“Just the one pony,” he said. “The same one that left the farm.”
“No others?” asked Bumoth.
Fleameld shook his head.
“What about the other riders?” Fleameld had asked as they’d stood outside Leofman’s empty house. “They might be headed towards Sidrac’s hall.”
Bumoth had pondered this for a time. They had not encountered anyone on the road, so perhaps Leofman and the other riders had a different destination.
“Sidrac is a big lad,” he’d said. “He and the others can look after themselves. We will do at least part of what we came for.” He hated having to return with news of failure, something that had become all too common of late. Today he would ride back to the hall with the news that Leofman had no further heirs than Eadwig. Such tidings would bring the plan closer to fruition.
Fleameld swung back into the saddle.
“I don’t see the pony,” said Inguc, peering up the hill. The young warrior had a thick beard of wavy fair hair and eyes the dark green of holly leaves. He was not as infuriating as some of the other young men in Sidrac’s warband, but his luxuriant beard rankled Bumoth.
“Well, it went this way,” said Fleameld. “Sometime early last night, I would say.”
“Perhaps she rode on after the night,” mused Maccus, running his hand through his thick long hair. He was a handsome young man, strong and skilled, but brash and loud; another of the youthful warriors attracted to Sidrac’s warband by promises of fame and quick wealth. Bumoth despised him.
“Mayhap she took the pony inside the hut with her,” he said. “Look at those slopes.” The mountains loomed, steep and ominous behind the bothy. There were no paths there, the only animals that could climb that high would be the hardy goats and sheep that frequented these lands. “There is nowhere for her to have gone. She must still be inside. So let us approach with care.”
Ludeca laughed, an ugly, gurgling sound.
“I am going to enjoy killing the bitch,” he said, his tone grating on Bumoth’s nerves. Ludeca sucked his teeth and licked his lips. “But not before I have my fun with her first.”
“I imagine it is not easy for one as ugly as you to find a willing woman,” said Maccus. Bumoth found himself siding with Ludeca against this fresh-faced man for whom pretty girls would willingly part their legs.
“You will find, Maccus,” he said, keeping his voice low, “that most women become enthusiastic when they have a knife to their throats.”
Ludeca offered him a skewed smile of thanks and Bumoth hated himself. By Christ’s thorny crown, he should have ridden away to Deira weeks ago.
“I am sure you are right,” smiled Maccus. “You and Ludeca must both find it necessary to force your women.” He nudged his horse into a trot and grinned. “I have never had to do so.”
Angrily, Bumoth kicked his horse forward.
“Slow down,” he hissed. “Let us not give ourselves away.”
Maccus rolled his eyes and Inguc and Osulf, another young warrior of the same cut as the others, both sniggered. Despite their annoyance, the young gesithas slowed their progress and the six of them walked their mounts up the remaining distance to the bothy. The dense clump of birch shivered and waved. The wind that always gusted so high up in the hills rustled and hissed through the leaves and boughs.
Ludeca’s mare let out a whinny, and Bumoth tensed. He held up a hand and pulled his mount to a stop. Without a word, the three younger men dismounted, pulling their blades from their scabbards. Fleameld met Bumoth’s eye and he shrugged. There would be no chance of surprising Leofman’s wife now. With a grunt at the effort, he swung his leg over his horse’s rump and slid down until his feet touched the ground.
Maccus was already close to the hut, stepping forward with the lithe grace of a cat. Bumoth wished the man would trip, but of course, he was sure-footed, and reached the shadowed entrance of the hut without making a sound. Still, if Sulis was yet within the bothy, she could not have missed the noises of the horses’ hooves, or the men whispering. As Bumoth thought this, the sound of a pony’s nicker emanated from the gloom. So, she had taken the pony inside as he’d suspected.
He shook his head at Maccus’s rashness as the young warrior stepped into the entrance. The man showed no fear. It was only a woman inside after all, but even a woman could fight, thought Bumoth. Especially if she is cornered and fearful for her life and that of her children.
