For Lord and Land Page 28

  “We are brothers!” yelled Ludeca, spit and blood flecking his lips and flying from his mouth.

  “No,” said Leofman, shaking his head sadly, “you ceased being my brother years ago. You are nothing to me.”

  Ludeca stared up at him. The fire of defiance slowly dimmed in his eyes.

  “What are you going to do, husband?” Sulis asked, frightened by the transformation she saw in Leofman.

  “I am a man of my word,” he said. “I swore a vow to my father long ago. It seems I didn’t manage to fulfil that promise, for this murderous craven monster yet lives.”

  “What was the promise you made?” she asked.

  “I vowed I would hang Ludeca from the neck until dead,” Leofman said, and began forming a noose with the rope.

  Chapter 30

  Beobrand sipped the mead that Eadgyth had poured and gazed about him. The hall was clean and ordered, as it always was. Beobrand admired Eadgyth. She was a fine woman, beautiful, kind and strong. She kept an ordered household, with everything just as it should be. Her guests never wanted for anything, and the people of Stagga loved her.

  Looking up, he took in the beams of the hall, that were draped with hangings, ornaments and weapons; the trappings and memories from an eventful lifetime. Enough for several lifetimes, he thought, allowing the sweet taste of the mead to carry his memories back to a different time, when a different man had ruled this hall. At the end of the building, above the high table, hung the massive antlered skull of a stag. Acennan had been so proud of slaying the great beast, honouring the animal by naming his hall after it. Beobrand remembered the joy his friend had felt when he had gifted him this land that he might erect a hall, a place fit for him to live with his new bride. Where they could flourish and put down roots. Where their children could be born and grow up safely.

  Beobrand had helped Acennan build the hall and now, as ever, to be here filled him with a bitter-sweet melancholy. Each pillar, every wooden joint and trenail, carried a memory of his friend. Nothing had really changed in the hall since Acennan’s death. The benches and boards were the same. Fire still warmed the building from the hearthstone at its centre. And Acennan’s widow and children yet resided here.

  The doors behind him scraped open and Beobrand turned, half-expecting to see the stocky figure of Acennan standing there. But of course, it was not so. The face at the door was Cuthbert’s.

  There was a new lord of Stagga now. Beobrand had been pleased with how Cynan had settled into his life here. In recent months Beobrand had ignored Udela’s comments that perhaps neither the Waelisc warrior nor Acennan’s widow were completely at ease with the situation. He had preferred not to think of such things. But now he knew it was his duty as lord of Ubbanford and hlaford of the people of Stagga, to grasp this particular nettle.

  “The horses are seen to, lord,” Cuthbert said. Beobrand waved him away. When his men had drunk from the cup of welcome he had sent them outside to tend to the horses that he might speak alone with Eadgyth. He was not yet ready for them to fill the hall with their laughter and chatter. They all knew that the lady of the hall would feed them well and the men were looking forward to her hospitality.

  The doors closed and the hall was quiet once more. Sighing, Beobrand placed his cup on the board and turned back to face Eadgyth.

  “So you do not know what might have caused Cynan to behave so?” he asked. He had posed her the question when they arrived but she had told him to wait for her answer while she hurried off to fetch the Waes Hael cup.

  Beobrand had waited for her patiently, knowing it would not do to deny her the rituals of a good hostess.

  She sat down, smoothing her skirts delicately and staring at her lap.

  “You have bid us all well come and we have drunk of your good mead,” said Beobrand. “I give you thanks. But now you must answer me. What do you know of Cynan’s actions?”

  For a time, he thought she might refuse to speak, but he should have known better. Beobrand was her lord and she would give him an answer, as was his right.

  “Cynan is his own man,” she said. “He follows his own will.” She hesitated. “And the will of his hlaford, of course.”

  “He seems to have forgotten his duty to obey me,” replied Beobrand, feeling his anger mounting. Cynan was without doubt his finest warrior. He was the best swordsman, the most gifted rider, the fastest runner. But he was certainly not the most obedient. “I left Cynan in command of Ubbanford. He knew better than to leave on some fool’s errand.”

  “Do not women make fools of all men?” Eadgyth said, archly.

