It was Attor who spied the boy. Noticing that there was a rider trailing them, the scout had fallen back to intercept whoever it was.
“We should send him back to Elmer and the rest of the Black Shields,” Attor had said when he had discovered who followed them.
Beobrand had spat into the darkness. He had enough to occupy his mind without having to worry about the boy too.
“No,” he shouted over the rumble of their horses’ hooves. “We are too far from Wilfaresdun now. I would not trust the lad to find his way back, and I cannot spare you to lead him. He has chosen his path, now he will have to follow it where it leads.”
“As you wish,” said Attor.
Beobrand did not wish for any of them to be there, especially not Cuthbert. But there was nothing for it now.
“Ride at the rear, Attor,” he said. “And see that Cuthbert does not slow us down.”
That had been some time ago and they had made good progress since then, despite the darkness. Now, Beobrand noticed Cynan slowing as he caught up to the Waelisc horseman.
“How far now?” he called to Cynan.
He saw the pale blur of Cynan’s face turn towards him in the gloom.
“Soon we will reach the path to Hunwald’s hall. I think then we will need to rein in the horses.”
Beobrand pictured Octa stepping from the shadows of the hall and plunging a knife into Oswine’s back. He had failed the boy at every turn. He should never have allowed Octa to be fostered in Oswiu’s household. And yet, how could he have refused? He shook his head to clear it of such maudlin thoughts. None of that mattered. The past was gone, but he could yet do this thing for his son. He must avert the treachery that was brewing out there in the night.
He must, for Octa’s sake.
“We cannot slow now,” he said. “We are so close.”
“Lord,” said Cynan. “If we do not slow when we reach that path, we will not all reach the hall. That path will be as dark as a cave. Men will be thrown, or the horses will snap their legs. Besides, the animals are close to collapse, if we keep pushing them so hard, some won’t make it and others will be useful for nothing more than meat.”
Beobrand thought back to the last time he had ridden down that path. Oak grew thick along its length, overhanging the track like a tunnel. It was just earth, not covered in slabs of stone like the old Roman road they now rode on. Beobrand’s head pounded with each jarring pace of his horse beneath him. He wanted nothing more than to reach Oswine before he was killed, avoiding what would be a disaster for Octa and Alhfrith. Every instinct screamed at him to urge Sceadugenga on, to gallop as fast as possible into the night. His son was out there and needed his help, whether he understood that or not. And yet, Beobrand knew Cynan was right. The man was the best rider in all his warband, and if he said the horses needed to slow down in order not to be winded or to pull up lame, Beobrand trusted him.
They rode on without speaking for some time, each man lost to his thoughts. None of them knew what awaited them when they reached Hunwald’s hall. But Beobrand was sure they all sensed what he felt. They were heading towards a difficult fork in the road of their lives, just as much as they were approaching a shift in direction from the straight Roman road and onto the uneven, treacherous ground of the dark path towards Hunwald’s hall.
Cynan slowed his horse and patted its neck. Beobrand reined in Sceadugenga beside him, marvelling at the Waelisc warrior’s unerring sense of direction. To the left of the road yawned the dark mouth of the track that led to Ingetlingum. At the speed they had been travelling, Beobrand was sure he would never have spotted the path, even though he had been looking for it.
The other riders halted and congregated around the turning. There was no sign now of the stakes that had been placed beside the road here at Oswiu’s order, or the grisly totems they had held. Beobrand had overseen skewering the corpses of the men who had been sent to kill him. It was here where Oswiu had declared war on his cousin, using the night-time attack as his excuse for going to war. Beobrand had told Oswiu of his error, that the assassins were sent by Vulmar, the Frankish lord, to kill him and not the king, but Oswiu refused to listen.
It was perhaps fitting, thought Beobrand, that Oswiu now sought to end the war as it began, and in the same place, with treachery in the dark and an assassin’s blade at Ingetlingum. Though the truth of it was that this time, the orders actually came from a king of Northumbria. The gods must be enjoying the mayhem wrought at the hands of prideful and ambitious men.
