For Lord and Land Page 10

  Beobrand tossed the wineskin to Coenred, who nodded his thanks and took a deep draught. It was good Frankish wine, filled with the taste of the warm sun of the south, of fruits ripened under cloudless blue skies. Coenred took a second long pull on the skin, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pushing the stopper back. He returned the skin with some reluctance.

  Beobrand grinned.

  “What?” said Coenred, raising an eyebrow.

  “I was just thinking of how Aidan frowns on the brethren of Lindisfarena partaking of mead or wine.”

  Coenred sighed.

  “Well, I am thirsty,” he said, which made Beobrand laugh.

  “And you have earned a drink.”

  “Yes,” replied Coenred, with a twisted smile of his own, “I believe I have.” He stretched out his slender hand again and Beobrand gave him the skin once more. Coenred unstopped it and raised it to his lips. “Besides,” he said, his eyes twinkling in the afternoon sunshine, “the abbot is far away.”

  When he had finished drinking, Beobrand took back the skin. He weighed it in his hand. It was considerably lighter than moments before.

  “It is a good thing we will be at Bebbanburg soon,” he said. “Ferenbald would have no profit from this trip if it went on much longer. Now, the patients?”

  The colour had returned to the monk’s cheeks and his fatigue seemed to slough from him like snow from a steep roof when the spring thaw comes. Beobrand always marvelled at the resilience of the monk. Coenred looked weak and often frightened in the face of danger, but Beobrand knew of none braver and no truer friend.

  “The king is much improved,” he said, as much to Offa as to Beobrand. “He should make a full recovery with rest, good food, and,” he winked at Offa, “good wine.”

  “This is welcome news indeed,” said Offa, slapping the monk on the back.

  Beobrand knew that the older thegn, and the other gruff warriors from East Angeln, had fretted over their lord’s health. He thought back to the night after the battle at the causeway. They had trudged eastward into the darkness, following Coenred, who’d led them along paths they would have surely missed in the gloom. Four of Offa’s warriors had carried Anna atop his shield and Beobrand had allowed Eadgard to take Cuthbert in his huge arms. There was little talk amongst the men as they walked. The East Angelfolc had fought long and hard and lost many. Now their king was borne aloft on his shield and they were fleeing from an implacable warlord who had swept through their land and slain their kings in recent memory.

  In spite of the victory at the causeway and the triumph of giving the brethren of the minster long enough to flee, this must have felt to Anna’s proud hearth-warriors like a defeat.

  Beobrand had been glad to be leaving Cnobheresburg. But the elation he had felt at finding Coenred well had fled. And the excitement of battle had dissipated as soon as the last enemy had fallen, leaving behind the all too familiar trembling hands, sour mouth and aching limbs.

  That feeling of despondency had remained with them as they travelled north. The king of the East Angelfolc was sorely wounded and the men left behind their kin and country to be trampled and abused at the hands of Penda and his Mercian wolves. The sound of laughter was rare aboard Saeslaga as they tacked against the relentless wind that seemed to want to hold them away, as if the gods themselves were pushing them back to confront what they had left behind.

  “There is no sign of wound-rot?” Beobrand asked. “No fever?”

  “No,” Coenred said. “The king is feeling much better. The good Lord has answered my prayers and I am sure Anna will return to full health soon.”

  “Go,” Beobrand said to Offa. “Tell your men the good news.” Offa needed no encouragement. His joy at these good tidings was evident on his face. He hurried into the belly of the ship, where the East Angelfolc were huddled together. Beobrand watched them while Offa told them of their king’s health. The usually dour men nodded and smiled.

  “It is a good thing you have done there,” Beobrand said to Coenred.

  “It is God who has healed the king,” he replied. “Anna is a good follower of the Christ and it is God who has made him well. I am merely the instrument of the Almighty’s healing.”

  “Well, it is good for the king that you were there to act as your God’s instrument.” Beobrand glanced back at the stretched leather that served as an awning over the men Coenred was treating for their injuries. He was scared to enquire after the other patient, but he took in a deep breath of the cool salty air. Gripping the stay tightly, he prepared himself for the worst.

