For Lord and Land Read online

  “There is no point clinging to this land if to do so will see you slain,” said Cynan, accepting a wooden beaker from Sulis.

  “They have our son,” said Leofman. “And look what they have done…” His words caught in his throat. “We are no cowards to flee from the likes of Sidrac and his ruffians. This land is my family’s. Gifted to me and my heirs by Oswald King himself.”

  “I will bring back your son to you,” said Cynan, “but to remain here is folly. You two cannot stand against this Sidrac and his gesithas. That Bumoth is a brute.”

  “That fat toad,” Leofman spat into the embers. “When my leg is healed, I will split his skull with my axe.” Sulis trembled beside her husband. She had never before heard him so angry and with a shock she realised that she believed he would indeed kill the man, if he was given the chance. This was a side of him she had never seen before. She looked at him sidelong and noticed for the first time how hard his face could appear in the flicker of the hearth flames, all angles and shadowed crevices, like chiselled rock. She wondered then at what Cynan had said about a king’s gift. Surely Leofman must have done something of great renown to receive such a reward. But he never spoke of it and she had never pried, content to let him have his secrets, as she had hers. He seemed to sense her unease and patted her knee.

  “I would welcome that fat whoreson’s death,” said Cynan, staring at Leofman over the fire. His face swam and rippled in the heat. “But even if you could kill him, there are many more of them. You are but one man. There is no shame in taking your family to safety.”

  “No shame?” Leofman shook his head. “Would you flee, Cynan? Tell me, you who has ridden across Albion to save my son. Would you run away if you wore my shoes?”

  Cynan held Leofman’s gaze for a long while and Sulis trembled once more.

  “I know not what I would do,” Cynan conceded at last. “But I am not you, and you are not me.”

  “And Eadwig is my son and Sulis my wife.” Leofman pushed Sulis to stand. “Refill the man’s cup, woman,” he said, his tone harsh.

  She blushed and did not meet Leofman’s eyes as she poured more ale for Cynan, then the others, and finally Leofman. When she had finished, her husband’s anger appeared to have abated somewhat and he patted the stool at his side for her to sit once more.

  Ingwald whispered something to Cynan and the Waelisc man nodded.

  “How far are we from Sidrac’s hall?”

  “In this weather,” Leofman pondered, “perhaps half a day’s ride.”

  Cynan nodded.

  “If we are lucky, Bumoth has ridden for home and will stay there until this rain passes.”

  Leofman snorted and raised his eyebrows.

  “We should not count on luck. Of late, I have not had much of it.”

  “No,” Cynan said, nodding. “Ingwald will take first watch.”

  Ingwald stood, drained his cup of ale and handed the empty vessel to Sulis. Taking his cloak and sword, he opened the door and stepped out into the gathering dusk. The rain had turned into a drizzle and the evening was quiet and grey. He leaned against the wall of the hut, drawing his cloak about him and pulling the door shut.

  “So, tell me, Cynan,” said Leofman, his voice rumbling in the hut’s warm gloom, “how is it that you know my Sulis? And how is it that you would come to her aid on the other side of Bernicia?”

  “Husband, hush,” said Sulis, her face hot at his implication, though she knew there was something to what he was suggesting. She had played on the feelings Cynan held for her.

  “No, Sulis,” said Cynan, “Leofman has the right to know the manner of man who sits at his hearth.” He stared at the older man, his eyes bright and his jaw set. She was suddenly terrified of what he might say. She had buried her past for so long and now she wondered what digging it up might bring into the light. “I knew Sulis long ago,” Cynan said. “She was in need of help and I did my best by her.” He sighed.

  “Cynan saved my life,” Sulis whispered.

  “And how did you repay him?” asked Leofman, his meaning clear.

  She thought back to who she had been then, filled with anger and resentment; the darkness that had engulfed her.

  “With spite and hate,” she murmured, staring at Cynan’s handsome features in the ruddy fire glow.

  For a long while, Leofman said nothing. A log shifted on the embers, and sparks flew up towards the blackened beams.

  “Sulis tells me you found her shortly after I last saw her,” Cynan said. “She said you saved her life too.”

  Leofman nodded.

