For Lord and Land Page 9

  He could just make out the shadow of her amongst the barrels and sacks at the far corner of the building. Moving with cautious slowness, as if afraid he might spook a wild animal, he stooped and placed the items he carried on the hard earth floor. The shadow at the rear of the barn shifted and Cynan felt his heartbeat quicken. He was as nervous as if he were entering the lair of a wolf rather than a storage hut occupied by a defenceless woman. And yet, had Sulis not killed before? Was she not dangerous? He recalled her sullen silence as he had carried her northward towards Ubbanford, and her cunning at stealing his seax, which she had used to cut into her wrists, attempting to end the pain that had engulfed her. He had saved her life then, bandaging her and taking her to the monk, Coenred, who had tended to her wounds. The body had healed, but her soul had remained damaged. Later, Sulis had gone on to kill Reaghan. Without him, Sulis would have died, so was he responsible for Reaghan’s death? He thought that perhaps he was. At least in part. The thought of it had often made him furious, wishing for an outcome that could never be. But now he felt a different emotion, the same feeling that had come over him when Beobrand had confronted Sulis by the Wall: a deep desire to keep this damaged woman free from harm. He had saved her then and he could not bring himself to regret it, despite the hurt she had caused.

  He dropped his hand to his belt, checking that his blade was safely in its sheath. He still wore the same seax there, the weapon Sulis had used to cut herself. The blade had been a gift from Beobrand when Cynan was a thrall. The seax carried many memories and he treasured it. It reminded him of who he had been, of how he had met Acennan and Beobrand, and of what he had become. A thrall was not permitted to bear arms, and yet Cynan was now a freeman, with land, wealth, men and weapons. He did not think he would recognise the boy he had been when he had been beaten and tormented by Halga and Wybert all those years before.

  “I am going to light the lamp,” he whispered in a soothing tone, as if talking to a child, or a nervous animal. The last time he had seen her, she had seemed to be little more than a savage creature, intent on vengeance; searching for any way to dispel her anguish and pain.

  By the thin light puddling on the earth through the open door he set about his task. His hands trembled and he was not sure whether from fear or anticipation at seeing her face again. Or maybe there was some other cause for his uncertainty. To speak to Sulis, he would need to confront his own actions and feelings. Although Eadgyth’s proposal had unnerved him, his history with Sulis was a vastly more knotted tangle of memories and emotions he had long since chosen not to attempt unravelling.

  It took him several tries before he got a spark to take in the tinder. With each strike of the stone and iron, he was tempted to glance towards the woman who looked on silently, to catch a glimpse of her face in the spark-flash of light. But he forced himself to focus on the task in hand. Eventually, a small ember began to glow in the dried fungus tinder and he blew gently on it, coaxing it into life. He fed the tiny coal a few wood shavings he had taken from a pouch. The smell of smoke grew strong and a moment later the light of a small flame flared brightly within the confines of the barn. Cynan quickly lifted the burning tinder to ignite the lamp’s wick. The flame lengthened, wavering in the light breeze from the open door. Quietly, he reached outside and pulled the rough planks of the door, closing out the night and enclosing him here, inside with Sulis.

  He suppressed a shiver.

  At last, he allowed himself to look at her. Her eyes glowed from the shadows, reinforcing the impression of some wild forest creature. The flame light flickered, making the shadows dance. Her features seemed first contorted into a scowl and then a heartbeat later twisted into a grimace. The small flame settled now that the door was shut. The shifting shadows stilled, as the guttering of the flame subsided and the light became more constant. Gone was the wild animal hiding in the dark. Sulis was just as he remembered her, her high cheekbones sharp in the shadowed darkness. Perhaps there were more wrinkles about her eyes, as if from laughter. He did not think he had ever seen Sulis smile, let alone laugh. Perhaps she had truly found happiness in the intervening years. She certainly was not laughing now. She appeared sombre and exhausted in the gloom. Cynan peered at her for a long while and was pleased that he could detect none of the madness and rage that had gripped her all those years before.

