For Lord and Land Page 20

  But before he could utter the words that would damn him, another voice spoke out.

  “Lord Beobrand did not allow Wulfstan to escape.” All eyes turned to the speaker. It was Ethelwin, Oswiu’s warmaster. “I vouch for his word.”

  Beobrand had thought the man sought his downfall by bringing him here. It seemed he had been wrong about many things.

  Oswiu turned to face his warmaster.

  “Do you refute the word of my son, Ethelwin? Alhfrith told me that from where he had been carried by his gesithas after his injury, he witnessed Beobrand pulling Wulfstan to his feet, conversing with him and sending him on his way, when he could have easily slain him.”

  “From where I was positioned in the shieldwall, I had a good view of Beobrand and his Black Shields. What Alhfrith described to you did not happen.”

  Oswiu frowned.

  “Could it not be that you are mistaken?” he asked. “After all, Ethelwin, my son’s eyes are younger than yours.”

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  “That is true,” Ethelwin said, nodding. “But as you say, the atheling had been wounded and was in great pain.”

  “I know what I saw, old man!” Alhfrith stood, sending his chair clattering over.

  Ethelwin turned to face him. Alhfrith was flushed and furious. The warmaster’s calm demeanour only seemed to anger him further.

  “Ah, but can you be certain?” Ethelwin asked.

  “My eyes did not deceive me!”

  “I have stood in many more shieldwalls than you, Alhfrith Atheling. I have killed many more men.” Ethelwin met the atheling’s gaze and let the weight of his words reach all who listened. “It is easy for younger, more headstrong warriors to become confused in the chaos of battle. And when one has had his ribs smashed by an enemy axe, it is hard to focus on what others are doing or saying.”

  “I saw Beobrand allowing Wulfstan to escape,” said Alhfrith, but there was an edge of doubt in his voice now.

  “I do not doubt that is what you believe to have seen, but it was not so, was it, Lord Beobrand?” Ethelwin turned his gaze to Beobrand. Beobrand swallowed against the dryness of his throat. The warmaster had saved him from Oswiu’s wrath, just as Beobrand had saved Wulfstan from the slaughter at Corebricg. Beobrand had been ready to discard all pretence and to face the consequences. With each lie, he felt himself diminished; a lesser man. And yet, if he spoke the truth now, Ethelwin would suffer, alongside him. He looked over at the furious face of Alhfrith, in many ways so like his father. Beobrand squared his shoulders. No, he would give neither Oswiu, nor the atheling, the satisfaction of seeing him toppled from his position, especially if it now meant taking Ethelwin with him.

  He turned back to face the king.

  “It is as Ethelwin says, lord king,” he said. “Your son must have been confused with pain. I am your servant and you have my oath. Your enemies are my enemies. My sword is yours, as ever it has been.”

  Oswiu glowered at him for a long while.

  “Father,” blurted out Alhfrith, “do not listen to them. These are lies.”

  “Silence!” snapped Oswiu. “You will not accuse Ethelwin and Beobrand of such things. This was a misunderstanding.” Alhfrith clamped his mouth shut, but his face was thunderous. Octa beside him shook his head as he stared at his father, and Beobrand wondered what his son knew and what he had seen. “I am glad the matter has been resolved,” continued Oswiu. “Now we can celebrate the victory without this cloud hanging over us.” He fixed Beobrand with one last stare before clapping his hands. “Brytnere,” he said. The steward stepped from where he had been awaiting the king’s instructions.

  “My lord?”

  “Serve the feast,” said Oswiu.

  The ealdormen and thegns all began to talk at once.

  Brytnere bowed his head and hurried away. Oswiu turned to speak with Utta, who sat beside him. Beobrand had been dismissed. He let out a long breath and turned to leave the hall. He would be glad to be free of the scrutiny of the king and his retinue. Beobrand was not meant for such intrigue. Sweat trickled down his spine. As he headed for the great double doors of the hall, one face was turned towards him. Beobrand felt the glare and looked back to see Alhfrith following him with his eyes. The atheling’s face was rigid, his jaw’s muscles bunched and working as he ground his teeth together.

