He recognised the faces of all the thegns and ealdormen gathered in the king’s tent and he recalled seeing their banners and standards raised over their camped warbands as he had led his black-shielded gesithas through the host, looking for a place to light cooking fires and set up camp. He had seen Ethelwin’s raven, and the red wyrm of Wynhelm. But, he realised, as he drained his cup of wine, there was one banner he had not seen.
“Where is Alhfrith?” he asked, and the murmuring conversation ceased.
Outside, a horse whinnied and a man cursed. Laughter wafted to them, carried on the wind redolent of the stink of hundreds of Bernician warriors.
Ethelwin frowned.
“The atheling will be with us when he is needed,” he said. The warmaster shot a glance at Oswiu, who nodded.
“If you are worrying about your son,” said the king, “do not fret. He is with Alhfrith, and they can both take care of themselves. They have long since ceased to need their fathers’ protection, it seems to me.”
Beobrand wondered at Oswiu’s words and the look that had passed between the king and the warmaster.
“I was not worried, lord,” replied Beobrand. It was true, he thought, though now that the seed had been sown by the king, Beobrand could sense the roots of the bitter plant of anxiety for his son’s safety burrowing into his mind. “I merely wondered where the atheling and Octa were. We are riding to war and we would not wish to meet the enemy without some of our most valiant warriors.” He held out his cup to the thrall boy for more wine. “Perhaps,” he added, “we should await their arrival.” He raised his cup to his lips, savouring the wine. “Even though they are tardy.”
“That will not be necessary,” said Ethelwin, and once again, Beobrand noted the silent communication between the warmaster and Oswiu. “We will march at dawn.”
“Octa is like a son to me,” said Oswiu with a smile. “It pleases me greatly that he is so devoted to Alhfrith. He has his father’s sense of honour and duty. He would do anything to protect the atheling. I feel blessed that he is part of my household.”
Oswiu met Beobrand’s gaze with a grin that did not reach his eyes. Beobrand smiled back through gritted teeth, unwilling to allow the king to see the effect his words had on him. He could not be certain, but he sensed that Oswiu knew exactly how his words would stab at Beobrand. Oswiu was much too cunning to be oblivious of the power he held over Beobrand by means of Octa’s proximity to Alhfrith.
Ever since the conversation with Cuthbert on the ride south, Beobrand’s mood had soured. He tried not to dwell on what the young man had said, but no matter how hard he tried, he felt the weight of the war pressing down on him. So many dead. How many more to be killed? Could he truly be the cause of such pointless slaughter? Staring into Oswiu’s dark, intelligent eyes, he told himself this war had been orchestrated not by him, but by the son of Æthelfrith. Oswiu’s father had been known as Flesaur, the Twister, by his enemies, due to his cunning. No man could be truly free of his father. Beobrand had struggled with that knowledge. And no matter how much Octa might hate it, his son was like him in many ways. Even a king could not escape his nature, passed down to him in the blood of his father. Oswiu’s ambition and guile were overbearing. His desire for more power had led to war and death.
Beobrand wished he could see a way out of the impending battle. But no path to peace was clear to him. Oswiu’s eyes shone in the gloom of the tent and again the king smiled. Like his father, the Twister, Oswiu’s ambition could not be contained. He would never rest until he had secured Deira and united Northumbria once more as his uncle, Edwin, and his brother, Oswald, had done before him.
And it was Beobrand’s wyrd to help achieve his goals. For Oswiu had his oath. And, as he was keen to remind Beobrand, Octa was a member of the king’s household.
“I am glad to hear that Octa pleases you, lord. And that he fulfils his oath to you and the atheling. Alas, I have seen little of him of late. I had hoped to find him here, gathered with the fyrd and your warhost.”
“Well, you will see him soon, never fear.”
“You know where he is then?”
“Of course I know where he is, man,” snapped Oswiu. “I am king of all Bernicians, including my son and yours.”
“Lord,” said Ethelwin, raising a hand in warning.
Oswiu took a deep breath, controlling his building ire.
