For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand fixed the king with a stern glare before turning and striding back towards his gesithas.

  “And Beobrand,” Oswiu called after him, making him halt. “Remember. Have some faith.”

  Beobrand growled, and without another word, returned to where his black-shielded warriors awaited him. One look at his face silenced the questions on the lips of his men. Beobrand, jaw muscles bunching beneath his beard, stared grimly forward.

  Cuthbert rejoined his place in the line, biting his lip, and watching the forest of spears and standards on Wilfaresdun.

  The day dragged on and still neither side made a move to attack. Men passed around skins of water and chewed on whatever food they could get their hands on. Cuthbert’s stomach felt hollow and empty, but he could not imagine eating anything.

  The sun was well past its zenith now. A light wind had picked up, fluttering the spear pennants and banners. But despite the breeze, the afternoon was painfully hot.

  Cuthbert accepted a half-full skin from Attor, and took a deep draught. The water tasted of the leather and was as warm as blood. Still, it was wet and he welcomed the feeling of the liquid trickling down his parched throat. When he had slaked his thirst, he offered the skin to Beobrand. Absently, his hlaford reached for the water, and raised the skin to his lips.

  “Will there be battle?” Cuthbert asked.

  Beobrand hesitated, with the water skin just beneath his mouth.

  “Well,” he snarled, “we have not come to pick turnips, boy.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” asked Eadgard. “If we are going to be called upon to fight up that slope, I would rather do it in daylight.”

  Beobrand said nothing, but several of the men who had heard the axe-man’s comment, nodded, muttering their support.

  As if in answer to Eadgard, though he was much too far away to have heard the man’s words, Oswiu shouted over the murmured conversations of the host.

  “You see, Lord Beobrand? I told you to have more faith!”

  Everyone turned to look at the king.

  “See? The Lord provides!”

  Oswiu was pointing off into the distance. Cuthbert followed the direction of Oswiu’s finger. When he saw what the king was signalling, Cuthbert gasped.

  Beside him, Beobrand was shielding his eyes against the bright sun.

  “By Woden,” he said, “can it be true?”

  Chapter 38

  Cynan spurred Mierawin into a gallop. Glancing over his shoulder, he let out his pent-up breath. Thank the gods he was not being followed. Mierawin effortlessly leapt over a deep gully where the old Roman road of Burh Stræt had been washed away in some long-forgotten storm. He was glad he had not allowed Ingwald to ride with him, despite the man’s protestations. There was no way the older warrior could have kept up.

  “I need you to keep an eye on the men,” he had told Ingwald, drawing him aside as the fyrd trudged along Burh Stræt. “The men of Rheged are numerous, and I do not believe the flame of vengeance has been put out in Sigehelm’s heart quite as easily as he would have me believe. With Halinard injured, I need you to watch over them.”

  Reluctantly, Ingwald had agreed. He too had noticed the dark looks some of the men gave them. Sigehelm had shown no sign of wishing them harm and yet there was a coldness in his eyes that spoke of a secret hatred brewing within. And who could blame the man for hating the warriors who had slain his brother? Still, he had accepted the weregild, perhaps allowing his greed and ambition to smother his desire for revenge, so now, in accordance with the law, there could be no bloodfeud between them.

  And yet Cynan had been concerned for what might occur on the days’ long march into Deira. Men could easily have accidents on such a journey, travelling fast through the barren hills and the pass that cut between the ridge of mountains to the north and the lands of the Pecsætna in the south.

  Cynan was not oblivious to how Sigehelm had positioned his hearth-warriors around his black-shielded gesithas. The lord of Dacor was ready to turn on them if needed. Or perhaps he feared they planned to attack him. He clearly did not trust them, and that lack of trust had been heightened when Cynan had contested the route they should follow to answer Oswiu’s call.

  The messenger had told them to make their way to Corebricg, from which point the gathered fyrd would travel south to engage Oswine and Peada’s forces. Sigehelm planned to lead the warriors of Rheged north along Weatende Stræt to Caer Luel and then follow the road that ran beside the great Wall.

