could then see, interpret and speak aloud. With each passing day, he became more adept at reading the text from the vellum pages of the book, and his own writing was quickly growing fluid, and more consistent.

  “Well, I know not how you do it,” said Attor. “I thought only the Christ monks and priests were able to understand the magic words in their books. I have never heard of a warrior being able to do such a thing.”

  Cuthbert shrugged.

  “Well, I am no monk,” he said.

  “Perhaps your hand hurts from another use, eh?” said Garr. The slender spear-man rode at the rear of the small band. “We have all been young men,” he continued, making an unmistakable, repetitive hand gesture. “Maybe we should find you a willing bed-thrall, to dampen your fires, or you won’t be able to hold your sword when battle comes.”

  Cuthbert felt his face grow hot at Garr’s lewd comment.

  Gram laughed.

  “If he’s anything like I was at his age,” he said, “Cuthbert will never tire of wielding either of his swords.” He paused, and winked. “But I’ll wager he’ll finish the fights he has with the one in his breeches more quickly than the ones he has with that blade sheathed on his belt.”

  The others, apart from Beobrand, laughed. But the mention of the sword he had taken from the Mercian in East Angeln brought a sombre mood to Cuthbert. He sometimes dreamt of the man’s face. He recalled vividly the thrill and excitement of the fight, and the rush of relief as Beobrand’s blade had slain the warrior. And yet, the more he read and wrote, and contemplated the teachings of the Christ that Coenred had shared with him, the more difficult he found it to revel in the act of battle. He glanced about the men he rode with. They were good men all, and he was proud to be accepted as one of them. To be a gesith, or perhaps even, in time, a thegn, such as Beobrand, had ever been his wish. Surely learning his letters and being able to write changed nothing.

  His comrades’ laughter abated and they rode on in silence for a time. The bright sunshine of the morning streamed through the thick canopy of the oak and beech that almost completely enshrouded the path. Despite the lances of light that speared between the boughs, little of the sun’s warmth reached the riders.

  Cuthbert shivered. He wished he’d thought to bring a cloak. All of the older men had woollen cloaks wrapped about their shoulders, but he had dismissed the idea of wearing his when they had left. The summer sun was hot and there were only wisps of cloud in the pale blue sky. He felt foolish now, and thought of the misery he would face if the weather turned or if they had to ride back at night.

  “How’s the leg?” asked Beobrand, disturbing his thoughts.

  “It hurts more than my hand, lord,” Cuthbert said, with a wan smile.

  “It was a bad wound. I imagine you will often feel its hurt over the years. I know I still feel many of the cuts I have picked up since I was your age.”

  The other warriors nodded in agreement with their hlaford.

  “It is much better than it was even just a few days ago,” Cuthbert said.

  “I saw you racing Tatwine the other day. You might not be as fast as you once were, but Coenred is skilled indeed. We thought we might lose you, or perhaps that you would lose your leg.”

  “And,” interjected Gram with a grin, “as many a woman will tell you, speed isn’t everything.”

  Garr and Attor chuckled. Beobrand sighed and patted his great black stallion’s neck thoughtfully.

  “Speed is useful in combat,” Beobrand said, ignoring his men’s teasing of Cuthbert, “but even if your legs are never as fast as they were, you have something much more important.”

  Cuthbert watched him closely as Beobrand turned in his saddle and tapped his head with his forefinger.

  “You are as fast of thought as any man I have known. Your wits will win you more battles than quick feet.”

  At times it felt to Cuthbert that he thought too much. His head was filled with worries and concerns and he had always found it difficult to concentrate on anything for long. He enjoyed pitting himself against others in feats of skill, speed or endurance, and it was only during races or contests that his mind cleared of the troublesome thoughts that kept him awake at night. It was one of the things that had drawn him to learning the ways of the warrior. For surely battle was the purest contest with the ultimate price to pay for failure.

  But recently, he had found the concentrated effort of painstakingly scratching the letters with the stylus helped him to dispel his tiresome fears, losing himself to the shapes and meanings of the words he formed. At such times, he no longer dwelt on petty things that had troubled him in the past, instead he pondered matters of greater import, such as what God had in store for his life. And in the quiet, as he sat in the shade of the hall, or beneath Sunniva’s oak, he listened for the elusive voice of the Almighty.

  Recalling the pool of shadow beneath the great oak that stood on the hill by Beobrand’s hall, Cuthbert’s active mind conjured the memory of his hlaford sitting there with his friend, the huge, one-armed warrior, Bassus. When they had arrived at Ubbanford from Bebbanburg, Beobrand had been angry; furious with Cynan and the others for allowing Sulis to escape justice and for abandoning their duty in order to ride westward on some mad scheme. Beobrand’s anger was nothing new. He was famed for it. But ever since he had sat beneath the oak with Bassus, Beobrand had become brooding and withdrawn. His nature was often surly and sombre, but there seemed to be a new heaviness to his soul these past days.