  “And Cuthbert?” he asked. “How does the boy do?”

  Coenred puffed out his cheeks before letting out a long sigh.

  “He is recovering well,” he said.

  “He will keep the leg?” asked Beobrand. Dark thoughts of the boy needing to have the leg removed had plagued his dreams.

  “Cuthbert will keep his leg,” replied Coenred. “He might limp a bit. The blow to his knee was quite severe. But other than a hitch in his step, God willing, he should make a full recovery.” The monk fell silent and stared out at the grey swell of the sea. “He believes I am an angel,” he said at last.

  “An angel?”

  “A messenger from God,” said Coenred, his cheeks flushing. “I have tried to tell him I am no such thing, that I am just a monk whom God has seen fit to use as his means to heal the sick and infirm here on middle earth, but Cuthbert will have none of it.” Coenred looked genuinely embarrassed by the boy’s insistence that he was some otherworldly creature. “He keeps asking to see my wings.”

  Beobrand could not hold back his laughter, and several of the crew and King Anna’s hearth-warriors looked at him as his guffaws rang out over the rush of the waves and the creaking of the ship’s timbers.

  Relief at hearing of the boy’s recovery warmed him like the wine, but as his laughter subsided, his face clouded.

  “The boy is not moon-touched, is he?” asked Beobrand. “Did he damage his head in the fight?” He had seen men take blows to the head and never be the same again. He glanced at Fraomar, his feelings tinged with the ever-present guilt at the warrior’s wound.

  “I do not think so,” replied Coenred.

  “And yet he believes you to be an angel.” Beobrand could not keep his smirk from his face.

  “Well, yes, but his mind is sound,” said Coenred. “And I do not think Cuthbert is mad to think such things.”

  Confused now, Beobrand turned to face his friend.

  “Are you saying that you are in fact an angel?”

  “Of course not,” said Coenred, flushing at the suggestion. “But there are more things under heaven than we can understand. Perhaps an angel came to him in his need while I tended to his wound.”

  “But you did not see this magical creature?” asked Beobrand, touching the Thunor’s hammer amulet at his neck to ward off any magic that might be abroad on the ship.

  Coenred was silent for a time. He looked up at the sail as it strained and billowed. It was dark against the red glow of the last light of the day.

  “Do you see the wind?” he asked. “And yet, it is strong enough to blow this ship across the waves. Perhaps, as close to death as he was, Cuthbert could see the spirits and angels that are all around us.”

  Beobrand spat over the side of the ship into the foaming surf and touched the hammer amulet again.

  “Perhaps,” he said, his voice uncertain.

  “Well, angel or no angel,” said Coenred, apparently happy to move the conversation on, “Cuthbert was wavering at the doors of death for a time and now he is much better. I think this is something we can both be thankful for.”

  And indeed Beobrand was thankful. The thought that he had led the boy to his doom in East Angeln had preyed on his mind and disturbed his dreams. To know that Cuthbert would live lifted the oppressive weight of responsibility from his shoulders.

  Beobrand was still smiling when the land to the west grew dark. The mood
on the ship had improved vastly and the sight of the crag of Bebbanburg, topped with the great timber fortress and its palisades and watch towers, lifted their spirits yet higher.

  “With any luck,” shouted Ferenbald, “we will be dining in the great hall of King Oswiu this night.” He grinned as his expert crew did his bidding to catch what wind they could to take them towards the beach beneath the walls of Bebbanburg. “And I am the luckiest man you will ever know!” The men roared with delight at Ferenbald’s bravado and Beobrand joined in their celebratory cheers.

  Men often referred to him as being lucky, and Beobrand loathed the term. His life had been just as full of loss and sorrow as luck and success. And what defined luck? Did wyrd determine whether a man would obtain fame and glory, or did a man’s own mettle forge his path? He glanced back at Ferenbald, grinning and shouting from the helm. Beobrand knew not the answers, but he had sailed with Ferenbald enough to know that if anyone deserved the title of lucky, it was Saeslaga’s skipper. He was also skilled and brave, and never turned away from a challenge. Perhaps that was why he succeeded where others would fail.

