For Lord and Land Read online

  Cynan looked up when she returned.

  “Water?” he said, offering her a skin.

  She drank sparingly, not wishing to need another stop so soon. She handed the skin back.

  “We should ride on,” she said. “There is still a long way to go.”

  “You are sure?”

  “My son is in danger,” she replied, her voice harsh, despite the kindness he had shown her. “I cannot bear to tarry here not knowing what has befallen him.”

  Cynan stared at her. Making up his mind, he nodded.

  “Come then,” he offered his hand. “Let me help you mount.”

  She hesitated. She was not oblivious to the way he looked at her. Perhaps once, she might have entertained the thought of being with this handsome Waelisc warrior. But she was Leofman’s now. Her back still ached and she was unsure she would be able to climb into the saddle without help, so she took his hand and allowed him to propel her up onto the pony. Her back screamed out as she settled onto the saddle, but she offered Cynan a tight smile of gratitude.

  The others swung up onto their mounts and in moments they were riding once more.

  “Better?” asked Cynan, concern for her on his face.

  She nodded. She did feel better than before, and yet her back still throbbed. But she would not hold them back.

  They rode in silence for a time. Cynan seemed worried for her and deliberately hung back, keeping close. The wind picked up, rustling the long grasses in swaying waves across the moors and meadows. The brooding clouds in the north were riding the wind, bringing cold and rain. They would have a wet night of it.

  “What happened to the other women? Aefentid and Willa, and the others?” Sulis asked, breaking the calm that had descended between them.

  Cynan had to think before answering.

  “Of course,” he said, “they came north with you, didn’t they?” The mention of the women that had come to Ubbanford as thralls made him awkward. A reminder of her own past and his part in it.

  She nodded, but said nothing. The memories of that journey and the weeks after it were as dark as the clouds roiling in the northern sky.

  “Aefentid is still with us at Stagga,” Cynan said. “She married a farmer. They have two children. A boy and a girl.”

  “She is free now?”

  “Yes. Beobrand gave her and Willa to Eadgyth, the lady of the hall, and it must be four years ago now that she freed both of them.”

  These tidings made Sulis’ head spin. Aefentid and Willa had been good women; her friends. She was overcome with a wave of happiness that they had found contentment and a new life. But a darker emotion tinged her thoughts, colouring them like a drop of blood spilt into a bowl of water. She was envious. Could she have remained there? What would her life have been like if she had stayed and not thrown her world into disarray again with her spite and hatred? But what good did such thoughts do? If she had not left Ubbanford, she would not have met Leofman, and Eadwig would not have been born. For those things alone, she could never regret what she had done.

  “What of the others?” she asked.

  Cynan rode in silence, staring off at the hills that loomed in the distance. Beyond them were the mountains and lakes of the land she now called home.

  “The winter after you came was a bad one,” he said at last. “It snowed for weeks and everyone got sick. Eacnung never saw the spring.” He sighed. “She is buried at Ubbanford.”

  Sulis tried to conjure up the face of the girl in her mind, but beyond a shock of dark brown hair, she could not recall Eacnung’s features. They had never been close, but to hear of her death saddened Sulis. She remembered that winter and its endless snows. She had been close to death herself, from hunger and cold, when Leofman had found her. It was madness to look back at what might have been. Maybe if she had stayed in Ubbanford, she would have succumbed to the same illness as Eacnung.

  “Edrys is still serving Rowena, and seems happy enough.”

  “For a thrall?” Sulis said bitterly.

  She thought of the shrill shrieks of the old woman as she screamed for her death, and wondered how content Edrys could truly be.

  “Rowena treats her more as one of her kin than as a slave. She does not beat her, even when other mistresses would. Bassus has told me she was not so soft before I knew her. Age, or perhaps Bassus, has softened her.”

  Sulis looked at him askance. Rowena did not seem soft to her, but who truly knew anyone? And people change. She thought of Leofman, his strong arms lifting her from the nest she had made in the snow. The place where she had thought she would welcome death.

  “It is interesting,” she said. “The influence others can have on a person.” She glanced at Cynan. Men had taken so much from her, but it was also men who had given her contentment, a son. Life. “What of Ellenweorc?”

  “She is now part of Edlyn’s household.”

  Sulis frowned, trying to place the name. She had heard it before, she was sure.

  “Rowena’s daughter,” offered Cynan.

  And then it came to Sulis, and she stiffened in the saddle, the ache in her back forgotten.

  “She is Fordraed’s woman?” The memory of the toad-faced thegn made her shiver.

  “She was his wife, yes.” Cynan kept his features expressionless.

  “Was?”

  “Fordraed is dead.”

  “Good,” she said.

  Cynan snorted and she thought she saw him nod.

  They rode on. Far to the south, the hillside was dotted with sheep. High above them circled a buzzard, languidly riding the freshening breeze, its broad wings flapping slowly every now and then to keep aloft. Cynan scanned the horizon for threats, but found none.

  “So,” he said, “tell me how it is that you came to be married to a man of Rheged.”

