For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  The men laughed again, but Cynan could not meet Beobrand’s gaze, sensing the lingering anger behind the jest.

  “Yes, lord,” said Pusa. “He doesn’t fight badly… for a Waelisc.”

  Cynan’s features clouded for a heartbeat, but his frown was quickly replaced with a smile, and he raised his cup.

  “To the weasel who slew the bear,” he shouted. They laughed and Beobrand found himself laughing with them. It felt good after such a dark night. He emptied his cup and placed it back on the board.

  “Do not drink too much,” he said. “I know you are all thirsty and tired, but we cannot tarry here. We will ride soon.” The men groaned. “Fraomar,” he went on, “see that Cuthbert eats and drinks something. He has been alone for long enough.”

  Fraomar nodded and pushed himself to his feet.

  Beobrand turned away. He wanted a moment free of the noise and smell of the hall. Free from the corpses and the reminder that he had slain the rightful king of Deira. He stepped, blinking, into the early morning sunshine, closing his eyes and revelling in the cool freshness of the day and the joyous singing of the birds who cared nothing for the machinations and tribulations of men.

  Chapter 46

  Cuthbert took a deep breath of the cool air blowing in from the North Sea. The sun was setting over the land, the long shadows of Bebbanburg turning the waters dark beneath his position on the ramparts. It would be night soon, and the people of the fortress would gather in the great hall to feast. Beobrand and the Black Shields would be there. He enjoyed the company of the gesithas, but he knew they would tell tales of what had happened in the hall at Ingetlingum, for warriors found it impossible not to boast. Beobrand would not crow about killing the king of Deira though. The lord of Ubbanford had been even more withdrawn and sullen as they’d ridden north out of Deira, leading a train of horses bearing the womenfolk, servants and thralls from Hunwald’s hall. They’d also borne the swaddled corpses of the Bernicians who had fallen in the fray. Ethelwin and Beobrand had debated what to do with the Deiran dead for some time. In the end, they’d ordered the warriors to be left behind in the hall where they could be found. Each man lay with his sword and battle gear, so that he could be identified. The only Deiran bodies they carried north were those of Hunwald, as his widow refused to leave without him, and, the most important corpse of all: the king of Deira himself.

  The news of Oswine’s death had been on everybody’s lips since they had returned to Bebbanburg and it would be the same at the feast tonight. The fight in the hall and the killing of the king and his closest retinue was all people wanted to speak about, but with every mention of it, Cuthbert relived the moment of the king’s death, and his part in it. He saw again the blood smearing Beobrand’s sword; felt anew the weight of Oswine’s body lying atop him, the light of life slowly ebbing from his terrified eyes.

  Cuthbert reached down to touch the small leather bag he wore over his shoulder. Within rested the Psalter the queen had given him along with the small writing tablet with its carved stylus. Whenever they had halted on the ride north, Cuthbert had taken the things out and painstakingly worked at practising his writing, copying out lines from the precious book in as perfect a hand as he could manage. He would lose himself then, for a time forgetting the events at Hunwald’s hall and the grisly cargo they bore with them tied over the backs of the horses.

  Sometimes a sound would distract him as he wrote – the caw of a crow, a gust of wind through the trees beside the road, the distant call of a vixen as the sun went down – and Cuthbert would wonder whether he was hearing the voice of God.

  When they had ridden into the courtyard of Bebbanburg, Cuthbert had seen Eanflæd watching the riders, scanning their faces. When she had seen him, she had offered him a thin smile and a nod. Cuthbert had averted his eyes, ashamed of who he had become and what he had done. He was not worthy of the gifts the beautiful queen had bestowed upon him.

  At night, his mind filled with the images of the flame-flickered chaos in the hall. He witnessed anew his sword hacking into Wulfstan, the blood gushing, the shock on the thegn’s face.

  He had had nightmares ever since battling the Mercian warrior on the causeway. Back in Ubbanford, Cuthbert had asked Attor about his dreams.

