Beobrand grinned at the memory. He was in awe of Eanflæd and the ease with which she had guided men of power to her bidding. He supposed that he too was in her thrall. For him to head off in search of Ardith played into her hands, delaying the dreaded journey north to a man she did not wish to marry.
Casting about him he saw that all his men and Coenred and Udela were mounted, awaiting his order. He was about to give the command to ride out, when a voice pulled him up short.
“Leaving without saying goodbye?”
Swinging his mount around, he spied Eanflæd, draped in a fur-lined cloak, standing beside Bassus’ bulk.
Beobrand nudged his mare closer, so that he would not need to shout to be heard.
“There is not a moment to waste, but I thank you for seeing to it that I can go without being known as an oath-breaker.”
“What friend would I be to prevent you from going in search of your kin?” Eanflæd said, her eyes glimmering.
Beobrand smiled, aware that the eyes of all those in the yard were upon them. Beside Eanflæd, Bassus grinned at him.
“So, we are friends, my lady?” Beobrand asked.
She stared at him for a long while. Once again he felt clumsy and simple before such grace and beauty.
“I have known you for longer than almost any person who yet lives,” she said at last. The warmth of her breath clouded the air between them. “I think I should like to call you my friend.”
Beobrand swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
“If it pleases you.”
Eanflæd raised an eyebrow.
“Does it please you?”
Beobrand thought for a moment.
“Aye, it pleases me.”
She smiled, and her face was radiant.
“Then I bid you farewell and Godspeed, friend,” she said.
Beobrand gave a nod to Eanflæd, wheeled his horse about and dug his heels into its flanks. The mare jumped forward into a canter.
“To Hithe,” he yelled, and behind him, the rest of the riders followed.
Chapter 14
“By the bones of Christ, what is he doing here?” Scrydan lurched to his feet, toppling his carved chair with a clatter. It was dark in the house, the only light coming from the flames of the hearth fire. But even in the dimly lit room, Beobrand could see that Scrydan had aged beyond his years. His former friend had put on weight and his beard was unkempt and unruly. And the erstwhile reeve of Hithe had been drinking. If the slurring of his speech and his swaying stance had not been enough to show his drunken state, the stench of ale and strong mead oozed from him in a sour miasma that engulfed Beobrand and the others who had entered the building.
Beobrand recoiled from the man’s stink. For an instant he was a child again, the smells of the hut bringing back the ghost of his father. Beobrand clutched Hrunting’s pommel, its familiar solidity grounding him, banishing the dark memories from a past best forgotten. Grimgundi was long since gone to the afterlife.
Udela moved towards her husband, raising her hands placatingly.
“Beobrand has come to help,” she said.
Scrydan ignored her and took a step towards Beobrand.
“What are you doing in my home?” Scrydan said. Droplets of spittle spattered Beobrand’s face. But he did not flinch. Gods, this man had been his friend once. It saddened and angered him to see what he had become.
“It is as Udela says,” Beobrand replied in a calm tone, “I have come to help find Ardith. Tell me what happened.”
Scrydan’s eyes narrowed.
“What are you accusing me of?” he snarled.
Beobrand frowned.
“I accuse you of nothing, Scrydan,” he replied, forcing himself to remain calm in the face of Scrydan’s drunken ire. He’d hoped that Scrydan could shed a brighter light on what had transpired than the scant flicker of illumination that Udela had provided.
They had ridden hard from Cantwareburh. There were few people abroad at this time of year as the ceorls readied themselves for the long winter months ahead. They’d passed through ploughed land and saw smoke rising in thin, pallid plumes from charcoalers’ fires deep inside the gloom of a beech forest. Shortly after they had seen a swineherd in a clearing. The man’s pigs rummaged and rooted for mast amongst the beech trees while he gazed on, seemingly in a daze. He had started as they had reined in their mounts, clearly terrified to be surrounded by such a group of armed men. No matter how many times Coenred had told the man they meant him no harm, he would not listen, or perhaps he feared it was a falsehood. He had refused to speak to them. He had whispered to himself and backed away, before turning and hurrying into the forest, leading his pigs by dropping beans before them and whistling a shrill tune.
