It mattered not whether the dream was truth or a clever way of twisting the devout Oswine’s will. If the outcome was peace between the two kingdoms, nobody could complain. Peace would be good, thought Cynan. He could return to Stagga with his new warriors and put them to working the land, and training with the Black Shields. The thought of seeing Eadgyth again filled him with a warm expectation, tempered with anxiety at her reaction to him. Still, he had truly done nothing wrong. When he had left, his mind had been in turmoil. It was made up now.
“Going somewhere, Cynan?”
He halted at the sound of the familiar voice. Sighing, he turned to face Beobrand, who had been standing outside of the puddle of light that spilt from the candles and the rushlights within the tent.
“Lord,” Cynan said.
“Don’t call me that,” snapped Beobrand. “If you thought of me as your lord, you would obey me.”
“Can a man not disagree with his oath-sworn lord?” asked Cynan.
From within the tent, Oswiu laughed loudly once more. Beobrand tensed. Other voices joined the king, the laughter swelling.
“A man’s lord cannot control what a man thinks, Cynan. But a man’s actions speak of what he believes. If he does not follow the commands of his lord, what value has his oath?”
Sudden anger flared within Cynan at those words.
“Do not doubt my oath to you, Beobrand. Do not say such a thing. You know I am your man. I have stood by your side when facing death and uncertainty. I have killed for you,” his voice cracked with emotion. “I would die for you. I have even turned away from love for you.”
“You love her then?” asked Beobrand. “Is that why you left? For love?”
“Perhaps I thought so.” Cynan shook his head. “I don’t know. I could not turn away from her. She was terrified and needed my help.”
Beobrand’s face was in shadow, but Cynan could sense his anger.
“Reaghan was terrified too, I don’t doubt,” said Beobrand, his voice cold. “Before she died.”
“Beobrand—” Cynan meant to ask for forgiveness for his actions. He was sorry for the hurt he had caused, but he knew that if he were confronted by the same situation again, he would act no differently. Before he could continue, another voice, strident and demanding, came like an echo from within the leather tent.
“Beobrand!” shouted the voice. “Where is Beobrand Half-hand?”
It was Oswiu.
With a sigh, Beobrand said, “We will finish this later.” Then, without waiting for Cynan to reply, the tall lord of Ubbanford stepped back into the heat and raucous noise of the tent.
Cynan blew out a long breath. He would be happy to leave Beobrand to face the king and his cronies alone, to join the Black Shields, to spend the night with his brothers. But Beobrand was also his shield-brother. And more than that, whatever Beobrand might think, he was his lord. Cynan felt a stab of guilt at not having been by his side for so long. Draining his cup of mead, he followed Beobrand into the tent.
“Ah, there you are!” said Oswiu as he spied Beobrand in the doorway. “I thought you had slunk off, just as your Waelisc man did!” The king’s words were slurred. In his hand he held a large drinking horn decorated with cunning silverwork at the tip and around the rim. The blood-red wine he favoured sloshed over his hand as he raised the horn to his lips and drank deeply. As he lowered the horn, his eyes met Cynan’s and Oswiu let out a cry of joy. “Oh, your disappearing Waelisc man is here too. Splendid. Don’t take your eye off him, or he might vanish again.”
“I plan on keeping him close from now on,” said Beobrand, with a dark look at Cynan. “Like an errant child.”
“Very good,” said Oswiu. He drank again and let out a huge belch. “Talking of children, you wanted to know where your son was.”
“Yes, lord king.”
“All in good time. First, let us all drink to my success. See that none of you has an empty cup.” The king stood and waved his arm around to encompass all those gathered in the tent. The movement caused him to lose his balance, and he toppled back into his chair.
Ethelwin raised an eyebrow at Beobrand, and gave a lopsided grin.
“Perhaps you have celebrated your success enough already, my lord,” he said.
“Nonsense, man!” said the king, pushing himself to his feet once again. “Fill everyone’s cup,” he yelled at the servant boy, who promptly hurried about the place, pouring mead into proffered cups and horns.