  “
What did Bassus say to you, lord?” Cuthbert said. “To make you so sad?” The instant he had blurted out the words, he regretted them. Beobrand scowled and such was the fury in his expression that for a terrible moment Cuthbert thought he might reach out and tumble him from the saddle.

  The moment passed and Beobrand sighed, shaking his head.

  “It seems your mouth is often faster than your mind,” he said. “If Bassus had meant for his words to be heard by all, he would surely have spoken them to everyone.”

  They rode on without speaking for a time. Cuthbert, face burning from Beobrand’s chastisement, listened to the birdsong, the thump of the horses’ hooves on the packed earth of the path, the jangle of the harness and the rustled whispers of the trees.

  “Was it about Rowena?” asked Garr, breaking the awkward hush that had descended on the group.

  Beobrand gave the tall warrior a sharp look, but then his expression softened.

  “He spoke to you too?”

  Garr nodded.

  “The man is as strong as any I ever knew,” he said. “But to lose Rowena…” His voice trailed off, and he puffed out his cheeks, blowing out a long breath.

  Beobrand frowned and turned away. His shoulders slumped.

  “What is wrong with the lady Rowena?” asked Cuthbert.

  “She is ill, lad,” replied Gram.

  “What ails her?”

  “I know not, but Odelyna says there is nothing to be done. Her sickness will take her to her grave.”

  Cuthbert’s mind raced.

  “Perhaps Coenred could help her,” he said. “And we could pray.”

  Beobrand wheeled around, his face dark and contorted with rage.

  “Pray?” he growled. “Prayers cannot save those whose wyrd it is to die.” He ran the fingers of his half-hand over his face. “People die, boy,” he said, his tone desolate. “No god can save them when their time is come.”

  “But—”

  “No! Stop your prating,” replied Beobrand.

  Cuthbert was taken aback by the ferocity in Beobrand’s tone.

  “Enough of this talk,” Beobrand said, touching his heels to Sceadugenga’s flanks and galloping away towards Stagga.

  Attor patted Cuthbert gently on the shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, lad,” he said, his tone soft. “You are not the only one with a keen mind who worries too much about things beyond your control.”

  Chapter 28

  Bumoth hawked and spat a great gobbet of phlegm over his shoulder. It barely missed Ludeca’s foot and the strangely hunchbacked man cursed from where he rode close behind the corpulent leader of the group. By Christ and all his saints, Bumoth thought, how he despised Ludeca. Bumoth half-wished his spittle had hit the man, though he knew that would have caused an argument that would have wasted yet more time, and the last thing he wanted was to have to spend any longer than he had to with Leofman’s odious brother. They had already spent long enough travelling Leofman’s lands.

  They would have been done by now, if not for that ugly whoreson, Ludeca.

  Bumoth sighed and gazed up the slope to the shadowed shape of the dry-stone bothy that he could just make out beside the dark clump of swaying trees. Bumoth had never been wholly convinced by the plan that Ludeca had dreamt up with Sidrac, but he was oath-sworn, and would obey his hlaford’s command. That didn’t mean he had to like it though.

  “Is that the place?” He pointed up to the small dip in the land where the turf-roofed hut nestled in the lee of the trees and the shade of a great peak. The sky beyond the mountain was clear and bright, but tinged with the copper-red glow of sunset. It would be night soon. Bumoth had hoped they would have been able to fulfil their task and be back to the hall by nightfall. That would be impossible now, after the time they had wasted.

  “Aye, that’s it.” Ludeca nodded, his tone sullen.

  Bumoth did not reply. Ludeca didn’t like him either and that was fine with Bumoth.

  He scratched at the stubble in the wrinkles on his neck, beneath his short beard. He would have to shave his throat again tomorrow. It always itched when the hair began to grow back, and, as he always did, he toyed with the idea of growing a fuller beard. And yet he knew he would not do so. When he allowed his beard to grow long, he hated the way it made him feel. He fancied it made his face look even fatter than it was. Such vanity was ridiculous, but he could not prevent the thoughts from entering his mind any more than he could avoid plans going wrong or stop young men from doing stupid things.

  Bumoth had not been surprised when things went awry as soon as they arrived at Leofman’s steading. In his experience, few plans worked the way they were envisaged. This day had proven that once more, as had each twist of events since he had led his men into the ravine where Leofman had been working at the cave entrance with his son and that accursed mute.

