For Lord and Land

by Matthew Harffy

  “That is so,” Oswiu said.

  “What do you say, Lord Beobrand?” asked Eanflæd, turning her tear-filled eyes on him.

  Beobrand swallowed. The queen looked more beautiful than ever to him, and his breath caught in his throat.

  “It is as both lord Ethelwin and the king say.” He had decided there was no point in muddying the waters further. What was done was done. At least he could keep Octa’s name out of the sorry incident. “We rode on Oswiu King’s behest to convey the king of Deira north.” He saw Oswiu nodding in agreement and wanted to punch him. Looking away from the king, he went on, “Fighting broke out in the hall. In the confusion, Oswine was slain.” Staring into Eanflæd’s eyes, he saw the sadness there. Her disappointment stabbed at him like a seax blade beneath a shield rim. “I am sorry, my lady.”

  She held his gaze for what felt like a long time. Then, without a word, she walked past her husband to the table and filled a cup for herself. Ignoring them all, perhaps composing her thoughts, she sipped her wine. The three men in the hall stared at her, waiting to hear what she would say. Beobrand marvelled at the power she wielded over them. He vaguely recalled her mother, Queen Ethelburga, and how she had stood, statuesque and imposing, beside King Edwin as the men had prepared for war. Eanflæd had inherited much from her parents. By all accounts both king and queen were formidable individuals. Eanflæd had their strength of character and intelligence; her mother’s grace, and her father’s iron will. She had been born to royalty and as she stood with her back to them, her shoulders straight and the sumptuous silk dress clinging to the curves of her body, she looked every part the queen.

  Oswiu fidgeted. Raising his cup to his lips, he found it empty. Moving to the table, he brushed past his wife and refilled his cup.

  “More wine, my dear?” he asked, holding up the pitcher.

  “I do not want any more wine,” she replied, replacing her cup with care on the linen-covered board. “And I will not so easily forget what you have done, Oswiu.”

  “But, my lady,” he said. “I have told you, I meant for none of this to happen—”

  “Enough.” She held up a slender hand and Oswiu fell silent. “I know what you have told me. But still, are you not the lord of these men? Did they not ride in your name?”

  Oswiu nodded, but thought better of speaking.

  “Then you will atone for the sin of murder.”

  “Murder? But I—”

  She cut him off with a look.

  “You will build a monastery at Ingetlingum.” Her tone was final.

  “But it is in Deira,” he spluttered.

  “And you will be king of Deira now, I do not doubt. But even if you are not king there, you will see that a monastery is built and you will pay for a grand funeral for my kinsman. And you will give silver to the church for holy men and women to pray for Oswine’s everlasting soul.”

  Oswiu tensed. Beobrand thought the king was going to protest, but Eanflæd said, “If you do not do this thing, husband, I will be most displeased.”

  Oswiu contemplated her words for a few heartbeats before eventually nodding his agreement.

  “It shall be so,” he said.

  “And the holy brethren of that monastery will also pray for your soul, husband,” Eanflæd said, her voice low. “It will take much prayer to wash away the stain of sin from it, I fear.”

  Oswiu sighed.

  “Very well,” he said, drinking deeply from his cup.

  Eanflæd turned back to face Ethelwin and Beobrand. Ethelwin looked down at the straw-strewn floor of the hall. Beobrand met her gaze. He was taken aback by what he saw there. The sadness and disappointment had been replaced by a seething anger once more.

  “And how will you atone for your sins, Beobrand of Ubbanford?” she asked. “You are a pagan. No amount of praying will save your soul.”

  Beobrand opened his mouth to reply, but the queen held up a hand once more to silence him.

  “I do not wish to hear you speak. There is nothing you can say that can justify the evil you have done in my husband’s name.”

  Her harsh words and tone wounded him. Gods, how he wished he had not ridden to Ingetlingum. Would Oswine yet live, if he had not? Would Eanflæd still have that look of utter disdain and fury on her beautiful features when she looked at him? He would give anything to have her look on him with affection once more.

  A small voice whispered deep inside him.

  But would you give up the life of your son?

