For Lord and Land Page 6

  It did not sit well with Cynan that he should reside in the very hall that his friend and mentor had built for his bride. The Waelisc warrior had loved Acennan like a brother, and felt nothing but affection for his widow Eadgyth and their children, Athulf and Aelfwyn. He had allowed them all to remain in the hall, merely adding a small partitioned area at the rear where he could have some privacy. He might be the man Beobrand had placed in charge of the land to the north of the Tuidi, but he was no lord and certainly did not feel worthy of Acennan’s hall. But over the last three years he had grown to think of Stagga as home. His friendship with Eadgyth was easy-going. She would often sit late with him talking about all manner of things. He found her company relaxing and she had a way of helping him to unravel problems. His head was not good at dealing with the complexities of running the household. Eadgyth seemed happy enough to continue to administer the provisioning of food and drink, and to weigh the grain and produce given to the lord of Stagga by the ceorls who resided in the shelter of his protection. With Eadgyth’s meticulous planning, the inhabitants of the hall never wanted for anything. She was in control of the affairs of the hall, and Cynan was content.

  And now that Athulf was of age, Cynan had begun to train the boy in the ways of shield, spear and sword. He enjoyed spending time with Acennan’s son. The boy had his father’s stocky strength and natural ability with a weapon. He reminded Cynan of Acennan in many ways and it seemed natural to him that he should pass on the knowledge to the boy that Acennan had imparted to him all those years before. Had it perhaps seemed to Eadgyth that Cynan was fulfilling the role of father? Mayhap she believed he might as well fulfil that of husband too.

  Cynan could hear the clumsy gait of Ingwald’s gelding approaching, so he slowed Mierawin to a trot and waited for him to catch up.

  “You managed to avoid that branch then,” said Cynan with a sidelong glance at Ingwald, who slowed his cantering horse to a trot beside him.

  “Aye,” said Ingwald. “Thanks for the warning.” He grinned sheepishly. “I had forgotten.” Ingwald was several years older than Cynan, with a bald head and skin as dark as a nut. He was slim and did not look like he would amount to much in a fight. But he had been with Cynan since they had first met at Hefenfelth over three years before and Cynan knew that despite the man’s slender form, he was deceptively strong, and he could not have asked for a more loyal and brave warrior to ride at his side. Cynan smiled to himself.

  “What?” Ingwald asked.

  “I was just thinking that you are a good man to ride the trail with.”

  Ingwald returned his smile, evidently moved by the words.

  “Thank you, lord,” he said.

  “As long as I don’t need to get anywhere quickly, that is.”

  Ingwald chuckled.

  “Well, I cannot deny that I will never be the rider you are. But I get there in the end.”

  “Yes, that you do.”

  They rode on in silence for a while. They would be at the Tuidi soon. Cynan hoped that Bassus would give him good counsel. For whatever way he looked at things, he could not see a path out of this. He did not wish to cause offence to Eadgyth and yet he could not imagine making her his wife.

  “So, she finally asked you then?” said Ingwald, breaking the silence.

  Cynan looked at him sharply.

  “What do you mean ‘finally’?”

  Ingwald laughed.

  A magpie burst from the branches of a hazel. It swooped down, angrily flapping across the path in a streak of black and white to where a handful of starlings and sparrows were pecking at the earth that had been exposed by the recent uprooting of an elm tree. The smaller birds took flight and vanished into the undergrowth a heartbeat before the magpie reached them. Mierawin sidestepped and tossed her mane. Ingwald’s gelding shook its head and snorted, halting in its tracks. The older man was almost unseated by the sudden stop, but he managed to stay on the horse’s back. Patting the animal’s neck, he nudged it onward once more.

  “Well?” said Cynan when Ingwald had caught up with him again.

  “You really had no idea?” Ingwald asked, his tone incredulous.

  Cynan turned to him.

  “No,” he said, thinking of the branch at the bend in the path. “A friend would have warned me.”