Cynan held out his cup when the boy bustled past. He needed the blurring that came with drink if he was to face more of Beobrand’s wrath. He noted that Beobrand put his hand over his own cup when the boy tried to fill it.
“Come on then, Ethelwin,” said Oswiu, nudging the burly warmaster with his elbow. “What are you waiting for?”
It took Ethelwin a moment to understand what the king meant, but after a few heartbeats of confusion, he raised his cup high.
“To the peace that King Oswiu has brokered.”
“To peace!” cried a few of the men in response. Cynan drank. That was something worth celebrating.
“To peace?” said Oswiu. “We should be praising the peace-maker!”
“To the king,” Ethelwin said dutifully, lifting his cup again to the gathered throng.
“Not me,” laughed Oswiu. “To the peace-weaver with long hair. Just like her mother’s.”
Men murmured, unsure of Oswiu’s meaning.
“Do not look so confused,” the king said. “It is quite simple and has ever been thus. A pretty wench to warm the bed can avert many a war! I have to say I much prefer to swive my alliances than to fight for them.”
Ethelwin fidgeted uncomfortably. Beobrand frowned.
“You speak of a woman, lord king,” said Beobrand. “And yet no lady is here. Who is this peace-weaver?”
“Ah, Beobrand! It is well that you ask. It may have been my guile that turned this battle, but it was your son and mine who carried the message that convinced Peada to leave.”
“What message, lord?”
“Why, an offer of marriage and power, of course. Such as he could not refuse.” Oswiu grinned broadly. “You asked who is the peace-weaver I speak of. It is none other than my daughter, Alhflaed. She is of the line of the Idings of Bernicia and the great Urien of Rheged himself.” Oswiu raised his horn to Sigehelm at the mention of that kingdom. “She is a beauty, like her mother, Rhieinmelth. She resides with her at Magilros, but she is of age and has spent long enough with nuns and monks. It is time I put her comely form to good use for the kingdom. Not that Peada would have refused, even if Alhflaed were as ugly as an ox’s arse.” He laughed and drank from his ornately decorated horn. “An alliance with me and a promise of power when Deira is mine once more, was offer enough. That Alhflaed is pleasing to the eye is the rich cream on the cup of milk. Peada will be doubly thankful when he sees her.”
“You speak of Deira being yours once more, lord,” said Beobrand. “I hope the peace between our kingdoms will hold, for it seems to me there has been too much killing between men who were once friends. But do you truly believe that Bishop Aidan will be able to negotiate such a peace that you might become king of Deira, as your brother once was?”
“A pox on Aidan!” shouted Oswiu, spilling his drink again. “It will be my cunning and the sharpness of Bernician blades that will bring peace, not God and certainly not that old Hibernian!”
He lowered himself into his chair and drank from the horn, eyeing Beobrand over the vessel’s silver rim.
“Oswine will never come to the parley at the Farena Isles,” he said, his words so quiet that Cynan was not sure he had heard them correctly. Some of the men in the tent had been speaking softly, but now, sensing a shift in the mood, they fell silent, edging closer to the king to better hear what he would say.
“What do you mean, lord?” asked Ethelwin, a frown furrowing his scarred brow.
Oswiu looked about him as if only now noticing the number of men who could overhear
him. He grinned, showing his teeth. He was drunk, but he was not a man to be taken lightly. There was a deadly cunning behind his slurred words.
“It can do no harm to speak of it now, I suppose,” Oswiu said, as if to himself. “The dice have already been thrown and when they stop rolling, there can be no changing the numbers that are up.”
“What dice, lord?” asked Ethelwin. “What has been set in motion?”
Oswiu smiled smugly.
“Your sister’s husband, Hunwald, has his hall near these parts.” It was not a question.
“Yes, lord,” said Ethelwin. “What of it?”
“It seems that Hunwald, like Peada, is a man who can sense the way the wind is blowing in Northumbria.”
