Their horses were laden with their gear and what Cynan had taken from Sidrac’s hall.
“What do you think?” Cynan said in a soft voice meant only for Ingwald who rode nearby. He pointed with his chin at the shadowy shape of Sidrac’s former thrall, though he wasn’t sure Ingwald would be able to make out the movement in the gloom.
“Hmmm?” Ingwald grunted a reply, and Cynan realised that the man had drifted into a doze in the saddle. The man may be no great horseman, but he was as tired as the rest of them.
“Bleddyn,” Cynan murmured. “What do you think of him.”
Ingwald scratched his head and yawned.
“I thought he was going to shit his breeches when we attacked,” he said. “But he stood and he fought, as well as any man would in his first fight.”
Cynan grunted. He had seen how pale Bleddyn had been after the clash. But he agreed with Ingwald’s assessment.
“Only a fool would not be scared to face men with swords and shields,” he said.
“A fool. Or Beobrand. Or you,” replied Ingwald.
“You think we are not afraid when we fight?” asked Cynan.
“You never appear frightened,” said Ingwald. “It is why men follow you both.”
Cynan mused on this.
“I cannot speak for Beobrand, but my fear is as real as the earth beneath our feet. I just choose not to show it.”
“I think that is what is called bravery.”
Cynan thought of Beobrand and other great warriors he had seen. They all had an air of abandon when they fought; a seeming recklessness backed up by strength and skill. He was certain they all felt their bowels turn to water as the enemy charged towards them, but they would never allow their fear to show. Was that courage?
“Perhaps we win our fights because we are too stubborn to admit we are scared,” he said, with a shrug. “What did you make of Raedmund?” The lanky youth was riding at the rear of the group, helping Bleddyn and Brinin lead the extra horses.
“He did well,” said Ingwald. “I was concerned that he might not fight against men he knew. That is a difficult thing for any man, but he did not baulk and he did his part. I think the two of them are worthy additions to your warband.”
Ingwald’s horse stumbled in the darkness. Pebbles and gravel scraped as the animal’s hooves scrambled for purchase, but after a moment, the beast righted itself and they continued plodding down the hill into the dark.
“My horse is as tired as me,” Ingwald complained. “It will be a miracle if we reach Leofman’s farm without one of the horses falling or pulling up lame.”
Cynan thought of how they had pushed the horses, riding along narrow animal tracks that Bleddyn had known. Without his knowledge of the hills, they would never have reached the bothy before Bumoth. The paths they had traversed were used by the goats and sheep. They were often steep and rocky and the gods must have been smiling on them that none of the horses had slipped on the rough terrain or broken a leg in the frequent gullies they had crossed. But there had been no time to worry about such things. They had ridden the animals hard, trusting to their strength and agility to take them safely across the mountain routes. Thinking back to their careening ride over the crags, Cynan could scarcely believe they had all made it intact. Now, even Mierawin was tiring.
“We will rest when we reach the steading,” he promised.
“And then we will be heading home?” asked Ingwald, his tone hopeful.
Home.
Cynan thought of Stagga, roof gleaming gold in the setting sun. Eadgyth smiling as he entered, holding out a cup of mead for him. He would have to face her soon enough. Beobrand too. Ingwald thought him brave? The man did not know how he feared confronting the lady of his hall and his hlaford. But there could be no avoiding it, Cynan knew. He had crossed Beobrand once before and lived to speak of it. He was not certain what his lord’s response would be this time. Beobrand would be within his rights to turn Cynan away, to strip him of his land and position. After all, he had broken his oath. The thought of being sent away filled Cynan with dread. With a sudden jolt, a realisation came to him: one of the things that really frightened him was the thought of not being able to spend more time with Eadgyth. Beobrand could exile him, or Eadgyth could reject him. Either way, he would lose her and the thought of it gnawed at his innards. What a fool he had been. He had ridden westward to help Sulis, half-imagining a passion he had once felt for her rekindling within him, but now he knew the truth. She had long since found happiness with Leofman. Eadgyth had offered him happiness at Stagga. With a shock, he understood he had been truly content these past years, and much of his contentment had been due to the warmth of his friendship with Eadgyth.