“If you need to piss,” Beobrand said, “now is the time. Once we go down that path, we will not halt until we reach the hall. After that, who knows what awaits us?” He slid from Sceadugenga’s back, grunting as old wounds ached. He stepped into the weeds that grew beside the road, remembering the pallid, contorted faces of the corpses on their sharpened stakes. He shuddered at the memory, wondering whether the spirits of the dead haunted this place. Lifting up the hem of his byrnie, he loosened his breeches and pissed into the darkness, hearing the splatter of the liquid on the leaves and the mud.
Reodstan stood beside him.
“I wouldn’t have drunk as much of Oswiu’s wine if I had known we would be riding tonight.”
Beobrand grunted.
“I hear you. My head feels as if Sceadugenga has stamped on it.” He gave the stocky warrior a sidelong glance in the gloom. “Thank you for riding with me.”
Reodstan, finished now, patted Beobrand gently on the shoulder as they returned to the horses.
“What are friends for?” he asked.
Beobrand said nothing as he climbed back into the saddle.
“You think we will arrive in time to stop them?” came Cuthbert’s voice from the darkness.
“Who can say, Cuthbert?” said Grindan, before Beobrand could answer. “But now is not the time for chatter.”
Beobrand nodded to himself in the dark. Grindan was a good man, as was Fraomar, who was the last member of their small band. Both gesithas were young, brave and quick-witted. He could have brought more men along, but they had needed to ride quickly and the more men that came, the slower they would have travelled.
“Grindan is right,” Beobrand said. “We know not what we will find at the hall, but remember what it is we are about. We are to stop Oswine’s murder.” He did not say that they were to save his son from committing a terrible act. “Keep your eyes open, use your wits and listen to Ethelwin and me. If the gods smile on us, we might be able to prevent a tragedy before the sun rises.” He tugged on his reins, pulling Sceadugenga’s head around to face the seemingly impenetrable darkness of the tree-lined path. “Stay close and stay quiet. We will ride with caution from now on. Cynan, lead on.”
Without a word, Cynan touched his heels to his horse’s flanks and rode into the darkness. Beobrand followed and the thud of hooves, and creak and jangle of harness were suddenly loud, echoing from the trees.
Chapter 42
Beobrand grew increasingly frustrated at the pace Cynan set as they rode through the darkness beneath the oaks. He knew Cynan was right. They could not gallop along the dark corridor. Low branches brushed against them, snagging twig fingers in the riders’ hair and cloaks. Every now and then one of the horses would stumble, the echoing sound of the regular gait interrupted as the beast placed a hoof in an unseen depression. But with each slow step forward, Beobrand’s conviction that they would be too late built within him.
When muffled sounds of fighting reached them, he knew his worst fears had been proven true. His wyrd was ever thus. No matter how hard he tried, he failed to protect those he loved.
A roaring shout echoed somewhere in the night ahead of them. The ring of blade against blade, jagged and harsh, cut through the stillness.
“We are too late,” yelled Beobrand, unable to hold back his anxiety any longer. “Ride, Cynan! Ride!”
Cynan did not need to be given the order a second time. They could all hear the sounds of fighting now. The Waelisc horseman disc
arded his own caution for the horses and kicked his mount into a run. Beobrand dug his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks and the stallion, tired after the night ride, but still brave and anxious to do his master’s bidding, sprang forward. The black horse staggered, perhaps tripping on a root, and for a terrible moment Beobrand thought the animal would fall, throwing him into the darkness. There was no time to react. Beobrand clung on to his reins and hoped. Sceadugenga found his footing and picked up speed, lumbering into the gloom. Beobrand let out his breath with relief. The clatter of horses’ hooves on the track drowned out the noises of combat for a time, as the band of riders sped through the darkness.
Moments later, they rushed out into the open and the relative light of the night. The eastern sky was tinged with grey. It was still summer and the nights were not long. Beobrand could make out the shadowed shape of the hall before them. The building’s doors were open and a thin light tumbled out onto the clear earth before it. After the blackness of the path, the flickering from hearth and rushlights was bright, illuminating the area in front of the hall in a golden glow and stark shadows.