  If he had not gone to Hunwald’s hall, Octa would surely have been slain. With a shiver, he remembered the anguish he had felt when he had seen the bloody body on the floor and believed it to be Octa. Surely even the love of the queen was not worth such a price.

  And yet, Octa was safe, and Beobrand would do anything within his power to have Eanflæd look at him as she once had.

  “I will do whatever you command, my lady,” he said.

  Eanflæd’s eyes narrowed.

  “There is perhaps one way for you to show you are repentant,” she said.

  Was there a glimmer of affection in her eyes. Beobrand clung desperately to the possibility of redemption.

  “Name it,” he said.

  Chapter 48

  Cuthbert hadn’t been certain of his plan until he finally saw the cluster of buildings in the great loop of the Tuidi.

  He had risen with the dawn the day before, saddled his horse, and set out south-west, following the tree-clogged valley of the river inland. As he had ridden he had prayed. When he had stopped to rest and to eat a few mouthfuls of the bread and cheese he had taken from the great hall at Ubbanford, he had read from the Psalter that the queen had given him. He could understand and copy all of the words with ease now, and the next time he travelled to Bebbanburg, he vowed to return the precious book to her. He had contemplated speaking to the queen when he had seen her there the previous week, but she had been devastated to hear of the death of her kinsman, Oswine. When Cuthbert had seen her stern face and red-rimmed eyes he had changed his mind about approaching her.

  Ever since they had returned from Deira, death seemed to have gripped the land in its bony fist. The sun shone in the late summer sky, but a pall of misery and mourning hung over Bernicia like a storm cloud. After the initial celebration of the death of the king of Deira, brought by the hope that the war might now be over, the people of Bebbanburg began to grow sombre. It seemed to Cuthbert that they recalled that they had loved Oswine once. He had been a handsome and just man, and before the conflict with Oswiu, he had visited Bebbanburg often. As word of the nature of his death spread like ripples in a black mere, so the people’s mood soured. To be murdered in a darkened hall, not in a glorious battle, was not a fitting death for a beloved king.

  The tidings of Abbot Aidan’s passing further saddened the men and women of Bernicia. As Cuthbert and Coenred had spoken of on the fortress palisade, many people muttered that this was a sign from God, a bad omen showing His displeasure in their king and those who had murdered Oswine.

  For his own part, Cuthbert could still not sleep without waking to the sound of his own screams in his ears. He could still feel the crunch of sinews and bones as his sword smashed into Wulfstan’s chest. He could still see Oswine’s dying eyes. It had been Cuthbert’s actions that had led to the king’s death. He wondered whether hearing of Oswine’s murder had caused Aidan to give up on this life. The abbot had been old, and all men died, he told himself. But the feeling that he had somehow contributed to the holy man’s death had snagged in his mind the way a burr will catch on a woollen cloak. The thought scratched and irritated, digging needling barbs into his soul. The only way that Cuthbert could alleviate his pain was to fill his mind with prayer.

  He spent a lot of time with Coenred in those few days at Bebbanburg. The monk taught him liturgies and psalms and, when they were not praying or learning the Scriptures, Coenred had told him tales of Aidan’s life and the brethren of Lindisfarena. Cuthbert had enjoyed their time t
ogether, away from the noise and bustle of the hall, but he had been pleased to leave Bebbanburg that had become a sombre, sad place.

  If he had been hoping to find a happier people at Ubbanford, Cuthbert was disappointed. That summer death had not only claimed high-born men who sat on gift-stools and thrones. The lady Rowena had succumbed to her illness while Beobrand and the Black Shields had been away, and everyone in the settlement was forlorn. Bassus welcomed those men who returned with a feast, but he did not smile, and his usual booming laugh was missing from the meal in the hall. The one-armed giant was grief-stricken, and missed Rowena, but Cuthbert could not help but notice how the man’s shoulders slumped too, when he heard the news that his friend and lord would not be returning to Ubbanford. There were few people Bassus confided in, and bereft of Rowena and Beobrand, he would be left to battle his anguish alone.

  Many others were saddened by the news that not all of the warriors had come home. Women and children who had been waiting for the return of the men were disappointed, and the feast became a sullen and subdued affair.