Bumoth opened his mouth to call out a warning. But before the sound could leave his lips, Maccus staggered back, arms flailing. The sword dropped from his hand and he reached up to try to stem the bleeding from a slashing cut to his throat. Bumoth knew in that instant that the young man would die. Blood bubbled and spurted through his fingers and was already soaking his kirtle crimson.
Bumoth cursed. The bitch had slain one of them. This would be another disaster to add to the list. By Christ’s teeth, he wished he had listened to his intuition and broken his oath with Sidrac before it had come to this.
As Maccus fell to his knees, mouthing silent horror as his lifeblood pumped from the severed arteries in his throat, Bumoth realised things were much worse than he had thought. A figure filled the entrance of the bothy and stepped out into the bright light of the late afternoon. But this was not the slight form of a terrified woman fighting for her life, it was a tall, cool-eyed warrior calmly carrying a blood-smeared sword.
Chapter 29
Sulis hugged Eadwig close to her. She had placed her hand over one of his ears and pressed the other side of his head into her breast in an attempt to stop him hearing the fat man’s screams. The boy was trembling in her grasp.
“Hush,” she whispered, knowing he would not be able to make out her words, but hoping he would somehow feel the soothing nature of his mother’s voice.
The fat man let out another shriek and she gasped. Her own body was shaking violently, responding to the sudden relief of finding her son and husband alive. And at having the terrible decision that had faced her snatched away.
*
The man at the doorway had not been one of Sidrac’s men, but Cynan, and as she had lashed out with her seax, hardly knowing if she meant to strike her attacker or harm herself, he had sprung into the gloom of the bothy and grabbed her wrist. He had gripped her with such force that her bones had ground together painfully and the blade had tumbled from her grasp. For a time she had struggled against his hold, almost blind with panic, until he had pulled her into the daylight and pushed her into Leofman’s embrace. There she had sobbed and shivered until the terror of certain death had subsided. Then she had swept Eadwig into her arms and mumbled her thanks to God and to Cynan, who barely acknowledged her. Instead, he had gazed east and south nervously.
There had been no time for explanations, but she quickly gathered that they had ridden hard along animal tracks across the hills in order to reach her before the men Sidrac had sent to the farm. Cynan’s men had led her and the horses away into the stand of birch, where they would be shielded from the track that led to the hut. Cynan had slipped inside the bothy, his face grim. All of the men were severe and sombre, and she noticed that the Frank, Halinard, was unsteady on his feet, his pallid face drenched in sweat. They had hurried down the slope into the small woodland and waited there in tense silence, listening and watching for signs of approach.
“They might not come,” she had whispered hopefully to Leofman, but he shook his head.
“They will come,” he said, and his hard face scared her anew.
It was not long before Brinin, who was watching the path, hissed for all of them to be still and silent. Six riders were coming up the track towards the bothy.
There was a tense time of breathless waiting, as the riders slowed to check the ground, perhaps suspecting an ambush, before riding on to the hut. There had followed a flurry of vicious violence that made Sulis reel. A man had entered the hut, only to have his throat slit by Cynan, who followed him out into the afternoon sunlight. Without pause, t
he Waelisc swordsman rushed at a second of Sidrac’s men, who stood close to the dying man who was now soaked in the blood gushing from his throat. The second warrior lunged, but Cynan effortlessly parried the attack, hacking his blade into the man’s helmeted head.
The wooded area was then filled with motion, as Ingwald, Brinin and two men she had not met before called Bleddyn and Raedmund, rose from where they were hiding in the trees and ran up the incline towards the swathe of open land before the shepherd’s hut. They all bore shields and spears, and wore swords at their belts.
Leofman, limping awkwardly, had set off after the warriors.
“Where are you going?” she asked, terrified to be left alone again so soon.
“Halinard will protect you,” Leofman replied, stony-faced.
Halinard had pulled himself to his feet with a groan, leaning on his spear to watch the fight. He nodded to Leofman, who turned away from his wife’s pleading face and continued up the hill.