  Sulis sighed. The last time she had told any part of this tale was to Eadwig. By Christ’s blood, she hoped her son was safe. Whenever she lowered her guard, her fears for him threatened to smother her in their black wings. With difficulty, she pushed away her worries and turned her mind back to the time when Leofman had found her.

  “It was that winter after I left when he saved me.”

  “Saved you?”

  “Yes. Without him I would have perished. Lord forgive me, but I would have been glad of death then. I had wandered along the path of the Wall into the west for weeks. I had no destination in mind. I just walked. I begged for food where I could.” She hesitated. She shook her head. Saddened to remember what she had done and who she had become. But that seemed so long ago now. “Begged or stole. I was more animal than woman that winter, I think. My mind had left me when…” Her voice faltered. She could not bring herself to talk of what had happened to her at Fordraed’s hands, did not want to put into words how Osgar had died alone in the mud.

  Cynan said nothing. She wondered what he thought of the woman she had been when he had stopped Beobrand from striking her down.

  “I did things…” she said, her voice trailing off as she thought back to those chill, dark days, and the deeds she had done. She shivered. “I did what I needed to do to survive. Though truly, I don’t know why I bothered. I longed for the release of death.” She had never spoken so openly about those painful days with anyone, not even Leofman, but Cynan had been there at the beginning of her descent and somehow, the knowledge they shared unburdened her.

  “Perhaps the body does not wish for death, even when the mind thinks it does,” he said.

  “Perhaps. Or mayhap it was my wyrd to survive. The Lord alone knows there were enough times when I should have died.”

  “Well,” he said, “I am glad you did not.”

  She glanced at him, and the honest concern on his face made her turn away.

  “I would have died in the snow, if not for Leofman.” She allowed her pony to follow the horses in front. It plodded along, but with each step the pain in her lower back stabbed at her. Grimacing, she pulled her cloak about her as the wind picked up, bringi
ng with it cold from the north and the smell of rain. She shuddered to remember that freezing day years before. Cynan was watching her, waiting for her to complete her tale. She took a deep breath and ploughed on, pushing aside the memories like great drifts of snow, to uncover the truth beneath.

  “He would have been within his rights to beat me,” she said, her voice not much more than a whisper now. Cynan’s eyes narrowed. He was full of questions she could see, but he waited for her to go on in her own time. “I had wandered as far as the mountains of Rheged. How the snows glistened when the sun shone on those short days, but the nights… So cold. I’d followed a trail of smoke down into a valley. I was out of my mind with hunger and when I saw the barn, I did not hesitate.” She looked back at who she had been then. A wild, unkempt stray. She would have done anything for food. Had done terrible things. And she had been filled with such rage. She hated the men who had taken her life from her and loathed their women for allowing them to do it. Shame washed over her at the memory of stabbing Reaghan. That was a sin that would stay with her always. “Stealing had become natural to me,” she went on, “so I sneaked into the barn and took whatever I could. When I heard someone coming from the house, I fled out into the mountains. It was snowing hard and night came on quickly. Despite the food I had stolen, I was sick and so cold. I lay down in a ditch, and allowed the snow to fall around me. I had made a decision then to allow death to claim me.” She took in a deep breath. “Something had reached me, piercing through my hatred and fury. That was no way to live. Better to be gone than to go on in such pain and torment.”

  To speak so honestly of the events that led to her first meeting with Leofman frightened and thrilled her in equal measure.

  “I think I was nearer to death than life when Leofman came. It was his barn I had stolen from and he had chased after me, tracking me through the snow. It had been easy enough to follow my path. But he did not seek to punish me.” She shook her head, marvelling, as she always did, at her husband’s kindness. “No. He told me later that he was sure I would die. But he had been to the chapel at Dacor the day before and listened to the priest there speaking of the Christ and how he is a good shepherd to his flock. Leofman did not see a thief who had taken what was his, he saw one of Christ’s flock in need of help.” She cuffed away the tears that welled in her eyes. “For the first time in many months, I was not judged for what I had done. And there, close to death as I was, I was too ill to judge myself.”

  Cynan did not speak for some time. The sky grew darker and rain began to splatter around them. His horse shook its head and he patted its neck absently. Brinin, Ingwald and Halinard rode ahead of them, out of earshot. Every so often they glanced back to check on their progress.

  “So Leofman is a follower of the Christ?”

  “He is. He’s a good man. His faith saved me.”

  “You follow Christ too?”

  She nodded. It was unusual for her to speak of these things. Her days were spent with Leofman, Alfwold and Eadwig on the farm. Occasionally, they would head into Dacor to attend mass and to listen to the priest’s sermons, but she did not often put voice to her understanding of God’s teaching or to her own faith in the one true God.

  “Do you?” she asked.

  Cynan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, apparently more disturbed to be speaking of such things than she was.

  “I am just a warrior,” he said. “The old gods or the new, make no difference to me. It seems that the followers of all gods are killed as easily. Sickness, famine and war strike down the Christ followers as often as those who make sacrifice to Woden.”

  “But it is Christ who allows forgiveness,” she said, her voice taking on the warmth of fervour. “God is good and His son died to save us all from our sins. Leofman nursed me to health the way he would a lamb that had strayed into the snow. But more than that, he helped me to see that God forgave me.” She let out a ragged breath. “And that I could forgive myself.”

