For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  Cynan took a quick step back. The rest of the room was mayhem. Shouts, the clash of blades, curses and screams, all echoed in the flame-licked darkness. But Cynan could not spare a moment to look at how the other fights went, or indeed who was fighting. He was battling for his very life.

  Catching another blow on his shield, Cynan twisted the board, allowing the blade to skitter away from him. It was time to attack now. There would be no reasoning with Brunwine, it seemed. Hoping he had not left it too late, Cynan lunged with his sword.

  With a bark of laughter, Brunwine sidestepped and parried, then, quick as a cat, sliced a backhand blow towards Cynan’s face. Cynan stepped away, allowing the blade to sing through the air a finger’s breadth away from his eyes.

  Cynan again turned Brunwine’s sword away with his shield, and attempted a feint at the champion’s midriff, but the man was wise to it, and didn’t take the bait. Instead, he stepped quickly back out of reach. Now was the time to press home the attack and Cynan rushed him, leading with his shield and probing with the tip of his blade.

  Brunwine held his ground, swaying out of reach of the shield and parrying the sword on his own blade. But he was not the only warrior with guile and speed. Cynan turned his wrist, cutting across and down into the huge warrior’s left forearm.

  Brunwine grunted and shoved hard against Cynan’s shield, pushing him off balance.

  “So the Waelisc pup has teeth,” Brunwine gnarred, and charged forward.

  Cynan had no time to brace himself for the sudden rushing attack and Brunwine’s bulk drove him backwards. An eye-blink later Cynan felt his shoulders crash into the hall’s daubed wall. Dry daub and soot dusted down on the two men as the timbers of the wall shook under the impact of the heavy warriors.

  The wind was driven from Cynan’s lungs and he struggled for breath. The advantages he had over Brunwine were his height and his shield. By crushing him against the wall, those advantages had been removed and Cynan felt real terror welling up within him. Brunwine was so close he could smell the man’s breath and sweat. Cynan tried to swing his sword over his shield, but Brunwine lashed out with his left hand and grasped Cynan’s wrist, pinning it against the wall.

  Breathless, and full of sudden fear that he might never see Eadgyth again, Cynan heaved and fought desperately against Brunwine’s brawn. But the champion was heavier and stronger, and no matter how he tried, Cynan could not free himself from between his shield and the wall.

  “Now you die!” snarled Brunwine, battle lust burning in his dark eyes.

  Cynan stared into those eyes and saw nothing but death.

  Chapter 44

  Cuthbert blinked at the brightness of the light within the hall after the soot-dark night outside. The noise of fighting was deafening. He stumbled to a halt just within the threshold, trying to make sense of what he saw. The metal tang of blood was in the air, hard and sharp, intermingled with smoke, sour ale, sweat and the stink of bowels that had been spilt into the rushes as men died. A dead man lay close by in an expanding pool of blood. Bile stung the back of Cuthbert’s throat.

  He offered up a silent prayer. Why had he come here? He should never have followed Beobrand and the others into the night when they had mounted up and ridden from Wilfaresdun. But he was so intent on being a worthy warrior and he had so wanted to be in a great battle. The whispered commands and the urgency he had seen on Beobrand’s face and the other grim men who had picked up weapons and shields, quickly preparing to ride, had spoken of an adventure such as would be sung of in halls throughout the land. He was not certain what was afoot, but he heard whispers mentioning Oswine, King of Deira. Cuthbert could not bear the thought of missing such an important mission. And so he had saddled his horse and followed them. He had not spoken, knowing that Beobrand would never have let him ride with such experienced men as Ethelwin, Reodstan and Cynan. But if there was to be fighting and excitement, Cuthbert did not wish to be left behind.

  By the time Attor had spotted him at the rear of the column, it had been too late to send him back. Cuthbert had been pleased with himself as they had continued to ride through the darkness. But now, as the cacophony and stench rolled over him, he wished he had never sought to follow the warriors. He was strong, quick and able in combat, but this was not the glory he looked for. In his hand he held the sword that had belonged to the man he had fought in East Angeln. He had been proud of the weapon he had taken from his first battle. Now, the blade felt heavy and unwieldy in his grip.

  “Make room,” said Fraomar, pushing Cuthbert further into the hall and snapping him out of his momentary shock at being faced with such chaos.