For a time, Cynan stood alone against four men outside the hut, while his gesithas lumbered up the slope to his aid. But Sidrac’s men did not take advantage of their superior numbers. They were disorganised, dismayed at the sight of two of their number slain so rapidly by the tall warrior who had emerged from the bothy. As she watched, pulling Eadwig’s face into her chest so that he would not witness what was to pass, Sulis saw an older warrior close with Cynan. This new attacker was calm and ready for the fight and it took Cynan some time to beat down his defences. The other three dismounted riders watched on in shock for a few heartbeats as the two swordsmen clashed blades, until at last, the fat man, who she recognised as Bumoth, began barking orders.
Leaving the older warrior to his chances with Cynan, the remaining three men took up their shields and prepared to meet the charge of Cynan’s gesithas running towards them from the trees. Brinin and Ingwald were the first to reach them, and with the reach of their spears, they drove the defenders back. Raedmund and Bleddyn joined them a heartbeat later and added their spears to the attack.
The men shouted abuse, shoving and spitting over their shields, but none of the spears bit into flesh, and Cynan’s men were out of range of Sidrac’s warriors’ blades.
“Raedmund, you treacherous cur,” bellowed Bumoth, but if his words had any effect on the young man, she could not see it.
Raedmund, Ingwald, Brinin and Bleddyn pushed, shouted and probed with the deadly steel-tips of their spears, but the men under Bumoth’s command held strong. They had the higher ground, and there were not enough men in either group to easily break the other small shieldwall. Leofman was still some way behind them, struggling up the hill on his injured leg and Sulis wondered at the madness that had driven her husband to join the fight. What use would he be? Surely all he would find was death from the killers before the bothy. She prayed that Cynan’s men would defeat them before Leofman reached the fray.
As if in answer to her prayer, Cynan finally dispatched the warrior he had been fighting and without hesitation flew at Bumoth and the two men who flanked him.
Sidrac’s men were completely occupied with the men attacking them with their long ash-hafted spears. Cynan gave no indication of his attack, no shouted battle-cry or challenge. Instead, he ran at their rear and hacked his sword into the neck of the nearest enemy. Blood misted the air and the man collapsed without a sound, dead before his body hit the earth.
Cynan turned his attention to Bumoth, who half-swung around to face him, backing away from the spear-bearing men.
The last warrior, a tall man with a strangely twisted neck, fell back, quickly overpowered by Cynan’s spear-men. He tried to turn and run, but was tripped. Brinin and Bleddyn loomed over him, piercing him with their spears.
Seeing this, Leofman, almost at the hut now, let out a cry that carried over the clash of the skirmish.
“Don’t kill him!” he yelled. “Don’t kill Ludeca!”
Ingwald turned to help his lord, but he needn’t have worried. Before he could join the fight against Bumoth, Cynan had plunged his sword deep into the man’s massive gut. Cynan viciously twisted the blade before tugging it free. Bumoth sagged, losing the strength in his legs as the blood flowed from the wound and pain ripped through him.
Bumoth’s screaming had filled the afternoon, drowning out all other sounds. He had not ceased wailing since the fight ended.
Appalled at the violence that had been unleashed, Sulis watched from the shelter of the trees as Cynan and the others gathered around the fat warrior. She could not make out what was happening and was glad of it. The screams from the fat man spoke clearly enough of the pain that was being inflicted on him. She shivered, holding Eadwig tightly, no matter how much he squirmed and begged to be allowed to watch.
Halinard stepped close and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. Eadwig looked up at him, his eyes wide. Sulis relaxed her grip enough for him to hear what the warrior would say.
“Some things are not for a child’s eyes,” said the Frank in his strongly accented voice. A pitiful wail emanated from up the hill and the wind moaned through the leaves of the birch trees above them. Eadwig shivered. Halinard reached out and took Sulis’ hand in his, placing it once more on the boy’s tiny ear. “Or ears,” he said, pressing the hand firmly and nodding at Sulis.
