Beobrand stared down into the mist-filled valley. He loved these moments of peace just after the sun had risen. The air was chill. He wrapped his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. The cold made his ribs ache, but the dull throb was not difficult to endure. In some ways, it was comforting, reminding him of who he now was.
He drew air deep into his lungs, wincing slightly as his recently healed wounds stretched. Behind him, the others were packing up their meagre belongings. They had been travelling steadily northward since leaving Engelmynster. Towards Bernicia and King Eanfrith he presumed, but Hengist refused to be drawn out on the subject.
“Just follow me and you’ll find a ring-giving lord, young Beobrand. Don’t fret,” he had said the day before when Beobrand had once again asked where they were heading.
The uncertainty was unnerving. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made the right choice in joining these men. Could Coenred have been right about them? He had a nagging feeling of foreboding, but they had done nothing to cause alarm. Tondberct was talkative and convivial as ever. When they sat around the fire at night, Hengist was content to tell of his previous exploits in Edwin’s warband. Beobrand and Tondberct would listen raptly, drinking in the tales of heroism and valour.
During one such tale, Beobrand asked, “Did you know my brother, Octa?”
Hengist’s features clouded for a moment and he cast him a sidelong look. “Aye. I knew him. He was a great warrior. It is easy to see you are his kin.” He paused and stared into the flames, his eyes gazing into the past. “It was a sad thing that happened to him.”
Beobrand had many questions, but Hengist wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down by the fire and spoke no more.
Dreng said little, but was friendly enough. Beobrand was wary of the Waelisc brothers. Hafgan and Artair kept themselves apart from the group, but Hengist and the others trusted them.
Beobrand hoped that Hengist spoke true about finding a lord. All he wanted was to find somewhere to call home. He asked for nothing more than somewhere to sleep and simple fare on the board. Somewhere he could leave his past behind and start a new, better future. For that, he would give up anything he had. He smiled to himself, but there was no humour in it. It was the smile of a man who knew he was fooling himself. He owned nothing, save for an old spear, a shield and the clothes he wore.
Looking over the country below him, he thought how beautiful this land of Northumbria was. More mountainous than his native Cantware, and the winter was harsher than he was used to. Yet gazing out from the hilltop, seeing the mist following the course of the river, the sun rising out of the pink-tinged clouds, he knew that he wanted this to be his land. His home.
But Northumbria had become as deadly as she was beautiful. The land was lawless. Neither Osric in the southern kingdom of Deira, nor Eanfrith in the more northerly Bernicia held enough sway over the populace to bring peace. Without a king’s protection the land was becoming more dangerous by the day. Bands of warriors and ruffians travelled the tracks and paths preying on the innocent. They took what they could, using whatever means necessary.
So far when they had met with such groups their weapons and number had kept them safe. They had avoided confrontation and travelled on their way.
They finished packing and set off once more, down the hill toward the misty valley below. They were all hungry. The provisions they had taken from Engelmynster had run out the day before.
Beobrand was wondering where their next meal would come from when they spotted a homestead. Just a small hut nestled in the bend of a stream. A man was chopping wood outside the dwelling, wielding a formidable looking axe. They were still distant. The sound of his axe reached them a moment after they saw his swings impact into the logs.
They walked down towards the hut. They had spent a cold night in the forest; the wood too damp for a fire. Hengist was in a foul mood. He had been sullen all morning, rubbing his temples as if his head ached. At spotting the man stripped to the waist, his temperament seemed to improve.
“What are you doing, Breca?” Hengist called out. He clearly recognised the man. “Thought you were dead.”
Breca turned, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes narrowed as he took in the men approaching him.
“What does it look like I’m doing, Hengist?” He spoke without rancour. His voice was light. A smile played at the edge of his lips. “I’m chopping firewood to pay for my keep. I waited for you after the battle. I’d heard you’d gone south…”
Hengist interrupted him. “Work like a slave, would you?” he scoffed at the young, stocky warrior. “You’re a warrior, man! You should make your living fighting, not grovelling to some peasant woman.” Hengist continued to stride down to the hut. Breca held the axe in both hands across his sweat-slick body. His eyes darted nervously back to Beobrand, and the four others approaching behind Hengist.