  Beobrand narrowed his eyes. What was she hinting at? Did she know of what had transpired between him and Eanflæd? Of course she did. His men knew, and they talked to their women. And the gods knew how womenfolk loved to prattle. It was a wonder that the whole of Bernicia didn’t know. He grew cold at the thought, despite the warm day and the heat from the embers on the hearth.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said.

  “Lord?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Beobrand reached for his cup and held it out to her. Without hesitation, she raised the pitcher and poured more mead. Her hands shook.

  “I know Cynan rode to Ubbanford that day to seek counsel,” Beobrand said.

  Eadgyth placed the jug back on the board. She bit her lower lip. Her teeth were very white.

  “You will have to ask Cynan what he wanted when he returns,” she said, smoothing her skirts over her thighs.

  “I will be seeking answers from him, you can be sure of that,” he said. “But I know what he was concerned about.”

  “You do, lord?” Eadgyth’s voice trembled.

  “Yes. He spoke to Bassus.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I see.” She took a spare cup from the tray on the board and poured mead into it. She drank deeply. “And what is it that Cynan told him?”

  “I was hoping you would tell me in your own words.”

  “I would rather he spoke for himself,” she said, her voice not much above a whisper. There was a sharp edge of bitterness in her tone.

  “Well, Cynan is not here to speak. All I can think is that he has feelings for…” He hesitated, unable to bring himself to utter her name. “That woman.” Unbidden, he remembered Reaghan’s pale trembling form. She had died in this hall while he was far to the south. Eadgyth and Cynethryth had tended to her here after Sulis had stabbed her. He’d had Sulis within his reach and Cynan had intervened, damn him. He should have struck the woman down then, when he had the chance.

  “Mayhap he does have feelings for her,” replied Eadgyth, her tone hollow.

  Beobrand stared at her for a long time. Eadgyth’s jaw was set, her lips pressed together. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. He was angry and disappointed with Cynan, but Eadgyth was hurt; slighted, as if what Cynan had done was a direct response to her.

  “So it is true then?” Beobrand asked.

  “Lord?”

  “What Bassus told me of your conversation with Cynan. What had him so upset.”

  Eadgyth drained her cup of mead and sighed.

  “Perhaps I am not wholly free of fault,” she whispered.

  “How so? Cynan’s actions are his own.”

  “Maybe it was not only Sulis who made Cynan’s head spin that day.” Having pushed her for an answer, now Beobrand felt guilty for his badgering. The woman had suffered enough. She had lost Acennan, and now, if what Bassus said was true, Cynan had rejected her.

  “You cannot blame yourself for the wrong Cynan has done you,” he said.

  Tears trickled down Eadgyth’s smooth cheeks and Beobrand wished he had not come here. All he had done was cause Eadgyth further pain, and he had already heard from Bassus what had transpired between Cynan and Acennan’s widow. What had he hoped to gain from coming? And yet he could not stay away from Stagga just because the place held so many memories of Acennan, and because talking to his widow made him miss his friend more keenly. If Eadgyth could live
in this hall, he could at least visit. He owed it to Acennan and to her.

  Awkwardly, he reached out to take Eadgyth’s hand, but before he could touch her, she rose, cuffing the tears from her face.

  “Perhaps it is men who have made a fool of me,” she said. Acennan had wooed her, seeking her hand from her wealthy father in Wessex. Did she resent binding herself to him? No, she had been happy here, thought Beobrand. But Acennan had died years ago. When had Eadgyth last been content? “I thought Cynan would have wanted me,” she went on in a small voice. “I know he is younger than I, but I could still bear him children should God will it. We talk so much. I thought he was merely slow to make up his mind. Why else has he not married?” Her tone became exasperated. “We already live together. It would not be such a poor match, would it?”

  Beobrand swallowed. The woman’s distress twisted his gut. He was not suited to deal with such matters. A shieldwall bristling with spears unnerved him less than a weeping woman.

  “Hush, Eadgyth.” He spoke to her in the soft voice he used to calm nervous horses. “It would be a good match. Cynan could hope for no better wife than you.”

  He said the words he hoped she wished to hear, but silently he cursed Cynan for putting him in this position. Couldn’t the man have married the woman and be done with it?