As his whistles grew faint with distance, Cynan had turned to Beobrand.
“Simple, you think?” he’d said.
Beobrand had thought for a moment, imagining himself in the swineherd’s position.
He’d shrugged.
“Not simple. Just cautious of men wearing swords.” He’d scratched his head, listening to man and pigs crunching away under the canopy of the trees. “Perhaps he is wise to run. I cannot say I blame him.”
The sun had set just before they reached Hithe, but Beobrand had not wished to tarry, instead, sending Bearn, Garr and Coenred to Folca’s hall to announce their arrival, and heading with Udela and the rest of his gesithas straight to the lands that had once been his family’s and were now owned by Scrydan. As when he had last returned, the shadowed shapes of the buildings and trees they passed were familiar and yet as distant as half-forgotten dreams. He had never thought to come back here. Now the memories of the place assailed his mind as if he had disturbed a cave filled with sleeping bats.
A log shifted in the fire, sending up a flurry of sparks, and in the sudden light Beobrand noted the blotched bruises on Scrydan’s face. When he had last seen Scrydan his features had been battered and blood-smeared. Beobrand well remembered his knuckles splitting as he had pummelled Scrydan.
Scrydan could not hold Beobrand’s gaze. He spun to face Udela, staggering slightly as he lost his balance. Reaching out, he clutched one of the timber pillars. Seeming to gain strength from the rough wood of his home, he straightened his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height.
“Why did you bring him here?” he hissed. “And what of Tatwine?”
“Tatwine is well,” Udela said in a soft voice. “He is at Inga’s. My sister will have him for a while.”
Scrydan balled his hand into a fist and shifted his bulk towards his wife.
“How dare you disobey me, woman?”
Udela flinched and then, as if remembering there were others in their home, she lowered her gaze.
“Scrydan!” snapped Beobrand, his voice cutting through the tension in the dark, smoke-heavy room. “Do you remember the last time we met? Do you recall my promise to you?”
Scrydan’s eyes darted back to Beobrand and then to the warriors who crowded around the doorway. For several heartbeats Scrydan looked from one man to the next, perhaps weighing his options. Finally he nodded at Beobrand. Scrydan was drunk, but he was no fool. The threat of violence was in the air like bitter fumes billowing from the hearth.
“I remember,” he said. He bent, clumsily reaching for the fallen chair. Scrydan missed it once before snagging one of the ornately carved legs. He righted the chair and slumped once more into it. Picking up a wooden cup, he drained its contents.
“Know this then, Scrydan, son of Scryda,” said Beobrand. “I have not come here to cause you harm, but to help, if I can, to find your daughter,” he hesitated almost imperceptibly at the words, but he thought he saw Scrydan’s eyes narrow. Did he know the truth? Did Scrydan suspect that Beobrand was Ardith’s father? He pushed the thoughts away. It was of no matter what Scrydan thought or knew, unless his knowledge could guide them to find the girl. “But my word is iron,” Beobrand continued, “and I will make good on my promise, if I must.”
/> Despite the fire, the room seemed to grow chill. Scrydan picked up a flask of mead and filled his cup. His hand shook. He did not offer the drink to the others.
“Enough of this,” Beobrand said. “There is no time to waste and we must rest before we can pursue the men who took Ardith. Now, tell us what happened.”
“I am sure Udela has told you all that I know,” said Scrydan, his tone sour and scornful.
“I would hear the tale from the scop’s mouth, not from his woman’s.”
“It is no tale,” said Scrydan, angry again, “it is the truth.”
Beobrand said nothing.
Scrydan took another deep draught from his cup. It seemed to Beobrand that the man’s hand shook more than before.
“There is little to tell. There were three ships pulled up on the strand. Ardith and I went down to see whether the traders carried anything worth having.”
“Traders, you say?” said Beobrand, his voice sharp. “Did they have a leader?”