  His face flushed as he recalled the conversation that morning. He had come back from an early morning training session with the men. Eadgyth had welcomed him to the hall with his favourite meal of rye bread, salted curds and a light ale. The morning was warm and bright, and the weapons practice had gone well. It felt good to work the men hard, to build up a sweat and to feel his muscles ache from exertion. The exercise had made him forget for a time his concern for what Beobrand might be facing in the south. He had made his peace with being left behind, but he did not trust anyone to protect Beobrand as well as he would. It was his place to be at his lord’s side.

  But if not there, what better place than sitting in the doorway of the great hall of Stagga, looking out at the cluster of thatched houses with the forest beyond the stream, its small timber bridge hazed in the morning light?

  He sipped the ale and smiled at Eadgyth in appreciation. Licking his lips, he dipped the fresh bread into the thick curds and took a bite.

  “You are a goddess among women,” he said, talking around the mouthful of food. “This is fit for a king.”

  She looked at him coyly then, a flicker of a smile playing on her lips. Her hair had a lustre from brushing and he noted that she wore her best dress of green linen and the necklace of amber and glass beads he had given her as a gift. Her cheeks were flushed and her blue eyes caught the sunlight with a glimmer.

  “Or fit for a husband,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  He chewed on another piece of bread and curds, enjoying the taste, rolling it around on his tongue. Realising what she had said, he shot her a glance. She was staring at him, a strange expression on her face. But they had been friends for many years and he knew her well enough to see the serious meaning behind her words. He swallowed with difficulty, washing the wad of food down with a gulp of ale.

  He shook his head at his own blindness. How could he have missed the signs that must surely have been there for him to see?

  The forest was thinning out now and there was light ahead where the path led down to the ford across the wide waters of the Tuidi.

  “This friend thought you had eyes in your head,” said Ingwald. “Why would I warn you of something I thought you could see perfectly clearly?”

  “Well, I could not see it,” snapped Cynan, angry and embarrassed. “Was it so clear to you?”

  “Not just to me,” said Ingwald.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everyone knows.”

  Cynan flushed.

  “Everyone?” he asked. Could it be true? Was he such a fool?

  Ingwald sighed.

  “When is the last time you had a woman?”

  “What sort of question is that?”

  Ingwald shrugged.

  “It is a question, like any other.”

  Cynan pondered, biting his lower lip. He did not like where this was headed.

  “There was that servant at Bebbanburg,” he said at last. Cynan was a handsome man, and he had influence now. There was never a shortage of women willing to spread their legs for him.

  “And before that?”

  “Domhnulla at Ubbanford.” She was a thrall, but she had come to him and he never forced himself on her. She seemed to enjoy his company for she often came to his blankets when he slept in Beobrand’s hall.

  “When did you last have a woman at Stagga?”

  Cynan contemplated this, feeling his cheeks redden.

  “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Not with Eadgyth there?”

  “I suppose…”

  Ingwald grunted.

  “Does she not run the household for you?”

  Cynan said nothing.

  “And do y
ou not find her pleasing company?”

  Cynan frowned.

  They rode out from beneath the shadows of the trees. Ingwald glanced at him.

  “You dote on her children as if they were your own.” The afternoon sun was warm on their faces. Cynan’s cheeks were already hot.

  “So if Eadgyth is in all ways like your wife, why not give her a morgengifu and make her so?”

  “She is not in all ways like my wife,” replied Cynan, his voice small.

  “Ah,” said Ingwald. “I see.”

  “No,” said Cynan, spurring forward towards the ford, “you do not see.” He was suddenly filled with a simmering impotent rage. “She is my friend’s widow and I have offended her.” He spurred Mierawin down the shingle beach and splashed into the cold water of the river. “And that is the last thing I wished to do.”

  On the other side of the ford, nestling in a bend of the Tuidi, were the familiar houses of Ubbanford. The hill to the east dominated the scene. It was topped with trees and Cynan could see the hall there, overlooking the settlement and the smaller, older hall that was surrounded by the huts, barns and animal pens of the inhabitants.