Cynan pulled on Mierawin’s reins almost imperceptibly, easing her around a patch of light-coloured rocks on the path that would give treacherous footing.
“Yes,” he said, “we will return home.” He recalled Bumoth’s pleading screams, as the fat man told them of Sidrac and Ludeca’s plan. Two of the plotters were dead, but there was still another who must face justice. “We will head back to Stagga,” Cynan said, “just as soon as we have seen this through to the end.”
Chapter 32
Beobrand kicked his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks and the black stallion quickened his gait from a canter into his effortless gallop. The horse might not be quite as fast as he had been in his prime, but he was still faster than most steeds. Beobrand chuckled. He supposed he was not as quick as he had been when young either. But neither he nor the black horse were quite done yet. The wind pulled back Beobrand’s hair from his face, his cloak streamed out behind him.
Attor, on a grey gelding, caught up with him.
“Pleased to be riding to war?” he asked.
Beobrand realised he had been laughing. Glancing back, he took in the column of men who rode behind him. Most of his Black Shields followed him southward. All except for the half dozen he had left under Bassus’ command, and of course, Cynan and the men he had taken with him into Rheged. Beobrand’s expression grew sombre, though he still revelled in Sceadugenga’s speed.
“I am not happy to be heading for battle,” he shouted over the rush of the wind and the thunder of the horses’ hooves.
Attor gave him a sidelong look.
“But happy to be gone from Ubbanford.”
It was more an assertion than a question and Beobrand could not deny it. He had welcomed the message that Dryhthelm had brought from Oswiu. Not because it meant war was upon them once more, though he could not escape the feeling that life was simpler while standing in the shieldwall, seax and linden board in hand, but because it meant he could leave the troubles of the womenfolk for a time.
Leading his warband towards Corebricg, he could be free of Eadgyth’s tearful beauty, Udela’s reproachful glances and Ardith’s stony disapproval. And, though it pained him to admit it, he did not have to face Bassus and his grief over Rowena’s sickness.
He could leave all of that behind without feeling like a coward for running away. He had been ordered to ride by the king himself. It was his duty, and so he had gathered up his men and left the day after Dryhthelm’s arrival.
Dryhthelm’s message had been simple and direct. The travel-stained messenger had set aside his empty cup in Stagga and composed himself before speaking.
“Lord Beobrand of Ubbanford,” he’d said in a formal voice, clearly reciting words he had memorised, “you are called with your warband to the field of battle. King Oswine of Deira has been reinforced by a host of Mercians led by Peada, son of Penda. There is no time to waste. The fyrd has been summoned once more. You are to ride to Corebricg with all haste where you will assemble with Oswiu King and the fyrd.”
Beobrand liked Dryhthelm’s direct earnestness, so they had brought him with them. He had no further messages to deliver, and, as a young man, was keen not to miss the battle. He rode with the main group of the black-shielded warriors behind Beobrand and Attor.
They had left at
first light and were making good time. Rain had rolled over the land in the night, but the sky was clear now and the puddles on the cracked cobbles of the road were quickly drying in the summer sun. They reached a stream that in winter time often burst its banks and flooded the road. But now, in the height of summer, even after the recent rains, the water was shallow and Sceadugenga and Attor’s gelding splashed through the ford without slowing. The cold spray was welcome. The sun was not yet at its zenith, but already the day was hot.
“We can stop and water the horses at the Til,” called out Attor. “They’ll need a rest.”
Beobrand nodded and reined in Sceadugenga. Much as he would have liked to continue at a gallop, eating up the distance and relishing the cooling wind on his face, he did not wish to exhaust the beast or any of the other horses. Attor matched his speed, slowing first to a canter and then to a fast trot. Beobrand patted his steed’s neck.
“Feels good to gallop,” said Attor.
“Aye, it does,” said Beobrand with a grin.