  “You’ve made an enemy there,” said a voice close by. Beobrand turned to see Ethelwin. The warmaster had followed after him and now matched his step as he walked the length of the hall, leaving the hubbub of conversation behind them.

  “I don’t think he liked me to begin with,” said Beobrand, with a thin smile. “I fear my son has soured his mind about me, though the gods alone know what wrong Octa thinks I have done him.”

  “The young need no reason to be angry,” replied Ethelwin with a smirk.

  “Still, it does not pay to anger an atheling,” said Beobrand.

  “Perhaps not, but I would rather make an ally of Beobrand of Ubbanford than Alhfrith, son of Oswiu. The boy still has much to learn.”

  They walked out into the courtyard. The door wards stood up straight upon seeing the warmaster and the lord of Ubbanford. It was dusk, and the shadows were long, filling much of the fortress with a cool gloom. After the warmth of the hall, it was cold and Beobrand wished he had not left his cloak inside. He led them away from the guards, where nobody could overhear their words.

  “Why did you speak up for me?” he asked when they were far enough away. In the distance, he could hear the whisper of the high-tide’s surf washing against the rocks below Bebbanburg.

  “I said only what I saw,” said Ethelwin.

  Beobrand looked at him for a long time without speaking.

  “You fought close to Wynhelm, did you not?” he asked at last.

  “Aye, I did.”

  Beobrand frowned.

  “Then you were far from where I stood with my Black Shields. You could not have seen what happened between Wulfstan and I.”

  Ethelwin shrugged.

  “Perhaps I was mistaken,” he mused, rubbing his neck. “Battles are full of noise and chaos.” He bent his neck forward, placing his hands behind his head and pulling. There was an audible crack and he grunted. “But I knew it could not be as the atheling said.”

  “Why? If you were too far to see what happened, how could you speak out against the atheling?”

  Ethelwin raised an eyebrow.

  “For if you had allowed the thegn of Ediscum to flee, that would make you a traitor. And I know that Beobrand of Ubbanford is no traitor.” He stared into Beobrand’s face. Above them, several gulls circled, screeching and calling. “Am I wrong?” Ethelwin asked.

  Beobrand’s mouth was dry and his knee itched more than ever.

  “I am no traitor,” he said.

  Ethelwin beamed.

  “Good,” he said, slapping Beobrand on the back. “Then you would do well not to do anything that might make young men, confused by the tumult of battle, believe you are.” He gripped Beobrand’s shoulder and leaned in close. “Be careful, Beobrand. There are always people watching what men of power do.”

  He gave Beobrand’s shoulder a squeeze and then walked off quickly back to the hall.

  “Don’t be too long checking on your man, Cuthbert,” he called back as he went. “The feast will begin soon.”

  Beobrand stared after Ethelwin until he had disappeared once more into the hall. Taking a long breath of the cool air, he looked up at the birds wheeling above him in the darkening sky. By Woden, he wished he had ridden straight to Ubbanford. Here, surrounded by the stout timber walls of the fortress, he felt in more danger than in the midst of battle.

  With a sigh, he went in search of his gesithas and Cuthbert, hoping that seeing them would go some way to improving his mood.

  Chapter 21

  Cynan twisted his head around until his neck crackled. His body was stiff, cold and wet. He peered out through the leaves of the bracken at the
cluster of buildings and the large hall, outlined by the grey light of the dawn. There was still no movement, but soon the household would rise and then they would see whether the gods were with them; if their plan would work. Beside him in the dark, Leofman coughed. Cynan again questioned the wisdom of bringing the old warrior with them. The truth was that the old man had been invaluable in helping them get there, but Cynan still worried that he would hamper them when events began to unravel, as they were bound to do. No plan remained intact once the enemy was engaged. Cynan did not want to save Sulis’ son only to lose her husband. Not that Leofman had left him any choice. Sulis’ husband was as strong-willed as he was tall and burly, and he would not hear of being left behind.

