Coenred knew that it was wrong to seek revenge. Did not Jesu say that “whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also”? But did not the Lord also smite his enemies? Coenred’s guilt had been a terrible burden. Beobrand had been withdrawn and sullen, closing himself to all and only showing any sign of happiness when he was with Octa. The more apparent Beobrand’s grief became, the worse Coenred had felt. For there was one thought that plagued his thoughts above all else. God had failed to answer his prayers to spare Reaghan because Coenred, the instrument of His healing, had begged Beobrand to kill those responsible for Gothfraidh’s murder.
Coenred was certain that he had been the cause of Reaghan’s death.
Abbot Aidan had called him to his chamber one day shortly after his return to Lindisfarena.
“Do not blame yourself for Beobrand’s sorrow,” Aidan had said, his deep brown eyes full of understanding. He always seemed to know exactly what Coenred was thinking.
Coenred had told the abbot of how he had asked Beobrand to kill the Mercians. How he was sure that Reaghan had died because of him.
“Do you think that Beobrand would not have killed the men who had attacked Ubbanford if you had not spoken in your anger and grief at our good brother’s death?”
Coenred had shaken his head. Of course he knew that Beobrand would have sought out his enemies whether he had spoken up or not.
“And do you not believe that you did all you could to save the life of the poor lady of Ubbanford?”
Again, Coenred had shaken his head.
“I did all I knew how,” he’d said, “and I prayed for her day and night. I kept vigil by her bedside.”
“Pride is a sin, young Coenred. Do not believe that the Lord does only your bidding. You did your best, but the Lord decided that Reaghan’s time had come. As had Gothfraidh’s. And if ever there was a man who was prepared to meet his God, it was Gothfraidh. For was he not a good, holy man?”
“He was, Father,” Coenred had replied, his voice catching in his throat. “He was a truly good man.”
“So, grieve for the loss of loved ones, but do not blame yourself, Coenred.”
“But I asked for vengeance! I wished for death on Gothfraidh’s killers.”
“You are but a man, Coenred. All men know anger and all men are weak. It is how we confront our weakness that defines us. You are a good man. Dwell not on a moment of frailty, but pray for the strength to forgive in the future.”
He had prayed and he had thought that never again would he feel the burning desire for revenge. But then Dalston had been snatched, his throat slit like a hog at Blotmonath, and the terrible urge to see his murderers pay with their lives had begun to grow deep within his soul, a twisted dark weed, knotted and thorny, strangling the life from everything that grew around it.
Coenred watched as Cynan, Garr and Fraomar trudged down the shingle to Brimblæd. Beobrand had sent them to fetch Scrydan, but they were returning alone. Beobrand saw them approach and jumped down from the ship, walking briskly up the beach to meet them. Coenred walked towards them. He would hear what they said.
“Well,” snapped Beobrand. “Where is he?”
“Gone,” said Cynan.
“Gone?”
“Udela said that the friends of his we spoke to on the beach last night visited him in the darkest part of the night. He packed up anything he could find of value, and he fled.”
Beobrand’s face was thunder. Coenred knew he had feared for Udela now that the truth had come out about his blood-tie to Ardith. Whatever he had thought about Ardith’s father before, a man like Scrydan would never take the humiliation of being publicly cuckolded without lashing out at those he blamed. He was too much of a coward to attack Beobrand, but Udela was another matter.
“And Udela?” Beobrand asked.
“Unhurt, lord,” Cynan said. “We took her to Hrothgar’s hall. He said he will watch over her and her son. It will not be easy for Scrydan to do her further harm.”
“He has done enough already.”
“There is one thing you should know.”
“Yes?”
“Scrydan took the silver serpent arm ring you gave to Udela.”
Beobrand stared at Cynan for a long moment. Coenred shuddered. Such was the hatred in that glare that he almost felt pity for this man he had never met.
Almost.
He made the sign of the Christ rood over his chest and offered up a silent prayer for Scrydan, for the look on Beobrand’s face spoke of more than death. It spoke of pain and suffering and of the desire to make Scrydan scream with agony before he succumbed to the release of the afterlife.