  Beobrand gazed up at the shadowed shape of the fortress of Bebbanburg. He had been avoiding the place for too long. He did not relish the thought of climbing the steps to where he was bound to face Oswiu and Eanflæd, but he had no choice now. And, as Ferenbald steered Saeslaga skillfully into the shadows beneath Bebbanburg’s looming walls, even the thought of having to confront Oswiu’s wrath and Eanflæd’s studious indifference could do nothing to dampen his good humour.

  True to his word, Ferenbald’s luck held. The wind shifted into the east, allowing Saeslaga to skim over the waves of the incoming tide, riding high up the sand of the beach between other ships and boats dotting the strand. Above them, the sky was the colour of hot bronze and the walls of the fortress were dark. Sparks of light began to flicker there as torches were lit. They would be climbing up to Bebbanburg in the dark.

  As he jumped from the ship and his feet splashed into the surf, feeling the give of the soft sand beneath, Beobrand had a sudden sense of having lived this moment before. He glanced up at the imposing sight of the seat of the kings of Bernicia, remembering a day far in the past when a much younger man had arrived on this very beach.

  Ferenbald shouted at his crew to stop their dallying and set to heaving the ship higher up the sand. The sound of his voice, so like his father Hrothgar, served to further transport Beobrand into the past. He had been little more than a boy, the same age as Cuthbert, when he had first seen Bebbanburg. That boy had been filled with pain and the anticipation of seeing his brother, Octa. He sighed. His anguish had soon increased and he had never seen Octa again.

  “Beo,” Coenred called to him and he turned. “Help me with Cuthbert.”

  The boy was leaning against the monk, his skin pallid and his eyes bright. But he was upright, and seeing him thus made Beobrand smile. He shook his head, moving back to the side of the ship to help the young gesith climb down. Had he really been as young as Cuthbert when he had come to Bernicia? It seemed a lifetime ago. Where had the years gone? He would be a grandfather soon. By the gods, how that news had made Bassus laugh.

  “Call me old now, will you?” he had said, slapping Beobrand hard on the back with his one powerful hand.

  Beobrand was still unsure of his own feelings on the matter. He was happy for Ardith and Brinin, and yet the idea awoke a sadness within him. All he had ever wanted was peace and a family to call his own. But however he tried, he could not cling on to love. Sunniva and Reaghan were both ash. He could never have Eanflæd. His son was a stranger to him, and Ardith was distant, another stranger who shared his blood.

  Wading into the cold water, he reached up to where Coenred and Cuthbert waited. He lifted Cuthbert down easily, again marvelling at how light he was. Still, the boy was alive and recovering. Coenred swung his legs over the wale and dropped down with a splash.

  The monk took in a deep breath.

  “It is good to breathe the air of Bernicia once more,” he said.

  Beobrand nodded, forcing himself to push aside his maudlin thoughts. He had travelled south to rescue Coenred. He had been successful, and returned with so much more; a king no less.

  He glanced over to where Offa was coordinating the East Angelfolc. They lifted their king down. They were attempting to convince him to sit atop his shield, so that they might carry him, but he waved them away.

  “I am your king,” he said, “and I will lead you. I do not mean to be borne into the fortress of Bebbanburg like an invalid.”

  The men grumbled, but Offa barked orders and they fell into line behind King Anna.

  Beobrand called out to Eadgard. The giant axeman trotted through the shallow surf.

  “Think you can carry Cuthbert up there?” He indicated with his head in the direction of the brooding buildings high above them.

  “This one weighs no more than a lamb,” Eadgard replied. “I could carry him all the way to Ubbanford if you want.”

  “I will walk,” said Cuthbert. “I am your gesith, not an invalid.” Beobrand grunted at hearing the king’s words echoed by the boy.

  “That you are, Cuthbert,” he said, smiling to take the sting from what he was about to say. “You are my man, and I command you to allow Eadgard to bear you up to the fortress. When you are well again, you will walk, and fight, but for now, you will do my bidding.”

  Cuthbert frowned.

  “The sooner you recover,” said Beobrand, “the sooner you will be of use to me once more. The gods alone know how long until we will be called upon to fight again. I will need all my gesithas then.”