Scrydan’s hand flitted to his bruised face.
“Their leader was a great beast of a man.”
“A beast?”
“A beast in action and in form.”
“How so?”
“He wears the skin of a seal for a cloak and the skull of a sea monster for a helm.” Behind Beobrand, his gesithas stiffened and muttered at the description. Scrydan shuddered at his own memories. “His name,” said Scrydan, “is Grimr and when he laid eyes on Ardith he asked if he could have her for his wife. I refused, saying she was too young yet and besides, we have made a good match for her with Byrhtísen’s son.”
Scrydan drank again. Outside, one of the horses whinnied, another stamped. Cynan slipped out into the darkness to check on the mounts.
“What happened when you refused this Grimr?” Beobrand asked.
Scrydan put down his cup and refilled it again with his trembling hand. Some of the liquid splashed onto the board.
“He took her.”
Udela let out a small sobbing cry. Scrydan ignored her.
“And what did you do?”
Scrydan swallowed more mead and then spat into the embers of the fire.
“I am not the great Beobrand of Ubbanford,” he said. “But even you would not have been able to beat the crews of three ships. I was unarmed and alone, but even so I fought them. But they were too many.” He drank deeply once more and sighed. “Grimr had them hold me while he beat me senseless.”
Beobrand stared at him for a long while.
“You are lucky they did not slay you. Or take you also. I have seen thralls less healthy than you fetching a fine price.”
“Lucky? You call this luck?” He waved his arm, sloshing mead. “Look at my face! Behold my face! I did not beat myself so.”
Beobrand stared at him as he blustered and raged. At last Scrydan quietened.
“I do not believe you hit yourself about the face, Scrydan. But I recall the last time I saw you. Your face was a mess then and that was not because you had been defending the innocent.” Scrydan looked away, withering beneath Beobrand’s cold stare.
“Can you tell us anything else of value?” Beobrand asked. “Do you know where Grimr was heading?”
“I do not.” Scrydan’s voice was almost a whisper now. “I was senseless. I told you.” He reached once more for the mead. He would be of no more use to them. Even if he had fought for Ardith, it seemed Scrydan had done nothing save drink since she had been snatched away.
Udela’s face was pale in the dim firelight.
“Please find our daughter, Beobrand,” she said. Tears streaked her cheeks, glittering red like garnets.
“I will do all I can, Udela. I give you my oath. If Ardith lives, I will bring her back to you.”
And with that, he made to leave. Attor, Dreogan and Fraomar went before him into the night. He heard their whispered voices and the creak and jingle of harness as they mounted. He paused in the doorway, one hand resting lightly on the jamb.
“Remember, Scrydan,” he said, “my word is iron and I will make good my promise if I must. Do not doubt it.”
Outside, it was full dark, cold, still and clear after the closeness of the overcrowded farmstead. Beobrand swung up into the saddle of the chestnut mare that Cynan was holding for him.
“My lord?” said the Waelisc man.
“Cynan?”
They kicked their mounts into a trot back towards the settlement of Hithe and Folca’s hall.
“What is the promise you made Scrydan?” Cynan asked.
Beobrand let out a long breath. It steamed in the moonlight.
“Scrydan had struck Udela. Ardith too perhaps. I told him that if I found out that he had ever raised a hand to either of them again, I would come back here and kill him.”
Chapter 15
The gravel of the beach crunched beneath Beobrand’s feet. The night was cold and still, scarcely a breath of wind blew from the sea. The chill light from the stars and moon gilded the waves that rolled up the shingle and then slid back into the Narrow Sea with a sigh. There might be no wind, but, like the thoughts tumbling in his head, the water was in constant motion. Beobrand felt as though his head were filled with crashing waves; memories tossed in a bitter storm.
The taste of the ale from Lord Folca’s table was sour in his mouth. The drink he recalled from his youth had kindled ghosts of memories he would rather have left in the past. Where they belonged.