  “Bad dreams are not unusual for a young warrior,” Attor had said. “Killing your first foe-man is the hardest. You’ll never forget his face. But with each fresh kill, you will find you are less troubled by it. And don’t forget,” he’d said with a grin, “your enemies would do the same to you if they could. You just need to be faster and stronger than them. This is the way of the gesith. The life you have chosen.”

  Cuthbert stared out at the great rippled expanse of the Whale Road and wondered at Attor’s words. He had slain a man now, and the memory of it haunted him. When he was awake he longed for the respite of sleep, but when he lay down at night, his head filled with the tumbling images of battle, Wulfstan’s horror-stricken features and the pale face of the king of Deira, as he had lain dying. When sleep finally came, Cuthbert would often awaken drenched in sweat and horrified at what he had done.

  In the distance he could see the hazy shapes of the Farena Islands. Closer, in the darkening waters, swam several seals, their heads bobbing like floating boulders on the sea’s surface before they slipped under the waves to fish and swim in the deep.

  “They are serene, are they not?” asked a voice.

  Cuthbert had been so intent on the creatures and his own thoughts, that he had not heard anyone approach. Startled, he turned to see Coenred, the monk who had healed him.

  “They are peaceful, yes,” Cuthbert replied, feeling foolish in the presence of the wise monk. Coenred always seemed so at ease and sure of himself. “I wonder if they hear the voice of God,” he mused.

  “Surely if the Almighty wishes to speak to them, they must hear Him,” replied Coenred.

  “Perhaps God has nothing to say to them.”

  Coenred shrugged.

  “Does He speak to you, Cuthbert?”

  Cuthbert hesitated. He thought of the last, rattling hot breath of the king on his cheek, the clang of blades, the shouts of warriors fighting, the salty tang of blood in the air.

  “I worry that there is too much noise for me to hear Him,” he whispered.

  Coenred placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “It is always easier to hear when one is truly listening.”

  Cuthbert thought of how he peered at his wax-covered tablet in the dying light after a long day’s riding, his hand cramping around the stylus. He recalled the sounds of the birds on the wind, the creak of the trees, the cries of animals in the woods beside the road.

  “I think I hear Him sometimes,” he said, “but I do not understand what He says to me.”

  Coenred shook his head.

  “Listening is the first thing. Then hearing. To understand the word of God requires more dedication than a young gesith can give, I fear.”

  Something in the monk’s voice made Cuthbert turn to face him. Coenred’s eyes were red, and tears streamed down his face.

  “What is wrong?” asked Cuthbert, suddenly frightened at what the monk might say.

  Coenred cuffed the tears from his cheeks.

  “These are tears of joy and sorrow combined,” he said.

  Unsure of his meaning, Cuthbert said nothing.

  “Bishop Aidan has gone to sit with Our Heavenly Father,” said Coenred, his voice shaking with emotion. “This is a joyful event, for there has never been a holier man than Aidan.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “But I am also saddened by his passing, for he was a good and wise friend. I knew I could go to him with any problem I might have, and his counsel was always welcome.”

  Cuthbert’s mind reeled.

  “The bishop is dead?” he asked. “How can that be?” He instantly thought of men creeping into the abbot’s cell and murdering him, their blades blood-soaked and gory.

  “He was old and has been very ill,”
said Coenred.

  “He was not killed?”

  Coenred frowned.

  “No, Cuthbert. Nobody killed Aidan. The Lord took his soul to be with Him. I have been tending to the bishop down in the settlement.” He nodded towards the setting sun. There, beneath the fortress on its crag of rock, lay a cluster of buildings. “He wanted to go back to the Farena Isles,” Coenred went on, “but he was too weak to travel. He drifted away peacefully while he was sitting in the afternoon sun outside the church.” Coenred let out a long, tremulous breath.

  Cuthbert stared out at the sea once more. The seals had gone and the sky seemed unnaturally devoid of birds. Was God even now speaking to him? What was He saying?

  “Do you think God is displeased with the kingdom for what—” he faltered. Swallowing his shame, he continued. “For what happened at Ingetlingum? Do you think that is why he has taken Abbot Aidan from us?”

  Coenred was silent for a while. He stared out over the North Sea and now it seemed to Cuthbert that the sky was teeming with birds as normal.

