Beobrand wiped the sweat from his brow. Pulling the long ship up onto the beach was tiring work. His legs felt weak, his stomach woozy. His body missed the constant motion of the sea beneath the keel; the continuous rolling of the waves which had been so unfamiliar to him only a few days before. He looked up at the fortress on the rock above. The mighty Bebbanburg, home of the royal family of Bernicia.
Guillemots and gulls careened in the grey, windswept sky, silhouetted against the brooding storm clouds that spoke of more bad weather to come.
“You’ll have plenty of time to look, boy. Once we get the ship safely under that slope.” Hrothgar’s voice was rough, his throat hoarse from shouting at the hands on deck. “Now get pushing with the rest of us!”
Beobrand leaned once more into the side of the ship and heaved. They only had a little way to go before the ship was in line with the other two that were already beached beyond the high tide line.
He recognised the closer of the two ships as that of Swidhelm. He had seen the ship twice before and remembered the smooth line of its prow and the serpent figurehead carved there. Swidhelm must have missed the storm they had encountered the day before to be able to arrive before them. Hrothgar often said that Swidhelm was not only a fine seaman, but had the luck of the gods too. Fine praise from the taciturn sailor.
The other ship Beobrand did not know. He knew little of ships, but it was larger than any he had ever seen, almost a third longer than the other two. He wondered at the power of the owner of such a vessel. Could it belong to the king of this northern kingdom? How many men must he have in his warband? The figurehead was of a strange beast, long tongue protruding from fanged maws. It was painted red, like fresh blood.
“Alright, lassies,” shouted Hrothgar. “That’s far enough!”
There was a moment’s murmured thanks from the weary men, who stopped and stretched tired muscles.
Beobrand was stiff from rowing and his hands were raw from pulling on the coarse ropes. He was no sailor and had struggled at first, but Hrothgar and the older men had humoured him. He learnt fast and was hard-working. He had little more to offer than his strength by way of payment for the passage. He suspected that Hrothgar hadn’t needed an extra hand, but his story was well known, so the surly captain had taken him on board. Most likely out of pity.
He had seen pity on many faces in recent weeks. His was not the only family affected by the pestilence, but few were hit harder by the sickness. The first to succumb had been Edita. She had gone from sprightly, giggling girl, to pallid, shivering wraith overnight. Death had come to her rapidly, like darkness before a thunderstorm. And after that…
“Let’s get on with the unloading or do you want to be out here when the rains come again?” said Hrothgar.
Beobrand and some of the younger crew members groaned, but the more seasoned hands began manhandling the bales and barrels off of the ship and onto the sand, ready for the climb up the steep steps to the fortress.
It was some time later when they reached the top of the cliff with the last of the ship’s stores. The light had gone from the sky and it had started to rain. The chill autumn wind blew their cloaks about them, driving the rain into their faces. Beobrand followed the others through the archway at the top of the cliff steps and into a courtyard surrounded by large buildings. Across the open area, the welcome light of the main hall’s entrance beckoned. The hubbub of voices and laughter reached them when the wind abated briefly.
A tall thin man, with a long moustache, ushered Beobrand towards a building. “Come on. Leave that sack on the right with the others.” The man seemed impatient, probably wanting to be back in the warmth of the hall with a horn of mead. He pulled his fine woollen cloak more tightly around him and looked to see if any more men were coming through the arch.
“You the last one?” he asked Beobrand. His accent was thick and strange to Beobrand’s ear, but he could make out the words easily enough.
“Aye. Those still down there are to guard the ships.” Beobrand stepped into the storeroom and looked for the pile of sacks the man had mentioned. In the gloom he could see that the large barn was full of provisions.
*
When he emerged, the man closed the door, then turned toward the hall. Beobrand followed him.