Dreng said in a quiet voice, “Hengist is in a bloody mood. Looks like he’ll have him a fight now. Will settle his blood.” He licked his lips and chuckled to himself, as if he had said something to rival the wit of the best bards.
“What do you want?” Breca asked, in a strong voice.
“I want you to grovel to me, like you grovelled to this old crone.” Hengist waved his hand in the direction of the hut’s owner, who had emerged from the smoke-filled interior to see what was happening.
Breca said, “I have no quarrel with you, Hengist. Just be on your way.” Then, in an effort to calm the situation with good humour, “There’ll be no grovelling today, friend.” He smiled briefly, perhaps imagining that Hengist was jesting, or maybe drunk.
Hengist stared at him for a few heartbeats and then flung himself at Breca. He drew his broadsword as he sprang forward and bellowed with an insensate rage.
Breca stumbled backwards, but managed to keep his footing. He swung his axe up and was barely able to parry Hengist’s wild lunge. He deflected the sword thrust upwards and then surged forwards, using the axe two-handed, like a quarterstaff, to push Hengist away.
They circled each other for a moment, then Hengist attacked again. He feinted a savage blow towards Breca’s face, changing the direction of the blade at the last moment into a scything strike aimed at his midriff. Breca dodged backwards, and then darted forward, attempting to swing the axe head upwards into Hengist’s groin. Hengist parried the blow easily and backed away.
He was smiling, relaxed and happy. He rolled his head to loosen his neck muscles. Breca was focused, concentration etched into his features. Both men were panting, their breath smoking in the winter air.
Dreng giggled, a sound like the cackle of a crow. The bird of death.
Beobrand watched on in shock at how rapidly the morning had descended into violence. The fight looked one-sided. Breca was skilled and had strength, but his movements were clumsy in some indefinable way. Not natural to him. Hengist carried his sword as if the blade were an extension of his hand. It was awe-inspiring and terrible to behold.
“You will grovel today, friend,” Hengist spoke softly, the last word dripping with sarcasm.
“What are you doing, man?” said Breca, a note of desperation entering his voice. “We have stood together in the shieldwall. We were sword brothers.”
Hengist attacked for the final time. He swung his sword overarm, leaving his body unprotected. Breca saw the opening and took it, sweeping his axe at Hengist’s chest. With the benefit of having anticipated Breca’s move perfectly, Hengist took a step backwards and hammered his blade down, hacking into Breca’s left hand. He screamed, dropping the axe and grasping his smashed left hand in his right. Blood seeped between his fingers and trickled down his forearm, mingling with the sheen of sweat.
Breca gritted his teeth, his breath rapid and shallow against the pain.
“Kill me then, you bastard!” he gasped. “I always knew you were no better than a dog. You have no honour.” He raised himself up to his full height.
Hengist shook his head, smiling still. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said, and walked past him, towards the hut, where the old woman was cowering in the doorway.
For a moment Breca looked confused. Then relieved. Believing the contest over, Beobrand and the others started to move forward.
Then, with the speed of a striking adder, Hengist spun around and dragged his sword in a slicing motion deep into the back of Breca’s legs. Sinews and muscles were severed. Breca screamed again. He collapsed to the ground, his legs failing to support him.
Hengist knelt by Breca and whispered into his ear, “Now you can grovel all the time, friend.”
They rested in the hut all the rest of that day and the following night. For a long time, Breca whimpered and cried out for help.
“He sings as badly as he fights,” Hengist said, smiling, pleased at his joke. The others laughed. Beobrand’s eyes met Tondberct’s, but he couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
After some time Breca’s moaning grew tedious to Hengist and he signalled to Dreng. The old warrior got up from where he sat close to the warmth of the hearthstone and walked out into the gathering dusk. A few moments later, Breca screamed out, his words easily heard by the men in the hut.
“He’ll betray you all! He has no honour!” Then his cries ceased.
Later, when Hengist went outside to relieve himself, Beobrand turned to Tondberct and whispered, “What’s got into him? Why did he attack Breca? Is he touched by an evil spirit?” He could think of no explanation for Hengist’s violence.