  “And it seems I got better payment for my troubles than you ever did, lad.” He let out a barking laugh and Sulis relaxed. “She has made me a fine wife, though she has not been the most obedient.” He squeezed her leg affectionately. “She is headstrong, but hard working and a fine mother. She is a marvel to me.” He turned to look at her. She could see nothing but love in his gaze. “Even now she has secrets I never dreamt of. And,” he said, raising his cup in Cynan’s direction, “powerful friends willing to risk their lives for her.”

  “For Sulis and for Eadwig,” said Cynan.

  Leofman grew sombre again.

  “How do you think to bring him back to us?”

  Cynan shook his head.

  “I know not. Why have they taken him, do you think?”

  “I have thought much on this,” said Leofman. “All I can imagine is that by holding him hostage, they think to bend me to their will in some way.”

  “But if they want the land and the mine, why do they need you alive at all?”

  “I do not know, but at the mine, after I had fought them and they’d grabbed Eadwig, I heard Bumoth telling the others not to harm the boy.” He let out a long breath and took a mouthful of ale. “I don’t think I could have slept these past nights otherwise.”

  “So, the boy is part of their plan,” mused Cynan. “But what plan?”

  Leofman glowered into the fire.

  “I do not know.”

  They fell silent. Outside the wind picked up, causing the house to creak. A horse whinnied and Sulis strained to hear any other sound that would alert them of trouble. But the swarthy warrior, Ingwald, was out there protecting the door. He would warn them if an enemy approached.

  Into the quiet, Halinard, the oft-silent Frank, spoke.

  “You say the old king gifted you the land?”

  “Yes, for me and my heirs.”

  Cynan suddenly looked at Sulis. Fear gripped her, though she was not certain why.

  “When did Sidrac, or anyone around these parts, last see you?” Cynan asked her.

  “I don’t know. Why? What does that matter?”

  “No,” said Leofman. He shook his head, incredulous. “You think it could be so?”

  Sulis was suddenly cold.

  “What? What is it?” she asked.

  “Think,” said Leofman, nodding now as he saw the sense in what he was saying. “It has been at least four months since you visited Dacor with me. After that, you had the sickness and then we were busy moving the flock up to the higher pasture. When last you were seen hereabouts, you were not so big.”

  She shivered, despite the fire-glow warmth.

  “Sidrac does not know I carry your second child.”

  Leofman nodded slowly, his face terribly serious.

  “As far as they know, Eadwig is my only heir.”

  “If you die,” said Halinard, “Eadwig is owner of the land.”

  Sulis placed her hands upon her distended belly, as if she could protect the infant within from the horrors of the world.

  “Until my baby is born,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “Eadwig is your only heir.”

  “What are we going to do?” asked Leofman.

  “First,” said Cynan, squaring his shoulders, “we must take Eadwig back from Sidrac.”

  “And how do you propose that we do that?”

  They fell silent again, each pondering the future and the
quandary before them. Sulis’ mind was a whirl of worries and questions. Had Bumoth and the other warriors beneath the oak seen her and recognised her? Could they have seen from that distance that she was heavy with child? Could it be that Sidrac would seek to kill her and her unborn child? Did he know that she was carrying Leofman’s baby?

  At last, Brinin, his young, scarred face hardened by the shadows, interrupted her thoughts. He raised himself up to sit straight on his stool and cleared his throat. They all turned to look at him and Sulis thought perhaps the young man would not speak. He met her gaze and she nodded in encouragement. Whatever he had to say, she would rather hear it than continue to drown in the whirlpool of her dark thoughts.

  He swallowed and coughed to clear his throat.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  Chapter 20

  Beobrand rubbed at the cut above his knee. It itched and he wanted nothing more than to pull down his breeches and scratch at it with abandon. But such sweet relief would have to wait. He met Oswiu’s glare. He had not wished to return to Bebbanburg. Instead he had longed to rush back to Ubbanford to make sense of the news that Elmer had brought. Sulis had returned and Cynan had freed the thrall and headed off into the west with her. And he had taken Brinin and Halinard with him too! Beobrand could scarcely believe it, but Elmer was a steadfast man and not prone to fancy.