  “I am sure many will see this as a bad omen for the land,” said Coenred. “And I am also certain that God does not like to see His children killing one another. Aidan loved King Oswine. When he heard the tidings of his death, he cried as if a child of his had died, which in a way is what happened, I suppose.” Coenred sniffed and wiped his woollen sleeve across his face. “But I do not think the Lord snatched Aidan from us as punishment for Oswine’s death. If a servant of the Christ were to be taken to heaven each time a king of these lands performed a treacherous act, I fear there would be no priests or monks left on middle earth.” He sighed. “I just hope that some good might come of Oswine’s death.”

  They stood in silence for a time. The sun touched the land behind them, and the sky turned the colour of hot iron.

  “They are gathering in the hall, Cuthbert,” said Coenred. “If you wish to find a place at the benches, you should hurry.”

  “I have no appetite.”

  Coenred nodded.

  “I am not hungry either,” he said. “But more, I do not wish for the company of so many this evening of all evenings.”

  “But you came to speak with me.”

  “I enjoy speaking to you, Cuthbert. You listen, and you ask good questions.”

  Cuthbert was glad of the praise, in spite of his sadness.

  “Do you wish to pray with me?” asked Coenred. “In the church of Saint Peter’s?”

  Cuthbert pondered before answering. Perhaps the reciting of prayers with Coenred would allow him to drown out the memories and dark thoughts that assailed him.

  “Can we pray for Oswine’s soul?” He remembered Wulfstan’s dying face. “And for the souls of his men?”

  “Of course,” replied Coenred. “We will pray for all those who died, and we can pray for the souls of those who survived too. For I imagine they are sorely troubled by what they saw, and their part in it.”

  “Yes,” Cuthbert said. “I would like that.”

  “Good,” said Coenred. “Let us make our way there now then.”

  He turned and began to descend the ladder to the shadowed courtyard below. Cuthbert looked once more out to the sea. The sky was full once again of wheeling gulls, terns, gannets and guillemots. And there, on the swell, were the bobbing heads of the seals.

  Smiling, Cuthbert followed Coenred.

  Chapter 47

  Beobrand took a deep breath and watched as Eanflæd screamed at her husband. Even in her fury she was beautiful. The night before, as they had celebrated the return of the atheling and the news of Oswine’s death, Beobrand had sat quietly, drinking sparingly. He had been seated at the high table, beside Ethelwin, which meant that to see the queen, he needed to turn and lean forward. Even so, he had dared risk a few glances at her, but she had not once looked in his direction, and the sorrow he felt at the death of Wulfstan, Oswine, Reodstan and the others in Hunwald’s hall, had hardened, compounded by Eanflæd’s obvious displeasure.

  Before the people of Bebbanburg and the gathered thegns and ealdormen of Bernicia, who had returned triumphant from Wilfaresdun, Eanflæd had maintained the impression of the dutiful queen at her husband’s side. Whenever Beobrand had looked in her direction during the feast, her eyes had been downcast, as she picked at her food and sipped from the green glass beaker of wine before her.

  Now the throngs had left, many returning to their halls with promises of gifts from their joyous king. The hall was no longer filled with smoke, heat and the cacophony of voices raised in boasts, riddles and song. The light of the mid-morning sun lanced through the open doors and unshuttered windows. Motes of dust and ash from the cold hearth danced in the shafts of light. The hall was quiet and echoing, empty of the usual servants and thralls. Eanflæd had sent them all away, so that the only other people in the hall were Oswiu, Beobrand and Ethelwin. The atheling, Alhfrith, had tried to remain there too, perhaps feeling that he had the right to be included as the son of the king, who had carried back the body of the Deiran king. But the queen had pointed at the door and snapped, “What I have to say here is not for your ears, Alhfrith. Begone.”

  The young man had stared at the pouting queen for a long while, perhaps trying to think of a suitable retort, but her hard, cold eyes did not blink, and in the end, stamping his feet like a rebuked child, Alhfrith stomped from the hall. Beobrand had almost felt sorry for him. Until Eanflæd unleashed her ire, and then he wished that he had followed the atheling. He had so often longed to spend time with the queen, but not like this, watching her berate her husband and certain that she would turn her attention on him next.

