Realisation dawned on Scyldsung’s face.
“Did they kill the woman?” he asked in a small voice.
“If they did it would be just more murders to add to your tally.”
“I never wanted anyone to be slain,” cried Scyldsung.
“Perhaps that is so,” replied Cynan, “but you chose not to think of what would occur, didn’t you? And you agreed to help Sidrac to extract the metal from the earth, just as you had helped Leofman, didn’t you?”
Something in the priest’s face told Cynan he had struck at the core of the matter, the way a man’s pick might unearth a rich seam of ore.
“And so it comes to that,” Cynan said. “Greed, nothing more. How much did Sidrac promise you for your help?”
Scyldsung’s face contorted with rage. This was the true man behind the mask of the kindly holy man.
“If Leofman had been generous, none of this would have happened,” whined Scyldsung, and it was all Cynan could do to prevent his hand from plunging the seax into the odious priest’s throat. “It was I who found the writings at Caer Luel that explained the process. And it was I who then experimented with Leofman to bring forth the lead from the galena ore. And what did he offer in return? Nothing! Just his thanks!”
“You are a priest, not a merchant, trading for wealth,” spat Cynan.
“Even Christ’s shepherds need to eat.”
“What did Sidrac offer you?” asked Cynan, his voice quiet and cold, like a knife in the darkness.
“A tithe of all the silver he made from the mine.”
Cynan shook his head in disbelief at the man’s greed and stupidity.
“And you thought you could trust men such as Sidrac and Ludeca?”
“Even if they gave me less, it would have been more than nothing.”
Cynan stared at the man for a long time. His face was tear-streaked and snot ran from his nose. Cynan imagined drawing the blade of his seax across Scyldsung’s throat. He could picture the dark glut of blood spurting in the gloom of the church, hear it splattering across the oaken features of the Christ on his rood. With a great effort, he removed the seax from the man’s neck.
Scyldsung let out a long ragged breath of relief.
“After a confession, what does a priest do?” Cynan asked.
Scyldsung wiped a shaking hand across his face.
“He absolves the confessor’s sins.”
“That is not in my power,” said Cynan. “It seems to me that some sins need punishing.”
Scyldsung tried to scrabble away.
“But you said you would not kill me if I told you what happened,” he said, terror in his voice.
Cynan sprang forward, heaving Scyldsung to his feet and wrapping a heavily muscled arm about his neck.
“I am not going to kill you, priest,” he hissed, pulling him towards the altar. “But I am not going to forgive you. Your penance for your sins will be to live in the knowledge that if ill ever comes to Leofman or his family, I, Cynan of Stagga, will hear of it. And I will ride here, and I will kill you. Do you doubt it is so?”
“No,” snivelled Scyldsung. “No, I believe you.”
Cynan grabbed the priest’s wrist, pushing the man’s hand over the flickering flame of the beeswax candle. Scyldsung fought against him, bucking and thrashing, but he was no match for Cynan’s strength.
The church darkened as the priest’s hand partially covered the opening of the pot that held the candle. Scyldsung howled in pain and the stink of burning flesh stung Cynan’s nostrils. He held Scyldsung as he wailed and trembled and fought for his freedom. After a time, the man became limp in his grasp.
Stepping back, Cynan let the priest collapse to the floor. He was weeping and whimpering in pain and fear as he gazed up at Cynan’s impassive face.
“That hand will help you to remember what we have spoken about here today,” Cynan said, making his way to the door. Tugging it open, he welcomed the fresh air from outside. “Do not tarry here too long, priest,” he called over his shoulder. “Sigehelm expects you at the high table.” He sniffed the air. “And I think I can smell roasting pork.”
Chapter 37
Cuthbert shielded his eyes with his hand and stared up at the hill of Wilfaresdun. The sun was high and the day was already hot. Atop the rise, the Deirans were amassed in a great host. Their spears were as thick as a forest, and in the hazy summer distance, Cuthbert could not keep a count of the numerous banners and standards that hung limp in the still warm air.