  Ingwald’s gelding entered the ford behind Cynan at a trot, sending up a great spray of water that seemed to hang in the bright sunshine like shards of silver or shattered glass. Cynan, feet and leg wraps soaked through, urged Mierawin out of the river and up the shingle and sand on the south bank. An instant later, Ingwald joined him. His face was sombre. Cynan felt sorry for him. Eadgyth’s comments were not Ingwald’s doing. He was about to say as much when a shout cut through the peaceful afternoon like a sword blade. Angry screams rang out from the settlement. A woman’s furious shrieking. Other voices raised in shared outrage.

  Despite the warmth of the day, Cynan felt suddenly cold. He had been left in charge of these people. It was his duty to protect them and keep them safe in their hlaford’s absence. His worries about offending Eadgyth, of whether he should wed her or not, were as nothing when compared to the safety of the folk of Ubbanford. These were Beobrand’s people and they had accepted him, Cynan, the young Waelisc thrall who became a warrior, into their midst as one of their own. A deep booming voice was added to the mayhem that emanated from Ubba’s Hall in the settlement.

  “That’s Bassus!” Cynan said.

  Their conversation now forgotten, both riders heeled their mounts into a gallop and hurtled up the path towards the buildings and the shouts of anger.

  Moments later Cynan reached the area of open ground before the old hall. A throng of people were gathered there. Bassus towered over everyone. Using his bulk and considerable strength, he shoved back some of those crowding around him. One of those he pushed fell back, sprawling onto the earth. Cynan recognised Maida, Elmer’s wife. With a shock, Cynan realised that many of those screaming at Bassus were women. The sun glinted on iron and Cynan was shocked to see that more than one of the women had vicious-looking knives in their hands.

  “That’s my wife,” yelled Elmer and surged forward, seemingly ready to fight Bassus over his treatment of Maida.

  “Enough!” bellowed Cynan.

  At once, everybody turned to face him. He had not dismounted and so looked down on them. He recognised the faces of usually calm women contorted with fury. Ingwald reined in beside him. He placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, but did not dismount or draw his weapon. He seemed unsure of what he was seeing or what he should do. Cynan knew how he felt.

  “Elmer,” he snapped. “Help your good wife up.” With a face like thunder, the wide-shouldered warrior went to his wife’s side and pulled her to her feet. Cynan shifted his attention to Bassus.

  “What is the meaning of this, Bassus?”

  The giant let out a long breath.

  “I am trying to prevent a hanging.”

  Cynan saw then that the massive warrior was shielding a small figure beneath the muscled slab of his one arm. He had lost the left one before Cynan had met him. When he was a young man, with both arms, he had been King Edwin’s champion. He must have been formidable indeed. Now, as a one-armed old man with greying hair, he was still a powerful presence and not easily ignored.

  “What crime has been committed?”

  “Murder!” shrieked the grey-haired woman closest to Bassus. Her face was a mask of hatred and rage.

  “Lady Rowena,” he said, unsettled to see the old woman so riled, “what murder has been done? Who has been killed and who is the accused?” He hoped that he could calm this situation. Beobrand could stand in judgement at a trial. Cynan wanted no part of that. His life was too complicated already without having to preside over a murder trial.

  “She is not accused,” spat Rowena. “The Mercian bitch is guilty. Of that there is no doubt.”

  A cold sliver of concern pricked at the nape of Cynan’s neck. Something in Rowena’s words… The person held by Bassus was a woman, he saw that now. And she was strangely familiar to him. The fair hair, the angle of the head, the slender form of her neck, all tugged at Cynan’s memory.

  “How can you be so sure this woman is guilty?” he asked.

  “Because we saw her drive the knife in.”

  Cynan reeled.

  “And who has she killed?” he asked. His voice was hollow and sounded far off to his own ears. He was certain now what Rowena was going to say, but how could it be? It made no sense.

  “She slew Reaghan without a thought. When that poor lass had shown her nothing but kindness.”

  Cynan peered down at the frail-looking woman whom Bassus gripped against his great barrel of a chest. She turned to stare up at him and his breath caught in his throat. He had never thought to see her again.