  “How many of you have been to Sidrac’s hall?” he’d asked, raising an eyebrow, knowing the answer. “And who among you knows what the man looks like?”

  Cynan had shaken his head.

  “If you slow us down, it might put Eadwig in more danger.”

  Leofman pulled himself up to his full height and lifted his great axe that looked as though it would be just as good at splitting skulls as chopping firewood.

  “I am not young and my wounds still ail me,” he grumbled. “But I am strong and I will not hinder you.” He fixed Cynan with a glare that was hard and yet also pleading. “Eadwig is my son,” he said, his voice cracking. “It is his father’s place to bring him home.”

  Cynan had looked to Sulis then. She had shrugged.

  “Do you think I can stop him when his mind is set on something like this?” she asked.

  And so Cynan had reluctantly allowed Leofman to lead them up and over the pass between the towering slopes. The man did not complain despite his obvious discomfort, and as the night wore on and the darkness closed about them like a shroud, Cynan was glad of his presence. He was unsure he would have been able to find the path and there were steep escarpments along the western edge of the track that could see an incautious man and his mount tumble to their deaths.

  It had rained all that long day after their arrival, and despite the pressure they all felt to ride off straight away in search of Eadwig, Cynan had commanded them to rest. They had ridden hard for days, and Leofman was still in need of healing. So they had slept fitfully in the small house, one of them outside on watch at all times.

  They had gone over Brinin’s idea often as the rain splattered the thatch and the wind shook the hut. They turned over the plan, approaching it from different directions, probing it for weaknesses and trying to second guess what Sidrac and his men would do. Leofman knew Sidrac’s hall and the lay of the land thereabouts, and he thought it could work. It was the simplest of plans and one that reminded Cynan of his past. It was its simplicity that would hopefully give them a chance, he thought. Both he and Brinin knew it could work, as they had witnessed similar tactics succeed before. With luck they would find success again, and this dawn would see them rescue the boy and escape with their lives.

  They had left as the sun was setting, painting a blood-red swathe of the western sky beneath the black clouds that spoke of more rain to come. To Cynan it looked like a sword cut had opened the clouds to let out the blood of the sun. It had rained during the night as they rode, and without Leofman to guide them, they would surely not have found Sidrac’s hall. As it was, they almost rode right up to the structure before they realised where they were.

  Leofman was directing them, but Cynan was riding ahead a short way, scouting for danger. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be abroad on such a night, but Cynan was cautious. The weight of responsibility was heavy on his shoulders and he would not risk these men’s lives by being overly confident. The rain had stopped falling and the sky in the east was beginning to pale behind the looming peaks when he had stumbled on Sidrac’s hall. A northerly wind had picked up, and as the clouds scudded southward, the moon, that had been hidden for most of that long night ride, shone a sudden silvered beam onto the straight lines of the hall. It was barely a spear’s throw from Cynan. His breath had caught in his throat as he thought of the sound of Mierawin’s hooves on the path. On a silent night, the clop of hooves in the darkness would rouse sleeping men from their blankets as quickly as a bucket of cold water to the face, or the smell of smoke.

  He had sat still, stroking Mierawin’s mane and whispering to her, willing her not to pick up the scent of horses in Sidrac’s stable and nicker in welcome. The wind sighed through the trees that lined the ridge behind the shadow of the hall. A hint of woodsmoke carried on the breeze and Cynan cursed himself for not noticing it sooner. No sound came from the building. He let out a sigh of relief. It seemed he was far enough away for the sound of his passage not to reach the hall over the rustle of the tall trees in the distance.

  He had spun the bay mare around and walked the horse back to intercept the others. He had wanted to gallop, but had been worried at the noise the hooves would make in the still of the night.

  It appeared that nobody within the hall had been alerted to their presence. The night had remained silent as they dismounted and led the horses off the path and into a gully clogged with willows. It was muddy, but sheltered from the wind and the horses would be safe enough tethered there. A small stream ran along the floor of the gulch, and Cynan was careful to tie the horses some way beyond the line of detritus – twigs, grass and mud – caught on the boles of the trees and in low branches. The last thing they needed was to have the gully flooded by the rains and to find their horses drowned.