“I know where the members of my household are,” he said. “You would do better to worry about your own people.” Beobrand met his glower without flinching.
Was that the meaning of Oswiu’s words? Was the king giving him a warning? Or was he threatening him? For the briefest of moments Beobrand recalled the touch of Eanflæd’s lips, the warm softness of her body against him. He wondered if Oswiu knew where each of his household was at every moment.
“After all,” the king went on, “you do not know where your man Cynan is, do you?”
“You are right, of course, lord king,” Beobrand said. He drank deeply from his cup of wine, swilling the liquid around his mouth to rid himself of the foul taste of his subservience. “So,” he said, changing the subject, “tomorrow we march south to face Oswine and Peada?”
“Yes,” replied Oswiu, a broad smile on his face. If any of the other men gathered in the tent found his expression strange, none made mention of it. Beobrand recalled the resigned features of the reluctant and tired warriors outside. Was Oswiu so detached from the mood of his men that he was joyful in the face of their approaching despair?
“The men of Deira and Peada’s Mercians are amassing at Wilfaresdun,” said Ethelwin. Beobrand knew the place. It was a hill close to the joining of the old Roman roads of Burh Stræt and Deira Stræt, near Catrice.
“If they await us on that hill, they will be hard to dislodge,” he said.
“That is your problem, Beobrand,” said Oswiu, clearly enjoying himself. “You have no faith. But God is on our side, and I will not lead you to a defeat.”
Beobrand thought of Oswiu’s brother, Oswald, and how his body had been hacked apart, his head and limbs placed on waelstengs at Maserfelth. He recalled the blood-soaked shift of Sigeberht, the holy king of the East Angelfolc, who had also been slain by Penda of Mercia. The idea of facing Penda’s son armed with faith in the Christ God did not fill Beobrand with confidence. But he bit back the words he wished to say. Instead, he handed his empty cup to the thrall and said, “I have faith in doughty men with sharp spears and strong shields. And I place my trust in kings who lead their warhosts to victory.”
Oswiu’s smile slipped, as if he suspected a veiled insult in Beobrand’s words.
“Well, I am your king and I will lead you to victory when we face Oswine and Peada.”
Beobrand nodded.
“You have never led me to defeat before, lord. Now, if you have no further need for me, I would see to my men.”
Oswiu met his gaze for a long while, before finally waving a hand, dismissing Beobrand.
As Beobrand turned and left the tent, the sound of conversation within swelled. The breeze picked up, slapping the leather walls like a ship’s sail, pulling the ropes tight. Beobrand breathed deep of the air outside. Despite the stink of so many men, the breeze was heavy with woodsmoke and the scent of cooking. In the distance, he could see his Black Shields setting up camp on a slight rise in the lee of a stand of beech. He strode towards them, leaving the sound of Oswiu and his retinue behind. But even when he had gone some way and he could no longer hear the men inside the tent, Beobrand could not get the taste of the king’s wine from his mouth and, along with the sour tang, the unshakeable feeling that a riddle had been told that he alone was unable to solve.
Chapter 36
The church of Saint Trynnian was just as Leofman had described it. The sun had gone down now, but there was no mistaking the timber building with the cross on its roof that was silhouetted against the darkening sky. In the distance, the sound of many people thronging Tohrwulf’s hall reached Cynan and Ingwald a
s they approached the church.
After the commotion caused by Cynan’s arrival, and the subsequent payment of the weregild for Sidrac’s killing, the boards were being set for a meal. There would be feasting soon, a chance for the people of Dacor to send their men off to war with their bellies full and memories of their kin’s faces in their minds. Nobody seemed unduly upset about Sidrac’s death. And, after the brief moment of worry when Sigehelm recognised the buckle from his brother’s belt, Cynan and his men had been accepted. They were known as warriors who followed Beobrand of Ubbanford, and his battle-fame carried much weight.
“You will join me at the high table this night,” Sigehelm had said. “In that way we will show clearly there is no enmity between us. Then, in the morning, you will ride with us to answer Oswiu’s call.”