As he walked into the smoky building, all the noise of talking and eating ceased. For an instant Beobrand felt conspicuous. Out of place. Sure that all eyes were on him. That for some reason he was the cause of the sudden hush. Then, just as quickly he realised that the men and women sitting at the tables were all looking at a tall man who was standing at the head of the hall. His bearing was that of one who commands. In his hand he held a finely-wrought sword. His long brown moustache was sprinkled with white as if with salt after a sea voyage. His bald head shone in the light of the blazing hearth.
“Word has come to me that Penda of Mercia, may God blast his bones, has joined with the Waelisc king, Cadwallon of Gwynedd as we feared. At this moment they are camped with a warband in the land of Elmet.” His voice rang clearly throughout the hall. “This alliance must be broken. Penda has gone too far if he believes he can invade the lands of Edwin, son of Aella. We march south in two days. I have sent riders out to summon the fyrd. The men of the land will do their duty and take up arms with me. Together our fury will smite them in the field, for that is where we shall meet. I am done with diplomacy. Penda is vermin. He must be killed as such. He has defiled my land and raised arms against my people. See now, I have drawn my sword,” he lifted the finely-made broadsword above his head, the wave-patterned blade shimmered in the firelight, “and it shall not be sheathed till its thirst is quenched with the blood of our enemies!” With this last shout, he spun the sword downward, plunging it into the oaken board of the table in front of him. A wooden cup toppled over with the impact and fell to the floor, spilling its contents.
Nobody heard the cup clatter onto the wooden floor, for before Edwin’s voice had finished reverberating around the room, the crowd of thegns in the hall began to cheer. They stood and downed the contents of mugs and horns, shouting praises for their king and spitting curses on their enemies.
The noise and heat of the hall engulfed Beobrand. That is how a king speaks. He suddenly felt he could grow to love this place and this king. As his brother had. Beobrand scanned the occupants of the tables, searching for Octa’s familiar blond hair. Octa had joined Edwin’s warband three summers before. From what little news had reached Beobrand back home in Hithe in Cantware, he had done well in the service of his new lord.
Beobrand could not find Octa in the crowds of warriors gathered in the hall. He was probably on guard or perhaps he was tending to his own land, if the king had seen fit to bestow such riches on him. Well, Octa could wait. It had been an arduous, tiring day and the smell of the boar roasting on a spit over the fire reminded him of how long it had been since his last meal.
The hall was grander than his lord Folca’s back in Hithe, but the layout, with benches and boards arrayed along the length, and the fire on the hearthstone in the centre was familiar to him. He did not often frequent his lord’s hall, but the festive atmosphere reminded him of the Thrimilci feasts when all the freemen were invited to celebrate the bounty of the land. At such times copious amounts of drink were consumed, along with vast quantities of all manner of food. But in the feasts in Folca’s hall there were many fewer thegns present. And their blades were less exquisite. Beobrand’s eyes flicked to the sword, still quivering in the wood of the high table. Octa and he had always dreamt of owning such a sword. Perhaps Octa had fulfilled that dream, as he had succeeded in becoming a thegn.
He looked for a place on one of the benches. All the others who had arrived on the ship with him had found places and were being served mead, ale and food. The thin man from the storeroom had sat down at a place near the king. Beobrand was left in the doorway, feeling awkward. The atmosphere in the hall was buoyant now. The men were set on eating their fill and drinking to their exploits, both past and future. For soon they would march to battle, and battle is what these warriors lived for.
Beobrand envied them.
For as long as he could remember, he had wanted to be a warrior. Their father’s brother, Selwyn, had fought in a warband, travelling far in his youth before returning to Hithe where he had filled his nephews’ heads with tales of battle-play and adventure. Octa had left in search of the destiny he felt was his, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle and find glory in the service of a great lord.
He had left Beobrand behind. Beobrand had been too young to leave with him, so had stayed to tend their father’s land and to look after their sisters and mother.
Now there was nothing holding him in Cantware.
*
A young man with a straggly beard saw Beobrand standing on his own and beckoned to a place at his side. Beobrand accepted, thankful to be able to sit after the long climb up from the beach.
“My name is Tondberct,” the young man said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard over the noise. “You must have come on one of the ships from Cantware.”
