“She’ll do nicely,” he’d said at last before coming close to Beobrand and saying, “thank you.”
“For what?” said Beobrand, embarrassed and saddened. He had lost the man’s ship and returned with fewer men than when they had set out in pursuit of Ardith and her captors. Several men had died and more had been injured on the voyage and on that wave-tossed beach. Beobrand still felt a pang of sadness when he thought of Cargást’s woeful eyes, staring up at the roiling clouds, the sleet settling icy and chill upon his blood-flecked cheeks. After the fight, Cynan had told him how the sailor had saved his life, leaping to take a blow that was destined for the Waelisc warrior’s throat. As Cargást had lain on the beach, bleeding his lifeblood into the sand, Cynan had asked him why he had done such a thing. He was no warrior and Cynan wore a byrnie; it might have protected him from the blade that had surely dealt Cargást a killing blow. Cynan’s eyes had filled with tears, his eyes looking as sad as Cargást’s as he had told his hlaford of the man’s words. “Remember, we are brothers now,” the sailor had said, a rare smile playing on his lips before he died.
Back in Hithe, bringing the tidings of death and loss with them, Beobrand had not expected thanks from anyone, and felt awkward at Hrothgar’s words of gratitude. But the old man had gripped his shoulder warmly and smiled.
“Why, you brought back my son to me, of course,” he said, and his pleasure was real.
Beobrand could understand the man’s emotion at having his son return to him; he recalled his own elation at having rescued Ardith. And yet he felt all too responsible for those who did not come back to Hithe. The sailors had followed him and many had died. They were brothers now, it was true. They had stood together and they had shed blood and given their lives for a common cause. Sigulf had survived and Beobrand had honoured his promise to the stocky seaman. They had lost most of the wealth they had taken from Mantican, and could not be sure that Feologild would not sell it all. Perhaps one day he would return to Frankia. If he did, he would visit the merchant and see what had become of the dragon’s hoard of treasure that had been left in his warehouse. But for now, Rodomo would prove too dangerous. Vulmar yet lived and he was too powerful an enemy to face any time soon.
Beobrand had still been able to make rich men of the sailors who had travelled with him. He was a wealthy man and when he had found out that the contingent from Bernicia had already travelled northward from Cantware, he had needed someone with a seaworthy ship to carry him home. Ferenbald had eagerly offered and, after depositing Coenred on the isle of Lindisfarena, they had arrived at Ubbanford and Beobrand had ordered there to be a feast in Sunniva’s hall. They had told the men and women of Ubbanford of their journey and there had been laughter, tales and tears.
Beobrand winced whenever he thought of the weeping that always seemed to colour a return home. There was joy for those that came back to their loved ones, but it was always a time when, as the hlaford of the people of Ubbanford, Beobrand needed to do that which he liked least of all in life: impart sad tidings.
Now, standing in the gloom beneath the oaks, his eyes prickled with tears and a lump came to his throat when he recalled finding Bearn on that beach. Around him were several pirate corpses, testament to Bearn’s great battle prowess. And yet one of them had dealt him a vicious blow. A deep thrusting wound with a short spear had taken him under the arm and blood was already bubbling at his mouth when Beobrand had fallen to his knees beside his gesith.
All about the beach lay death. Every one of the pirates had been slain. Just as Beobrand had anticipated, there had been no mercy shown for these wolves of the sea and his gesithas, Halinard and the sailors from Hithe had fought like demons. The tide of the battle had turned when Beobrand had slain Draca. But it had still been an unsure thing until Garr, washed ashore far from the rest of Brimblæd’s crew, had found himself at the deserted Saeslaga. He had clambered aboard and found a sheaf of throwing spears stored near the prow. He had cut the cord that bound them and proceeded to launch the javelins at the rear of the fighting pirates. With his prodigious skill and strength Garr had killed or maimed many of them from his vantage point aboard their ship’s canted deck.
Soon all of Saeslaga’s crew had lain dead, but not before they had taken several men with them to the afterlife.
Bearn had been the last to die. Beobrand had held him in his arms and allowed his tears to streak down his face. He could scarcely believe the man’s bravery.
“Do not be sad for me, lord,” Bearn had said, his voice already weakening as death approached, “there are good tidings to be found here.”
Bearn had smiled. Beobrand had frowned.
“What good is there here, Bearn?” he’d asked. “I am losing one of my bravest and most loyal gesithas.”