  Bassus had stared desultorily into the flames of the hearth while those in the hall spoke and ate. He had drunk constantly, staggering off early down the hill to the old hall he had shared with Rowena.

  One of the few moments of joy was the reunion between Brinin and Ardith. Beobrand’s daughter was heavy with child now, and the lord of Ubbanford had sent the young gesith home to her, rather than have Brinin accompany him south on his mission.

  When Beobrand had told his Black Shields what the queen had commanded, and who would accompany him, Cuthbert had seen in his lord’s face that he believed Cuthbert would be angered to be left behind. Just a few weeks before he would have been, he knew. But things had changed.

  He had changed.

  He felt a pang of remorse at leaving without saying farewell to the people of Ubbanford, but he would not be so far from them, and he was sure they would see each other again. Besides, he could not bear the thought of Udela fussing over him. He could imagine how Tatwine’s eyes would fill with tears to learn that his playmate was leaving. He loved the boy as a brother and did not wish to see him cry.

  As he rode, he thought of his decision to leave silently, without fuss. Was it the sign of a coward? Was that why he had made this decision? Was that the truth of who he was? Was he merely a craven, who was unable to stand strong in battle?

  Before leaving Bebbanburg, Cuthbert had asked Coenred what he should do.

  “No man can answer the question of who you are, Cuthbert,” Coenred had said. “That is between you and God. Pray to Him and ask for guidance. If you listen, you will hear His answer, I am sure.”

  “I have wanted to be a warrior for so long,” replied Cuthbert. “But now that I have what I desired, I doubt it is my wyrd.” He sighed, running his fingers absently over the hard scab on his forehead where a sword had wounded and momentarily blinded him as his blood had flowed. “I fear I am a coward,” he whispered.

  “Doubt is normal, Cuthbert. But it is not cowardly to question the direction you have taken. Such a thing is wise and takes great bravery. For would it not be foolish to blunder along a road, knowing that it was heading the wrong way, but too stubborn to turn back to the fork in the path?”

  Perhaps there was some courage in changing one’s path, thought Cuthbert. But he did not feel brave, sneaking away from the hall he had called home for the past year, without a word to anyone.

  Despite Cuthbert’s feelings of inadequacy and cowardice, it did feel good to ride beside the river all that long day. He was alone for the first time in many weeks and the solitude acted like a balm to his troubled soul. He recited the prayers he had learnt from Coenred, allowing his horse’s easy gait to lull him into a state of half-slumber. Bees droned in the comfrey and clover. A silvered salmon leapt out of the water, coming down with a splash that made Cuthbert’s horse shake its mane and snort. Two otters, sleek and languid, slid down the bank and cut through the water of the river, every now and then dipping beneath the surface in a way that reminded him of the seals along the coast. In each of these things, Cuthbert thought he began to hear the whispered words of the Lord. He recalled the stories of Aidan’s life that Coenred had told him. The old Hibernian had walked everywhere, rather than riding, and had even given away to a beggar a fine horse that King Oswine had gifted him. Apparently, he had once taken a great silver dish owned by King Oswald and ordered it cut into pieces and handed out to the poor who sought alms outside the gates of Bebbanburg. Coenred’s voice had been filled with love when he spoke of Aidan’s piety. Cuthbert wondered what it would be like to throw away worldly desires and property and give oneself over completely to the service of God and His flock.

  He rested that night beneath a great ash tree. He lay there, watching the stars flicker through the spreading boughs and listening to the murmured sounds of the night: the creak and rustle of the leaves and branches above him, the soft tread of his horse and the mulchy munching of the grass it chewed. An owl hooted close by, perhaps from the forest on the north side of the Tuidi.

  It was cool in the night, but Cuthbert did not feel the need for a fire. He recited the paternoster over and over in his mind, thinking of the meaning of each of the words and listening to the darkened world. For the first time in many days, he did not see in his dreams the faces of the men he had killed. Nor did he feel the oppressive weight of Oswine’s dying bulk crushing against his chest. He slept soundly and awoke with the dawn, enveloped in a light mist and surrounded by the chorus of robins, wrens, finches and blackbirds singing to the rising sun.