Beobrand nodded and his face must have betrayed his feelings because Tondberct, following his gaze, reached for a horn of mead and passed it to him. “You must be tired after the voyage.”
“Yes,” Beobrand replied after taking a long draught of the sweet drink. “And hungry,” he added. “This is my first journey out of the lands of my lord, King Eadbald.”
Tondberct waved to a comely slave who was carving meat from the pig. She made her way over to them with some choice cuts on a trencher. The thrall smiled at the two young men and returned to the fireplace. Beobrand picked up a piece of the meat and, although the hot grease burnt his fingers, he took a large bite.
Tondberct poured some more mead from a large earthen jug. He seemed to have no qualms about talking to a stranger and Beobrand was happy to listen while he ate.
“The day after tomorrow I will march with the warriors for the first time. My father gave me a new spear and shield last summer. Now I shall have a chance to test them.” His eyes glistened in the firelight. Beobrand could understand his excitement.
Beobrand looked at the warriors in the hall while Tondberct talked about his new weapons and what he would do with them in the forthcoming battle. There were at least fifty able-bodied warriors at the tables. A veritable host. If Edwin could raise more from surrounding villages and farms, he would have a force worth reckoning with. He wondered how many, like Octa, were not present at this feast.
He finished a mouthful of bread that he had soaked in meat juices and washed it down with more mead. The warmth and the drink were relaxing him. He could feel the tensions of the voyage easing from his muscles.
Unbidden, his mind turned to the events of the last months. He frequently found himself reliving Edita’s death. Then burying Rheda and their mother on the same day. The three of them gone within a week. All the while, his father had remained hale and strong. Beobrand had wondered for a long time whether he had been cursed.
He frowned and stared at the fire. Trying to burn the memories from his mind. He did not want to think of the past. Of what had happened.
Of what he had done.
He had come north in search of a future.
*
He turned to Tondberct who was in the middle of a story about one of the king’s sons, Osfrid. Apparently, Osfrid was a great huntsman, and that summer had single-handedly killed a bear. Tondberct’s incessant talking was becoming tedious, so he interrupted him with a question.
“Do you know where my brother is?”
Tondberct looked puzzled, trying to make sense of the question with regard to the story he was recounting.
“I suppose that depends on who your brother is,” he answered eventually with a smile, not appearing to be insulted by the interruption.
“Octa. He’s a bit taller than me. His hair is so blond it’s almost white.”
Tondberct opened his mouth as if to reply, but then thought better of it and closed it again. He looked down at his hands, then took a swig from his horn of mead. Beobrand thought that something very bad would be needed to leave the talkative Tondberct speechless.
“What is it?” he asked.
Tondberct looked as though he wouldn’t answer. But then, after a few moments, he blurted out, “He’s dead!”
The words didn’t make sense. “What? No, he can’t be… I…” Beobrand stammered.
But the look on Tondberct’s face told him this was no mistake. His face was ashen, aghast at what he had revealed to Beobrand.
“I’m sorry,” Tondberct said. He took another gulp of mead, looking acutely uncomfortable.
“How?” Beobrand choked the word out around the lump in his throat.
Tondberct cast his gaze down.
“How did he die?” Beobrand repeated the question, raising his voice.
Tondberct stared into Beobrand’s blue eyes. For a moment, Beobrand thought Tondberct would flee the hall rather than face his intense glare. But, after a moment the young man drew in a deep breath and said in a small voice, “He took his own life.”
His words were inaudible over the din of the room. Around them, the hall celebrated. They were an island of stillness in the turmoil. Like a cloud shadow passing over a field of barley on a windy summer’s day.
“What?”
Tondberct swallowed hard. “He took his own life,” he repeated, louder this time.
“How? Why?”
Tondberct swallowed again. He cleared his throat. Beobrand was staring at him, waiting to hear his reply. Waiting to hear why the brother he had travelled the length of Albion to see was dead. Eventually, seemingly resigned to his role of bearer of bad tidings, Tondberct spoke again.