There were several horses there. And men. The sound of fighting came from inside the hall. The light that spilt from the doorway shifted and danced with the movement of those inside.
Beobrand did not slow Sceadugenga until the last moment. Cynan and he both pulled back on their reins at the same instant, causing their mounts to dig in their hooves and slide to a halt. Beobrand did not wait for the stallion to fully stop. Slipping from the saddle, he hit the ground at a run. Frightened faces of the men congregated around the hall’s entrance turned to him. He saw no steel or iron in the pale flame light. No gold or silver from warrior rings or adorned weapons. These men were bondsmen and servants. The sounds of battle from within intensified. Through the open doors, Beobrand could see shapes and shadows as men fought.
“Out of my way,” he roared, rushing towards the entrance.
Behind him, the rest of his men were reining in and leaping from their horses.
Dragging Nægling from its scabbard, Beobrand pushed past a couple of milling horses. Shrugging his shield from where it was strapped to his back, he scooped it up by its boss handle, not bothering to wriggle his forearm into the straps he normally used to keep it secure. There was no time and he could feel the pressure of that lack of time growing within him.
“Out of my way!” he yelled again. A short man, holding a horse’s reins, stared at him stupidly, but did not move. He was between Beobrand and the door to the hall. Beobrand did not slow down. With a vicious punch of the shield boss, he felled the servant. The man crumpled, letting the reins slip from his grasp as he collapsed. Beobrand slapped the flat of his sword against the horse’s rump, sending it leaping away with a whinny of fear.
Behind him he heard the confusion of the rest of the Bernician warriors dismounting and beginning to force their way through the crowd of horses and servants that clogged the doorway. Beobrand did not pause. This was not the time for a shieldwall. For all he knew, the king already lay dead within, or perhaps Octa might be lying in a pool of his lifeblood, staring up at the soot-shrouded beams of the thatched roof. No, now was not the time for hesitation.
With Cynan beside him, Beobrand stepped into the hall.
Inside, all was chaos. Boards and benches had been overturned. Men fought in small groups. There was movement everywhere, and Beobrand was forced to slow his advance to take stock of who the fighting men were, rather than leaping into the fray swinging his sword.
A few paces from where he stood lay a corpse. Blood still pumped slowly from a huge gash in the man’s throat. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man with fair hair. The byrnie he wore was polished and gleamed by the light from the fire. The blood that puddled around his inert form was slick, shining in the light of the flames. For a time, Beobrand could not pull his gaze from the dead man. The blood was staining the corpse’s long mane of hair. Hair that was so like Beobrand’s own. The dead man’s face was turned away from him, not looking up at the roof as he had imagined, and yet there could be no doubt. It was Octa.
Beobrand staggered. He could not breathe. His son. His beautiful son was dead.
“Look there, lord,” shouted Cynan. “It is Octa.”
Beobrand did not need Cynan to tell him that his son lay on the floor of the hall, his lifeblood soaking into the rushes. But something in the Waelisc man’s tone made him look. Following Cynan’s pointing sword, Beobrand gasped.
Octa was standing tall, his sword flicking this way and that, parrying, lunging, thrusting. Alive!
Beobrand glanced back at the corpse and the relief he felt made him giddy. How had he thought that body was his son? There was little resemblance now. For once, the gods smiled on him. Beobrand had arrived in time to save Octa from this madness.
He quickly scanned the rest of the hall. There were other bodies lying in the rushes, but none that he recognised. Searching for Oswine, he finally spotted the tall king of Deira at the far end of the hall. There he was, standing back-to-back with Wulfstan. A man that Beobrand recognised as Hunwald was sprawled at the Deiran thegn’s feet. The king and the thegn were battling against two warriors. They were fighting valiantly, but were unarmoured and did not bear shields. They would not be able to hold out for long.
“Put up your weapons!” bellowed Beobrand in his battle-voice. His words carried about the hall, over the clamour and crash of the fighting, but none of the men faltered in their fighting. “Stop this!” Beobrand yelled. Again, there was no reaction from any of the men in the hall.
Without warning, a huge warrior near them spun to face Beobrand and Cynan. He had dealt a mortal blow to the man he had been fighting, and even before his opponent had fallen to the floor, he had rounded on them. His face was blood-spattered, his thick beard glistening with gore.
