For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  “How is your head?” Beobrand asked.

  Cuthbert’s brow was covered in a strip of cloth that Fraomar had bound about his head. Fraomar said it did not seem to be a serious injury, unless it became elf-shot. Cuthbert had barely acknowledged the gesith as he had attended to his wound, but Fraomar was quiet and understanding of the young man’s shock. He did not voice the concern that both Beobrand and he had, that the blow might have caused more damage than could be seen. Beobrand remembered all too well the days that Fraomar had lain on the verge of death, his own head bandaged.

  “Cuthbert?” prompted Beobrand, his anxiety adding a sharpness to his tone. The boy’s eyes were open. Surely he would not succumb to this injury, losing his senses, as Fraomar had.

  Cuthbert had been staring at a dark stain on the rough-hewn boards of the floor. The servants had not brought fresh rushes yet, and Wulfstan and Oswine’s intermingled blood was still vividly visible. Beobrand noticed that Cuthbert’s sword lay at his feet, unsheathed and still smeared with drying blood.

  Beobrand stooped, picking up the blade. Taking the cloth he had used to free Nægling of gore, he wiped Cuthbert’s sword clean.

  “You should not leave a blade dirty,” he said, hoping for a response. “The metal-rot will set in, weakening it.”

  He inspected his handiwork and offered the weapon hilt-first to Cuthbert. The young man looked up at him, his eyes dark-rimmed and reddened from crying. He made no effort to take the sword.

  Sighing, Beobrand placed it on the table nearest to Cuthbert.

  “I killed your friend,” replied Cuthbert, his tone desolate. But at the sound, Beobrand smiled, feeling a surge of relief to hear the boy talking.

  “You did what you thought right,” he said in a soft voice. “No man can be asked to do more.”

  “I should be dead,” said Cuthbert, “not Wulfstan.”

  Beobrand winced. He remembered Wulfstan’s last words to him. Beobrand had been attempting to pull Octa to his feet, but his son, like Cuthbert, had taken a blow to the skull and was stunned. Battle raged all around him in the hall, and Beobrand knew better than to take his attention from a fight. He had often scolded his gesithas about allowing themselves to be distracted. And yet Octa was his son, and the memory of the terror he had felt when he’d believed him dead was still fresh in Beobrand’s mind. Wulfstan, having defeated the member of Alhfrith’s comitatus he had been fighting, could have stepped up behind Beobrand and slain him in that moment of carelessness. Instead, the Deiran thegn had chosen to trip Beobrand, pushing him to the ground, where he would be at a disadvantage. Beobrand had clattered into an oak bench, bruising his ribs and back. Rolling over in order to see his assailant, and bring his shield and sword to bear, Beobrand had been glad to see Wulfstan’s face. The man was pragmatic and clever.

  “We have come to halt this!” Beobrand had shouted, looking up at the lord of Ediscum.

  That was when Wulfstan had uttered the last words he would ever say to Beobrand on this side of the afterlife.

  “Can you stop this madness?” he’d asked, his voice barely carrying over the sounds of battle.

  “No,” Beobrand had replied. “But you can, if you can get your men to lay down their weapons.” They had stared into each other’s eyes for a few heartbeats, each weighing up the other’s motives. Finally, Wulfstan had nodded, raising his sword. Beobrand thought perhaps he had meant to hold his weapon aloft in a signal to his men, as he addressed them. But he would never know Wulfstan’s purpose.

  For that was the moment when Cuthbert, believing him about to strike Beobrand a killing blow, had rushed at Wulfstan, halting his movement and silencing whatever he had been about to say.

  The following moments had been a blur. Beobrand had rushed to Wulfstan’s side, but he knew instantly that the blow was mortal. Then, in a flash of motion, another warrior had come rushing forward, sword upraised. Cuthbert had stood there, unable to react.

  Beobrand asked himself if he had known Cuthbert’s attacker was the king? He could not truly be certain. It had all happened so quickly. He was almost sure he had reacted instinctively, without thought, but a small voice whispered that perhaps he’d had time to recognise Oswine before slaying him. And yet did it matter? If he had known the identity of the man coming to kill Cuthbert, would he have stayed his hand.