“He jumped from the wall. To the rocks.”
Beobrand’s mind reeled. He could not pin down his thoughts. They were like leaves caught in a gale. None of it made sense. Edita, Rheda, and his mother had all been consumed by the pestilence. His father was gone too. And now Octa. “Why?” He blurted out the word again, not sure whether he was asking Tondberct or the gods.
“His lover was found slain. It seems he…” Tondberct’s voice trailed off.
Beobrand did not want to hear. He stood up quickly, suddenly feeling sick, the half-chewed piece of meat in his mouth made him gag. Wells of inconsolable pain built up from deep within him. Tears burnt behind his eyes. He did not want these strangers to see him cry.
Tondberct stood also, but he said nothing more.
Beobrand could no longer speak. His throat tightened. His breath came in gasps. The room began to blur, as his eyes filled with tears. He had to get out of this place. He turned, almost tripping over the bench and stumbled out of the hall.
The cold wind and rain slapped his face as he fled into the darkness.
Dead! All dead!
As he moved further from the hall, the darkness engulfed him. He could see torches guttering on the palisade where guards were posted, but he wanted to be far away from prying eyes. Alone with his grief. He headed for a large building that was completely shrouded in darkness, like the inside of a burial mound. It was the stables. He opened the gate and made his way inside.
He smelt and heard the horses more than saw them as he moved inside the building, feeling his way along the wall. He found a bale of hay and threw himself onto it. He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve for his sisters or his mother. At first, all of his time had been spent caring for them. Later, he had pushed his pain deep down inside, where it had forged into the steel-hard blade of hate he had wielded at his father. His father who would never again raise his hand against him or anyone else.
With all of them dead, he had set himself the task of reaching Octa with the news of their deaths. Now Octa was gone too.
Octa. Quick-witted, cheerful and passionate Octa. His memories of him were as he had last seen him three years before. A tall, strong man of twenty, standing and laughing on the deck of the ship that would carry him northward. Blond hair whipping in the wind as Beobrand ran along the cliff top waving and shouting goodbye. He remembered the feeling of abandonment. They had been the closest of allies. They had worked the land together and trained with weapons under Uncle Selwyn’s tutelage. And Octa had always defended them from their father’s outbursts of violence.
Beobrand had never fully forgiven Octa for leaving that day.
He would never see that laughing face again now, or hear the warm, melodious voice. He had focused on finding his brother, and now he didn’t know what he could do. He was truly alone for the first time in his life.
With this realisation, the tears finally came. They came in floods, all the tears he had held back, waiting to mourn for his family with Octa. Sobs racked his body. Small, animal noises came from his throat. Grief and self-pity consumed him.
*
He lay like that, face buried in the hay for a long time until his tears dried. He tried to compose himself. He imagined what his father would have said to see him crying like a baby, when he was a full-grown man. He would have cuffed him round the ear and told him that crying was for women and children. As weeping would accomplish nothing, there was no use in it. “Actions are what you need, son, not whining and tears”. How many times had he heard those words from his father? A hundred? A thousand?
In the end he had taken his father’s advice.
“Why were you crying?” A small voice spoke from the darkness, startling him.
“Men aren’t supposed to cry. Father says so.” The voice continued. It was very close. Beobrand sat up and wiped the sleeve of his kirtle across his face.
“Who are you?” he asked. His heart thumped in his chest.
“Eanflæd. What’s your name?”
The voice belonged to a little girl. What was she doing in a stable in the dark?
“Beobrand,” he answered.
“Are you from Cantware?” Eanflæd asked. “You talk strange.”
“Yes, I am. What do you mean I talk strange?”
“You sound different,” she replied, then repeated her original question. “Why were you crying?”
Beobrand did not want to talk about his loss, his overwhelming grief, especially not with a precocious little girl. So he asked, “What are you doing here? Do your parents know where you are?”