“I would be honoured,” Cynan had replied. He had hoped to be able to return directly to Stagga, so that he could speak with Eadgyth, but when he had heard of the calling of the fyrd, he knew his duty was to respond. “But there is something I would do before we eat.”
Sigehelm raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
“I am unshriven,” Cynan said, using the unfamiliar term that he had heard from Coenred’s lips. “When we rode up to your hall, I spied a church and I would cleanse my soul before riding to battle. I have paid the weregild for your brother’s death, but I would still wash clean my immortal soul for the sins I have committed.”
“Of course,” replied Sigehelm sombrely. “But I would hurry. As soon as Scyldsung hears the sounds of merriment and smells ale and meat on the breeze, he will be at the hall faster than a hawk strikes a vole.”
Sigehelm was correct. As Cynan and Ingwald reached the thatched church, a slender man in a simple robe stepped out into the dusk. He was hurrying and almost collided with the two warriors.
Cynan placed a hand on the man’s chest and pushed him back.
“Are you Scyldsung?” he asked.
The man blinked, peering at the two strangers.
“I am,” he said. “What is it you require?” He looked longingly past Cynan at the warm light spilling from the open doors of the hall. “I was just heading to the hall. Perhaps you could tell me what it was you wanted as we walk that way.”
Cynan did not remove his hand from Scyldsung’s chest.
“Alas,” he said, “what I have to say to you cannot be overheard. Tomorrow we ride to war, and I would have a priest hear my confession before we leave.”
Scyldsung hesitated. He looked first at the tall Waelisc warrior and then the older, shorter man at his side. Both men were unsmiling, hard-faced and serious. Neither man moved and at last, with a sigh, Scyldsung turned back to his church.
“Come then,” he said. “But let us hurry. I can smell pork being roasted.”
“Surely my soul is more important than your belly,” said Cynan, following the priest inside. “When a man has sinned, there can be nothing of more import than hearing his confession and giving God’s forgiveness and grace to unburden his soul.”
With a nod to Ingwald, who took up guard at the entrance of the church, Cynan pulled the door closed behind him.
There was a candle burning within a pot resting on a silver platter at the far end of the small building. The candle’s warm light illuminated a carved figure attached to the far wall, above the altar. It was of a man splayed on a cross. The flickering flame made the shadows on the wooden face of the Christ dance, so that it seemed he was alive, writhing with the agony of being nailed to a tree.
At the sound of the door being closed, Scyldsung turned with a frown.
“There is no need to shut the door,” he said, his tone betraying a quiver of fear. “This is the house of God and it is always open to His flock.” He made his way to the plain altar, where the single candle burnt beneath the statue of Jesu’s anguish. “I keep this candle lit at all times as a symbol of God’s undying love for us all.”
Cynan took a deep breath to calm his anger. The candle smell was sweet. It was made of beeswax, not the foul-smelling tallow he had expected. He was not surprised. He noted the gold ring on the priest’s left hand, and the silver chain that adorned his neck. This was a man of expensive tastes.
He followed him to the puddle of light around the altar.
“Would you kneel with me?” asked Scyldsung.
“I would rather stand.”
Scyldsung frowned.
“It is customary to kneel before God when confessing one’s sins.”
Without warning, Cynan slapped the priest across the cheek. Hard. The sharp sound was loud in the enclosed church. Scyldsung let out a small cry and staggered backward. Cynan lashed out and grabbed hold of his robe.
“Then perhaps it is you who should kneel, priest,” he said, pulling Scyldsung towards him savagely. It was all he could do to refrain from smashing his forehead into the man’s nose. He had talked to Ingwald as they had walked over to the church and his gesith had told him not to mark the man’s face.
“Such a thing will be too much to explain away,” Ingwald had said. “You have managed to make paying the weregild work, which I was uncertain of. But if the priest comes into the hall with a broken nose and bruised eyes, I think Sigehelm may not be convinced of your good intentions.”
Ingwald was right, but at the sight of the priest, Cynan’s rage threatened to overcome him. He thought of all the pain and suffering this man’s actions had caused. The blood that had been spilt. The fear in Eadwig’s eyes. Sulis trembling in the darkness, begging for his help. Gods, this priest had made him break his word to Beobrand and ride away from Eadgyth.