  “Sulis?” he said. He had been sure she would have been dead years ago. “What are you doing here?”

  She stared at him and the memories flooded back. Her pain and suffering, and her dark, rage-filled desire for escape and vengeance. The last time he had seen her she had been walking into the west with nothing to her name but her hatred and the madness that had gripped her.

  “I came looking for you, Cynan,” she said.

  Chapter 6

  Beobrand slipped his arm out of his shield’s straps and let the linden board fall with a clatter onto the dusty ground. Reaching down to one of the dead Mercians, he wiped Nægling’s blade on the man’s kirtle until it was free of most of the gore. He sheathed the sword, thinking that he would have to get Cuthbert to clean it properly later.

  At the thought of the boy, his heart sank. There had been no time to check on him, but Beobrand had seen the quantity of blood that soaked the boy’s breeches. He had seen enough of battle and its injuries to know when a man had lost too much lifeblood to survive.

  He sighed. Untying the leather thong that held his helm in place, he removed it and wiped sweat from his face with his free left hand. His fingers came away smeared with blood. For a heartbeat he wondered if he had taken a cut to the head, before realising that the blood was from his foes. There had been great slaughter on the causeway. The Mercians had been numerous and valiant, but they had been shocked at the abrupt change to their circumstances. When the Black Shields had hit the rear of their line with the wedge-shaped formation they had practised countless times, the Mercians had buckled. The men of the East Angelfolc, on seeing Beobrand and his gesithas coming to their aid, had been filled with renewed energy. They had rallied around their king’s banner and fought with the ferocity of cornered boars. The battle had raged on for some time as the sun sank behind the western horizon, but in that first moment when the boar-snout had collided with the Mercian force, Beobrand had known that victory was theirs. He knew well that it was morale and the hearts of the men in a shieldwall that win or lose a battle, and the tide of the fight shifted in that instant.

  A Mercian near him groaned and pushed himself up onto his knees. The man was pale, his hair and beard dark with blood from a huge gash on his head. As he turned to look at Beobrand with a vacant stare, a lengthy flap of
his scalp flopped over his left eye. He pushed it back onto his head again, as if it were simply an errant lock of hair. The warrior had the look of one who does not know where he is or how he got there; like a child awoken from walking in their sleep.

  “Attor,” called Beobrand. The slender warrior, face, arms and chest slick with the blood of his enemies, turned to do his lord’s bidding. Beobrand nodded towards the wounded Mercian. “See that a couple of them live. I would question them.”

  Attor trotted over to the Mercian, who was now trying to stand. The Bernician punched him hard in the face and then fell on him, tugging at the warrior’s belt in order to bind him with it. The Mercian flailed about him, moaning pitiably. Attor punched him again.

  “Dreogan, help him,” Beobrand said to the bald, grim-faced warrior. The blood spatter from the fighting and the spray of drying mud from splashing through the marsh made his tattooed face even more monstrous than usual. Beobrand turned away, not waiting to see what Dreogan would do. His men would obey him without hesitation.

  He became aware of a dull ache in his right wrist. Looking down, he noticed that the steel strips strapped to his forearm were dented and scratched. He dimly recalled stopping a Mercian axe on his arm. He shook his head, thankful for the metal protection. He would have to get Brinin to hammer the damage out once they returned to Ubbanford. He placed his helm atop his shield, clenching and unclenching his fist. By Woden, that hurt. But there seemed to be no long-lasting harm. Now that the fighting was over, other aches and hurts from the combat began to make themselves known. The ribs on his left side ached, and his head throbbed. Both reminders of past battles. He rubbed his hands over his face again and saw that they were trembling as they always did after battle.

  “Beobrand?” called a deep voice he did not recognise.

  Dropping his arms to his side, he balled his hands into fists in an effort to stop the trembling. He was unsure why it troubled him after all these years, but he still thought of the shaking as a sign of weakness. He grimaced as his bruised forearm pressed against the tight metal guard.