Death surrounded him.
Screams of the dying mingled with the clash of weapons, creating a hellish cacophony.
The foetid bowel-stench of the slain hung over the battlefield, the miasma of defeat.
The calm that had made him formidable moments before had vanished as quickly as it had come.
Beobrand faced the grey-haired warrior. His legs were heavy. His stomach in turmoil. The warrior strode down the slope towards him. Beobrand struggled to lift his shield and seax in a menacing manner.
The grim warrior swung his sword, effortlessly swatting the seax from Beobrand’s hand. Beobrand stepped backwards, vainly attempting to raise his shield. All strength had fled from his limbs. His right hand throbbed from the sword blow. The shield in his left was too heavy, as if being dragged down by unseen forces.
He knew then, looking into the dire, grey eyes of the warrior, that he was going to die. From deep within himself, a spark was rekindled. If his wyrd was for him to die this day, he would at least die fighting. Not cowed and mewling like a woman.
He scooped up a fallen spear and stood tall; straightening his back, squaring his shoulders. He would not die so easily. This old man would regret attacking Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.
Letting out a scream of defiance against all that the gods had taken from him, Beobrand charged towards his enemy. Too late, he saw the old warrior step nimbly to the side. The momentum of his headlong rush carried him forward. He stumbled, off balance. He tried to recover his balance, to bring his shield to bear. But it was hopeless. The linden-wood board was too heavy. He was too slow.
Before he could regain his footing, he was struck a jarring blow to the temple.
Dazed, he staggered and then fell back onto the corpse of the snaggle-toothed warrior.
He looked up at the sky, unable to move. Carrion crows circled, patiently awaiting the feast that the battle-play would provide. The noises of death and battle grew in his ears, became distorted. The grey clouds scudding in the sky turned crimson.
He fought to retain consciousness. His thoughts became addled. His sight faded. So, this is what it was to die. Beobrand’s hold on middle earth slipped.
His mind turned to Octa. He would see him soon.
*
Beobrand came round to the sound of laughter. Voices, indistinct and distant, sang a bawdy song. Somewhere far off someone was screaming. He could feel cool water hitting his face. His head ached and there was a sharp pain in his chest as he breathed. He tried to open his eyes but found that the left one would not obey his command. With his right eye he could see that the sky was darkening and the water that hit his face was rain.
He couldn’t move his arms. He lifted his head and looked down to see what was impeding their movement. He immediately saw what was causing the pain in his chest. A warrior lay face down on top of him. The boss of his shield was pressed into Beobrand’s ribs, the man’s weight on it. The warrior’s head had been smashed, a mess of dried blood, bone and matted hair. The stench of death slowly pervaded Beobrand’s awareness.
He felt faint and let his head fall back. He twisted his head towards the sound of voices and could just make out the shadows of men, silhouetted in front of a large fire. Next to the fire stood the wolf standard of Penda and the grisly skull totem of Cadwallon. So, Edwin had lost the battle.
And Beobrand had survived. He should have given his life with honour. It was the duty of a warrior to die with his lord. But now the thought of death in battle seemed less noble than it had that morning. He had seen it first-hand. He had killed two men. Seen the life fade in their eyes. Heard the wails of the wounded. Smelt the blood and shit of spilt innards. And now here he lay, covered in cloying blood, both his own and that of others. Gone were the dreams engendered by Selwyn’s tales on the mead benches. The truth of the shieldwall would make poor songs. He was lucky to be alive, he knew, and he would have to be careful if he wanted to live through the night. If Penda and Cadwallon’s men should discover him, all would be lost.
From the way he was feeling Beobrand was certain that he wouldn’t be able to move very quickly, let alone fight. He decided to wait till nightfall before attempting to get up. With luck, the men would be too busy celebrating their victory to search for survivors amongst the enemy fallen.
In preparation for making his escape he began to move his arms and legs slowly, flexing his muscles, working the long period of inactivity from them. The rain was falling harder now and within moments he was soaked.