  “Well, Beobrand?” repeated Oswiu, impatiently drumming his fingers on the arm of his great carved gift-stool. “Can you add anything to what Ethelwin has already told me?”

  Beobrand forced himself to push aside his concerns over Cynan and that murderous bitch, Sulis. He scanned the faces of those sat at the high table. These were the ealdormen and the most trusted thegns of Bernicia. On the other side of the king was Anna, King of the East Angelfolc. On his left sat Offa, his left eye darkened by a great bruise, but otherwise hale after the battle. Offa and his men had acquitted themselves well. One of his gesithas had been badly injured, another had paid the ultimate price, earning Offa and his king, Oswiu’s gratitude.

  Wynhelm met Beobrand’s gaze and nodded. There were few Bernicians around the king whom Beobrand considered his friends. He was glad that Wynhelm, at least, was there. And he was equally glad that the queen was not in attendance. It was the prospect of seeing Eanflæd that twisted his guts, unnerving him more than facing any foe in battle.

  “No, lord king,” Beobrand said. “There was much confusion at the end, but later we pieced together what we think happened. I believe it was as Lord Ethelwin described.”

  “And what is your understanding of what occurred?” asked Oswiu.

  “As the warmaster said, it seems that first the atheling was struck a mighty blow by one of Oswine’s hearth-warriors.” He glanced over at Oswiu’s son. To look at him you could not tell that he had been toppled like a tree only a few days earlier. “He took a great hit to his side, which cracked some ribs, and he fell.”

  “Thank the Lord he was spared,” exclaimed Utta, the priest.

  Beobrand frowned.

  “I think we should thank the smith who made his byrnie,” he said. Several of the gathered men laughed. Oswiu scowled. The priest glowered at Beobrand.

  “His comitatus,” Beobrand went on, “believing him mortally wounded, cried out in despair. But they are brave warriors all, and they did not crumble in the face of sorrow.”

  “And your son, Octa,” said Oswiu, his tone quiet. “Was he the bravest of them all?” He reached for one of the fine, green glass goblets before him and took a sip.

  “Is that wise, lord?” whispered Utta. “You have only just recovered from the gout.”

  “By Christ’s thorny crown, man,” snapped Oswiu. “I am the king and I will drink when I please!”

  The priest lowered his gaze. His cheeks flushed red like an admonished child.

  Beobrand sniffed. His feelings for Octa were mixed. There was pride there, and relief that he had escaped the battle unscathed, and yet there was also something else, something darker, that he did not choose to dwell upon. When he had seen him after the battle, his heart had soared to see him well. And yet Octa barely spoke a word to him as he had hurried back to Alhfrith and the atheling’s retinue. Beobrand was just another old warrior to Octa now. The young man was certain his day had come and that the sun was setting on his father’s time. Perhaps he was right, thought Beobrand sourly, but the dismissive attitude made him want to slap the boy.

  “Many men won battle-fame that morning, lord king,” Beobrand said. “Octa was but one of them.” He gave a sidelong glance at his son, who had been given an honoured seat beside Alhfrith for his role in the battle. Octa gazed back impassively. For several heartbeats father and son did not break the stare. At last, Octa shrugged and picked up his cup to drink. Beobrand did not permit himself a smile, but he was glad of the small victory over his arrogant son. Had he been so full of self-belief when he was Octa’s age? Probably.

  “But Octa took Oswine’s banner, did he not?” said Oswiu, signalling with a sweep of his hand at the staff with its crossbeam from which hung the Deiran king’s standard of a golden cross and four rampant lions. The banner now leaned against one of the central carved columns of Bebbanburg’s great hall.

  “That he did,” replied Beobrand. “And it seems that by doing so, the Deirans were routed.”

  “How so?” asked Oswiu, even though he had heard the story just moments before from the lips of Ethelwin.

  “It appears that upon seeing the standard fall, the Deirans believed their king to have been slain.”

  “And what happened?” Oswiu rubbed his hands together and smiled. He clearly relished the telling of this tale and wished to hear it again.

  There was little glory in it, thought Beobrand. He remembered the shouts of despair and the rushing men, fleeing through the mud. There had been slaughter then, but he had held his men back, not wishing to expose them to an unexpected rallying of the Deiran host.