  They had discussed the route in the hall the evening before they left. Cynan had felt a rush of relief at having convinced the Rheged lord to take the weregild that he had dug from the earth outside Sidrac’s hall. He was also pleased to have confronted the priest who had been instrumental in Sulis and Leofman’s misery. He wished he could have inflicted a great punishment on the man. There was no doubt he deserved it. But if he had killed the priest, he could see no way he would have been allowed to leave Dacor. No, Scyldsung had been terrified and reminded of what would occur to him if he attempted anything against Cynan’s friends. That would have to be enough.

  Cynan could scarcely believe that things had worked out so well. Sulis and her family were saved, and he was clear now on his course of action with Eadgyth. And so it was, flush from drinking too much of Sigehelm’s mead and with his successes fresh in his mind, that Cynan had disputed the route they should take to battle.

  “The path you have described, Sigehelm, will get us to the gathering place in three or four days,” Cynan said. “But we know Oswiu plans to march south. And his messenger left two days ago.”

  “Those are the orders of the king,” Sigehelm said with a scowl, his eyes blazing. It was not until the light of the morning, with a clear head after the fog of drink had lifted, that Cynan thought back to Sigehelm’s tone and expression and began to wonder at the man’s true feelings towards him.

  At the high table sat Scyldsung, beside the lord. The priest, pale-faced and with his hand bandaged, had entered the hall after the boards had been set. Sigehelm, noting the priest’s cloth-wrapped hand, had enquired what ailed him. Scyldsung had mumbled something about an accident and cutting an apple clumsily.

  Had Sigehelm believed him, or had he seen the man’s dark glowers at Cynan? Mayhap the priest had whispered something of what had passed between them in the church, but truly Cynan doubted the snivelling Scyldsung would be so bold with him sitting close and the memory of his pain and Cynan’s threats so recent. It was impossible to say whether the priest had indicated what had truly happened to him, but one thing was certain: Sigehelm did not take well to having his decisions questioned.

  “What would you propose, Cynan?” Sidrac’s brother asked, his words cutting and hard.

  “I say that rather than following his orders blindly, Oswiu would prefer us to arrive in time to fight. We are on the other side of Albion, so we cannot enquire more of the king’s will. But I believe, as leaders of men, we should use what wisdom and knowledge we have to better aid our king.”

  He thought the words were well-said, and he took a sip of mead to moisten his throat. Sigehelm frowned at him.

  “And how do you think we can better use our wisdom than riding directly to meeting Oswiu at the place he has commanded?”

  Cynan recalled the headlong rush across the animal tracks to the bothy. If they had ridden first to Leofman’s steading and then followed the path into the hills, they would have arrived too late to save Sulis. Despite the feeling of satisfaction that enveloped him in the knowledge of that victory, he shuddered at the thought of what Bumoth, Ludeca and the others would have done to her if they had tarried.

  “I say that we take the road south of here that is known as Burh Stræt.”

  “But that leads directly into Deira.”

  “Indeed it does. And we know that the men of Deira will be called to amass at Wilfar’s Hill. It has ever been so with the Deirans. They will either be there, or marching north to meet Oswiu by the time
we reach them. If we cross the ridge of mountains that runs like a spine to north and south, we will halve the time of our journey. This might well make the difference between defeat and victory.”

  Sigehelm scratched at his chin.

  “And if we meet Peada’s force on the road? Or if Oswine’s warhost is not where you say they will be and we come across them and have to engage…” His voice trailed off. He reached for his drinking horn and, finding it empty, he clicked his fingers for more mead. A servant rushed to fill his horn. Sigehelm drank deeply. “The men of Rheged are brave and doughty in battle, Cynan,” he said, “but we are but men. We cannot face the might of Deira and Mercia alone.”

  “There is risk in such a course, it is true,” said Cynan. “But do not fear. You will not be alone, for Cynan and his gesithas ride with you.” Cynan let out a bark of laughter and Sigehelm grimaced at his bravado.

  Cynan held up a hand before Sigehelm could respond. Serious now, Cynan held his gaze.

  “We ride towards battle,” he said, “and no man ever gained battle-fame by being cautious. If we follow the course I propose, I say we will likely arrive sooner to lend our steel to our king’s cause. And,” he added, with a grin, “a king rewards richly those men who turn the tide of a battle in his favour. Not those who travel the safer path and arrive late.”