  At the talk of battle, Cuthbert seemed to grow even paler, but he nodded. With Coenred’s help, he clambered onto Eadgard’s back and they set off towards the steps that led up to the fortress.

  Beobrand hurried over to where the men of East Angeln were gathered around their king. Anna was leaning on Offa’s shoulder. His jaw was set, his face the colour of milk.

  “Lord king,” said Beobrand, “it gives me great joy to see you on your feet.”

  “Praise be to the Lord and to your friend the monk there. Without his skills, I fear I would have been carried thence to Bebbanburg,” he gestured at the shield his men had prepared for the purpose, “for the dead cannot protest.” Offa and several of the East Angelfolc made the sign of the rood over their chests. Some spat into the sand. They did not like this talk of their king’s death.

  “Well, I am glad that you will not need to be carried,” said Beobrand. He looked up to where Eadgard, with Cuthbert on his back like a great sack, was beginning to mount the stairs that were hewn into the rock. Grindan, Eadgard’s brother, was with them. “But it will be dark soon and the steps can be treacherous,” he fixed Offa in his gaze, his meaning clear. “Take care not to slip. And allow me to lead you.”

  Offa and King Anna nodded and they all set off, leaving Ferenbald and his crew to secure Saeslaga above the tide-line.

  *

  It was full dark when they arrived, dishevelled and tired from the climb, at the door to the fortress. Word of the royal visitor must have reached the inhabitants of Bebbanburg, for the gates were open, when usually they would have been closed to the night. The courtyard beyond was lit with bright torches and several braziers and it thronged with people. Beobrand’s heart clenched as he surveyed the faces of the folk gathered there to welcome the king of East Angeln.

  Eanflæd stood beside her husband. Her eyes glittered like jewels in the flame light, and Beobrand found himself drinking in the sight of her. Her radiance was brighter than any of the torches or fires. Her skin glowed. Her lips shone, so temptingly. He remembered the taste of them. The queen wore an elegant dress of blue linen, edged with cream-coloured silk. The fabric clung to her form. He would never forget the sensation of her slender curves pressed against him. His chest tightened, as it always did when he saw her. By Woden, he should have headed directly back to Ubbanford. But that was not pos
sible. He had brought the king of the East Angelfolc to Bernicia and it was his duty to see him safely within the walls of Bebbanburg.

  Forcing himself to look away from Eanflæd with difficulty, Beobrand swallowed against the dryness in his throat to see Oswiu staring directly at him. The king had aged these last months. Grey streaked his beard and the hair at his temples. Oswiu narrowed his eyes, but Beobrand could not read his expression.

  Beobrand became aware of an awkward stillness. Everyone was looking at him expectantly. Taking a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and drew himself up to his full height. He towered over all those gathered there apart from Eadgard, who had moved to one side with Cuthbert and Grindan, clearly anxious to be out of the gaze of the king and queen and their retinue.

  “My lord king,” Beobrand said, “I have the great joy of introducing you to the rightful king of the folk of East Angeln.” He turned to where Offa, red-faced and sweating despite the cool breeze from the sea, held his king upright. Anna, sheened with sweat, trembled beside the thegn. Beobrand was sure that if Offa were to release his hold on him, the king would collapse. By the gods, the man’s stubbornness might well cause his death, he thought.

  “Anna, son of Eni,” said Beobrand, “king of all the people of the East Angelfolc, this is Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith, lord king of Bernicia.”

  “You are well come to Bebbanburg,” said Oswiu.

  “I thank you, lord king,” said Anna, his voice wavering and quiet and nothing like his usual forceful, confident tone. Beobrand caught Offa’s eye and the older man gave a slight shake of his head. “You are most gracious to allow me to stay here,” Anna went on. “I seem to have lost my own kingdom.” His voice cracked and his legs gave way beneath him. Offa struggled to hold him and Oswiu leapt forward. He stumbled and grimaced as if in pain, though Beobrand could see no cause. There was a moment of confusion as Anna’s hearth-warriors jostled for the right to support their king.

  “Stand back,” growled Offa, leaving just one burly warrior on the other side of Anna. Between the two of them, the king would not fall. But his head lolled and he appeared to have swooned.