“Did he?” Beobrand said at last. “Well, I suppose he is already dead. I can only kill him once.”
And with that, he turned back to Brimblæd, and the preparations for their departure.
Chapter 19
“Thanks be to Woden that we are finally away.” Beobrand flicked his cloak over his shoulder, but the wind caught it and wrapped it about his frame. His fair hair whipped around his face, and after a few attempts at pushing the errant strands from his eyes, he ceased trying. He could not control the wind.
Ferenbald leant into the steerboard as Brimblæd’s sail unfurled and snapped in the stiff easterly breeze. The prow of the ship climbed up a wave and then the ship rode down the far side with the slightest of tremors along its beams.
Ferenbald grinned and said, “Forgive me, had I known before last night that I was to take you on my father’s ship in search of a lost girl, I would have been more prepared.” Hrothgar’s son’s great mane of hair and beard waved and flowed around his face.
Despite the urgency that had been building up within him like a flood behind a dam, Beobrand returned Ferenbald’s smile. It had taken the whole of the morning and much of the afternoon to ready the ship, but Beobrand could not fault Ferenbald or the crew. They had worked with a determined speed and efficiency, seeming to pick up on Beobrand’s own nervous anxiety at dallying in Hithe while his daughter was surely travelling ever further from him, from home. But it was no longer his home.
It was Ardith’s home. And the home of these sailors.
He must not forget, these men were her neighbours, men who had known her since she was a babe in arms. Their wives would be friends of Udela. He wondered how many of the crew had been pushed by their women to go in search of Ardith.
The ship rolled over another wave. Gulls shrieked and wheeled in the sky. Grey clouds had formed on the horizon to the west, and the sun shone weakly through the rain that streaked the air beneath them. They would surely be wet soon enough, but the prospect of a dousing did nothing to dampen Beobrand’s spirits. The cold wind flung his cloak about him again, pushed his hair into his eyes. Brimblæd rode another wave and Beobrand staggered slightly. He had never been a good seafarer, but he noticed something with surprise: he did not feel sick. Instead, he felt light and more focused than he had in days. Even in weeks, or months perhaps. Looking back at their wake he watched as the coastline receded. The lightness of body could be explained simply enough. His byrnie, helm, and the iron splints of armour he wore on his wrists and, more recently, on his shins, were all stored safely in a greased leather sack. He had become so accustomed to wearing them, that to be free of his armour made him feel at times exposed and vulnerable. Now though, with Brimblæd’s keel dancing over the heaving sea and the wind billowing the sail and plucking at the hem of his cloak, Beobrand felt free. It reminded him of galloping astride his great stallion, Sceadugenga. It was the feeling of power that came from unfettered speed.
The cliffs and beaches of Cantware fell away behind them, and his troubles faded with the land. He could never forget those he had lost. Memories of Reaghan and Acennan were still as raw as recent sword cuts to his flesh. And yet, as Brimblæd pulled away from the land, Beobrand’s mind turned from the past and began to look toward the future. He would find the daughter he had never known. He would rescue her. And he would m
ake the men who had taken her pay. There would be time enough for Scrydan on their return. He spat over the side, careful that the gusts of wind did not blow his spittle back into his face.
“You think we will make much progress today?” Beobrand asked.
Ferenbald looked up at the sail, then stared away towards the horizon.
“With this wind we should make Hastingas before nightfall.”
Beobrand felt a pang of disappointment.
“You mean to take us into land?”
“Aye, with any luck we will make Hastingas afore the wind changes and brings that rain down upon us.”
“The wind will change then?”
Ferenbald glanced up at the clouds and cocked his head to one side as if they uttered words only he could hear.
“Aye, this breeze won’t last. It will shift into the south and I don’t like the look of the sky to the west. We will make landfall at Hastingas and will wait for the storm to pass.”
Beobrand’s mood darkened like the thunder heads in the distance. His joy at speeding after Ardith and her captors fled on the wind.
“If we do not plan to press on, why did we sail today?”
“My father says it is always best to sail when the winds are good. You never know what the gods will bring the next day.”