The Bernicians had left Corebricg two days before and marched south along Deira Stræt. They had overnighted among the tumbled ruins of the old Roman fort just north of the River Tes. Setting out in the wolf-grey light of the pre-dawn, they had crossed the rickety timber bridge over the dark swirling waters of the Tes, arriving at Wilfaresdun when the day was yet cool.
As they had ridden southward along the cracked Roman road, Cuthbert had looked back to watch the line of the fyrd-men trailing behind them. Beobrand had kept his face stern, but Cuthbert could tell he was distracted, anxious even.
“Why is our lord so nervous?” he had asked Eadgard in a low voice.
Eadgard glanced over his shoulder to where Beobrand had cantered back to converse with Wynhelm at the rear of the column.
“Beobrand is a good hlaford,” he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his meaty hand. “He does not like to lead us into the unknown.”
“But all battle is unknown,” replied Cuthbert. “Nobody can predict the outcome when two hosts meet.”
“True enough,” replied Grindan, who rode close to his brother, “but many things can shift the balance in one warhost’s favour. Beobrand leads the best warriors, no doubt,” he said with a grin, “but it would do us well to meet the enemy on a ground of our choosing. When we are on the march, we are vulnerable to ambush. Oswine knows we are coming, and this is his land.”
“But Oswiu sent out riders to scout ahead,” replied Cuthbert. The wiry Attor had been among those scouts.
“He did.” Grindan nodded. “But even the best outrider can make a mistake. Beobrand doesn’t like that we are walking through Deira as if we have already won the war, when we know full well that Oswine and Peada are out there waiting for us.”
They had been riding between two wooded hills, and at Grindan’s words Cuthbert glanced up at the slopes, expecting to see a horde of riders descending upon them at any moment.
Now, peering up at the thicket of spears and standards on the hill, it was clear to Cuthbert that Beobrand had worried needlessly. They had not been attacked as they marched and the Deirans were amassed just where Oswiu had said they would be.
And yet, Beobrand still seemed on edge.
The hill had been visible for a long way as they had trudged down the Roman road. Attor and the other scouts had ridden south into the gloom of the dark morning before the sun rose, returning with the dawn to guide the host to its current position in a field of barley to the north of Wilfaresdun.
Without delay, the Bernicians had followed the orders of Oswiu’s thegns and ealdormen, trampling the crops in the field and forming up into a solid mass of warriors. Beobrand’s Black Shields were at the centre, where they were conspicuous for their lack of a standard under which to rally. To the left of their position was Oswiu himself, standing beneath the purple banner of Bernicia. He was surrounded by his comitatus, the hearth-warriors of the king, commanded by Lord Ethelwin. To the right of the Black Shields stood Wynhelm and his small warband of stalwart warriors.
Cuthbert glanced at Beobrand. The tall thegn of Ubbanford held his hand up to shade his eyes, just as Cuthbert had been doing moments before.
“By Woden,” Beobrand spat, “I cannot make anything out in this light. What do your young eyes see, Cuthbert?”
Cuthbert said nothing about Beobrand’s eyesight, though they all knew he struggled to pick out details at a distance.
“There are many men on the hill,” he said.
“Is that so?” replied Beobrand, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “I thought we had gathered here to glean barley from some poor ceorl.” He spat into the crushed debris of barley kernels, husks and stalks. “What banners do you see? What standards? How many men?”
Cuthbert, his cheeks hot, focused on the distant hill.
“There is a wolf, I think, and a twisted white serpent on a black cloth.” He scrunched up his eyes, trying to make out more details. “I see a boar the colour of blood, and the golden cross and lions of Oswine.”
Beobrand shook his head, looking left and then right along their own line. He said nothing.
“It seems to me the Deirans outnumber us,” said Cuthbert. “And they are standing on higher ground. That will make it harder for us to attack, won’t it?”
“Quiet, lad,” Beobrand said. “We all have eyes.”
“Though some are sharper than others,” quipped Attor.
“I may not see as well as you or the boy,” Beobrand said, “but my sword is sharp enough.” He patted Nægling’s pommel to accentuate his point.