  He looked down now at the lad, his face pallid beneath the blood spatter that was streaked with tears. There was nothing to be gained from thinking of what might have been. One of his gesithas had been in danger and it was his duty, as Cuthbert’s lord, to protect him. King or no king, Beobrand believed he would do the same again, if the situation was repeated.

  He crouched down beside Cuthbert so that he could look him in the eye.

  “You fulfilled your oath,” he said. “As I fulfilled mine to you. There is little time to think in a battle. A warrior must live with his decisions, for good or for ill.” He thought of his nightmares, at the screaming faces of those he had killed that came to him in the darkest reaches of the night. “To do otherwise is folly.” Beobrand patted the boy on the shoulder. He noticed that his hands had stopped shaking.

  “I am sorry,” Cuthbert said, tears brimming again in his eyes.

  “What is done is done. It cannot be changed. But I know your heart is true.” He gave the boy’s shoulder a squeeze and raised himself to his full height in an attempt to stretch the aches out of his back.

  Glancing over to the hearth, where flames now licked at the fresh logs that had been placed there, he saw Octa glowering at him. His son was sitting beside Alhfrith, with a couple of the atheling’s closest hearth-warriors nearby. Three of the sixteen corpses that lay to one side of the hall belonged to members of Alhfrith’s comitatus.

  Octa did not take his eyes from Beobrand. They had not spoken since the fight. First, Octa had been groggy from where he had been struck on the temple, and then Beobrand had needed to attend to the dead and his gesithas. As he had moved about the hall, he had felt Octa’s gaze, resentful and angry, upon him.

  They would need to leave soon and they might face further danger on the road. That would be no time for the confrontation he knew was coming. He could put it off no longer.

  Stepping past the hearth, Beobrand positioned himself with his back to the fire, allowing the heat to soak through his kirtle. Like most of the men, he had removed his byrnie after the fight, glad to be free of the bulk of it, even if just for a while. When they rode north, they would need to be armoured. They would not be safe until they were back on Bernician land. Rubbing his half-hand into the small of his back, he acknowledged Alhfrith with a nod.

  “How’s the head?” he asked Octa.

  “It aches,” his son replied. His voice was deep and gruff, but Beobrand could not help smiling as he heard in the words the childlike petulance of the boy Octa had been until what seemed to him very recently. Where had the years gone?

  “I am glad you find it amusing,” Octa said. “I see you did not laugh at Cuthbert’s wound.”

  Beobrand shook his head.

  “You are stronger than Cuthbert, son.” Beobrand did not mention that Cuthbert’s wound had smothered him in blood, whereas Octa merely had a lump on his forehead from banging it into a table. “You are already a seasoned warrior. I meant no offence to you. I was just thinking that it seems like yesterday that you were but a boy.”

  “Well, I am a boy no longer.”

  “Clearly,” Beobrand said, suddenly angered by Octa’s tone. Cuthbert was distraught at what had occurred, but it was Octa and Alhfrith who were to blame. Beobrand looked about the hall, taking in the carnage. “A boy’s mistakes do not have such dire consequences.”

  “You think this a mistake? If so, I am confused.” Octa reached for a cup of mead he had got from somewhere. He drained it, slamming it back onto the board. “Why would the mighty Beobrand come here and snatch away his son’s chance at glory? Perhaps you feel the mistake was that you did not think to come here sooner. Or t
hat the king did not trust you with such a mission.”

  Beobrand felt the beast of his anger swelling inside him. He took a firm hold of its leash, forcing himself to remain calm. Now was not the time to quarrel, but he would not remain silent.

  “The mistake was seeking to kill Oswine,” he said, his tone flat.

  “And yet who was it who slew the king of Deira?” spat Octa. “Was it a mistake that you stabbed Nægling through Oswine’s flesh?”

  Beobrand winced. He did not wish to fight with Octa, but surely his son must see what a fool he had been.

  “I wish that Oswine yet lived. But I am glad that neither of you,” he took in Alhfrith with his gaze, “held the sword that killed him.”