His warband, having urged their mounts to keep up with their hlaford, were now catching up. Beobrand rode on in silence for a time, allowing his men to fall into pace behind him.
Soon they reached the Til and the men dismounted beside the river, stamping their feet and stretching their backs after the morning’s hard ride.
“Don’t let the horses drink too much,” shouted Attor to the riders. “We still have a ways to ride before nightfall and a full belly of this cold water will make a horse sick.”
Beobrand offered Attor a nod of thanks. It was usually Cynan who made sure to protect the horseflesh. It was the Waelisc man who would ensure that the mounts were brushed down at the end of the day. And it was he who would notice the first sign that one of the horses was lame. Attor was a good horseman too, and without prompting he had fallen into the role Cynan would have filled.
When he deemed that Sceadugenga had drunk enough, he led the stallion away from the stream. Taking a strip of salted beef that Udela had packed in his bag, he chewed on it absently as he stared down Deira Stræt, calculating how long it would take them to reach Corebricg. Sceadugenga nickered a welcome and Beobrand turned to see Cuthbert approaching, leading his chestnut mare.
“Thank you,” the young man said.
“For what?”
Cuthbert hesitated before saying, “For bringing me with you.”
Beobrand wanted to snap at him that he was foolish to be thankful, but he swallowed the words. Cuthbert was young and words would not make him grow wiser any more quickly.
“The king has ordered me to bring my warband to battle,” Beobrand said. “You are one of my men, so you come. How is your leg?” he asked, wishing to change the subject.
“Strong enough for battle, lord.” To demonstrate the limb’s strength, Cuthbert lifted his right foot off the ground and hopped on his injured leg.
Beobrand could not help laughing.
“You will not be needing to fight like that,” he said.
Cuthbert blushed and lowered his right leg.
“Do you think Penda will be there?” he asked, following Beobrand’s gaze southward along the straight line of the old Roman road.
Beobrand shrugged.
“Perhaps, but we are far from East Angeln. He is probably still busy there.”
“But he has allied himself to Oswine.”
“So it would seem. Or at least, his son Peada has. But this is no surprise. The enemy of your foe is your friend. And Mercia has been the enemy of Bernicia for as long as anyone can remember.” Beobrand frowned, wondering how many Mercians he had sent to an early grave. And how many of his friends had died from the stab of Mercian blades.
Cuthbert fell silent for a time. Beobrand glanced at him, surprised by the young man’s sudden quiet. The boy was biting his lip.
“What is it?” Beobrand asked.
“I was just wondering…” Cuthbert’s voice faltered.
“Yes?”
Cuthbert cleared his throat, but did not speak. Beobrand tired of the boy’s uncertainty. He could feel the pressure of war building like a storm cloud in the south. Now was the time to ride, not for talking.
“You want to say something?” he snapped. “So say it.”
Cuthbert bit his lip.
“I was wondering whether you might not have caused this alliance.”
“What?” asked Beobrand. “How so?” Sceadugenga shook his great head at his master’s harsh tone.
“Well,” said Cuthbert, clenching his fists at his side, as if readying himself for a fight, “for many months Oswine and Oswiu have fought and Penda and his kin have kept out of it.”
“And what makes you think that I am responsible for Peada’s change of heart?” asked Beobrand, shaking his head at Cuthbert’s audacity. “Peada is a young man, hungry for battle-fame, just like you. But, unlike you, he has his own hearth-warriors. And his father and the people of Mercia will be watching how he fares. He must feel that he had to join the fight in order not to lose face.”
Cuthbert nodded slowly, but Beobrand could see that the young warrior was not convinced.
“It seems to me that this change happened after you sailed into East Angeln,” Cuthbert said.
“That is true,” said Beobrand. “But—”
“There you slaughtered Mercians,” Cuthbert interrupted, “and rescued King Anna.”
“What else could I have done?” spat Beobrand, not liking where this conversation was going. He had been glad to have been rid of the recriminations of his daughter and the women of Ubbanford and now this youth was questioning him. “Would you have had me leave King Anna to be killed?”