  “I brought you food,” he said. His voice rasped and he was again shocked by the depth of feeling this woman conjured within him. He swallowed against the dryness of his mouth and offered her the platter of bread and meat. She did not move. He took a step towards her, and with a sigh she rose and took the proffered food. “I have ale too,” he said, lifting the cup. Without a word, she accepted it and returned to her position at the far end of the barn. She sat atop a sack of grain, with her back against a barrel.

  “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She set aside the food and drink. “But I am not hungry. I must speak with you.”

  “I am here to speak, but you must eat and drink.” He stared into her eyes, feeling himself becoming lost in their depths. “And not just for yourself.”

  She sniffed.

  “There is no time. I must tell you of why I came here. I need your help.” Her words came quickly now. Cynan held up a hand to silence her.

  “I will hear your tale when you have eaten.”

  She eyed him, perhaps weighing his resolve. Seeing no give in him, she sighed and fell to eating. He watched her in silence, settling himself down on the ground with a pile of sacks behind him. She ate quickly, taking great mouthfuls and washing down the food with gulps of ale.

  When she had finished, she set aside the plate and cup.

  “Thank you,” she said again.

  He marvelled at the change in her since he had seen her last. She gave thanks and asked for help where before she would have snarled at him, spurning any offer of aid.

  “For someone who was not hungry, you managed to eat that quickly enough.”

  She offered him a sad smile, then stood, letting out a small grunt with the effort of rising. The bulge of her belly was clear as she straightened. Grimacing, she placed a hand on the small of her back. He stood too, suddenly concerned.

  “Are you well?”

  “I am healthy enough,” she replied. “But it seems my story will have to wait a few moments longer.”

  Cynan stepped away from her, suddenly wary, remembering the vicious, broken creature she had been. His hand rested on the hilt of his seax.

  “Do not fear, brave Cynan,” she said, with the ghost of a sardonic smile on her lips. “I mean you no harm.”

  He felt foolish. What harm could this small pregnant woman do him?

  “You seemed unable to wait to speak a moment ago, and now you do not wish to talk?”

  She snorted.

  “Some things cannot wait. When this babe chooses to be born, it will come.”

  Cynan was alarmed.

  “The child is coming now?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head. “That will be some months yet, God willing, but carrying a babe inside causes some things to become more urgent than normal.” Gazing at him expectantly, she rubbed a hand on her lower abdomen. He was confused, unsure what she was getting at. “Especially after eating and drinking,” she went on, speaking slowly and pointedly, as if to a slow child.

  Still he did not reply, merely shaking his head in confusion.

  “I need to piss, Cynan,” she said at last, her voice tinged with frustration.

  Cynan’s face grew hot and he was glad of the dark within the barn to hide his embarrassment. He hesitated. Could this be some trick to escape? She had come to Ubbanford voluntarily and seemed desperate to speak with him. Surely she would not flee. And if she did, would he care? He contemplated the idea. He would not chase after her. He had no wish to see her face justice. He turned to the door, to hide the confusion he felt. Pushing it open, he said, “We’re coming out.”

  Sulis disappea
red into the darkness and Cynan stood outside the barn, Ingwald beside him.

  “You think she’ll come back?” Ingwald asked after a while.

  Cynan sighed. Staring into the night, there was no sign of her now. The only sound was the hushed rustle of the breeze in the trees down near the Tuidi.

  “I don’t know,” he replied at last.

  “Do you want her to?” Ingwald said, voicing the question that played in Cynan’s mind.

  Before he had a chance to answer, Sulis returned. Without a word, she slipped inside the barn once more and, with a sidelong glance at Ingwald, Cynan followed her.

  He pulled the door closed behind them, and they positioned themselves as before, with the warming light of the oil lamp glowing between them. They stared at each other over the flame.

  “Well?” Cynan said, breaking the awkward silence. “You could not wait to tell me what brings you here and yet now you sit as if mute.”