  What should have been simple, quickly unravelled. Egbalth allowed himself to be killed by that simpleton of a bondsman. Then Hunberht had bungled the job of slaying Leofman, letting the old greybeard slice deep into his arm with a seax. The old man didn’t even have a sword! Hunberht was supposed to be a cold killer. His battle-fame and ruthlessness were spoken of in halls all over Rheged and beyond. Sidrac had accepted his oath based on the man’s reputation as a skilled and effective swordsman, but from what Bumoth had seen, the man was a hot-headed fool.

  After the botched attack on Leofman at the mine, there had followed the disaster at the old oak. What a fool Aescferth had been. Anyone with eyes could see that the Waelisc warrior would take him in a fight. Bumoth supposed Aescferth had hoped to prove himself to Hunberht, whom he idolised.

  Bumoth spat again and kicked his tall horse into a trot to scramble up a steep section of scree on the path.

  Young men! What fools they were. Aescferth’s desire for fame and to impress Hunberht had brought him nothing but a quick death. Truly Sidrac was little better than the young foolhardy gesithas who followed him, but the man had Bumoth’s oath and that still counted for something. He would not break his bond easily. Still, if things continued to fall apart as they had of late, he might need to take the difficult decision to ride away from Sidrac’s hall for good. It would pain him to forsake the lad, but in the end, he had to do what was best for himself. Perhaps he could ride to Deira. The war with Bernicia bubbled on and men were always looking for warriors. Bumoth might be fat, but he could still fight and had his own battle gear. But he was not ready to break his word just yet. If Sidrac and Ludeca’s plan came to pass, Sidrac would become a truly wealthy man, and if there was one thing Bumoth wished for more than a full belly, it was the easy life that came from riches. Perhaps then he would not need to lead such vainglorious young men or witness their stupidity so frequently.

  At least the incident with Leofman’s old bondsman, Alfwold, had not been completely without value. The old man had told them everything he knew as soon as Aescferth had started cutting him. Hunberht had been furious to hear that Leofman had survived his sword thrust. At first he had denied it was possible, but there had never been any doubt in Bumoth’s mind. What would Alfwold gain by lying? No, the truth was that the famed killer Hunberht was fast proving to be less of an asset than Sidrac had hoped. But the most important tidings they had learnt were that Leofman’s woman was with child, and that she had disappeared in search of aid. Bumoth assumed they had met the men she had summoned beneath the oak. And that bastard, Cynan, had shown himself to be just as deadly as Hunberht wished he was.

  Bumoth reined in his horse, raising his hand for the others to halt. They were still some way from the lone hut on the hill, but they had suffered so many setbacks these last days, he wanted to be certain. He did not wish to go rushing in like these young fools he was surrounded by.

  “Fleameld,” he said, “you are certain it is just the one rider that came this way?”

  Fleameld, a slender man with dark thinning hair that was streaked with frost at the temples, slid from his saddle, leaving his reins trailing
and his horse cropping at the tough grass. He walked a few paces ahead of the small group of riders and dropped to his knee. Bumoth waited patiently as Fleameld scanned the earth and pebbles of the track. No youngster, Fleameld was a man Bumoth had ridden with for years. Bumoth liked him. He was serious and quiet, deadly in a fight. Bumoth knew no finer tracker. Perhaps if he should decide to leave Sidrac, he would ask Fleameld to come with him. He could use a man he trusted.

  “Come on,” sneered Ludeca. “There is no need for all this caution. Look, the hut is there, as I said it would be. There is nowhere else she could have gone.” Ludeca rubbed at the back of his twisted neck, as he so often did. Bumoth hoped the man’s neck never stopped paining him.

  “You have already led us astray once this day,” said Bumoth. “I will trust Fleameld’s eyes over your memory.”

  Fleameld had read the signs on the earth in front of Leofman’s house that morning and told them the tale of what he saw there. Several men had mounted up and ridden north, while one small pony, with a lighter load, had ridden into the hills. It was then that Ludeca had told them of the bothy and Bumoth had made his mind up that they would finish what they had set out to do. They would follow the woman and kill her. Surely even these fools could manage that. That belief had quickly been put to the test. He had made the mistake of listening to Ludeca, who said he knew the way, and it was only after they had ridden for some time that Bumoth had asked Fleameld to check for their quarry’s sign. The tracker found none. Close to Leofman’s steading, there had been a fork in the track and Ludeca had been adamant their destination was on the left. Bumoth cursed himself for following the man blindly. Yet more time wasted, as they needed to return to the branch in the path before taking the other route up into the hills.

  Since then, Bumoth had Fleameld dismount regularly to scan the ground.

  Fleameld looked up now from where he stooped and nodded to Bumoth.