“Ah, yes, there is that.” Bearn had chuckled before grimacing with the pain of his wound. “But at least I won’t have to ride on that ship again. I’m done with that sea sickness for good.”
Despite himself, Beobrand had smiled then, gripping Bearn’s hand. He had looked about him at the death and misery along the beach. Already, some of the men had pulled timber from the waves and, using oil and tinder from Saeslaga, had managed to kindle a fire on the beach.
Bearn’s hand was cold and Beobrand had looked down to tell him of the blaze where they could warm themselves. But Bearn had died, his eyes staring into Beobrand’s gaze, with a look of pained amusement on his features.
Back in the gloom of winter, Beobrand had imparted the sorrowful tidings of Bearn’s death to his widow. The statuesque woman had merely nodded slowly, as if she had known what she would hear before he had spoken, and left the hall. As ever, Beobrand had marvelled at the strength of womenfolk.
Beobrand had one of his great coffers brought out and he gave gifts to the men from Hithe and as their ring-giving lord, to his loyal gesithas. He had also given an arm ring to Halinard and a small, golden medallion to Gadd, who had somehow escaped both the raging sea and the battle on the beach. Halinard had accepted the golden band with a grave nod, but, with his wife and daughter at his side, his eyes sparkled. He stood straighter and several years seemed to have sloughed off him since leaving Rodomo. Despite the terror of the storm, the shipwreck and the savage slaughter on the strand, Halinard had done that which had been eluding him for so long: he had rescued his family from the shadow of Vulmar’s perverse power.
After Beobrand had accepted the newcomers’ solemn oaths, it had become a feast filled with joyous songs and tales of victories, for truly, despite their losses, they had succeeded against all the odds.
It had been months later when Ferenbald had returned to Ubbanford. Beobrand had been surprised at seeing Saeslaga rowing up to the pebble beach beneath the hill on which stood his great hall. He had hurried down the hill to meet the shaggy-haired skipper and the man’s tidings had brought him his first stirrings of pleasure for many weeks. Ferenbald had heard from some Deiran traders where Scrydan had disappeared to. The man had travelled north and was now in the wic of Gernemwa in the land of East Angeln.
And so it was that a few days later, Beobrand stood in the rain, beneath these trees, watching the man, who had once been his friend, stumble into the night for a piss.
“Is that him?” whispered Cynan. He too was cloaked and hooded, almost invisible where he stood leaning against the gnarled trunk of an oak.
“That’s him.”
They watched as Scrydan paused for a time beside the midden pit. Beobrand wondered what he was doing, when at last he pulled down his breeches and took a prolonged piss. Chuckling to himself, Scrydan tied up his breeches and began to make his way back to the hut.
The rain began to fall more heavily and lightning flashed in the distance. Above them, the boughs of the oaks creaked and rattled in the wind.
“Shall we follow him?” Cynan asked.
“Aye, but let us keep our distance. We must only interfere if needed.” He placed a hand upon the pommel of the sword at his side. Its form wa
s not as familiar as Hrunting’s had been, but it reassured him all the same. “I swore to Ardith I would stay close.”
The rain hammered down now. They left the scant protection of the trees and followed Scrydan. It was easy to see the drunk man’s path towards the hut by the flicker of lightning. The thunder that rumbled in the west echoed like the crash of boulders in a distant cave.
Seemingly from nowhere, a figure loomed out of the shadows before Scrydan. He staggered back. Beobrand and Cynan hurried forward. Beobrand would not intervene unless needed, but he had promised his daughter he would not be far from this confrontation.
Scrydan had his back to Beobrand and Cynan. As they drew near, lightning lit the land all about them and they heard him gasp.
“Brinin?” Scrydan said, his words slurred with drink. “Is that you?”
Beobrand could see Brinin as Scrydan saw him. Gone was the boy, replaced by a young man with hard eyes. His face was scarred from where Draca’s blade had caught him. He had lain closer to death than life for many days after the battle at the beach. Fever had racked his body, but all the while Ardith had sat at his side and tended him. She had barely spoken and Beobrand had been terrified of what might happen to the girl should the boy die. But Brinin had pulled through and with his recovery, so Ardith had seemed to regain some of her youthful energy. Sometimes, though not often, Beobrand had even seen her laugh.