Bumoth’s howls were weakening now. Sulis drew in a long, ragged breath. She offered up a prayer of thanks to the Almighty for rescuing her boy and her man. Her faith had been repaid and she vowed that when all this was over she would go to Dacor and give a sacrifice to the Lord. The fat warrior on the hill let out a final whimpering cry and then was silent. Sulis shuddered, but part of her was glad that he had suffered. She wanted Sidrac and all of his men to endure such pain before they died. She prayed for forgiveness for such thoughts, but surely God could not expect a mother to feel no desire for vengeance when her family was attacked by such brutes.
She buried her face in Eadwig’s hair, relishing the scent and the warmth of him. He was safe now, as safe as the babe that was cocooned in her belly. She would do whatever was needed to keep them so, even if that meant damning her soul.
Halinard touched her gently on the arm, breaking into her thoughts. Looking up, she saw the men were coming down the hill. Quickly, she scanned their faces and her heart leapt. They were all returning. Then she noticed that between Bleddyn and Brinin was the tall man with the bent neck. Every few paces he stumbled and the two warriors half-dragged him on, ignoring his cries for respite.
Reaching the trees, Ingwald, Raedmund and Cynan dropped their shields with a clatter and removed their helms. Ingwald went to the horses and pulled water skins from their saddles. Cynan slapped Raedmund on the back and muttered something to him that she could not make out. The tall young man offered Cynan a thin smile in return. The men were serious and barely acknowledged her.
They were slaking their thirst when Brinin and Bleddyn arrived, pulling the only survivor between them. They threw him down onto the leaf mould. The man cried out in pain as he fell, and she saw that he was wounded. Blood stained his sleeves. His lip was split and bleeding. He pushed himself up onto his knees and stared at her. Something in his gaze made her shiver with disgust.
“You must be Sulis,” he said, spitting blood from his mouth.
“Who are you?” she asked. She had heard Leofman shout the name Ludeca, but she knew nobody of that name.
“He says he is my uncle,” said Eadwig, his small voice startling her.
“What?”
She looked at the kneeling man in confusion. He appeared a few years younger than Leofman, but he had his height. And could there be a likeness in the mouth and the nose? But this man’s neck was bent at a painful, unnatural angle, as if it had once been snapped and repaired, though she had never heard of such a thing.
“It’s true, you know,” said the stranger with a leer.
“Silence,” snapped Cynan, striding over and drawing his seax. “Shut your mouth or I will cut out your tongue.” Turning t
o Sulis he said, “Bumoth told us everything. We know what Sidrac planned. There is another who must face justice for his part in this, but that can wait. Leofman knows where to find him. But your husband stopped me finishing this one.”
“Is he truly Leofman’s kin?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper, but the shape of Ludeca’s face and his stature already told her the truth of it.
“I’m his brother, my pretty,” sneered Ludeca.
Cynan slapped him across the face with the back of his hand. Dazed, Ludeca slumped to the ground. Cynan grasped his kirtle, hauling him to his knees once more and raising the blade of his seax to his throat.
“I told you to shut your mouth, nithing,” hissed Cynan.
“Hold!” shouted Leofman, limping into the shade beneath the swaying birch.
Ludeca spat out a stream of bloody spittle.
“That’s right,” he chuckled. “He can’t bring himself to kill kin, can you, Leofman? You don’t want to bear the mark of Cain, do you?”
Leofman hobbled towards Ludeca. His face was thunder.
“You are a fool, Ludeca,” he said. “Cynan would kill you in an instant if I asked him to. But you should not die by his hand. I would finish what I once started. I would do it right this time. Bleddyn,” he said, turning to the dark-haired warrior. The man was as pale as milk and looked as though he might vomit at any moment.
“Yes,” he croaked.
“Fetch me the rope we brought from Sidrac’s hall.”
Without a word, Bleddyn obeyed, bringing a long coil of strong hemp rope back to where Leofman waited with Ludeca.
“You won’t do it,” sneered Ludeca. “You don’t have the stomach for it. You never did!”
Leofman looked down at his brother and his face was dark with fury and some other emotion she could not make out. Regret perhaps.
“I have never enjoyed killing,” said Leofman. “That is where we are different, you and I. But I do not hesitate to kill an animal when it is moonstruck. Or sick.”
For Lord and Land Page 27