  As if she had heard his thoughts, she said, “Do not blame Cynan.” She offered a thin smile. “He is only a man, after all.”

  The tension dissipated somewhat and Beobrand chuckled at her words, pleased that she seemed to be done weeping.

  “Perhaps if I had asked him on any other day…” Eadgyth said. She sniffed and poured herself more mead. “But I chose the day that Sulis came back, and it seems clear to me now.”

  “What is clear?” asked Beobrand. “None of this makes sense to me. But then,” he grinned and shrugged, “I am only a man.”

  Eadgyth smiled sadly.

  “The reason he has not sought a wife all these years. It is obvious now, isn’t it? He has been in love with Sulis all this time.”

  Beobrand did not know how to respond. He would never forgive Cynan for this. He opened his mouth to say as much when the doors to the hall scraped open. He turned angrily, ready to tell his impatient men that this was not the time to be disturbed. If they were not careful, he would have them sleep in the stables with no warm food. By Woden, he had told them to wait. Could none of his gesithas follow the simplest of commands?

  Attor was silhouetted in the doorway against the afternoon sunlight. Instantly Beobrand could tell from the stiffness of his stance that the wiry warrior was ready for combat.

  “What is it?” he snapped.

  “A rider,” Attor said. “He is coming in fast.”

  “One of ours?”

  “No, lord.”

  Beobrand stood and made his way towards Attor, who stood aside. Blinking as he stepped into the bright daylight, Beobrand watched as a small man on a fast, long-legged mare galloped into the open ground before Stagga. Even before the horse had come to a halt, the rider had slid from the saddle and rushed towards the hall.

  Gram and Garr intercepted him, pushing him back.

  “I have a message for the lord of Ubbanford,” said the man breathlessly.

  Beobrand did not recognise him, but he thought he remembered the horse from the stables at Bebbanburg.

  “I am Beobrand of Ubbanford,” he called out.

  The man peered past Garr and Gram, trying to push his way towards Beobrand. They shoved him roughly away.

  “I have a message for you, lord,” said the horseman. “From Oswiu King.”

  “Check him for weapons and let him through.”

  His men quickly and efficiently searched the messenger, removing a seax and an eating knife from his person. He scowled as they let him walk between them. Beobrand towered over the newcomer. The rider’s clothes were grimy, his face streaked with sweat and dust. His eyes were dark-rimmed.

  “You have ridden from Bebbanburg without rest?”

  “Aye, lord. I rode first to Ubbanford, but they told me you were here. The king bade me not tarry. The tidings I bring are urgent.”

  “What is your name?”

  “I am Dryhthelm, son of Nothelm.”

  “Well, then, Dryhthelm,” said Beobrand. “You had better tell me your message. But first, let me get you a cup of mead.” He led Dryhthelm towards the open doors of the hall. “Cuthbert,” he shouted at the young man who was sitting in the shade of an oak tree, scratching into that tablet of his, “tend to this man’s horse.”

  Inside the hall, Eadgyth reverted to the perfect hostess. There was no sign of her tears and her demeanour was calm and welcoming. Beobrand offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Woden for the arrival of the messenger, no matter how grave his news might be. It would at least provide a distraction from the weeping widow and the talk of marriage.

  Eadgyth handed a cup of mead to the new guest and offered him a seat.

  “Thank you, my lady,” said Dryhthelm, draining the cup and smacking his lips with pleasure. Eadgyth grinned and he blushed, reminding Beobrand of Eadgyth’s beauty and the effect she had on men. “But before I can rest, lord,” Dryhthelm went on, remembering his duty, “I must impart my message.”

  Chapter 31

  They were subdued as they rode down the track towards Leofman’s farm. Dusk was drawing in by the time they left the bothy. It would be full dark soon. They were all exhausted, and riding at night down the steep slope would be perilous. But there was no room for all of them to remain in the hut, even if they had wanted to. And none of them could imagine staying up in the hills. Not after what they had witnessed.

  Cynan glanced at where Sulis rode just behind him. She was on one of the larger horses they had taken from Bumoth’s band, and Eadwig was nuzzled up to his mother, dozing, his head resting on her breast. Her eyes glimmered in the gloaming. She met Cynan’s gaze briefly, then looked away.

