The only man at the table who had offered Beobrand a smile of welcome was Wynhelm. The older thegn had met his gaze and seemed to be trying to convey some message with his expression, but Beobrand had been unable to fathom his old friend’s meaning.
“Enough of this,” snapped Oswiu. “We have no time to waste. We have been awaiting your arrival.”
Beobrand had turned his cool gaze back to Oswiu.
“As I said, we came with all haste once we had received your summons, lord.”
“‘Lord’ is it?” sneered Oswiu. “Yes, I am your lord. And your king. Am I not?”
“Yes, lord king,” Beobrand replied in a flat tone. “You have my oath and I am your man.”
“It seems not all men are so keen to recall their pledges and oaths.” For a moment, Beobrand had wondered what Oswiu was referring to, but the king did not wait long to explain his anger. “That ill-begotten whoreson Oswine has been declared king of Deira by the Witena Ġemōt. When I rode to Eoferwic, they welcomed us as guests. As neighbours. But they did not welcome me as their king!” In a moment of sudden rage, Oswiu had scooped up from the table one of the ornate glass beakers his brother had so loved and flung it against the wall. It had shattered and a thrall had scurried forward to clean up the mess. The shards of green glass had twinkled and shone like jewels as the slave had brushed them up.
And there it was. The reason for Oswiu’s anger. Beobrand had stayed away from Bebbanburg and the royal steadings during the long summer months, not wishing to be reminded of the oath he had pledged to the new king. But he had heard tell of Oswiu’s intentions to travel to Eoferwic and there to have the Witena Ġemōt of Deira declare him the ruler of that kingdom, as his brother, Oswald, had been, thus uniting both Bernicia and Deira once more into the powerful kingdom of Northumbria. But it seemed all of Oswiu’s scheming and bribes had not had the desired effect and Oswine, son of Osric had been given the throne of Deira.
Beobrand had met Oswine several times over the years. He had always seemed to be a fine man, honest and brave in battle. He was handsome and tall and carried himself with a noble bearing. Kingly even. Beobrand could well understand why the wise council of Deira would prefer him to rule over them. But their decision was a terrible blow to Oswiu’s ambitions.
As he recalled his humiliation in Eoferwic, Oswiu’s features had darkened. He signalled for more wine to be brought. A slim, dark-haired girl had rushed over and Beobrand had noted the shaking of the thrall’s hand as she had poured fresh wine into an unbroken glass goblet. She had spilt a few drops on the cloth that covered the board. She had hesitated then, flinching, as if expecting a blow. Beobrand had tensed. He knew he could not intervene if the king should choose to chastise a slave, but he could not abide violence to women. After a heartbeat, the thrall had hurried away, without Oswiu seeming to notice her mistake. Evidently he was more interested in explaining why he had summoned them to Bebbanburg.
And so it was that Beobrand had learnt of Oswiu’s plan to wed Oswine’s cousin, Eanflæd. Her father, Edwin, had been the king of Deira and Bernicia before Oswald. With Oswine now on the throne of Deira, Beobrand could not see what was to be gained by this marriage. After all, Oswiu already had a wife, and children, and the rumours were rife of the many women he bedded. Why seek a new queen? But it was not Beobrand’s place to understand the ways of royalty. He had listened quietly as Oswiu had given him his orders, all the while studying his features. The brotherly similarities with Oswald were clear. The same chestnut hair and intelligent eyes. Each had the same energy and presence, that made men turn to them whenever they entered a room. And yet Oswiu, stockier and more solid than his brother somehow, had none of the calm confidence of Oswald. He always seemed to be battling to keep his anger in check and his eyes, whilst the same shade of dark brown as Oswald’s, darted and shifted, as if he saw threats in the very smoke and air of the hall.
When the king had finished laying out the plans, Beobrand had nodded. All he wished was to be away from Oswiu and these men who gathered around him the way flies cluster on a carcass.
He had turned, ready to return to his men, who were seated at the far end of the hall, but Oswiu’s voice pulled him up short.
“There is one more thing,” he had said.