  In the end, Sigehelm had grudgingly agreed with him.

  As Cynan galloped back towards the men of Rheged, Ingwald and the rest of his gesithas, he smiled at the memory of how the lord of Dacor had told the thegns and fyrd-men of Rheged that the change in plan had been Cynan’s. If all went well now, and they were able to help bring victory to Oswiu, he was sure that Sigehelm would choose to downplay or omit Cynan’s urging for them to ride the southern path.

  Still, they had to get to the battle first and there was still some way to go. And Cynan cared not who gained renown from this. He just hoped they arrived in time. Then they could return to Ubbanford and Stagga. And he could finally ask Eadgyth to forgive him. As long as Beobrand forgave him first. The lord of Ubbanford was not a merciful man, and without his hlaford’s agreement, Cynan would not be able to return.

  He pushed that thought away and kicked Mierawin on to greater speed. The Rheged fyrd should be just over the next rise.

  As he crested the hill and gazed down into the valley below, Cynan felt a stab of concern. Where were they? He had left before the dawn, riding hard. Many of the fyrd were on foot and so they could not travel as fast as those who were mounted, but surely they should have reached this vale by now. As he had ridden west, he had enjoyed the sensation of Mierawin’s power, her muscular, graceful speed, and the control he exerted over her with a soft touch on the reins, or the pressure of his heels on her flanks. And he had revelled in the knowledge that he had been right. Sigehelm might never be his friend after what Cynan had done to Sidrac, but at least the thegn of Dacor would not have this decision to rebuke him with.

  But when he began to descend the slope into the valley, Mierawin’s hooves clattering on the cracked stones of Burh Stræt, he was suddenly filled with the fear that perhaps the Rheged men had been waylaid, ambushed by some hitherto unseen force. Or, he thought with terrible clarity, maybe the fyrd had halted for a time, so that Sigehelm might exact his revenge on Cynan’s men. Images came to him then, clear as memory. Pictures of Ingwald, Halinard, Brinin, Bleddyn and Raedmund, covered in blood, their skin pallid in death, as Sigehelm and his men stood around their corpses. He should never have left their side to scout ahead.

  Panic rose within him like bile. He kicked hard at Mierawin’s sides, though he knew the mare was already close to exhaustion and could go no faster.

  They sped down the hill, Cynan scouring the land for any sign of his men and the fyrd. A heartbeat later, a wave of relief washed over him. His own tiredness must be greater than he knew for how else had he not seen them before? Off to one side of the road, in the shadows of a stand of elm and hazel, the men of Rheged were resting. They must have set a fast pace to reach there in time to rest their weary bodies, but he was glad of it. They would need all their strength if they were to arrive in time and then fight.

  He slowed Mierawin’s gallop to a fast canter and veered off the stones of the road. Two riders were approaching to intercept him. As they neared, he recognised Ingwald and Brinin. He sighed with relief, cursing himself for allowing his imagination to stampede like a herd of wild horses.

  The two men reined in, expecting him to halt too, but he carried on past them without stopping.

  “There is no time to waste,” he called to them. “I have spied the enemy.”

  They wheeled their mounts around and caught up with him quickly.

  “How do you fare?” Cynan asked. “Is Halinard well?”

  “We are well enough, lord,” said Ingwald. “Halinard is still in pain, but he is no worse.” The Frank had not once complained, but they could all see the strain on his face as they rode. Cynan prayed that his luck would hold and the wound would not grow elf-shot. What Halinard really needed was rest, but such was not possible.

  “And Sigehelm?”

  “Anxious, I would say,” replied Ingwald. “He pushed the men hard as soon as you left this morning. He will be glad to hear your tidings.”

  Cynan hoped his man was right. The path he had led them on had brought them to battle, but no man could be certain what lay on the other side of the clash of shields when foe-men met in the steel-storm. But what else had they travelled for, if not war?

  Sigehelm stepped forward as Cynan rode up. Slipping from the saddle, Cynan threw his reins to Raedmund, who stood nearby.