Tondberct looked uncomfortable, but before he could respond, Dreng spoke into the silence.
“If you live to see as many battles as Hengist, you will not be the same man you are today, young Beobrand. Feeding the ravens with corpses changes a man. You’d do well to remember that.”
They fell silent as Hengist came back inside.
The old lady was terribly afraid. She cooked for them and treated them with deference. Hengist smiled benevolently at her, but still made sure that one of them was on guard at all times in the night. None of them wanted to have his throat slit during his sleep.
Sleep was a long time coming to Beobrand that night. When he closed his eyes he saw Breca cut down again. Hengist’s speed and skill was somehow obscene, but questions whispered in his mind. Could Hengist teach him? Could he learn to wield a sword with such prowess? He had thought his uncle had been a skilled swordsman, but he was nothing when compared to Hengist.
Then he remembered Breca’s final words and his sobbing cries for pity.
Deep inside he knew he should have heeded Coenred’s warning about these men. But what could he do now? He had chosen this path. He only hoped he could follow it without becoming lost.
*
They pressed on north, leaving the old woman behind. She was relieved to be rid of them but they had taken much of her food. How she would survive the winter she did not know.
Breca’s stiff body lay outside where it had been left. Wolves or foxes had worried the carcass in the night, but it was mostly whole. Walking away, Beobrand cast a glance back at the hut and saw the woman straddling the corpse. He glimpsed the glint of a sharp seax in her hand. He turned away, appalled.
Over the next few weeks winter set in. With the trees covered in frost, brooks turning to ice and snow falling from leaden skies, the band of warriors fell into a routine. They would forage for food, hunting when possible, and travelling little. Once they had set up a camp, much of their energy was taken up with collecting firewood. The cold seeped into their very bones. At night they would huddle around their small campfire for warmth. Their hands and faces became chapped and cut by the cold. They were desperate for anything that would provide protection from the winter chill. The skins of any game they caught were quickly made into rough hats and mittens.
Hafgan and Artair were fine huntsmen. They would often leave the group for a day or more, always returning with meat. After their first hunting trip they had returned, each weighed down with a side of venison. They had smoked much of the meat in thin strips and it lasted them for several days. But despite the brothers’ skills, they often went hungry over those winter months. On those days when they had no food, they would be irritable and lethargic. Their stomachs silently screaming with the agonising pangs of emptiness.
Then Beobrand would remember warm days hunting boar with Octa and his friends. The forests around Hithe were rich with game. They would leave small offerings on the edge of the trees for the forest spirits and head into the cool darkness. There they would look for the paths used by the great boars of the forest. Splitting up, one group would drive the boar towards the other, who would wait, spears ready.
They brought down many a bristling, tusked beast. The animals would burst forth from the undergrowth into the area they had prepared and the boys would pounce, spear points glinting dully in the gloom. Squeals, grunts, shouts and the sounds of breaking branches would follow, and then stillness and the panting of the hunters. Laughter at their success and having survived in the face of the forest beasts.
The meat from an animal you have killed yourself tastes sweeter than any other. Boar meat, skin crisp and flesh succulent and dripping had always been a favourite of Beobrand’s. Thinking of it in the bleakest of winter days set his stomach growling and made him yearn for his brother, and his friends.
*
It seemed to Beobrand that they had been avoiding settlements as they travelled. Ever since the incident with Breca, Hengist had seemed keen to camp in the forest, despite the cold. On a few occasions they had seen smoke, but each time Hengist had rejected the idea of seeking the warmth of shelter they could expect from a village. Perhaps the fight with Breca had unnerved Hengist too, but that seemed unlikely.
One late afternoon, as the pale sun dipped towards the trees on the horizon, they came upon a village. Not the usual kind of place they saw of a few huts and animal pens, but several stout buildings, with white walls, surrounding a sizable hall. The last of the sun gave the thatch of the hall’s roof an inviting warm glow. Smoke billowed through the chimney hole into the still winter air, where it hung, wreathing the building in a hazy crown. The sound of laughter and chatter reached Beobrand’s ears and he half imagined the smell of cooking meat.