Beobrand swung back to face Oswiu. His stomach twisted in anticipation of the words he knew the king would utter.
“Yes, lord?” His words were clipped, his throat tight.
“I see you have brought your son as requested.”
Beobrand could not bring himself to answer, so merely inclined his head.
“Good,” continued Oswiu, a smile tugging at his lips. “It is my pleasure that Octa be fostered in my household. It might do Alhfrith good to have a new playmate.”
Beobrand had clenched his jaw, nodding once more.
“As you wish,” he had said, at last. The ealdormen and thegns still glowered at him, their dislike of him washing off them like the stink from a midden. Wynhelm gave him a small smile of commiseration. Fordraed’s eyes glowed with triumph. Perhaps he had been the one to suggest this to Oswiu.
“It is a great honour the king does you,” Fordraed said, barely concealing the mirth that threatened to bubble out of his flaccid lips.
Beobrand had felt a terrible emptiness then. Octa was all he had left of his kin. To have him live in the household of one such as Oswiu was almost too much to bear. And yet there was nothing he could do. Oswiu had his oath, so he must obey. Octa would stay with the king and Beobrand would thus be more tightly bound to Oswiu than with any words, no matter how strong his oath might be.
Beobrand had fixed Fordraed with a withering glare. Fordraed had recoiled. Beobrand had held his gaze a moment longer and then stalked off down the hall towards his gesithas, and his son.
Bassus had not uttered a word, but Beobrand had been glad of his friend’s calming presence at his side.
Now it was Bassus’ voice that brought him back to the present. Beobrand noticed absently that the bonfire now burnt hot, with great gouts of flame spouting from the pile of leaves. The bondsman was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, do you?” Bassus asked.
Beobrand blinked.
“Do I what?” he snapped. The memory of the meeting at Bebbanburg had worsened his mood.
“Think that Oswiu will seek to kill Oswine?”
Beobrand sighed and drained the wine from his cup. He had been wondering the same thing since they had been sent south for Oswiu’s new bride. Surely if Oswine were to die, Oswiu could reap the true value of a queen from the royal house of Deira.
A soft knocking on the door to the chamber interrupted his thoughts before he could answer.
The door swung open quietly, on well-greased hinges. In the doorway stood Coenred and, behind him, the priest, Utta.
“We have been summoned to King Eorcenberht’s table,” said Coenred. Beobrand noted that the colour had returned to the monk’s cheeks, but his eyes were encircled by dark, blotchy skin. Their ordeal and Dalston’s death had hit him hard.
Bassus emptied his cup of wine and slapped it down on the small table. He let out a great belch.
“About time too,” he said, his booming voice filling the small room. “I feared we would be left to starve. I hope that meat I can smell cooking is from the feast Eorcenberht has had prepared.”
Chapter 5
Sweat trickled down Beobrand’s neck. The hall was warm, with its blazing hearth fire, dozens of guests sitting at the long benches arranged down its length, bustling thralls and servants and several hounds that snarled and growled, fighting over scraps of meat that fell or were tossed into the rushes strewn on the floor. But it was not the heat that caused Beobrand to perspire. It was the young woman who sat at his side.
He could scarcely believe this was the same girl he had first met in the darkness of the stable in Bebbanburg all those years before.
She was watching him closely and he felt his face grow hot. He reached for his hor
n of ale and took a long swig, hoping it would cool him. The sweat ran down his back under his kirtle and he squirmed uncomfortably beneath Eanflæd’s gaze.
“You have changed,” she said.
He let out a guffaw that was too loud. She smiled.
“Why do you laugh?” she asked.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I was just thinking you were a child when I saw you last.”
She raised her eyebrows archly. Just as he had remembered it, her hair had the lustre of molten gold. Her skin was smooth, like polished stone, and he wished to reach out and touch her cheek. Gripping his eating knife tightly, he skewered a sliver of roast boar. He had not been prepared for the change in her. Gods, she was no longer a child. When she had entered the hall, every man there had turned to watch her passing. Her flowing red linen dress and golden-clasped girdle accentuated the curves of her body, filling his mind with images of what she would look like without the finery covering her lithe legs, plump hips, ripe breasts.