“No, of course not,” said Cuthbert, holding up his hands to appease his hlaford. “I did not mean to blame you for what has happened.”
“Well, praise the gods,” said Beobrand. “I will be able to rest easy tonight.”
“I just think that with Oswiu King being forced to offer protection to Anna, whom Penda sought to capture or kill, would not the king of Mercia see it as necessary to show his displeasure with Bernicia somehow? And what better way to do that than to send his son to aid Oswiu’s enemy?”
For a time Beobrand was silent. Down by the stream, the last of the men were leading their horses away from the muddy water.
“Mount up!” Beobrand bellowed in his battle-voice, making Sceadugenga snort. Cuthbert flinched, which gave Beobrand a perverse sense of satisfaction. “We have a long way yet to ride.”
Ignoring Cuthbert, he swung himself back into the saddle and kicked the stallion into a canter. He did not want to listen to more of the boy’s foolish ramblings. And yet, as he rode, he could not prevent his mind turning over what Cuthbert had said, as a ploughshare turns over the soil, exposing wriggling worms. He did not care for the worms he found in Cuthbert’s words. And yet he had to admit they held the ring of truth. Much of the cause for the war between Deira and Bernicia could be placed on his shoulders. The assassins who had attacked in the night had been sent for his blood, not Oswiu’s. And if he had done as Oswiu had commanded, slaying Wulfstan at Ediscum, would the king have been appeased enough to avoid open conflict with his cousin, Oswine? Beobrand would never know what might have been if he had not broken his oath that day to spare his friend. He tried not to dwell on the past, but he could not avoid wondering if he was at least partly responsible for each man who had died in the war between the Northumbrian kingdoms since that fateful day. Was Cuthbert right that this was another way in which his rash decisions would go on to cause further bloodshed?
By the gods, how much needless death had he caused in his life? He rode towards another battle now, perhaps of his making, and his mind was clouded by the sense that such was ever his wyrd; to ride towards death and to lead good men with him.
Oswald had liked to refer to him as an instrument of his Christ, but Beobrand felt sure that it was Woden, not Oswald’s nailed god, who welcomed into his great corpse hall the many men he had slain
and caused to be killed. And surely Beobrand must have been blessed by the All-father, such was the slaughter he had witnessed and brought about.
But if the thread of Beobrand’s wyrd was to provide blood and enjoyment for the gods, was there any way for him to do otherwise? Could he veer from the path set before him? He saw no way from this course. He was Oswiu’s man, for good or ill. He would not break his oath again, no matter what it might cost him. Losing the certainty of the bond of his word, always so important to him, had cost him dearly, diminishing him in ways he could hardly begin to fathom. He would allow his doubts to hinder him no further.
Setting his jaw, Beobrand gripped Sceadugenga’s reins tightly and stared towards the horizon. Battle awaited there, calling to him with its promise of bloody freedom. He had been summoned by his king and he would answer the call.
The column of black-shielded gesithas followed in the thegn of Ubbanford’s wake, their horses’ hooves like thunder in the still summer air.
Chapter 33
Cynan took the reins that Ingwald handed him. Mierawin snorted and scraped a hoof in the soft earth before Leofman’s house. The bay mare was eager to leave. Cynan patted her neck.
“Don’t worry, girl,” he whispered. “We’ll be gone soon.”
They had reached the farm shortly before dawn the previous day. Several of them had been asleep in the saddles and it was only Bleddyn’s sharp eyes that had kept them on the correct path. The riders had tumbled from their mounts, barely able to keep their eyes open.
Cynan hadn’t expected trouble, but had set guards nonetheless, starting with Bleddyn, who, along with Raedmund had suffered one fewer sleepless night than the rest of them. They all slept through most of the day. The warriors needed the rest, and were pleased to have Sulis prepare them food. And yet the house was too small to house them all comfortably and as the day drew to a close, Cynan was already sensing that they had outstayed their welcome. Nothing was said, but Leofman was surly and uncommunicative and Cynan had caught Sulis looking at him under her lashes more than once while she stirred the pottage in the large pot over the fire.
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