To the left of their position, a figure stepped out from the ranks of Bernicians. It was Utta, the priest, and he made his way out into the barley, before turning to face the Bernician host. At his movement, a multitude of pigeons flapped into the sky from the crop. The summer air was filled with the whirring of their wings and Utta, startled, spun around to see what had made the commotion. He watched the birds wheel in the sky and fly over the hill that held the Deirans. Making the sign of the cross, he turned again to face the warriors.
Cuthbert continued to watch the flock of pigeons, as small as insects now against the egg-shell bright blue of the sky. He wondered what their sudden flight meant? Was this as Coenred had said? Was God speaking through the movement of the birds to His faithful? Cuthbert concentrated, trying to make sense of it, but all he could hear were the murmurs of the warhost as they settled down to listen to what Utta would say to them.
“Kneel and pray with me,” said the priest.
Utta’s voice was thin, and someone far along the Bernician line shouted, “Speak up!”
Nervous laughter rippled across the men.
“Kneel,” Utta shouted. “And let us pray for victory this day.”
Nobody moved. Utta scanned the line of fighting men before him, his eyes moving quickly. He wiped sweat from his brow. Cuthbert felt pity for the man. He was a holy priest who could surely hear the voice of the Almighty. If he wished for the men to kneel, they should do that which he asked.
Cuthbert knelt. The broken stalks of the barley prickled his knees. Attor clapped him on the shoulder, and joined him on the ground. Then, like a wave rolling across the sands of Lindisfarena, the rest of the men knelt. Even King Oswiu and the standard bearers dropped to their knees, leaving the banners swaying high over the host and Utta standing alone, up to his thighs in the sea of ripe barley. The priest met Cuthbert’s gaze with a small nod of thanks.
Holding up his hands over the gathered men, he began to intone the words of the prayer to the Lord that all men knew.
“Fæder ure þu þe eart on heofonum; Si þin nama gehalgod…”
Despite his moment of uncertainty, Utta’s voice was strong now, and after he had uttered the first familiar words, he was accompanied by the men of the fyrd, the prayer taking on a mesmeric weight, a power of its own, when voiced from hundreds of mouths.
“… gewurþe ðin willa on eorðan swa swa on heofonum,” said Cuthbert, lending his voice to the communal prayer. He glanced over to where Beobrand knelt and was not surprised to see his hlaford’s mouth firmly shut. Beobrand did not worship the Christ and, unlike some men, made no pretence to do so. His left half-hand gripped the Thunor’s hammer amulet he wore on a leather thong around his neck.
“… urne gedæghwamlican hlaf syle us todæg…”
Cuthbert thought of the meaning of the words they spoke, of how the prayer to the Holy Father asked for bread and protection from temptations. He understood why Beobrand was anxious as they stood before their amassed enemies. He may worship the old gods, but Beobrand was a good lord, providing for his people food and protection, just as the followers of the Christ beseeched daily of the Almighty.
“… swa swa we forgyfað urum gyltendum and ne gelæd þu us on costnunge…”
The prayer was reaching its conclusion now, and the volume of the throng rose. Cuthbert looked beyond Utta. Something had caught his attention. In the distance he saw movement on the hill. The pigeons had disappeared into the haze, but the standards of the Deirans jostled, as if in a great wind, yet the day was still.
The prayer was over now and Utta, perhaps emboldened by the reception from the men, launched into a blessing of his own, exhorting God to watch over His faithful as they marched into battle in His name. The men remained silent, many with heads lowered, but Cuthbert did not take his gaze from the hill. He listened to Utta’s words, wondering how many others of Oswiu’s force thought it strange that the priest should speak of the Lord watching over the Bernicians, when it was well known that Oswine of Deira was as pious a king as any that lived. Surely God could not bring victory to all those who followed Him, when both warhosts marched for a Christ-following king. Both Oswine and Oswiu looked to Bishop Aidan for their spiritual guidance, so how could God choose between them?
Utta finished his blessing and the men of the fyrd stood once more. Many of them made the sign of the cross as they rose. The expressions on the men’s faces were less sombre now. The promise of God’s protection had lifted their spirits and Cuthbert wondered at the power of something as simple as a prayer and a blessing. It was as if the words carried their own magic.