She reminded him of Sunniva. She had that same effortless beauty that made her irresistible. And there was something else, beneath the soft womanly exterior, there was a strength to her. Sunniva had been strong, bending metal to her will as her father the smith had taught her. Eanflæd too had a strength about her. Beobrand recalled meeting her father, King Edwin. Watching Eanflæd’s slender form glide down the hall towards the high table, Beobrand had recognised some of her father’s warrior strength in her imperious gaze when she had glanced his way. He had been pierced by her look just as surely as he now stabbed roasted meat from the laden board before him.
Beobrand had been seated at the end of the high table, far from Eorcenberht and he had been ready to drink himself into a stupor whilst Utta discussed the affairs of the church and the kingdoms of Albion with the young king of Cantware. But Beobrand had not contended with being faced with Eanflæd. He rose as she passed, his mouth agape and she had smiled at him.
“Brave Beobrand, I am so pleased to see you came,” she had said, her voice recognisable as the girl from the stable, but with a new huskiness that made his breath catch in his throat. He had bowed his head, but had said nothing. “Come,” she’d continued, “you are a guest of honour and must not be so far from my cousin, the king. Or from me.”
She had proceeded to rearrange the guests, so that when she sat in the finely carved chair that was reserved for her, Beobrand was to be seated on her left. He had done as he was told and moved to his new position at the table, but he was acutely aware of the gaze of everybody in the great hall upon him. Eanflæd forced a disgruntled Fordraed to move further from the king, relinquishing his place to Beobrand. The fat thegn had glared and Beobrand had been unable to contain a grin. Wynhelm had merely smiled quietly when he was asked to move, and offered a knowing nod to Beobrand. Bassus had raised himself to his full height and, before anyone knew what he was about, he had enveloped the princess in a huge one-armed embrace. She had let out a peal of girlish laughter and wrapped her arms around her father’s erstwhile champion.
“Bassus,” she had squealed breathlessly, “it has been too many years since last I saw you.” She took in his missing arm. “I see you have not been looking after yourself.” She had turned her attention to Beobrand then. “You really must take better care of your gesithas,” she had said, laughter still ringing in her tone. Beobrand had frowned, reminded of all those brave men he had lost to the spear and sword. Shield-brothers. Friends.
If she had noticed the change in his humour, she did not mention it. She had lowered herself into her chair and patted the seat to her left.
“Here, Beobrand. You must sit beside me and tell me all of your tidings.”
Despite himself, Beobrand felt her lightness of spirit and easy words driving away the solemnity that had threatened his mood.
And so he had done as he had been ordered by this daughter of Edwin. He had told her of the years since they had last met. He spoke at first of battles, victories he had won over the Picts or the Mercians, but she had quickly steered him on to other matters.
“I have heard the tales of your exploits in battle, Beobrand, as have all the folk of Albion,” she had said. “I would hear of your life. Of the people who call you their lord. Of your son. Of your lovers.” Her eyes had twinkled in the firelight and Beobrand had needed to moisten his dry throat with a great swallow of the strong ale Eorcenberht’s steward had served. And yet, despite not usually being one to talk of himself, he had told her much. When they had reached the telling of Reaghan’s death, Beobrand had been surprised to see Eanflæd’s eyes brimming with tears.
“Did you catch the men who did it?” she’d asked.
“It was not a man who slew her. It was a thrall.”
“But you said that men from Mercia had raided your lands.”
“Yes. Halga, son of Grimbold, came upon Ubbanford in the dark of the early morning. His warband killed many of my people.” Beobrand’s mind had been filled with the darkest of memories. The charred, smouldering bones of buildings, the pallid, blood-streaked corpses.
“And the slave? The one who stabbed Reaghan?”
“She was from Mercia. She fled with Halga and his men.”
“And you caught them?”
“Aye,” Beobrand’s voice was as hard and jagged as shards of granite, “we caught them by the Great Wall.”
Eanflæd had stared at him for a long while then. The hall was filled with the hubbub of the feast, but the two of them were an island of hush and calm.