“Yes, you evil bastard,” said Brinin. “It is me.” His voice was harsh and deep, tense with his barely suppressed rage.
At seeing it was a boy whom he recognised standing before him, Scrydan seemed to grow in stature. He pulled himself up straight and hitched up his breeches.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping towards Brinin, the threat clear in his movement and tone.
“He has come to watch you die, Scrydan,” Beobrand said. He spoke loudly so that his voice would cut through the storm.
Scrydan spun around, terror on his face.
His gaze flitted about him, clearly seeking a way to flee. There was none. Cynan stepped forward beside Beobrand, his hand on the hilt of his sword menacingly, just in case Scrydan was not certain yet of what was going to happen here.
Scrydan’s eyes were wide in the gloom. For a moment, Beobrand thought he would try to run again, but then his shoulders slumped, defeated.
“Brinin means to kill me?” Scrydan asked. His voice was dull, confused and dazed at the sudden change in his fortunes.
“Oh, he wanted to, Scrydan,” said Beobrand, “but I said I had that right.” Beobrand took a step forward and was pleased when Scrydan whimpered and flinched. “After all, it was I who swore an oath to slay you if you ever struck Udela or Ardith again.”
Beobrand drew his new sword slowly from its scabbard. He had called it Nægling and its patterned blade glimmered and gleamed as lightning once more lit the sky with white fire.
“And it is a father’s duty to protect his daughter,” he said.
Scrydan’s face was pale. He could see his death out here in the rain and wind.
“Ardith was my daughter,” he stammered, panic in every word, “I could do with her as I pleased.”
Without warning, he sprang away from the path, trying to dart between Cynan and Brinin. Cynan stepped quickly into his path and shoved him back. He followed up with a straight jab to Scrydan’s face. Scrydan’s head rocked back and he staggered for a moment before collapsing, moaning into the churned mud. He leaned over and spat blood from his split lips.
“She is my daughter, not yours, you nithing,” said Beobrand, stepping forward and levelling Nægling at Scrydan’s face. “I lay with Udela before you were hand-fasted. Ardith is mine.” For a moment, it was all he could do not to ram Nægling into the bastard’s throat. But he had made a promise, so he stayed his hand. “I only wish I had known sooner,” he went on, “I could have spared them both the misery of living with you.”
Scrydan spat again and then looked up defiantly, seeming to have found some bravery from deep within himself. Or perhaps he had decided he wished to inflict whatever pain he could on his foe; a dying man’s final swing of a blunted blade. He would never best them with weapons and so he used words.
“Well,” he sneered, “Ardith is gone. You will never find that bitch girl.” He looked about him, making sure that Brinin too heard his spite-filled words. “She is the plaything of sailors,” he was almost shrieking, “or she is dead.”
Beobrand reached down and hauled him up. Then, tugging Scrydan forward by his sopping kirtle, Beobrand smashed his forehead into his nose. Scrydan slumped limply and Beobrand pulled him upright, not allowing him to fall. “You are wrong, you sack of piss,” he said. “She is with me now. Safe in my hall. Along with Udela and Tatwine.” Scrydan’s eyes bulged at these tidings. “Do not fear for the boy,” said Beobrand, “he cannot be blamed for the father who sired him. I will bring him up as well as my own kin. He will be treated well.”
Blood and snot streamed down Scrydan’s face. The rain fell hard, smearing his features crimson.
“You mean to kill me?” he said pitifully. He hawked and spat blood. Beobrand released him, leaving him to stand on his own. Scrydan swayed in the wind and rain.
“I did,” said Beobrand, “but Brinin convinced me not to.”
The faintest glimmer of hope came to Scrydan’s eyes then as lightning again flickered, illuminating the darkness. Beobrand could not fathom how the man still believed he might survive this encounter.
Scrydan swallowed.
“So you will let me live?” His voice was the pathetic whine of a child.
Beobrand could not bear to be in the man’s company any longer.
“Oh no,” he said, taking pleasure at Scrydan’s despair, “you will die this night and I hope you suffer before you depart middle earth.”
“But… but… you said…” Scrydan babbled.
“I said it was a father’s duty to take the blood-price for a crime against his daughter. Brinin convinced me that a husband’s right was greater.”
He smiled at Brinin then, proud of his daughter’s husband. Glad that he had come to live with her at Ubbanford. Brinin tended the forge and had real skill. Beobrand remembered keenly his own lust for vengeance when he had discovered how Wybert had harmed Sunniva. He had been consumed with the thought of taking the blood-price from her attacker. He understood better than most how Brinin burnt for revenge.