  Beside them, Cynan jumped into the path of a huge, bearded warrior that Cuthbert recognised as Brunwine the Blessed. The massive champion hammered blows down on Cynan’s linden board and the two combatants moved away.

  “Protect Oswine,” shouted Beobrand and rushed into the hall.

  Where was the king? And where was Beobrand going? For a time, Cuthbert could not make out who any of the men fighting were. Then he understood Beobrand’s hurry and saw where he was heading. The atheling fought a warrior at the far end of the hall and near them, another man stood over a prostrate warrior. The warrior on the ground had long fair hair.

  Octa! The man on the floor was Beobrand’s son.

  “Out of the way, boy,” shouted Reodstan, giving Cuthbert a shove.

  Cuthbert staggered forward. What should he do? In all the confusion, he could not decide. As he watched, Beobrand leapt at the warrior looming above Octa. Surely Cuthbert’s place should be at his lord’s side. He had chosen to follow these men of battle here, now he would have to stare death in the face and confront the fear that gripped him. Taking a deep breath, he raised his sword and ran after Beobrand.

  Behind him, he heard Ethelwin screaming orders for the men to follow him. Cuthbert ignored the warmaster. Beobrand had told them all to use their heads and Beobrand was alone, with nobody to guard his back in a hall that was filled with foes.

  Before Cuthbert could reach him, Beobrand hacked his sword down onto the skull of Octa’s attacker. Bone splintered, and blood and brains sprayed the air. Something warm splattered Cuthbert’s cheek. He flinched.

  Beobrand was screaming.

  “Death! Death!”

  Cuthbert, unsure again, hesitated. In that instant, Alhfrith, still exchanging blows with his assailant, parried an attack and stepped into Cuthbert’s path. Cuthbert jumped to the side, to avoid the atheling and the stabbing sword of the Deiran he faced. Stumbling backwards, a bright light, sudden and blinding, filled his vision. A heartbeat later a searing pain followed. The two men continued fighting, moving away from him, oblivious of Cuthbert’s presence.

  Cuthbert shook his head in an effort to clear his vision. His face was wet and he cuffed at his eyes with the back of his sword arm. His forearm came away slick with blood. Through the haze of blood, Cuthbert could just make out Beobrand locking in combat with another warrior.

  He was confused; unsure what had happened. Why could he not see clearly? His ears rang and his head began to throb with each rapid beat of his heart. Slowly, his senses began to return to normal. His mind was less dazed. Wiping again at his face, he smeared more blood from his eyes.

  The blood streamed from a gash to his forehead. He must have taken a sword blow from either the atheling or his opponent while the two fought near him. He doubted the blade had been meant for him, the wielder was probably not even aware of what had occurred. He shook his head again, blinking the blood out of his eyes. It did not feel like a mortal wound, but it had stunned him for a time and where the sounds of the hall had been muffled and distant, now they rushed back like a torrent.

  Quickly, Cuthbert looked about him. Where was Beobrand? He had come to help his lord and all he had managed so far was to get injured. There was a man standing near where Beobrand had been, and for the briefest of instants, Cuthbert thought it was the thegn of Ubbanford. But no, this warrior was shorter, w
ith a dark beard. It was not Beobrand, but Wulfstan, lord of Ediscum. At his feet, lying on his back, defenceless, was Beobrand. His lips were moving, but Cuthbert could not make out the words. Wulfstan replied, but again, the sound was lost in the tumult of the fighting and the ringing in his ears. Cuthbert knew the two men had been friends once, but now the Deiran thegn stood menacingly over his lord. Wulfstan raised his sword high above him and Cuthbert fancied he heard Beobrand shouting, “No!”

  Was this how Beobrand, the famed leader of the Black Shields, would die? Not in some battle clash of shieldwalls, but in a confused brawl in a hall cluttered with overturned benches, noisome with the stink of long-forgotten feasts and recent death. Cuthbert expected Beobrand to spring up, to slay the man who stood over him. But Beobrand did not move. Instead, he shook his head.

  On seeing this, Cuthbert felt a surge of emotion so hot it burnt away the pain in his forehead. He was Beobrand’s oath-sworn man. He had vowed to protect his lord even with his own life. And what was he doing? Watching as a Deiran slew his hlaford, the man who had trained him and treated him like a son.