“Hrothgar is a wise man and a fine sailor no doubt, but it pains me to think that we will once more be resting on land while those pirates sail ever further away from us.”
“If that squall is half as bad as I think it will be, nobody will be sailing anywhere for quite some time. Besides, have you not thought that we cannot track these men over the Whale Road? There are no footprints left on the waves. We must put into shore frequently to ask for tidings of their passing.”
Beobrand grunted. He scanned the expanse of slate-grey water around them. There was no other vessel in sight. The only movement came from the gulls that careened in the air above Brimblæd. Grimr and his ships had several days advance on them and they could be anywhere that a ship was able to travel. Of course Ferenbald was right. The only way to find out about their route would be from other ships who might have seen them, or from ports and settlements.
“If the gods smile on us, we may catch them soon,” Beobrand said. “For we have one thing in our favour.”
“What is that, lord,” asked Bearn, who had removed himself from the belly of the ship where much of the activity of sailing was taking place. His face was pallid. Evidently he was suffering from the ship’s motion. Beobrand felt sorry for him.
“Why, they do not know they are being hunted,” he said, clapping Bearn on the back, as he tried to rekindle the spark of his excitement at the chase.
“The sky is growing ugly quickly,” said Ferenbald. “I truly hope that the gods are smiling, for if we do not reach land before that storm, we will be in for a rough and wet night. It will matter not if our quarry knows of our approach, if we are sleeping with the fish,” he added, grimly.
Beobrand thought of the storm-harried night they had so recently endured and felt his mouth grow dry.
Ferenbald stood, feet planted solidly on the heaving deck, eyes a-glimmer with the excitement of his new command and a smile half-hidden behind his thick beard, Beobrand could easily see that he was of Hrothgar’s blood. Here was a man who lived for the sea. It was as much a part of him as the sod and turf were part of a ceorl farmer. Ferenbald called out to one of the crew and the man adjusted a rope without comment. Ferenbald shifted balance slightly and Brimblæd responded to his deft touch on the steerboard, changing course almost imperceptibly. He controlled the ship as Cynan controlled a horse, effortlessly, with an ease most men could but dream of. Beobrand glanced once more at the horizon. The clouds there were thick now, black, ominous. Beobrand sighed. He must trust to Ferenbald’s judgement. And if this son of the sea thought it too dangerous to ride out the storm, Beobrand would be a fool not to listen. For he could see one thing for certain: Ferenbald was not easily frightened.
“Christ’s bones!” a voice exclaimed from amidships. Beobrand looked down into the broadest part of the ship, where one of the crew was wrestling with a slender form. The sailor, a bald man whose down-turned eyes and constant frown gave him a sorrowful look, tugged on the figure’s arm, yanking them upright. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing here?” he yelled.
“Cargást,” snapped Ferenbald, “what troubles you?”
The sad-looking sailor pulled the figure roughly towards Brimblæd’s stern. Beobrand saw the figure was a boy, gangly and awkward in the way of youth. He was tall and slim, but strong of aspect, not scrawny. His forearms were sinewed and stout, like a warrior’s, but he did not walk with a fighter’s grace.
“Take the helm,” Ferenbald said to a grizzled man who looked old enough to be his grandfather. The grey-bearded sailor nodded and stepped forward to grasp the steerboard.
“What is happening here?” asked Beobrand, addressing Cargást.
At the same moment, Ferenbald stepped forward to meet Cargást and the boy and said, “What is the meaning of this?”
Cargást’s sad eyes flicked from Beobrand to Ferenbald, hesitating.
“I am the captain of this ship,” Ferenbald said, his tone curt, brooking no argument, “you will answer me.”
Beobrand said nothing, but he felt his face grow hot.
Cargást dipped his head.
“I found him hiding ’neath the lord’s gesithas’ shields.”
“What is the meaning of this, Brinin?” asked Ferenbald.
The boy tugged his arm free of Cargást’s grip and straightened his back, meeting Ferenbald’s gaze squarely. He’s a bold one, thought Beobrand.