  The dell was some distance from the hall and they had trudged through the gloom until they found what they were seeking. They smelt it long before they reached their destination. The acrid tang of old piss and shit caught in the throat. Ingwald cursed and gagged.

  “Gods,” he hissed, “some plan this.”

  “Would you rather just knock on the door and ask for Eadwig?” asked Cynan in a sharp whisper.

  Ingwald spat in the gloom.

  “I think I would,” he whispered.

  “There is a small stand of trees just north of the midden pit,” Leofman said in a hushed tone. “It shouldn’t smell as bad there.” He grunted with the pain in his leg as they moved the last few paces. Halinard reached out a steadying hand. Cynan thought the older man might refuse the Frank’s aid, but after a moment’s hesitation, Leofman placed his hand on Halinard’s shoulder. Gods, the man could barely walk. If it came to a fight, he would not fare well.

  The eastern sky above the shadows of the mountains was now the wolf-grey of dawn. They could see the hall and the outbuildings ever more clearly as the sun coloured the sky. They dared not speak further, as if seeing the buildings somehow made them, and the chance of being heard, more of a reality. Cynan breathed through his mouth. The wind rustled the boughs of the ash trees above them. It blew past the trees and over the midden pit, away from the watching men, but the stench still reached them and stung their noses every now and then when the breeze shifted. All about them, seemingly oblivious of the stink, birds sang, welcoming the dawn with their cacophonous chorus.

  The men were all silent now. They knew the plan and the time to discuss it had long since passed. Settling themselves down as comfortably as they could in the wet leaf mould and bracken, they pulled their damp cloaks about them and watched the hall.

  Cynan sighed. He recalled the first time he had ever laid eyes on Beobrand and Acennan. They had been lurking near Grimbold’s midden, and Cynan had been a thrall then, all skin and bone and bruises from the beatings he received at the hands of his master’s son and his comitatus. Cynan’s hand fell to the seax that hung at his belt. Beobrand and Acennan had given him the weapon that day in payment for his service to them. The moment he had held that forbidden blade he had begun to believe he might actually be free of Halga and his vindictive gesith, Wybert. They were both dead now, and he was a slave no longer. He snorted to think of the twists of wyrd that had led him here, still with the stink of a midden in his nostrils, all these years later.

  The sun ha
d not yet crept above the mountains, but the sky was bright and it was full day when the doors of the hall opened and several men came out. They were talking loudly, but were too far away for Cynan to hear details of their conversations. Snatches of their words reached him on the wind. A couple of them made their way over to the building that must be the stable, while another half a dozen began walking towards the midden.

  “Stay hidden and silent,” Cynan hissed. “There are too many of them. We wait.”

  None of the others replied. They all lowered themselves down even further, hoping that the thick foliage would hide them.

  The men were dressed as if for a journey, with cloaks over their shoulders, and seaxes and swords sheathed at their hips. They sauntered over to the stinking pit and loosened their breeches. A couple of them sighed as they let out long streams of steaming piss.

  Cynan recognised Bumoth amongst them. The fat man belched and spat as he pulled up his breeches. A thin man with a wispy moustache and straggly beard hawked and spat out a thick wad of phlegm.

  “You think they’ll be stupid enough to still be there?” he asked.

  Bumoth shrugged.

  “The lord commands and we obey,” he said. “What do you think, Ludeca?” he asked a third man. Ludeca was tall and broad shouldered, and yet strangely stooped, as though his head weighed more than his neck was able to support.

  Beside Cynan, Leofman tensed, and to his horror the old man began to rise. Cynan pushed him back down, wincing at the grunt of pain Leofman let out.

  The men at the midden turned away. The tall one with the stoop hesitated, half-turning his head towards the stand of ash. Cynan held his breath. After a moment, Ludeca looked back to Bumoth and the others.