  Clearly uncomfortable with the conversation, Cynan changed the subject.

  “How much land is Leofman’s?”

  “It is a sizeable area,” she said. “Several hides. It is bordered by mountains to the north and a huge lake to the south.”

  “King Oswald gave him his lands?”

  “Yes, after a great battle. Hefenfelth. The king ordered his host to pray under a great cross, like the rood on which Jesu was slain. Leofman found his faith beneath that cross. He fought in the centre of the shieldwall and the king noted his bravery. Leofman sometimes talks of the great feast and gift-giving at Bebbanburg that followed. But he never speaks of that night-time battle at Hefenfelth.”

  “He must have been a formidable warrior to have caught the king’s attention,” said Cynan.

  She knew that Beobrand also gained the king’s favour after the same battle. He had been gifted and raised up to the rank of thegn. Sulis had seen him fight. She shuddered to recall his ferocity in combat, the impassive glower as he had killed his enemies before the Wall. The gruff command to slay those who had surrendered. Beobrand was nothing like her Leofman and she could scarcely believe that her husband had stood beside, and faced, such killers in battle. She had asked him what he had done to deserve the gift of land, but he had never told her. He would just shake his head and say, “Oswald was gōd cyning.”

  “Leofman is a strong man, but truly, I cannot think of him as a warrior. He tends to his crops and sheep. He brings life to the land. He is no killer.”

  “And yet he was gifted land by the king for his service.”

  “Yes. There is some good grazing pasture for sheep on the slopes, but not much land for planting crops. Too rocky and steep for a plough.” She smiled despite the pain in her back. “He says he thinks that’s why Oswald gifted it to him. No use for a real lord, but good enough for a ceorl like him.”

  “Until he found the lead in the cave.”

  She furrowed her forehead.

  “Yes. Until he found the lead.”

  They did not speak for some time. They had ridden down a slope and were heading up a rise now towards the sheep that were scattered about the hillside. The buzzard had gone from the sky. A dozen or more crows flapped above the riders, cawing in their angry voices.

  “If the land is not so good,” said Cynan, “and with powerful men against you, perhaps the best course would be to leave.”

  “It is our land,” she said. “Why should we leave? Besides,” she said, and her voice took on a hard, brittle edge, “Sidrac has taken Eadwig.”

  Cynan’s face was as hard as stone in the storm-dark of the afternoon.

  “I will help you get your son back,” he said. The rain began to fall in earnest now, the noise of it threatening to drown out their words. “I will make the men who hurt your husband pay. In silver or in blood. But some battles are best avoided. This Sidrac and his father are powerful men. You cannot hope to stand against them for long.”

  “My husband was given the land by the king. It is written in the land grants, signed by the holy hand of Oswald himself. Leofman gave me part of that land as my morgengifu.” She remembered his smiling face as he told her how he had paid the monks at Caer Luel to write up a new deed with her name on the land that stretched between the old broken ash tree and the brook in the west. It was some of the richest pasture land and it would provide her with enough to live off should she need it. “The land is ours,” she said, shouting now over the growl of the rain.

  Cynan sighed.

  “I have land. Your family could return with me to Stagga. It wouldn’t be much, but it would be enough for the three of you. It is fertile land and I could always use a good, strong man such as your Leofman.”

  She looked at him sharply. His hair was plastered to his head and rain ran down his face.

  “And what would your woman think of that? Giving away your land to one such as me, a woman who was a thrall. A murderer.”

  “I have no woman,” he said, with a strange look. “I have not
taken a wife.”

  His tone and impenetrable expression intrigued her. There was a story there, she thought.

  But before she could form the words to unravel that quandary, Cynan pushed his hair out of his eyes and said, “I am going to speak to that shepherd.” He nodded towards the horizon where she could make out a figure stooped against the cold wind and the rain that now fell in seething sheets from the leaden sky. Cynan touched his heels to his mare’s flanks and cantered away, leaving her staring after him.

  Chapter 14

  The rain swirled about Beobrand as he pushed his borrowed mount into a gallop down the slope towards the small group of riders beneath the swaying standards and banners of Bernicia. A quick glance back showed him that Offa and Attor were not far behind him. In moments the three of them would reach their destination. Beobrand breathed deeply of the chill, damp air, allowing the rushing wind and sheeting rain to dampen his battle lust. He could feel his desire for the release of combat straining at its bonds within him. Perhaps soon would be the moment to unshackle that beast, but now was the time for cooler heads. Maybe there was yet a way to avoid adding the blood of countless dead to the rain that soaked the earth.

  At his approach, the men in the party looked around. Some turned their mounts, dragging swords from scabbards, shifting their positions to protect the atheling and their other leaders from the threat of attack that came galloping towards them through the downpour. Beobrand reined in before one of the more eager warriors could attempt to skewer him on a spear. His horse sent up a shower of mud and water as its hooves scrabbled for purchase on the wet turf. Beobrand scanned the faces of the men. He recognised most of them, but one made him pause.

  “Octa,” he said. “Waes hael.”