“What happened?” she asked in a small voice.
Beobrand swallowed. He did not wish to remember. Not here, next to this beautiful creature. She should not hear of his bloody deeds. He was no great warrior of legend, a hero for a princess to dream of. He was a butcher.
“Well,” she pressed him.
“I slew them all,” he said, his voice as harsh as a slap.
She flinched.
“And the thrall?”
Beobrand sighed and took another mouthful of ale.
“No, not her.” He could still picture the madness in Sulis’ eyes as she had launched herself at him. How close he had come to striking her down, to adding her death to his list of foes slain. “No,” all the anger had drained from him, “I let her go.”
After that they had been silent for a time.
Beobrand had taken a long drink of ale and watched as Utta spoke at length to Eorcenberht. But even as he looked to where the priest and the king conversed quietly, no doubt deciding the future of the young woman at his side, he could feel the pressure of Eanflæd’s gaze upon him. And, from the edge of his vision he discerned the comely shape of her form beneath her fine clothing. Sweat traced a line down his back.
Perhaps content with the level of his discomfort, Eanflæd had finally broken their silence. She laughed easily, her humour infectious. Beobrand’s sombre mood fled, as shadows are banished by the rising of the sun.
“So, how is it that you say I have changed?” he asked.
“When I first saw you, you were crying.” She held his gaze in her lambent eyes. “Now it seems to me you are done with tears.”
Beobrand sighed.
“I have wept more than my share,” he said. “But you speak true. I cry no longer. Tears bring no relief from hurt.”
From the head of the table, Eorcenberht’s voice cut through the din of the hall.
“Cousin Eanflæd,” he said, “come here. I would have you speak with Utta. He is the holy envoy of King Oswiu.”
Beobrand noticed that, despite her outward appearance of calm, Eanflæd tensed; a slight rigidness in her shoulders and neck.
“Cousin Eorcenberht,” she replied, her voice light and clear, “I will join you shortly. I am not yet done listening to Lord Beobrand’s tales.”
Eorcenberht’s face clouded. The two cousins stared at each other for what seemed a long while, Eorcenberht scowling, Eanflæd responding with an innocent smile. For a moment B
eobrand thought the king would repeat his request, perhaps raising his voice and making it an order. But there was something in the way that Eanflæd held her head, the set of her jaw, that told him she would not bend. At last, Eorcenberht waved a hand dismissively.
“As you wish, cousin,” he said. “But do not tarry too long, Utta has travelled far and suffered much hardship to be here.”
“And so has Lord Beobrand,” she replied, with a mischievous glint in her eye. Turning away from the king once more, Eanflæd winked at Beobrand.
“Eorcenberht is such a bully,” she whispered. “But he knows not to cross me.”
Beobrand marvelled at the young woman. She was as bright as a flash of spring sunlight on the sea. He wondered if Oswiu realised what he was getting with this new alliance being brokered by Utta.
“What is he like?” she asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“Oswiu.”
Beobrand’s mind raced. What could he tell her of the king of Bernicia? That he was callous and power hungry? That he would stop at nothing to get that which he desired? That he had ordered the death of innocent children to protect the throne? That he had almost certainly sent the very enemies who had raided Ubbanford, killing many there and stealing Beobrand’s wealth? But he did not wish to cause her harm. What good could be achieved by such words?
“He is not unhandsome,” he said at last.
She laughed again, but the timbre was different, thinner and somewhat wistful. Bitter even.
“You truly think that is my main concern? Our fathers were sworn enemies. And now I am to be tied to this son of Æthelfrith to weave peace between Deira and Bernicia? And what of his wife? Is he not married to a daughter of Rheged? And do they not have children?”
Beobrand took another bite of meat, chewing slowly to give himself time to think. Looking down the hall at the lower benches, Fraomar spotted him and raised his cup with a grin. Beobrand lifted his drinking horn to his gesith in silent salute, then took another long, slow swallow of ale. Gods, he was not the one to talk of such things with this girl. It was Utta, the king’s emissary, who had been given the task of discussing all the affairs of the union.
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