“I had to hide,” Brinin said. “I knew you would never allow me to come. And my father would forbid it, even if you had let me.”
“You are right on both counts,” said Ferenbald. “By the Blessed Virgin, your father will skin us all if anything happens to you.”
“Who is the child’s father?” asked Beobrand.
“I am no child!” shouted Brinin before Ferenbald could answer. “I am fourteen summers old.”
“Almost a man then,” said Beobrand, a smile touching his lips.
“I am a man!” yelled Brinin. His voice cracked, shifting into a high-pitched whistle, and Beobrand could not help but smirk. Brinin’s face flushed crimson and he fell silent.
“Who is this ‘man’s’ father?” asked Beobrand.
Ferenbald grinned.
“Byrhtísen. The smith.”
That explained the strength in the boy’s arms.
“Brinin,” said Beobrand, “why did you hide aboard?” He half expected Ferenbald to interject, to exert his authority as the master of the vessel, but the captain remained silent.
Now, faced with the tall, battle-scarred thegn and the broad-shouldered, bearded ship master, Brinin shuffled his feet on the deck and would not meet their eyes.
“If you would have us treat you as a man, you must speak as one,” said Beobrand. “I asked you a question.”
Brinin looked up, misery in his eyes.
“I had to.” He bit his lip. His eyes shone. Beobrand thought he might cry.
“Why?” asked Ferenbald.
“I must. I…” The boy trailed off.
Beobrand stepped forward and placed a hand gently on the boy’s shoulder. He noticed that the skin beneath Brinin’s shining eyes was dark. He had the look of one who had not rested in days.
“Why?” he said in a soft voice.
Brinin swallowed.
“I had to help you find her,” he said, his voice so small it was almost lost over the rush of the sea beneath the hull.
“You are friend to Ardith?” Beobrand asked.
Brinin pulled himself upright once more, seeming to regain his confidence.
“I am more than a friend. We are betrothed.”
“I see.”
“I love her,” Brinin said, and there was such ferocious certai
nty in his tone, that Beobrand could not help but smile again.
“Do not mock me!” said Brinin, anger flaring like fat dripped onto a fire.
“I do not mock you.” In truth, there was something about the boy that he liked. An earnest sincerity. “You know who I am?”
Brinin nodded.
“Everybody knows you. You are Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”
“And I am Ardith’s true father. Did you know that?”
“Word travels quickly, lord. Everybody in Hithe knows it now.”
“But you did not think I would be able to bring Ardith back without your help?”
“No, lord,” Brinin stammered, “I meant no such thing…”
Beobrand clapped his shoulder.
“Now, I am mocking you,” he said, with a grin.
Brinin did not smile, he returned Beobrand’s gaze glumly.
“If you are to come with us, you will have to prove yourself useful.”
“I will, lord,” he said. “I will. I am strong, and good with my hands. And if it comes to a fight, I will stand with you.”
Beobrand held him in his stare, appraising him. He liked the boy’s determination. And he was touched at Brinin’s declaration of love for Ardith. Beobrand felt a stab of guilt. Ardith had not known enough love in her short life.
“He cannot come,” said Ferenbald. “He is but a boy. He is too young. We must turn back or put him ashore and send him home to Hithe.”
“Too young, is it, Ferenbald?” asked Beobrand. “Is it not true that all men must at some moment grasp the thread of their wyrd? Is that not what separates men from boys?”
Lightning flickered in the west, lighting the black clouds momentarily with Thunor’s fire.
Ferenbald held Beobrand’s gaze for several heartbeats. Thunder growled in the distance.
“Very well. The boy comes with us. But know this, Beobrand. If he is hurt, or worse, it is on you, not me. And you will speak with Byrhtísen on our return.”
Beobrand nodded. He was no stranger to having the life of men in his hands.
“You heard the man,” he said to Brinin, “you stay. But if you are to travel with men, you must make yourself of use at all times. While aboard Brimblæd you will do as Ferenbald says.” Beobrand raised his voice, so that all the men would hear. “Ferenbald commands here. This is his ship and his word must be obeyed.”
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