They all turned to Hengist, enquiring silently whether they could seek refuge at the hall for the night. They were freezing and wet. It had been raining all of the previous night and that morning, only abating a short while before they had stumbled upon the welcome sight of the hall that beckoned to them with its invitation of warmth.
Hengist shrugged. “I’m cold too. A fire and a roof over our heads would be good.” They all smiled, their spirits lifting as they picked up their pace on the road towards the hall. Faces peered at them from doorways as they passed by the houses. A man looked up from where he was fixing a fence and nodded a taciturn welcome. A few children ran up behind them and dogged their steps until Dreng turned around and growled at them playfully. The children ran away screaming.
Before they reached the hall at the settlement’s heart, four men approached them. Each carried a spear and shield. The oldest of the four, a dour-looking man of perhaps thirty years, with flecks of grey in his beard, held up his hand and said, “What business have you in this shire of our Lord Ecgric?”
Hengist said in a voice as smooth as burnished silver, “We are travellers. We are weary, cold and wet and seek your lord’s hospitality. One night at his table and under his roof and we will be on our way.”
The man glanced at their weapons, clearly assessing how much of a threat they posed. “Travellers, you say? Where do you travel so laden with weapons?”
Hengist smiled. “The roads are dangerous for travellers, but we are warriors, as you can see. We mean you no harm. We travel north in search of patronage. We seek to offer our service to the new lord of Bernicia, King Eanfrith.”
“Then perhaps the gods smile on you this day. One of Eanfrith’s men is here. Wait here while I speak to my lord.”
The man turned and left the other three guards to look over Hengist, Beobrand and the others. He walked to the hall and disappeared inside. The guards shifted their feet nervously, frequently looking over their shoulders at where their leader had gone.
Beobrand watched Hengist as they waited, trying to gauge his mood. He looked relaxed enough, but there was a tension in him that could not be totally hidden. Beobrand hoped for all their sakes that nothing would ignite his pent up anger. Breca had been alone, but here, in a lord’s hall, they would all be in danger if a fight broke out.
The lead guard returned. “You may enter the hall, but you must leave all weapons outside with me.”
Beobrand watched as Hengist bridled. He always wore his sword and even slept with it wrapped inside his cloak. He was never parted from it. But they all knew that to enter a lord’s hall, weapons were left at the door, so they handed over their spears and seaxes, only being allowed to keep their small eating knives. Hengist unbuckled his belt and handed it with great ceremony to the door ward. “Do not draw her blade. If it is freed, it must taste blood,” said Hengist. The guard’s eyes widened, but he nodded solemnly as if such assertions were common.
Satisfied that they were bereft of weapons, the door ward stood aside and ushered them into the hall. It was not a large hall, nor was it as sumptuously decorated as the royal hall of Bebbanburg, but in comparison with sleeping wrapped in a cloak by a guttering fire in the forest, it was luxurious indeed. A fire burnt brightly in the centre of the floor, casting moving shadows into every corner. Above the hearth hung an iron cauldron, from which emanated the rich scent of a meaty stew. Beobrand’s stomach rumbled. Around the edge of the hall, tallow candles burnt, adding extra light and making the room warmer and more inviting.
Boards were laid out along the length of the hall and several men were already seated at the benches. At the head of the room stood the high table, where there sat on a gift-stool, a large, heavy-jowled man with grey hair. To his right sat a slim man, with hawk-like features. He was dressed in fine clothes and a gold chain glittered at his neck.
The large man heaved his bulk out of his seat and stood, wobbling on his feet slightly, as if he had already drunk too much mead.
“Welcome travellers,” he said, his voice loud over the din of conversation. “Is that you, Hengist? I thought you surely killed at Elmet.”
Hengist took a step forward. “Well met, Ecgric, son of Eacgric. I survive to tell the tale of the fall of Edwin, son of Aella. But many men fell to my sword before the end, when my liege was struck down by the Waelisc scum.”
Some of the men in the hall banged cups, knives or fists on the boards in approbation of Hengist’s words.
Lord Ecgric peered at Hengist for a long time, as if he was struggling to make him out in the dim light and the haze of smoke from the fire. After some time, he raised his hands for silence.