  “Oh no,” said Octa, “that hand had to belong to the famous half-handed thegn of Ubbanford.”

  Beobrand shook his head, appalled at Octa’s words. Did he truly think so poorly of his father?

  “I did not wish to see my son made a murderer,” he said. “A killer who lies in wait for his prey and strikes from the shadows like a nithing. For that is how you would have been seen by all men of worth, if you had slain Oswine.”

  “Oswiu King wanted this,” Octa said. “He commanded us to come here.”

  “He should never have done so.” Beobrand let out a long breath. “Even kings make mistakes. No man is perfect.”

  “You think you are better than the king?” scoffed Octa. “Does Oswiu even know you are here?”

  “Even if he did not, I would have come.” Beobrand shrugged. “You do not understand, Octa. If you had done this thing, your name, your reputation, would have been sullied. You would be beholden to the king forever by such a dark deed.” Beobrand thought of how Oswiu’s hand had been in so many despicable acts. How the king had sent him to murder Wulfstan. Fleetingly, Beobrand recalled Wybert, whispering to him moments before his death. He remembered Halga, the giant Mercian and how he had goaded Beobrand before the Wall with tales of how he had been invited into Bernicia. The men who became embroiled in Oswiu’s plots died violently, or lived with the shame of their actions. “You would never be free of the stain of it, Octa,” he said. “I do not want that for you.”

  “I care not what you want!” shouted Octa. Men looked up to see what was causing the raised voices. A servant, startled and still frightened after what had happened, dropped a tray of cups and a flask of mead. The earthenware flask shattered, spilling the sweet drink to mingle with the gore that stained the floor. Octa had stood and now he faced his father. Both men had their hands clenched into fists at their side, their chins jutting forward pugnaciously. “You merely wanted the glory of this death for yourself,” Octa raged. “Who are you to take this thing from me? Perhaps I would like to be known as the ‘King Slayer’. You have your battle-fame, Father. Your name is known throughout Albion. But what of me? I would prove myself too. Do you think it easy having you for a father?”

  His words stung Beobrand as though he had been slapped. The man he had believed to be his own father had cast a long shadow that darkened much of Beobrand’s life. Grimgundi had beaten him and his brother and sisters, and Beobrand had striven not to be like him. He knew that he had failed. His son hated him, just as he had loathed Grimgundi. Perhaps it was always so, with each generation resenting the one that had gone before.

  Alhfrith stood and placed a hand on Octa’s shoulder.

  “Easy now, friend,” the atheling said. “You are not the only one whose life is overshadowed by his father.”

  “You are both pups,” growled a new voice, “whining about the unfairness of life and how your fathers do not allow you to fulfil your wyrd.” Beobrand turned to see that Ethelwin had come at the sound of the commotion.

  Alhfrith glowered at the newcomer.

  “You may well frown at me, Alhfrith,” said Ethelwin. “You are the atheling and perhaps I am unwise to anger you, but I have vowed to serve your father and, God willing, I might serve you too one day.”

  “I do not think I will want such an old man in my comitatus,” snarled Alhfrith. “But you are right, I am the atheling and you would be wise to remember that.”

  Ethelwin snorted.

  “It will take more than jibes about my years to wound me,” he said. “And it is because you are the atheling that I rode here this night. Beobrand is right in what he said to Octa. The thing you planned here would forever follow your name. You wish to be remembered, but not like this. Yes, Beobrand has battle-fame. For his part in battles, not murdering men in the dark.” The warmaster raised his hand to stop the retort he could tell was coming. “You are both brave warriors, of that there is no doubt. But this was beneath you. Perhaps one day you will understand why we sought to prevent you. But think on this: when your father is gone, you might be king. You do not want your people to think of you as a man of dishonour.”

  Alhfrith stared at Ethelwin. He had looked to calm Octa, but now his cheeks were flushed, his eyes blazing.

  “Is that how they will think of my father, Ethelwin?” he asked. “For it was the king who sent us here? We were merely obeying our lord. Fulfilling our oaths to the king.”

  “It is not for me to say what man has honour. But your father regretted his decision to send you here, and I am glad that we arrived in time to stop you.” He looked about the hall, his eyes flicking to the row of bodies against the wall.