  “I am sorry,” she said, her voice small in the darkness.

  “It is not I who needs your apology,” he said, his tone suddenly harsh.

  She nodded slowly.

  “If he was here, I would tell him I am sorry for what I did.”

  “If Beobrand were here, you would be dead already,” replied Cynan. As he said the words, he heard the truth in them. Beobrand was perhaps less impetuous than he had been, but he was not a forgiving man and his anger was legendary.

  “Perhaps you would have stayed his hand,” she said, her eyes searching his, “as you did once before.”

  “I saved you then. I am not sure I could do so again.”

  “Not sure you could, or that you would?”

  “Who can say?” He could sense himself growing angry. “But now is not the time for such questions. Now is the moment for you to tell me why you came here.”

  “You heard some of it before.”

  It was true. While the women had bayed for her blood like hounds scenting a hind, she had given them a garbled account of her plight and why she had come. But it made little sense and there were as many gaps in her story as a blanket that had been discarded and gnawed by field mice.

  “You told us enough to stop the women taking the blood-price for what you did,” he said, his tone flat and hard, like ice. He would not allow this woman to distract him. “I would hear all of it now. The whole tale.”

  Her eyes glimmered as if with tears and she suddenly seemed tiny. He had the urge to take her in his arms, to comfort her. Gods, was he bewitched? He clenched his fists and placed them in his lap. He stared at her.

  “Well?” he said.

  She held his gaze in the lamplight for a time, before nodding.

  “I am not the woman you knew all those years ago.” Her voice was very quiet. Cynan leaned forward, straining to hear her. “I am truly sorry for what I did. I was…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “I was drowning in sorrow and anger. What they had done to me…” Her voice caught in her throat and she let out a trembling sigh. “I did not know that Reaghan had died. I just wanted to escape.” Cynan thought of Beobrand’s grief and felt his own anger blossom, hot and furious in his chest.

  “But she did die,” he spat. “You killed her.”

  Sulis’ eyes brimmed and she blinked back tears.

  “I cannot change what happened. I have prayed many times that I will be forgiven by God.” She leaned forward, reaching out a hand as if to clutch his, but he was too far from her and she let it fall back. She tugged and pulled at her skirts, worrying at the wool. “I would pay the weregild,” she whispered, “if I could. I know nothing I do can bring her back, but I would see the blood-price paid.”

  “You say you have a husband now,” Cynan said, remembering what she had said that afternoon. He ignored the prickle of jealousy he felt. “I doubt that he is a wealthy man, if you are travelling alone, and in your state too.” He narrowed his eyes. “Or have you run away again? Is your husband looking for you?”

  “No.” Her voice was firm, resolute. “I love him.” Again Cynan felt the scratch of envy. “My husband, Leofman, is not wealthy, but he is a good man. I do not flee from him.”

  “If you are not running, how came you to Ubbanford. And why do you seek me?”

  “I need help. I did not know where else to turn.”

  “Your husband should be the first man you turn to. You say he is a good man.”

  “He is. And he is brave. But Leofman cannot stand up to those who would steal from us.”

  “Steal what from you? You said your husband was not wealthy.”

  “He is not,” she hesitated. “But he might be soon. And yet there is no time for that. I need your help now. They have taken something from us more valuable than all the silver in middle earth.”

  Cynan frowned.

  “Explain yourself.”

  And she did. It took her a long while to lay it all out. When she finished, Cynan’s head was spinning. Could she truly have changed so much? This woman seemed sincere and loyal to the husband she had met after fleeing from Beobrand all that time ago. He understood why she had come to him now. It was his battle-skill she wished for. And, as she was keen to point out, he was an honourable man, who had saved her life on two occasions. Was she playing on his emotions? Did she know the power she still held over him? She clearly loved this Leofman, but if what she said was true, the poor man was badly injured and in no position to defend them or their lands. Or to retrieve what had been stolen from them.