  “The Deirans ran,” he said, his tone flat.

  “Ha!” Oswiu clapped his hands in glee. “I wish I could have been there to witness my cousin’s humiliation.”

  “Oswine King escaped the place of battle with many of his hearth-warriors,” said Beobrand, keen to remind Oswiu that this had been no sweeping triumph.

  “Indeed.” Oswiu scowled. “It seems you missed the opportunity to end this war once and for all.”

  Beobrand sighed.

  “I sought to have Oswine join you under the branch of truce before the first blow was struck.”

  “So I heard,” said Oswiu, placing his goblet on the board before him. He stroked his moustache and pondered Beobrand. “Why did you do such a thing, when I had asked for war?”

  “I thought you would rather obtain peace. Oswine seemed ready to speak and I believe he would have offered good terms.”

  “You do, do you?” said Oswiu, shaking his head. “And since when has the mighty slayer of men, Beobrand Half-hand, sought peace over war?” He raised his goblet once more to his lips and then faltered, as if a thought had just come to him. “Could it be that you had other motives for not wishing to fight?”

  A chill ran through Beobrand. His knee itched. Not for the first time he wished he had headed straight for Ubbanford. But now thought he began to understand Ethelwin’s insistence that he return to Bebbanburg.

  “I am loyal, lord king,” Beobrand said, his voice as quiet as a blade being drawn over a whetstone. “My men fought as well as any there. Your foe-men were heaped before us.”

  “Oh, I am sure that the doughty Beobrand and his Black Shields killed many. But,” he said, stroking his chin, “there was one you failed to kill.” He sipped his wine and his eyes narrowed.

  Beobrand looked at Ethelwin. The warmaster met his gaze, but gave no sign of his thoughts.

  “Who did I fail to kill, lord?” Beobrand asked. He knew the answer. When there had been no mention of it after the battle, he had believed that none besides his men had witnessed what had occ
urred. Clearly, he had been wrong.

  “Why, I hear that bastard, Wulfstan, walked away from the battlefield.”

  Beobrand did not blink as he met Oswiu’s glare.

  “He did not walk easily,” he said, keeping his voice flat and free of emotion. “He was injured.”

  “By your blade?”

  “Yes. We fought and both drew blood.”

  “And yet you both left the battle with your lives.”

  “We did.”

  “And how is that so?”

  “We are both lucky, it would seem.”

  “Do not take me for a fool, Beobrand,” Oswiu growled.

  The hall was as still as a tomb now. Every man leaned forward to better hear the confrontation between Beobrand and the king. They could sense there would be blood.

  “I would never do that, lord.”

  “And yet you lie to me,” said the king, his voice cold now, as hard as the rock on which the fortress of Bebbanburg was built.

  Beobrand’s mind raced. He could think of no words that would save him from Oswiu’s wrath. The king had sent him to kill Wulfstan once before and Beobrand had returned alive; the only casualties of that confrontation had been Heremod and Fordraed’s gesithas. Many, including Oswiu, had doubted his version of the events at Ediscum, but none were left to refute them. Someone had clearly seen his interaction with Wulfstan in the last moments of the battle and Oswiu had had his suspicions of Beobrand’s loyalty confirmed.

  “I do not lie to you, lord king,” replied Beobrand, his tone flat. “I fought with Wulfstan. We were both injured and he fled when the Deiran host was routed.”

  “And so you deny allowing my enemy, Wulfstan of Ediscum, to escape?”

  Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat. His wound itched. He longed for a drink. Gods, what a fool he had been to think he could retain his honour after he had broken his oath. Such was the wyrd of an oath-breaker. He could not stand here before Oswiu, his oath-sworn lord, and lie. That was the way of a coward. He scanned the stony faces of the men seated at the high table. Was that a thin smile on Alhfrith’s lips? Beobrand frowned. Was it the atheling who had seen him raise Wulfstan up and allow him to flee? Whoever it had been, there was no avoiding the truth now. He must face his king’s judgement for his actions. Beobrand drew in a deep breath of the smoke-laden air of the hall.