  “Oswine is dead anyway,” said Alhfrith, his tone scathing. “You coming here has changed nothing.”

  “You are wrong, young atheling. We may not have stopped the king’s death, but much has changed, and I am glad of it.”

  “What has changed? Tell me.”

  Ethelwin shook his head slightly, as if bemused by the question.

  “Oswine might be dead,” he said at last, “but he did not die by your hand.”

  The warmaster turned then, signalling an end to the conversation. Placing a hand on Beobrand’s shoulder, he pulled him away. Beobrand could feel the two young men glaring at them.

  When they could no longer be overheard, Ethelwin let out a sigh.

  “By God, Beobrand, do you remember what it was to be so sure of your decisions?”

  Beobrand looked about the shadowed hall. Despite the Bernician victory here, there was no joy. The men were subdued, dismayed at what they had done. He knew how they felt. He glanced over at Octa, who was now seated again, talking in hushed tones to Alhfrith.

  “I can scarcely believe that I was ever as young as Octa.”

  Ethelwin chuckled.

  “You seem young to me,” he said. “Imagine how I feel.”

  Beobrand rubbed at his bruised side. His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep.

  “I do not feel young. I long for sleep, but I fear that will need to wait.”

  Ethelwin nodded.

  “Aye. We will eat, and then we ride. We cannot remain here.”

  The light from the opened doorway and the sounds of birdsong beckoned to Beobrand. If he could not sleep, he could refresh himself with the crisp morning air, away from the morose stink within the hall. But there was one thing he needed to do first.

  He made his way to the far side of the hall, where his gesithas sat apart from the others. He was surprised to find one of Alhfrith’s warriors, a slender, rat-faced man, with them.

  “Pusa, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes, lord,” replied the man, glancing up at his arrival. “We were just saying how strange wyrd is.”

  Beobrand took in the faces of the others. There was Attor, Fraomar, Grindan, and there, with his leg bandaged and stretched out on the bench, was Cynan. None of his gesithas had been killed. For the first time that morning, Beobrand allowed himself a moment of contentment. Of the sixteen dead, three were from the atheling’s comitatus. Of the men who had ridden with Beobrand and Ethelwin, only Reodstan had met his end in Hunwald’s hall. Reodstan was a good man, and Beobrand mourned his loss, but it could have been much worse.

  “A man’s wyrd is as difficult to fathom as a
woman’s mind,” said Beobrand with a sad smile.

  “Then it is impenetrable indeed,” replied Pusa. “Would you care for ale?”

  The men had a jug on the table and cups in their hands.

  “Aye, my throat is as dry as dust,” Beobrand said, taking the offered cup. The ale was good and he realised how thirsty he had been as the liquid washed away some of his exhaustion. He held out his cup for more.

  “How is your leg?” he asked Cynan. He was still angry at the man’s disobedience, but when, at the end of the fight, he had seen the Waelisc man sprawled in the rushes, his face pale and Attor fussing over him, Beobrand had been struck by a deep sense of dread that Cynan might die.

  “I was lucky,” Cynan said. “If Brunwine’s blade had bit any deeper, I doubt I would be speaking to you now. And if not for Pusa’s aid, Brunwine would have done for me in the end. The man was a formidable warrior. It was like wrestling a bear. To think that such a weasel as Pusa should be the one to slay the champion!”

  The men erupted in laughter and Beobrand was pleased to see that Pusa laughed with them.

  “It seems I owe you my thanks, Pusa,” he said.

  “You owe me nothing, lord,” Pusa said. “I merely did my duty. After all, we are on the same side. This is what we were speaking of just now. How wyrd can choose a man’s friends, and his enemies.”

  Beobrand thought of Wulfstan and Reodstan, lying dead beneath blankets. He recalled some unpleasantness between Cynan and Pusa in the past. It appeared their differences had been forgotten, or perhaps burnt away in the fire of combat. Wyrd had chosen for them to be friends in the end, it seemed.

  “Well, I am glad that you were there when Cynan needed you,” Beobrand said. “Despite what people say of him, he is a good man.”