By the time it was dark enough to stand without being seen from the camp, Beobrand was shivering uncontrollably. He carefully slid out from under the corpse that had partially shielded him from view. The pain in his ribs was much worse now and he bit his lip to avoid crying out. He lay there, beside the body, on the muddy ground, and willed himself to get up. He reached up to gingerly touch his left eye, thinking that it may have been stuck closed with dried blood. The side of his head throbbed and the eye was swollen and tender to the touch. It would not open. No wonder he had been left for dead. His face must look awful.
He sat up carefully. He felt dizzy at once and the jolt of pain in his chest made his vision blur. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he began to believe he wouldn’t be able to stand.
If I don’t get up, I’ll be as good as dead.
He felt the hard wet shaft of a spear under his hand and grasped it. With its help he managed to finally haul himself upright, but the effort caused him a wave of nausea and dizziness. He stood for a few moments, panting in the dark, the rain driving down. He trembled and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where he could go on foot in his condition, but it was clear to him that the best way to begin would be away from his enemies’ camp.
He was preparing to make a start when he heard voices raised in anger. They were very close by, only the dark and the rain had prevented him from being discovered. He stood still and tried not to breathe. The voices had been lowered and he could not make out where they had come from. Suddenly, seemingly right next to him, Beobrand heard the voices talking in loud whispers.
“I tell you I saw it first! And it was my idea to take it.” The voice was gruff, yet whining.
“But you got that cloak clasp too. It’s not right and you know it. If we didn’t have to be quiet about it, I’d break your jaw, you whoreson!” The second voice was deeper and more melodious, but the owner was obviously furious.
Beobrand remained motionless. He could hear the two men whispering as they moved past him, but he could make out no more of what they said. When he could no longer hear them, he waited a few heartbeats more and then made off away from the camp and also in a different direction to the two men. He remembered that the fen rose into heathland a few hundred paces in the direction he guessed he was going. He also recalled the forest crowning the heather-covered hill. He decided to make for the shelter of the trees.
It took him a long time to reach the trees. It had stopped raining and the clouds began to blow apart. A cold wind from the north rustled the heather and the leaves of the oaks. Beobrand had hoped that movement would relieve the pain in his chest and clear his head, but this was not the case. His head reeled with every step and his chest felt as if someone was stabbing him between the ribs with each breath. But he did not stop. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the wind chilling his sodden clothes. If he stopped now, with no fire and no shelter, he was bound to freeze in the night. He pushed on, staggering into the darkness under the trees.
It seemed warmer amongst the boles of the oaks and ashes. To Beobrand it sounded as if the forest was whispering to him, softly urging him to rest. His mind began to wander. He thought of Octa. He had not seen him for over three years and he would not see him again on this side of the afterlife. But his brother’s face was clear in his mind. He smiled and beckoned to Beobrand.
Other faces vied for his attention. His mother. Edita. Rheda. His father. All gone now.
He trudged on into the forest. Some part of his mind drove him forward, away from the battlefield. Away from death.
He had been fleeing death for months now. Perhaps his wyrd would see death catch up with him.
Walking on, staggering from one tree trunk to the next, he was not aware of where he was travelling, only that he must move onward.
His thoughts turned to the events of the last few days. He had learnt so many things, made new friends. And lost so much. What had happened to Tondberct in the crush of the shieldwall? Had Bassus survived the battle?
Without realising what he was doing, he sat down with his back to a gnarled old oak. His vision clouded and memories he had fought to forget crashed in.
Spark-spattered smoke billowing into the night sky, carrying his father’s spirit with it. The flames had caught quickly in the dry thatch of the house. The beams had groaned and moaned. The heat soon became unbearable and he had turned his back on his burning home.
He had turned away from his past and walked down to the coast, to find a ship to carry him northward, to his future.
As his injuries pulled him down into darkness, his mother’s voice whispered in his mind, “You… are… not… your… father’s… son…”
Later, in the stillest, darkest part of the night, a badger passed close by. It sniffed the man curled up by the moss-covered tree and then went upon its way.
No other living thing came close to the wounded warrior until dawn.