“What is happening on the hill?” asked Beobrand, cutting into Cuthbert’s thoughts. Beobrand’s tone was curt; the sound of a hlaford concerned for his people. “Those banners are moving.”
Cuthbert gave the hill his full attention. For a time, even with his sharp eyes he could not be sure what was happening there. And then, all at once, it became clear. Next to him, he heard Attor draw in a sharp intake of breath and he knew the slim scout had seen it too.
“There are more warriors joining the ranks on the hill,” Cuthbert said, keeping his voice low so that only Beobrand and those close by would hear.
“It is Peada,” said Attor. “I see his eagle standard. And…” He paused, narrowing his eyes, wanting to be certain before he spoke. At last he nodded to himself. “He comes with many men of Mercia. There are at least five new warbands to add to those of Deira.” He looked over at their lord. Beobrand frowned, but there was no need to say the words. They had been outnumbered before and had believed it to be the full host arrayed before them. Now, with the addition of Peada’s force to Oswine’s, there could be little hope of victory.
Perhaps this was God’s way of showing which side he wished to vanquish in the upcoming battle, thought Cuthbert, with a sidelong glance at Beobrand. Could the presence of pagans in their midst be sufficient for God to forsake the Bernicians?
Beobrand stared for a long while at the hill in the distance. Cuthbert followed his gaze and tried to count the number of warriors they faced there. It was impossible, but it seemed to him that with Peada’s arrival, their enemy might well number twice the Bernician strength.
Without warning, Beobrand strode out from the line of men, and made his way along the ranks towards Oswiu. After a moment’s hesitation, Cuthbert, keen to hear what would be said, followed behind. Beobrand ignored him.
“Lord Beobrand, are your men ready for a fight?” asked Oswiu, stepping forward to meet the thegn of Ubbanford. Beside the king, Lord Ethelwin, squinting in the bright sunlight, swiped sweat from his scarred forehead.
“The Black Shields are always ready for battle,” replied Beobrand gruffly. “But lord,” he continued in a hushed tone.
“What is it?”
Beobrand nodded towards the hill.
“Should we ride out under the bough of peace?”
&n
bsp; “Peace?” said the king, his tone disdainful. “There can be no peace while Oswine yet rules the land of Deira.”
“But lord king,” said Beobrand, “should we not attempt to parley?”
“Have you gone soft, Beobrand? I can scarcely believe it is you who would have me parley when we are here to fight? I know you are no longer the young man who fought the Pictish warrior beneath the gates of Din Eidyn, but surely you are no craven.”
Beobrand spat.
“You know me well enough not to doubt my courage, lord,” he said, his voice as sharp as a seax beneath a shieldwall. “I am ready to fight, if that is your command, as are my men. But look,” he hissed, his voice an urgent whisper, “we are sorely outnumbered. If we stand, I can see no way that we will prevail against such odds.”
“We have faced bad odds before, Beobrand. Remember Cair Chaladain?”
Beobrand’s features clouded and Cuthbert, who had heard songs of the battle in the land of the Picts, wondered why its name would anger his lord so.
“Yes, lord,” Beobrand said, his words clipped. “I remember.”
“We were outnumbered there too, I recall,” sneered Oswiu. “And in the end, what slaughter we made. And to the victor the spoils, eh?” He smiled.
Beobrand clenched his fists at his side and Cuthbert thought he looked as if he might strike the king.
Oswiu did not seem to notice, or at least he paid Beobrand’s rage no heed.
“You need to have more faith, Beobrand,” he said.
“Faith, lord?” asked Beobrand, his tone flat.
“Faith in your king and the good Lord above. Besides,” said Oswiu with a wink, “with your good fortune, how could we lose?”
“I am not lucky,” Beobrand said.
“So you always say,” said Oswiu, “and yet you still stand before me when so many greater men than you are dead.”
Beobrand scowled, but did not speak.
“Enough of this,” said Oswiu. “Go back to your men and await Ethelwin’s command.”
For Lord and Land Page 33