Ethelwin grew still.
“What has he done?”
“Done? Nothing really. He is leading Oswine to his hall at Ingetlingum so that the king can rest before he returns to Eoferwic. Better than sleeping in a tent or under the stars, eh?” He looked about him, perhaps expecting laughter. None came. The men all stared at the king, intent on the story he was recounting. “And if I say so myself, your sister does keep a table fit for a king,” Oswiu went on, taking a sip of his wine. “But I fear that Oswine will find more than Frythegith’s fine cooking when he arrives at Ingetlingum.”
There was absolute silence within the tent now as all of the men held their breath so as not to miss a word.
“What will Oswine find there?” asked Beobrand.
Oswiu turned to stare at the lord of Ubbanford.
“He will find his end, Beobrand.” He drank from the horn. When he grinned, his lips were stained purple from the wine. “I yet have some thegns who will do their king’s bidding without question.”
“You speak of murder,” whispered Beobrand. “Who will do such a thing?” But from the hollowness of his tone, Cynan thought his lord had come to the same conclusion as he about who the king had sent to kill Oswine.
“It sometimes takes young men to carry out a king’s wishes, it seems,” said Oswiu. “Once I might have sent you, Beobrand. But it seems you are getting old now, soft and filled with the worries of a father.” Oswiu held out his arms as if he might embrace Beobrand. “I understand,” he said. “I too am older than I used to be, but I have a kingdom to think of, not just my kin. Octa is filled with ambition. And to those who stand before him in battle, he is as deadly as a plague. He is so like you when you were young.”
“And he is as foolhardy!” shouted Beobrand, throwing down his cup in rage. “You would make a murderer of my son!”
Oswiu shrugged.
“Octa is a great warrior,” he said. “He has already sent many men to the afterlife.”
Beobrand took a step forward. His fists were clenched and Cynan feared he would leap at the king and strike him. Stepping close, Cynan placed a hand on Beobrand’s shoulder. Beobrand shook it off without turning.
“To kill in battle brings a man reputation, glory and battle-fame,” he said, the words cutting through the silence in the tent like a sharp sword through skin and sinew. “There is honour in facing a man in battle and vanquishing him. You know this! But a blade in the dark, stabbing in a hall an unarmoured man like a thief in the night…” Beobrand growled. Cynan could feel his ire rolling off him like the heat from a hearth. He prepared to haul Beobrand back should he decide to throw himself at Oswiu. But Beobrand did not attack. With a great effort, he held himself in check.
“There is no honour in such a thing,” he said. “It is murder and a man who commits such an act will be known as a craven. A nithing! He will have to live with that stain on his name for the rest of his life.”
“What have you done, lord?” said Ethelwin. The colour had drained from his face, making the jagged scar on his forehead stand out.
“I have used the men of my household to rid me of the troublesome king of Deira,” said Oswiu. “The man should never have been named king by the Witena Ġemōt. The throne is mine by right.”
“Perhaps that is so, lord,” said Ethelwin, “but this is not the way. Have you not thought of Alhfrith?”
“The atheling is strong and he did not travel alone. He took Octa and some of his hearth-warriors with him. My son will succeed.”
The warmaster sighed, shaking his head.
“I do not doubt the atheling will be able to fulfil your wish, Oswiu. But Beobrand is right. No man who performs such an act can hope not to be forever tainted by the treachery. Do you not want Alhfrith to reign when you are gone?” Ethelwin held the king in an icy stare. “Who will follow a man without honour?”
Oswiu looked aghast. With shaking hand, he emptied the horn of wine and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“When is this to occur?” asked Ethelwin.
“Now. Tonight. They rode away at dusk.”
The warmaster rubbed his gnarled hand over his face and turned to Beobrand.
“There may yet be time to stop this thing,” he said. “If we ride like the wind.”
“Then why are we yet here?”
Without waiting for a response, Beobrand spun on his heel and ran out into the night.