Eanflæd’s voice took on a wistful tone. “I like sitting with the horses. Nobody knows I’m here. They are too busy feasting. My father is Edwin.” She paused, and then, as if explaining something to a rather slow child, “He’s the king.”
Beobrand staggered quickly to his feet, bumping into one of the stalls behind him. If he were found here with this young princess, alone in the dark, it would be more than difficult to explain what they had been doing. A horse whinnied and stamped a hoof at this disturbance.
“Shhh, boy, that’s it, calm now”, he soothed the horse, using the soft voice he always used with nervous animals back on the farm. The horse quietened.
“Eanflæd, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be here. I think you should go to your bed now.”
He heard her rise.
He hoped she would do as he suggested and that nobody would see her leave; he didn’t want to have to explain this situation to anyone.
“Alright”, she said in a very meek voice. “It is late, I suppose. Goodnight, Beobrand from Cantware.”
“Goodnight, Eanflæd, Edwin’s daughter,” he murmured.
The sounds of her moving quickly and surely back towards the door came to him and the door creaked open slightly, letting in a gust of wind and rain. Then he was in the dark again, alone with the horses.
He sat there, listening to the storm buffeting the walls of the stable. The encounter with the princess had served to focus his mind, but he felt hollow inside. As if the bout of crying had emptied him of emotion. What could he do now? He could not travel back south with Hrothgar. There were too many ghosts there. Perhaps he could stay in this northern land. But how? He had nothing to offer.
He couldn’t bring himself to care about his own fate. Nothing seemed important anymore. Whatever his wyrd had in store for him, he would face it as it came.
After a short time he thought he should go back to the great hall and get some food before the feast was over. Maybe that would help to fill the empty hole inside him. He got up and carefully made his way out of the stable. The wind was dying down and the rain had lessened. He closed the stable door gently behind him and walked slowly back towards the hall. Nobody called out to him and there was no sign of the girl.
*
Back inside the warmth and noise of the long hall he cast around for somewhere to sit. He didn’t want to have to endure the prattling of the talkative Tondberct, but there was little room on the benches. As he was contemplating sitting with some of the younger men on the floor near the fire, he realised that the hall had gone strangely quiet, just as it had when he had first entered at the beginning of the feast. Imagining that the king was going to speak again, he turned towards the head of the table, where the fine sword still protruded from the oak board, and looked straight into the eyes of King Edwin. He was gazing directly at him. Beobrand’s heart missed a beat. He saw a young girl sitting at Edwin’s feet, stroking a grey wolfhound. He had not seen Eanflæd in the dark of the stable, but he was sure that this slim, flaxen-haired girl was the king’s daughter. Perhaps the fact that she had also failed to see his face would save him. But this hope was quickly dashed when the king spoke. He raised his voice to be heard by all those present in the hall.
“You there. Are you known as Beobrand?”
Beobrand could not bring himself to speak, so merely nodded.
“Come here, where I can see you.”
Beobrand slowly walked the length of the hall, acutely aware of all the eyes following him. And the whispers. People wondered what was afoot. As he walked past his countrymen, Hrothgar rasped close to him, “What have you done, boy?” Beobrand didn’t answer. He was caught in the stare of the king, like a lamb looks at the eyes of the priests before a sacrifice.
He came to a halt a few paces before the lord of the hall. Unsure what to do, he knelt before him and lowered his head.
“Well, Beobrand, Eanflæd here, tells me you were in the stables, in the dark. What were you doing there?”
Beobrand did not even contemplate lying.
“Grieving for the loss of my brother, sisters and parents, sire”, he said, his voice breaking. “I did not want to cry in front of everyone.”
The hall now was completely silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the sound of the dogs crunching bones under the tables. Everyone was straining to hear what was said.
“Who was your father, and who was your brother?” Edwin asked, a softness entering his voice.
“I am son of Grimgundi and brother of Octa, my lord.”
A murmur ran through the hall. The name of his brother was known to them.