  As he rode on that second day, he pondered what he would say when he reached his destination. He had listened and prayed as Coenred had told him to, but still he did not clearly hear God’s voice. And yet, a peace had come over him as if wrapped in a blanket that had been warmed by a fire. And as he travelled ever further from Ubbanford, distancing himself from the life he had known, an inexplicable thing happened.

  Cuthbert did not carry many provisions, knowing that his journey would not be long. On top of his meagre provender, he had packed a couple of kirtles, the Psalter, and the wax-covered tablet and stylus. When he had set out, he had not known what the journey would bring, and so he had strapped his baldric about his shoulders. From the leather strap hung his scabbarded sword. And in his hand, he carried a spear, fearing that he might be attacked on the road by brigands, or perhaps a boar. But as he rode and prayed, his fear of attack dissipated and a newfound calm washed through him. All the while, his spear grew uncomfortable in his palm, the smooth ash haft seeming to rub and chafe against his skin, causing him to switch it regularly between his hands. But no matter how he carried it, he could not seem to find a way of bearing the weapon without discomfort. Besides the spear, his shoulder began to ache from the weight of the sword on its baldric, as if heavy stones had been tied to the blade’s scabbard. He had ridden much further in the past with spear and sword and had carried a shield and other things too, but he had never experienced such soreness before.

  He had been wondering what was wrong when he saw the monastery of Magilros before him. It was afternoon, and light clouds drifted across the pale sky. Several men and women were in the fields around the monastery buildings. Cuthbert could make out a large church and several other well-appointed structures, most with thatched roofs, and a couple of larger halls with wooden shingles. The life of monks and nuns was austere, eschewing pleasures of the flesh and earthly comforts. And yet this minster was also home to women who had been queens of Bernicia. Oswald’s widow, Cyneburg, resided here, along with Rhieinmelth, the princess of Rheged, who had been queen before Eanflæd. Rhieinmelth’s daughter, Alhflaed, who had been promised to Peada of Mercia, if the rumours were correct, was also a guest here.

  As he gazed down the slope of the path to the buildings, a bell began to sound. It must be calling the faithful to None, the mid-afternoon prayer, he thought. Unbidden, his mind filled with the liturgy he had
learnt from Coenred. The words had seemed to take root in his mind, and now they came back to him as easily as his name. He kicked his horse into a trot, hoping to arrive in time to be able to attend the service. With a whinny, the animal sped up. Cuthbert changed his spear from his left to his right hand. On doing so, he realised with a start that the weapon no longer hurt his hands. He shifted his weight in the saddle and was amazed to find that his sword, too, had ceased to be a painful burden to him.

  There were several robed monks standing by the minster gates watching his arrival. Cuthbert reined in before them. The monks shuffled nervously, taking in his fine cloak, his sword and spear. Cuthbert thought of how he must look to them, an armed gesith, riding unannounced up to their gates. He wondered whether the royal residents of the minster had warriors guarding them. But if there were guards, he saw none.

  The oldest of the tonsured men, his hair greying and his forehead wrinkled, stepped forward.

  “I am Boisil,” he said, “Prior of Magilros. And who might you be?”

  “My name is Cuthbert.”

  Dismounting, Cuthbert held out his reins. After a moment’s confusion, Boisil nodded at a young monk.

  “Sigfrith, see to the man’s horse,” he said.

  Cuthbert felt his face grow warm. He had grown overly accustomed to hostlers and servants, it seemed.

  Sigfrith took the reins from Cuthbert and made to lead the animal away when Cuthbert called him back.

  “Wait, take this too.” He handed the young monk his spear and then shrugged off his baldric and sword. “And this,” he said, proffering the scabbarded weapon. “I’ll not be needing it again.”

  Sigfrith looked to his prior, who nodded. After fumbling with the reins and both weapons for a moment, Sigfrith eventually managed to get a firm grip on everything and began leading the horse through the open gates.

  “You say you will not need your sword or spear again?” enquired Boisil with a raised eyebrow. “Are you planning on staying here at Magilros?”