  “I can scarcely believe that you would do such a thing!” Eanflæd shrieked at Oswiu, her voice rasping with rage.

  Oswiu sought to placate her with a smile.

  “My lady, I did nothing—”

  “Do not lie to me!” she shouted, cutting off his words. “I had thought you a strong leader. A warrior lord. Now I wonder if I am not married to a coward.”

  Oswiu’s face darkened.

  “Hold your tongue, Eanflæd,” he said, his tone lowering and the smile slipping from his face.

  “I will do no such thing,” she replied. “Oswine was a good man. He was gōd cyning.” She drew in a long breath. “He was my cousin. I loved him as a brother. What is worse is that you knew this and still acted thus. Bad enough that you had set yourself against him in this concocted war, but you are the king of Bernicia, and such is your right.” Eanflæd shook her head, holding Oswiu in a withering gaze. “I never believed you would stoop so low.”

  Oswiu bunched his hands into fists. He rose to his feet in a rush, and Beobrand thought he might strike the queen. If he did, Beobrand knew he would not be able to stand by and do nothing. Perhaps if he threw himself forward to defend her, Eanflæd would feel less disdain for him. To know that she despised him and what he had done filled him with such deep sorrow he could barely breathe. If he had a chance to redeem himself in her eyes, even if that meant his death, he felt sure he would take it.

  But the king did not strike his wife. With an effort, he calmed himself and walked over to a table where cups and a jug had been laid out. Pouring himself some wine, he turned back.

  “I fear all of this has been a terrible misunderstanding,” he said, taking a sip from his cup.

  “You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Oswine’s murder?”

  Oswiu sighed.

  “No, I cannot say such is true. But it was never my intention to have him killed. It seems though that my hot-tempered warriors took their mission too far.”

  “So you did not send them to slay my cousin?”

  “Of course not,” said Oswiu, his tone shocked at the suggestion. “I wanted them to bring him to Bebbanburg where we could discuss terms for peace. Ask anyone who was at the parley at Wilfaresdun. This was ever my intention, from the moment I dreamt of Oswald. My brother showed me the way. But I fear the Devil twisted the meaning of my words an
d Beobrand and Ethelwin here decided that a better course of action would be to kill the king of Deira.”

  On hearing these words, Beobrand clenched his fists. Oswiu was a snake. He would say anything to avoid his wife’s anger, it seemed. Eanflæd looked first at Ethelwin and then at Beobrand, her gaze lingering a moment. Her face was contorted with such sadness that he felt as though his heart twisted in his chest.

  “We did what we could to prevent Oswine being killed,” said Ethelwin, his voice strangely calm. Beobrand wanted to scream out that Oswiu lied, but he clamped his mouth shut. Octa was yet part of the king’s household. Beobrand might not care for his own life, but he had not gone to Hunwald’s hall and slain Oswine, only to put his son in danger now. Ethelwin was wise not to gainsay the king, but the warmaster did still attempt to tell the truth of what happened.

  “You didn’t do enough,” snapped the king, siding with the queen against them.

  “There was much confusion,” said Ethelwin. “You know as well as I, my lord king, that when fighting commences, there is no way to predict the outcome. We did our best, but Oswine fell, despite our efforts.”

  “I am sure you did your best,” said Oswiu in a placatory tone. “I know you both to be honourable men who have served me well over the years. And nothing can now change the past. Oswine is dead.” He made the sign of the Christ rood. “It is regrettable, but we must grab the good that comes from a bad thing. The war between Deira and Bernicia will now be over. We can move on to a time of peace. Is that not what we all want? Even Oswine, God rest his soul, would be pleased if his passing led to peace between our two kingdoms.”

  Beobrand thought it unlikely that peace would reign following Oswine’s death, but he kept his mouth shut.

  “You speak of my cousin’s soul,” said Eanflæd. “You should be just as concerned with your own.” Oswiu frowned at her words. “You say that this was all a misunderstanding, my lord,” the queen continued. “That you did not send these men to slay Oswine.”