“Your brother’s death was a tragedy. He was much loved here, a valiant thegn whose deeds will be sung at our table for many a year.” A shadow passed over his face. “Crying at the loss of loved ones does not belittle you, young warrior.”
“I am no warrior, lord.”
“Oh, but I see iron in your eye and flint in your heart, Beobrand. You may not yet know it, but I say you are a warrior. I see much of Octa in you. You will be great one day, I’ll wager.”
Beobrand was taken aback. He had expected retribution for some supposed misconduct with the king’s daughter. Instead the king was telling him that he could follow Octa’s path. A compliment indeed from such a powerful king in the presence of his battle host. Being a warrior was something he had only dreamt of. A secret dream. Like a shiny trinket to be brought out and played with for comfort when life was tough. He used to imagine what it would be like to don battle-harness and stand in the shieldwall. Shoulder to shoulder with heroes. The glory of battle. The songs of victory. The rings given by a lord.
He looked up into Edwin’s eyes. He did not see humour there, only sadness and benevolence.
All of a sudden, kneeling there, with all the eyes in the room on him, he knew what he must do. What would come next he did not know, but with a sudden clarity he was certain that all the events of the last months had been leading him to this moment. His wyrd had driven him forward through death and despair to this. He could not turn back. It was as if a beacon had been lit in his mind, shedding light into dark corners where he had never looked before. Without contemplating fully the consequences of his actions, before the light in his mind went out, allowing the shadows to come rushing back, Beobrand spoke.
“If you think I will make a warrior, my lord Edwin,” he said, in a strong steady voice, that surprised everyone, including himself, “let me carry your shield into battle. Let me bear arms against your enemies and seek glory for you in all my endeavours. Let me serve you, as my brother served. What say you, lord, would you take me as your warrior?”
Even the crackling of the fire seemed to still. The hounds appeared to pause in the gnawing of their scraps.
Uncle Selwyn had recounted the oath sworn by warriors to lords, but Beobrand was unsure of the exact words. He continued as best he could, speaking into the silence. “I will to you be true and faithful. I will love what you love and shun what you shun and never displease you through deed or word.”
The audacity of what he had done suddenly struck Beobrand. Seventeen-year-old farmers didn’t walk up to kings and ask them to make them shield bearers in their warbands. The wrath of the king for such an affront would be terrible. He closed his eyes, cursing himself for a fool.
After a moment he chanced a look at the king and saw that Edwin had thrown his head back and raised both his fists high in the air.
He was going to smash those fists into him. He tensed, readying himself for the blow.
Then he heard Edwin’s deep laughter. The lord rocked back on his heels and guffawed. A few of the men in the hall laughed too, now that they saw the king’s reaction.
“By the bones of Christ, but you will be great one day!” Edwin tried to stifle his mirth. “You’ve got the bravery of a boar, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You make your father proud, and you are clearly Octa’s kin. Aye, I’ll have you in my warband. I need all the stout hearts I can get! Now eat and drink, for you’ll be needing all your strength soon.”
The hall was engulfed in a cacophony of cheering and laughter. The king sat down, placing his hand on his daughter’s head. Eanflæd smiled at Beobrand. He rose shakily to his feet and walked back towards Hrothgar and the other Cantware men. Warriors he had never met slapped him on the back and shouted praise of his mettle as he walked by. He hardly knew what he was doing, his body was lighter than it should be. When he got to his countrymen, they made room for him and he sat down heavily, still in a daze at the turn of events.
“Well, laddies,” Hrothgar shouted over the din in the hall, “looks like young Beobrand here is going to be a great warrior!”
Beobrand’s countrymen cheered and raised their drinks towards him. He had been elevated to the status of hero and they would revel in telling this tale when they returned to Cantware.
For his part, Beobrand had no idea what to do, so he simply picked up a horn of mead and quaffed down its contents in three large gulps. Then, looking back at his friends, he forced a smile onto his lips.
Inside, the empty feeling had been replaced with the cold, coiling-eel sensation of fear, and Beobrand felt like crying again.