  “Brush her down,” Cynan said. “Give her some oats, and water her. But not too much, or she’ll sicken.” Raedmund nodded sombrely, turning to lead the tired horse away. “And Raedmund,” Cynan called, halting the slender warrior. “After you have done that, change my saddle with Halinard’s. I will need a fresher mount than Mierawin before this day is through.” Raedmund nodded again and hurried off with the horse.

  “Well?” snapped Sigehelm.

  Cynan could not help grinning.

  “Oswine and Peada are at Wilfaresdun.”

  “And Oswiu? Any sign of him?”

  “The king has led the Bernician fyrd to the foot of the hill. If we had ridden to the north, we would yet be three days away. Three days late for the battle.”

  Sigehelm grunted.

  “Well it is a good thing we travelled south then, is it not?” he said, with a raised eyebrow.

  “Aye, it is that. But there is yet some way to go. Oswiu’s force is outnumbered and it looked to me that the time of battle was upon them.”

  “Will we reach them in time?”

  “Not if we stand here talking,” replied Cynan, accepting a waterskin from Ingwald and drinking. “I say those of us who are mounted ride ahead and the rest of the warriors push on as fast as they are able. There is no time to tarry now.”

  Sigehelm nodded and called for his horse, a fine animal with a dappled grey coat. Swinging himself into the saddle, he rode out in front of the men who slouched in the shade of the trees.

  “You have shown great heart these last days, men,” Sigehelm shouted in a clear voice. Cynan nodded, impressed by the lord’s tone and his command of the fyrd-men. “But now the moment for true heroes is upon us. The future of our king and the lands of Northumbria rest on a sword’s edge. And it is we men of Rheged who will win this war once and for all. Rise, brave warriors of the west. Take up your weapons and your linden boards and carry them to the enemy who awaits us on Wilfar’s Hill. It will be a long hot march and we will face blades and blood when we reach our destination, but is that not why we have come here? To answer the call of our king? And to fulfil our oaths to him? Oswiu already stands to the east of here before his enemies. And are not the king’s enemies also our enemies?”

  There was a murmur of assent from the resting men.

  “I asked if the king’s enemies are not also
our enemies!” shouted Sigehelm.

  “Yes!” the men of Rheged roared with one voice.

  “And the king now stands before his foe-men, so rouse yourselves. For battle and glory await us!”

  Sigehelm turned to Cynan.

  “See that your horse is saddled promptly,” he said. “I do not think you wish to be left behind when the shields crash, and,” he went on with a grin that once more made Cynan rethink his opinion of the man, “I will not wait for you.”

  Chapter 39

  “You see, Lord Beobrand,” said Oswiu with a broad smile, “I told you Oswine would come to speak with me.”

  Beobrand scowled, peering to make out who was approaching with the king of Deira. There were several mounted figures riding down the slope of Wilfaresdun, but they were yet too distant for him to make out any faces. The riders’ shadows were long and dark, the sun low in the western sky. The day had been hot, and filled with tension and surprises. And it was not over yet.

  “But why so glum?” asked Oswiu. “This is just what you wanted, is it not?”

  The king was right. Beobrand had been calling for a parley with their enemy, and it was certainly a better outcome than any he could have expected for most of that long day as the men awaited battle. He shook his head, and glanced over at Cynan who sat astride a short-legged dun horse that Beobrand recognised as Halinard’s.

  “I think it wise to talk before more Northumbrian blood is spilt, lord,” Beobrand said. “There has been enough killing between our two kingdoms these past years.”

  Oswiu scratched behind his ear

  “You really are getting old, aren’t you?” he said with a chuckle. “At least your Waelisc man still has blood in his veins. I have seldom seen a more beautiful sight than that of Cynan and Sigehelm galloping from the west at the head of scores of riders of Rheged. I shall have to reward you both, when this is done.” Oswiu nodded at both Cynan and the thegn he had ridden with. Beobrand did not know this Sigehelm, but the man looked every bit the warlord. He sat straight on a tall, dappled horse. His arms were ringed in silver and gold and a finely wrought sword hung at his belt in a scabbard that was decorated with patterns and carved plates of silver.