  No.

  Cuthbert could not allow such a thing. He was suddenly certain that this had been why he had followed the riders here. Coenred might say he had listened to the voice of God in the night. This was the moment that would define him; the moment he would save his lord’s life, fulfilling his oath and his duty, even if that meant laying down his own life.

  With an animal roar so loud that it ripped his throat, Cuthbert sprang forward.

  Wulfstan, perhaps hearing Cuthbert’s battle-cry, or seeing the movement, hesitated, turning towards his approach. His eyes widened and he tried to bring his sword round to ward off this new attack. But he had been so intent on the Bernician prey at his feet that Wulfstan was too slow to defend himself against the young warrior who rushed to his lord’s defence.

  With all of his strength behind it, Cuthbert swung the sword that had belonged to a Mercian and cut deeply into Wulfstan’s neck. Such was the force of the blow that it carried on down into the thegn’s chest, smashing collar bone and ribs, and lodging in the sternum. Wulfstan stared at Cuthbert, his eyes wide. Looking down at the steel protruding from his body, he shuddered.

  “You have killed me,” he whispered, then fell back. The sword, held firm in Wulfstan’s bones and sinews, was tugged from Cuthbert’s grasp.

  Unmoving, Cuthbert looked down at the dying man.

  “What have you done?” screamed Beobrand, clambering over to kneel beside Wulfstan. The Deiran gave a final jerking tremor and was still. Beobrand looked up at Cuthbert. “What have you done?” he repeated.

  A sudden movement caught Cuthbert’s attention. A figure, having seen Wulfstan fall, rushed forward, leaping over tumbled chairs and tables to avenge the Deiran thegn. In his hand, the man held a bloody sword. Cuthbert looked into the warrior’s face and saw his death there. The blade rose and Cuthbert found that he could not move. He had forgotten all that Beobrand and the other Black Shields had taught him. He merely stood, awaiting his death as meekly as a lamb awaits the butcher’s knife. He had protected his lord, and now it was his time to pay with his life. Perhaps, he thought, when he reached heaven, he might see the angel who had once saved him.

  Cuthbert was ready for death.

  But death did not arrive.

  Beobrand sprang up from where he was crouched beside Wulfstan and plunged his long blade into Cuthbert’s attacker. Nægling pierced the man’s side and burst from his chest. The sword fell harmlessly from the man’s hand and he crashed into Cuthbert, carried on by his momentum. He was a large man and Cuthbert tumbled over backwards, unable to hold him. As they fell, Cuthbert stared into his attacker’s eyes, seeing the light of life dimming. They hit the floor hard and lay there, like lovers in an embrace. The attacker atop him, his face kissing-close, blinked and tried to speak through the choking blood that bubbled in his throat. Through his daze, Cuthbert felt an acute stab of horror, as he recognised the handsome features of the man who even now was dying on top of him.

  It was Oswine, son of Osric, lord king of Deira.

  Oswine’s wise eyes held Cuthbert’s gaze. He blinked slowly, as if it took a great effort, and then, with a gurgling sigh, he was still.

  With a moan, Cuthbert pushed the king’s body off and scrambled away on his heels. He bumped against one of the carved timber pillars of the hall and there halted. Appalled, he gazed at Oswine’s face. The king’s head had flopped to the side and the staring eyes seemed to follow him, seeing into Cuthbert’s very soul. Behind Oswine’s corpse lay Wulfstan’s body, Cuthbert’s sword still jutting from his chest. The blade was surprisingly clean of blood and the iron glimmered in the light of the flames from the hearth.

  Cuthbert’s head was pounding, and blood trickled into his eyes, stinging them. He blinked the blood away, but seemed to have lost all his strength. Beobrand loomed over him, shouting something, but Cuthbert could not understand the words. After a time, his lord moved away and Cuthbert became dimly aware of continued fighting going on in the hall around him.

  He knew not now how the fighting went. The sounds of combat were muted and fuzzy, as if Cuthbert was under water. His mind felt blurred and confused. It was all he could do to keep himself awake as the battle in the hall raged and echoed distantly about him like a far-off storm.