  Cynan looked at her in the dim light of the lamp. He felt the stirrings of something deep within him, a feeling he welcomed beyond the anxiety caused by Eadgyth or even the roiling maelstrom of emotions awoken by Sulis. Biting his lip, he thought of the things he could do, that which he should do and, slowly, he began to comprehend what he would do.

  He opened his mouth to tell Sulis what he had decided, when a rapping at the door of the barn made them both start. The intimate spell that had been cast between them in the gloom was shattered. A heartbeat later, the door rasped against the uneven ground as it was pulled open.

  Chapter 10

  Beobrand staggered, catching hold of the taut mainstay as Saeslaga canted to the side. The journey northward had been much slower than when they had hurried towards East Angeln. Not only was Ferenbald’s sleek ship heavily laden with the additional weight of King Anna and his hearth-warriors, and what they had taken from the minster, but the wind still blew from the north, forcing them to tack along the coast.

  “It would have been quicker to walk,” grumbled Offa, who stood at the wale beside Beobrand.

  A wave shattered over the side of the ship, dousing them both in cold spray. Wiping the water from his face, Beobrand pushed his long, fair hair out of his eyes.

  At times on the voyage he had fixed his attention on a point on the coastline, a tall tree or a memorably shaped hill, or the pale sand of a cove. He would watch these landmarks as the ship tacked over and again, and it was always disheartening to see how little they had advanced after what seemed an age. And yet Ferenbald just laughed when the warriors complained of the slow progress.

  “We’ll get there when we get there,” he said with a grin. To see the skipper at the steerboard, so confident and assured, always lifted Beobrand’s spirits, despite their lack of speed.

  “We’ll get there when we get there,” Beobrand said now to Offa. The older man groaned. How many times had they heard Ferenbald speak those words in the last two days? A dozen? Two dozen?

  “By Christ’s teeth,” said Offa, “if I never hear those words again, it will be too soon.”

  Beobrand squinted into the distance. At least it had not rained and the days had been clear. Some of the men had been stricken with the sickness that came from the tossing motion of sailing, but in truth, despite being a slow journey, it had not been a bad one. Beobrand had certainly endured much harsher conditions.

  “Attor,” Beobrand said, pointing northward to a shadow rising out of the grey sea, “is that one of the Far
ena islands?”

  Attor shielded his eyes.

  “No,” he said, and Beobrand’s heart sank. The Farena islands were just to the south of Bebbanburg and would mean they were almost at their destination. “I think that is Cocuedesae, the island at the mouth of the Cocueda.”

  Beobrand pictured the island’s location with respect to Bebbanburg. It nestled close to the mainland, about a day’s ride south from the fortress. He nodded.

  “Not too far now,” he said to Offa.

  “Good,” replied the grizzled thegn. “I have had quite enough of sailing. I am grateful to you, but truly, I know not how much longer I can abide this rolling and rocking. It will do us all good to be on dry land, I think.” Offa looked over Beobrand’s shoulder. Following Offa’s gaze, Beobrand saw Coenred approaching from the stern of the ship where a small awning had been raised just before the steerboard. The wind tugged at the monk’s long hair and pulled his habit about him, flapping the wool around his thin legs like banners. Coenred looked pale and tired, thought Beobrand. The monk did not enjoy sea travel any more than Offa, and he had been busy ever since they had pushed off from the beach at Cnobheresburg.

  “How do the patients fare?” asked Beobrand. He stooped down and retrieved a skin of wine they had brought with them from the minster. The second ship that had carried the brethren away had been dangerously low in the water when they had set off, and Abbot Foillan had been forced to leave behind many barrels and sacks of provisions. Beobrand had ordered all of them lifted into Saeslaga. He had promised that whatever they did not consume on the voyage, Ferenbald could keep and dispose of as he saw fit. There were jars of honey, skins of wine, sacks of barley flour and even some earthenware flasks of wine and oil that had come all the way from distant Frankia. The stores would fetch a good price in Lundenwic or across the Narrow Sea. This probably explained why Ferenbald’s mood was as buoyant as his ship.