  Behind her rode Leofman, his face in shadow. Cynan could sense the man was looking at him, and he turned back in the direction they were travelling. The sun was behind the mountains at their back and the land before them was dark.

  Sulis had barely spoken to Leofman since he had hanged Ludeca. Cynan had seen many men die in his time. Some had met their wyrd with bravado, facing their end with a roar of defiance. Others cried and whimpered, unmanned by the knowledge they approached the afterlife. Many men were silent when death came for them, looking into themselves perhaps, thinking of what they had achieved with their time on middle earth.

  Ludeca had died screaming spite and abuse at his brother. Sulis had led Eadwig away to the bothy, but such was the volume of the torrent of insults from Ludeca’s lips that she and the boy must have heard every word. All the while, Leofman, stern-faced and silent, refused to be drawn in. No matter the invective Ludeca hurled at him, Leofman simply continued fashioning the noose. As Ludeca accused him of swiving sheep, Leofman spat and threw the rope over a sturdy bough. It took him three attempts, and with each miss, Ludeca laughed, a horrible, sickly, gurgling sound that made Cynan’s skin crawl.

  Eventually, unable to stand the sound of the man’s cackling insults, Cynan had stepped forward and punched Ludeca in the mouth.

  “No,” snapped Leofman. “Don’t.”

  Cynan was unsure why he should refrain from hurting the man who had plotted to kill Leofman and his wife, but he stepped back, allowing Leofman to finish his work.

  They had bound Ludeca’s hands behind his back, but when Leofman placed the noose about his neck, his brother had tried to bite him, spitting and snarling like a rabid dog. Cynan stepped in to hold him still, and he gladly helped Bleddyn and Ingwald to pull on the rope.

  Ludeca was hoisted into the air, leaves and dirt flying from his kicking feet. He was no longer laughing, and as the rope constricted around his throat, his insults were silenced at last. Glad of the sudden hush, Cynan had watched in disgust as the foul man twitched and swung at the end of the r
ope.

  Leofman hobbled directly beneath his brother and for a fleeting instant Cynan wondered if he regretted his decision to hang him. But jumping up, Leofman grasped Ludeca’s ankles. Then, pulling down sharply, he lifted his own feet from the earth, adding his weight to his brother’s. He remained that way for several heartbeats, and when he finally stepped away, Ludeca no longer trembled and kicked. His body hung lifeless, swinging in the dappled shade beneath the birch trees.

  “That was a good thing you did,” Brinin said to Leofman.

  Leofman was staring up at the swinging corpse. For a time it seemed as though he had not heard Brinin, but then he turned to him, bemused like someone waking from a deep sleep. Or a nightmare.

  “What?” he asked, blinking stupidly.

  “You sent him on his way quickly,” said Brinin. “You could not let him live, not after what he had done. But he was still your brother.”

  Leofman looked confused, as if Brinin had spoken in a tongue foreign to him.

  “That,” he indicated the swaying corpse, “is not my brother.” Ludeca’s tongue jutted from his lips and his face was dark, blotchy and bloated. “And I did not do that to show mercy.” He turned and started limping up the hill towards the hut, where Sulis and Eadwig waited. “I did it to make sure he was dead this time.”

  None of them knew what it was that Ludeca had done in the past to deserve such a punishment. It seemed that Leofman, believing Ludeca long dead, had never told Sulis he had ever had a brother. While they readied themselves to leave the shepherd hut, Cynan had seen Sulis staring at her husband, as if she looked on a stranger. Perhaps Leofman would tell them in time of the past between the brothers, but for now he was lost to dark memories and the shock of what had transpired.

  And he was surely still reeling from what Bumoth had told them.

  The shroud of night was wrapping about the land quickly now that the sun had dropped behind the mountains. Cynan glanced back towards the bothy and fancied he could see the pale shape of the naked men they had left there for the wolves and the crows to feast upon. They had briefly considered burying, or burning them, but both courses of action would have required them all to stay another night on the mountainside. So they had ridden away, leaving Ludeca swaying from the hemp rope, and Bumoth and his men, stripped of all of value, lying in a neat row of pallid flesh not far from where they had died.