Scooping up a sea-smooth pebble, Beobrand flung it out into the darkness. It disappeared into the gloom and the sound of its landing was lost as another wave broke with a muffled grumble. The water caressed the strand, slipping its foamy fingers towards his feet. Beobrand watched as the water, bubbles glinting in the moonlight, halted its graceful progress and returned to the sea, tugging shells and stones with it.
He spat into the foam and watched as the dying wave carried the bitter taste of his memories away.
Casting a glance over his shoulder, Beobrand saw the shadowy form of Cynan, standing someway further up the beach. When Beobrand had pushed himself up from the high table in Folca’s hall, leaving a half-filled horn of ale and a barely touched trencher of fish, Cynan had followed him outside. Ever since they had returned from Maserfelth, Cynan had been his shadow. Beobrand looked back to the roiling dark of the sea with a thin smile. At first, he had told the Waelisc warrior to leave him be, but he had long ceased to order him away. It did no good. Whatever their differences, Cynan was a good man and as stubborn as Acennan had been. He had taken it upon himself to guard his lord, and he would not give up his role. Perhaps he thought he needed to replace Acennan at Beobrand’s side. Beobrand spat again. Nobody could ever replace Acennan. Gods, how he missed his friend. The thought of him always brought with it a rush of anger; fury at himself for sending Acennan to his death.
He picked up another stone and threw it as far out into the darkness as he could. He grunted with the effort.
So many dead. So many ghosts.
Peering into the gloom, he pondered Ardith’s plight. Was she staring out at the same sea? Was the moon glimmering on her golden hair? He barely knew the girl, but the weight of her situation was heavy upon him, like a physical thing hefted on his shoulders. He recalled the same feeling of desperation when Reaghan had been taken by Nathair’s sons. The thought of what the men might be doing to her twisted and scratched at his mind. In his memory, Ardith was but a tiny child, smaller even than his son, Octa. The idea of rough seamen snatching her from her home filled him with dread and dismay. He could think of little else save finding her now that Udela and Eanflæd had set him on this course.
Eanflæd.
There was another quandary. He was not blind to the feelings she stirred within him. Her beauty and wit were an intoxicating brew. And yet she was to be his queen. She was promised to Oswiu. She had offered him her friendship. That would have to suffice.
He sighed. His breath smoked before him. He pulled his cloak about his shoulders.
> Looking to his right, he stared out to the sea westward. If the men who had taken Ardith were those who had attacked the Northumbrian ships on the east coast of Albion, it seemed likely they would be heading west. Beobrand shook his head. What had happened here? Scrydan’s tale did not ring true. He was lying about something, of that Beobrand was certain. The man was a drunk and a coward. Beobrand could scarcely believe that he had stood up to Grimr and his crews. But the bruises on Scrydan’s face gave credence to his words.
“Friends of yours?” whispered a voice, close by.
Beobrand started, spinning around. He had been lost in the tangled forest of his thoughts, but now he was instantly alert again. His hand dropped to the seax sheathed at his belt, the familiar bone handle reassuring. He had left Hrunting with the door wards at Folca’s hall and he suddenly felt naked without it.
The voice belonged to Cynan. Beobrand cursed himself for allowing his gesith to get so close without him noticing. He had grown accustomed to the Waelisc man’s protection, relying on his eyes and ears. He would do well to keep his wits about him. It was not wise to put one’s safety so completely in the hands of others.
Cynan pretended not to notice his lord’s discomfort and nodded towards the shadowed buildings of Hithe. Beobrand followed his gaze. Four figures were approaching along the strand.
Beobrand did not move. He watched as the men drew closer. When they were still a spear’s throw distant, he recognised three of them. They were the brawlers who had been in Scrydan’s employ when last he had visited Hithe. Acennan and he had toppled them from their mounts and beaten them bloody and unconscious. The fourth man was tall and broad, younger than the others. The three trudged across the shingle, almost wading through the shifting stones. The younger man walked lightly on the balls of his feet. There was an eagerness about him that drew Beobrand’s attention.
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