  He dragged his gaze away from the shining sword in Wulfstan’s chest and once more found himself staring into the king’s dead eyes. Cuthbert hoped the storm would pass soon.

  Chapter 45

  Beobrand righted a stool that had been lying near the hearth. With a sigh, he slumped down onto it and looked about the hall. He had overseen the collection of the bodies of the fallen, and now waves of exhaustion rolled over him. He had barked orders to wrap the corpses in sheets, giving the servants and thralls little time to think. Some of the men who had been with the horses outside had fled into the night. They would raise the alarm soon and there would be little time for rest. Those who remained had been put to work.

  The shrouded bodies of the dead had been lain along the western wall. There were sixteen corpses in all, and the hall stank of death. The womenfolk of Ingetlingum, and those servants and thralls who had not run off, were doing their best to return the hall to normality. The benches and boards had been set up once more, logs had been added to the embers, the most soiled rushes had been gathered up and taken outside. Through the open doors of the hall, Beobrand could see that the sun had risen, and the sound of birds singing gilded the golden warmth of the summer dawn.

  Beobrand watched as Frythegith, the lady of the hall, bustled past. Her expression was sombre, but she shed no tears. Perhaps she would cry when she was alone, he thought. For now, the hall was thronged with men and her husband, Hunwald, lay dead beside the king he had betrayed.

  Shortly after the last of the Deirans had been killed, Ethelwin had found his sister cowering with the other women and servants behind the partition at the rear of the hall. He had called her out. His face had been dark and he shook with fury.

  “See what your husband has done,” he said, sweeping his hand to encompass the jumble of dead strewn about the hall.

  Frythegith did not reply. She could not meet her brother’s gaze.

  “Take a good look,” he said, “for this will no longer be your home.”

  She had looked at his red scarred face then. She opened her mouth, perhaps to speak out against Ethelwin’s words, but his glare silenced her.

  “Deira is no longer safe for you, and your husband is dead,” he said viciously. “Now, collect what you wish to take with you, and find us some food.”

  “Can we take the waggon?” she asked, her voice small and pitiful as she saw her life and all she had worked for destroyed in a single night of treachery and violence.

  “No,” snapped Ethelwin. “There will be no time for that. Take only what you can carry. We will ride soon and you will not return.”

  The woman had looked
as though she might collapse under the weight of her brother’s words, but she straightened her shoulders and shuffled off. Shortly afterwards, Beobrand heard the lady of the hall giving commands, and he had no doubt that they would soon be offered a meal to break their fast. The gods knew the men needed sustenance. They had ridden hard and then fought. But no matter the semblance of the familiar running of a household around them, Beobrand wondered how many of the men gathered in Hunwald’s hall would have any appetite.

  Glancing over at the linen-and-wool-wrapped corpses, Beobrand grimaced. Good men lay there. Men he had called friends. And what had they died for? Greed and power. Oswiu’s ambition and young men’s pride.

  Beobrand clenched his hands in his lap. They shook, just as they always did after battle. It had been some time since the fighting and yet they still trembled. He wondered if they would ever stop. He had killed many men, but he had never slain a king before. He rubbed his hands over his face. His head throbbed and he longed for sleep, but he knew Ethelwin was right; there would be no time to rest that morning.

  Pushing himself to his feet with a groan, Beobrand walked over to where young Cuthbert sat. The boy had not moved since the fight. He seemed more asleep than awake, his eyes unfocused and glazed.

  Beobrand rubbed at the pain in his back from where he had fallen onto one of the toppled benches. By Woden, he thought, if he felt keenly the weight of the events in the hall that night, he could barely imagine the impact on the sensitive young gesith. He had been furious with the lad at first. Cuthbert should never have ridden after them. If he had not been there, perhaps Oswine and Wulfstan might yet live. Maybe the others who had died would not have fought on.

  But such thoughts were meaningless. The past could not be altered. It was Cuthbert’s wyrd to be here, and wyrd was inexorable. Beobrand smiled grimly. Wondering at the gods and the way they played with men. To allow them to arrive in time to see Oswine alive, to believe the plot against him might be thwarted, and then, not only to have the king be killed, but at the very hands of those who sought to save him. Woden must surely have enjoyed the acute torture of such a thing. Blood and anguish were most exquisite sacrifices.