It was Brunwine the Blessed, champion of Deira.
“I should have known you would be at the heart of this treachery, Half-hand,” he screamed, advancing on them. “You will pay for this with your life.”
“I have no part in this,” said Beobrand, but he could see that Brunwine was beyond listening to reason. With a growl, the champion surged forward. Cynan stepped to meet him, taking the sting from Brunwine’s attack on his black shield.
Behind him, Beobrand sensed movement. With a glance, he saw that Ethelwin, Reodstan and the others were crowding the doorway. They came with blades drawn, faces grim. They would bring yet more chaos to this battle-rent hall, but Beobrand could see no way to avert further bloodshed now. His only hope would be to protect his son and prevent the king of Deira from being killed.
Cynan, strong and fast, pushed Brunwine back, making space before the doors.
Across the hall, Beobrand looked over to where Oswine and Wulfstan were still battling against their assailants. They were holding their own, but they would not be able to resist the onslaught from their more heavily armoured foes for long.
Beobrand was momentarily torn as to the best course of action, but then the decision was taken for him as he saw Octa, fair hair bright in the gloomy hall, trip and fall back. The atheling, Alhfrith, was near, but could not free himself from his own burly opponent to help Octa, who tumbled to the rush-strewn floor. The Deiran warrior he faced sprang forward to loom over him.
“Protect Oswine!” Beobrand screamed at his men, and ran forward to his son’s aid. He had not come all this way just to watch Octa be slain before his eyes. Beobrand hoped Ethelwin would be able to lead his gesithas to the defence of the king of Deira, but he saw nothing else now apart from the man standing over his son with a gleaming raised sword that caught the light from the flames of hearth and candle.
Chapter 43
Cynan regretted stepping in to meet Brunwine the instant he lifted his shield to intercept the champion’s scything blow. The man’s sword clattered against the black hide and Cynan felt the enormous strength behind the swing. Cynan quickly stepped forward, to allow the others to ent
er the already crowded hall. Another hacking blow came, even faster and harder than the first, and Cynan again took it on his shield.
Beobrand shouted something about protecting Oswine. At the edge of his vision, Cynan saw his hlaford dash into the hall, but he could not look to see where he was heading. It was all he could do to stay on his feet and to avoid being gutted by the hugely muscled man before him.
Cynan had faced strong men before, and he had fought against fast men. Few warriors were both. Cynan was stronger than most men, and as fast as the best of them. He had expected Brunwine to be slow. The man was old. He must be closer to fifty than forty, with silver in his beard and hair. And yet he was not only as strong as an ox, he was as fast as a viper. Worse still, he had the cunning and battle-skill that came from decades of fighting.
Cynan did not think he had ever faced a better opponent. Beobrand was as fast, and even had a longer reach, but the sword blows that rained down on Cynan’s linden board from Brunwine were as heavy as boulders striking a cliff. The man’s strength was as prodigious as his sword-skill, and his great booming voice.
“You think you can stand against me, Waelisc cur?” Brunwine roared, his voice as loud as thunder.
“I do not want to fight you,” shouted Cynan, parrying another attack on the rim of his shield and skipping backwards out of range.
Brunwine pressed forward, grinning a maniacal grin.
“Too late for that now!” he shouted, aiming a kick at Cynan’s knee that, if it had landed, would have crippled him.
“Hold, man,” shouted Cynan. “We are not enemies.”
Brunwine spat.
“You seek to murder my king and yet you say you are not my enemy!”
The Deiran champion feinted at Cynan’s head. Cynan raised his shield, and with uncanny speed and agility for one so large, Brunwine flicked his sword’s blade beneath the shield’s rim, opening a cut on Cynan’s thigh. Only Cynan’s own impressive reflexes prevented Brunwine’s blade from opening the artery there. Cynan had seen many men die from such a wound, the blood gushing in spouts. He was lucky he was fast and Brunwine’s sword had not sliced more deeply. Even so, hot blood pumped from the wound, soaking Cynan’s breeches in moments.
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