“It didn’t take long for me to see Brinin’s way of thinking,” he said. “Goodbye, Scrydan. Brinin, be careful not to make too much noise and attract the others from the house.” Brinin nodded. His face was sombre in the gloom. Beobrand turned to leave. Scrydan whimpered. Beobrand ignored him. “And, Brinin,” he said.
“Lord?”
“Don’t make it quick.”
Brinin stepped forward, drawing a wicked-looking seax from a sheath at his belt. Beobrand and Cynan walked away towards where they had tethered their horses beneath the canopy of the oaks.
Another flash of lightning and rumble of thunder. Beobrand hoped the storm would pass soon. He would return to Bernicia as quickly as possible.
“I think I will have Ferenbald leave us at Bebbanburg,” he said to Cynan when they reached the horses. “I can see Octa and perhaps Oswiu will allow me to take him back to Ubbanford. The boy really should meet his half-sister and Tatwine too.”
He remembered how he had heard tell of the king’s fury at Beobrand heading off on a personal quest when he was ordered to bring back a royal bride from Cantware.
“That sounds like a good idea, lord,” said Cynan, shaking his hand in the air and grimacing. Evidently he had hurt it on Scrydan’s face.
“What are you smirking at?” asked Beobrand.
“Nothing, lord,” said Cynan with a glint in his eye. “I was just thinking that it wouldn’t be anything to do with seeing a certain princess there, would it?”
Beobrand frowned. This was not something to be talked about in jest. The ways of wyr
d were unfathomable, but he knew that somehow, ever since he had first met her in the stable of Bebbanburg all those years before, his life’s thread had been entwined with Eanflæd’s.
“She is a princess no longer,” Beobrand said. And it was true. As soon as Beobrand had left Cantwareburh, Utta and Fordraed had seen that Eanflæd was hurried north, to Bernicia. To Oswiu. To the king’s marriage bed. The couple had been wed long before Beobrand had returned.
He sighed, sheathing Nægling and checking his mount’s girth.
“No, she is our queen,” said Cynan, and Beobrand could hear the smile in the Waelisc man’s words. “Still, she is a good-looking lass.”
“Enough,” snapped Beobrand. “Do not speak thus of your queen.” Beobrand tried to push thoughts of Eanflæd far from his mind, but he found visions of her coming to him in his dreams. And when waking his thoughts often wandered to moments they had spent together walking in the gardens of Eorcenberht’s hall.
It was madness, he knew. He wondered at the twists and turns of his wyrd. How he had travelled south in search of a queen for his king and returned with a daughter… and a spark of some unthinkable emotion deep within him whenever he thought of Eanflæd. It was a spark he had never thought to kindle. Yet now that it had caught, no matter how much he told himself it was folly, the hidden flame refused to be extinguished.
In the distance, a thin wailing scream reached them. Beobrand stood still, breathing shallowly, open-mouthed and listening. Another scream, long and ululating. He let out a long breath, nodding to himself.
He needn’t have worried about Brinin alerting the men in the hut. Whatever the smith was doing to the man who had believed himself to be Ardith’s father, Scrydan’s yells and cries were muffled. The sounds would be easily lost within the tumult of the storm.
Historical Note
As with all of the novels in The Bernicia Chronicles, this book is a work of fiction, but many of the events and people within the story are based on fact. The journey to Kent (Cantware) in search of a new queen for King Oswiu did take place sometime following the death of King Oswald at Maserfield (Maserfelth). Oswiu had hoped to retain the merged kingdom of Northumbria made up of Bernicia and Deira, but quickly found out that the Deirans were not keen on the idea. Instead, they installed Oswine, son of Osric, on the throne of Deira, leaving Oswiu not only grieving his brother’s death, but also with a much depleted power base. Somehow, he brokered a deal to marry King Edwin’s daughter, Eanflæd, hoping by doing so to strengthen his, and his children’s, claim to Deira. This must have been traumatic for many of those involved, not least Oswiu’s current queen, Rhieinmelth, who seems to have been cast aside in favour of this new political peace-weaver. It is not clear from the historical record what happened to Rhieinmelth, but it seems likely she would have been sent to a monastery to see out the rest of her days in prayer.
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