Cynan and Ethelwin sped after him. Behind them, as they were swallowed by the darkness, Cynan fancied he heard laughter from the tent.
Chapter 41
Unseen, a branch sliced out of the darkness, scratching and scraping its leaves and twigs across Beobrand’s forehead and face. Instinctively he closed his eyes and ducked. He thought about calling over his shoulder to warn the others of the low bough, but before he could, he heard a muffled curse from behind. Too late for a warning. Each rider was alone in his own dark world. The darkness was so deep and their speed was such that each rider had to trust to his god or to wyrd that he would reach their destination safely. Beobrand would count them lucky if none of them was thrown from their horse. It was madness to gallop on such a night, but there was nothing else for it. They were riding to stop a madness and it was all Beobrand could do not to scream out his frustration and anger as they hurried through the gloom.
The path to Hunwald’s hall was not short, but as they had mounted up, Cynan had given Beobrand a sliver of hope.
“Hunwald does not believe he will be followed,” he said, swinging up into the saddle effortlessly. “They will not be riding fast. If luck is on our side, we will reach them on the road, or arrive in time to halt this.”
Beobrand had been furious with Cynan, but now he felt his anger dying away, pushed aside by his greater fear that his son would become a murderer, or that he might be slain by Oswine and his comitatus.
What had Oswiu been thinking?
He had uttered the question to Ethelwin as they prepared to ride.
“The king has thought of nothing but defeating Oswine these past years,” said the grizzled warmaster. “I fear his desire for victory has clouded his judgement.”
“You did not know of this insanity?”
Ethelwin glared at Beobrand, his face red in the flame-glow from the nearest fire that the black-shielded warriors had been sitting around.
“I knew of the message to Peada,” he said. “I may be the king’s warmaster, but what I desire most is peace. I do not seek more blood when it could be spared. You know this, Beobrand. The offer of this alliance with the atheling of Mercia seemed like the best way to end this infernal war.” He heaved himself up into his saddle with the help of Reodstan, who had joined the small group preparing to ride out. “But I knew nothing of this trap that Oswiu and Hunwald have planned. I would have spoken against it if I had. Not only is it cowardly and beneath the lord of Bernicia, but I fear Oswine’s death may well bring about more fighting, more bloodshed.”
They entered a length of Deira Stræt that was devoid of trees now, and for a time Beobrand could just make out the silver-licked stones of the road by the pale light of the sliver of moon.
Beobrand kicked Sceadugenga on to greater speed, praying silently to Woden that the stallion would not place a hoof into one
of the numerous fissures or clefts in the road where countless winters had cracked the stones or washed them away completely. The wind was cool on his face, but there was no thrill and excitement from the sense of speed and freedom. He was not free. His stomach churned with worry and his head throbbed.
He wondered at Ethelwin’s words. Were they right to doubt the king’s judgement? If the king of Deira was killed, Oswiu would surely have a much better chance of securing the kingdom and uniting Northumbria once more. It seemed to Beobrand that the only mistake Oswiu had made was allowing his son, the atheling, to be involved in the treachery. Much as he loathed to admit it, Oswiu should have sought to distance himself from any involvement in the plot. By sending Alhfrith, the king’s reputation would suffer by association, just as much as the atheling’s. Ultimately, men followed power, but honourable men wished to follow men of honour. And no man would look upon regicide by assassination as a virtuous act.
Sceadugenga’s easy gallop had carried him close to Cynan, who led the party. Attor, as the second truly gifted horseman of the group, rode at the rear of the small column. Beobrand had ordered Attor to take up that position after they had realised that Cuthbert had ridden with them.
They had saddled their mounts and left the Bernician encampment in haste. Beobrand and Ethelwin agreed that they should take only a handful of their best men. This was not a mission for a warband. It was all about speed and then being able to deal with whatever confronted them when they arrived at Hunwald’s hall or caught up with Oswine on the road. None of them had noticed young Cuthbert following them out onto the road and they had not realised he was with them until they had been riding for some time.
For Lord and Land Page 36