“What is the meaning of this?” said Scyldsung, outrage colouring his tone. “Who are you?”
“I am a friend of Leofman’s,” Cynan replied, and the realisation and fear on Scyldsung’s face as he heard the name breathed air on the flames of Cynan’s ire. “And a friend of his goodwife, Sulis.”
Still grasping the priest’s robe in his left hand, he hammered his right fist into the man’s stomach. With a groan, the strength left Scyldsung’s legs and he fell to his knees. Cynan raised his right hand again and the man shied away. Cynan spat and stepped back, unsure if he would be able to curb his fury if he remained so close.
“I know Leofman,” Scyldsung whimpered, “and his goodwife. They are good Christ-following folk.”
“And is it not your duty to protect the followers of Christ?”
Scyldsung was regaining his composure now. He looked up at Cynan with a sincere expression on his face.
“I do not know what it is you think that I have done,” he said, “but I assure you, I want no harm to come to any of my flock.”
With a growl, Cynan drew his seax from its sheath. Its blade glimmered in the candlelight. He moved closer and Scyldsung cowered.
“Do not lie to me, priest,” Cynan said. “If you do, I will gut you here.”
“You would not dare,” spluttered Scyldsung.
“Do not test my patience. Sidrac and Ludeca are both dead. They told me everything before their end. Now I would hear you say the words.”
Scyldsung’s face was a mask of terror now.
“Then you will kill me too.” Tears brimmed in his eyes.
“I would like nothing more,” Cynan said. “And I swear to you on this blade, that if you do not tell me the truth of your actions without delay, I will spray your blood across that carving of the Christ on his cross.” Scyldsung looked up at the face of his god and trembled. “But I give you my word,” continued Cynan, “that if you confess your sins here, before God and me, I will let you live.”
Cynan stared unblinking at the terrified priest. He could not recall wanting to kill a man more, but Ingwald was right, slaying the priest would place them all in jeopardy.
The grating sound of the door being pushed open made both men turn.
Ingwald’s face was shadowed, but recognisable enough.
“Lord,” he said, “make haste. We will be missed soon.”
“You heard the man,” said Cynan. He stepped forward, grasping the priest’s robe in his hand and pressing the sharp, cold steel of the seax blade against the man’s throat. “Tell me everything.” Tears trickled freely down the priest’s face now, but Cynan felt no pity. “Now,” he said, shaking the man viciously. “My patience, such as it is, is wearing thin.”
Scyldsung swallowed and sniffed.
“What would you have me tell you?” he asked, his voice shaking and pathetic.
“Did you speak to Sidrac or Ludeca first?”
Scyldsung sighed.
“Ludeca came here. He wished to confess and to pray. As he spoke to me, I learnt that he was Leofman’s brother. Forgive me.” He quickly made the sign of the cross over himself. “For I allowed avarice to tempt me to strike a bargain with such an evil man. The Devil is strong indeed to have caused me to stray. But now I see the error of my ways.”
“Do not look to me for forgiveness,” said Cynan, pressing the edge of his seax blade hard into Scyldsung’s throat, making him gasp. “It is easy to admit to your errors when there is a knife at your throat. But the promise of silver was louder than your fear of sin. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” sniffed Scyldsung. “Yes, it is true. It was after Ludeca had left. The Devil began to whisper to me.”
“And what did the Devil tell you?”
“I thought of…” Scyldsung’s voice trailed off. “The serpent told me that if Leofman had kin that he believed to be dead, his land could be passed to another.”
“Through his heir, Eadwig.”
“That’s right. I had read the land deeds and written the will for Leofman. On his death, his land passes to his heirs.”
“But if the heir was only a child…”
“A kinsman, an uncle of his blood, could seek custody.”
“And did you not think that for this to occur, Leofman would need to die?” Scyldsung hung his head. Cynan shook him. “Do not look away. There is blood on your hands, priest. And there is more you did not know. Sulis is with child.”
For Lord and Land Page 32