“You must join us at the high table, Hengist. I would know how it is that you survived when so many fell. I myself sent four men to join the fyrd and none returned. Tale of the slaughter has reached us. There are many widows this winter in Bernicia and Deira.”
A hush fell on the room. Beobrand glanced at Hengist and saw that his lips were pressed tightly together. A vein throbbed at his temple.
“Do you accuse me of being craven, lord? I am not armed, but I cannot let a slur on my name go unchallenged.”
The mood in the hall changed. A stillness and tension such as descends before a thunderstorm fell upon the throng.
Ecgric held up his hands to placate Hengist. “Brave Hengist, I would not dream of questioning your mettle or your courage, not even in my own hall. I merely wish to hear of your exploits and how you escaped from that carnage with your life. I meant no harm.” His words were spoken in calm earnest, but the twinkle in his eye belied his innocent tone. Beobrand wondered whether this lord knew how dangerous Hengist could be. But then again, they were surrounded by the lord’s gesithas and Hengist was unarmed.
Ecgric said, “Come, join us at the table.”
Hengist took a step forward and the tension began to ease out of the gathering. But before the volume of chatter could reach the level it had been when they had arrived, the hawk-faced man at lord Ecgric’s side said, “How is it, Hengist, that I saw you at the table of Cadwallon and Penda after the battle of Elmet?”
Silence slammed down on the room. All eyes turned to Hengist. Beobrand stood closest to him and could feel the waves of ire washing off him. He was ready to explode into violence at any moment. Beobrand took a step away from him involuntarily.
Hengist fixed the man with a stony glare. “What did you say?” His voice was clipped, each word forced out through clenched teeth. The muscles in his jaw bulged.
The man next to Ecgric seemed oblivious of Hengist’s anger. “I asked how it was that you were dining with your enemies while your king lay dead, his body not yet cold?” he said.
A whisper ran through the hall as men muttered their disbelief. Whether at the substance or the audacity of the accusation Beobrand could not tell.
Hengist swallowed. His hand trembled where it groped unwittingly for the hilt of the sword that no longer hung from his belt.
“Who are you?” Hengist asked. “I would know the name of a man before I kill him.”
“I am Galan, son of Galen. I saw you when I bore a message to Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd from my master and lord, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, rightful heir to Bernicia.” He smiled. “But why do you threaten to kill me rather than answer my question? I have a reason for my presence in Cadwallon’s camp. Do you? It seems my questioning upsets you. Could it be that I have uncovered a dirty secret?” He raised his eyebrows and a faint smile played at the edge of his mouth.
Beobrand sensed in the instant before he moved, that Hengist would attack Galan. Hengist surged forwards with a roar and lunged towards the high table. All along the hall, men leapt to their feet.
Hengist brushed off the hands that tried to seize him and reached for the board that was between him and the object of his wrath. Grasping the board’s edge he heaved it over. Trenchers, plates, food, knives and drinking horns were cast to the ground with a clatter that was lost amongst the clamour of Ecgric’s gesithas as they sprang to their lord’s defence and that of their lord’s guest.
Hengist tried to kick his way through the debris. Galan took a step back, but seemed calm in the face of Hengist’s onslaught.
Before Hengist was able to push his way through the barricade of the fallen board and its contents, several of Ecgric’s men grabbed him roughly. He struggled and screamed, like a wounded animal.
“I will kill you,” he shouted.
A moment later, Beobrand felt a cold blade at his throat and a strong arm around his chest. A voice spoke in his ear, “Do not move, or I’ll bleed you like a pig at Blodmonath.” Beobrand did not struggle. The ferocity and suddenness of Hengist’s violence stunned him. What was Galan talking about? Could it be true that Hengist had been a guest at Cadwallon’s board after the battle of Elmet? It seemed impossible.
“Stop this! You are a guest in my hall!” Ecgric’s bellowing voice rang over the throng, silencing them all. He was shaking with fury, all semblance of affability gone.
“This man dishonours me!” screamed Hengist, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.
“No,” said Ecgric, “it is you who brings dishonour to my hall and to yourself. You and your companions are no longer welcome here. You will leave my hall and my lands. As a mark of the respect Edwin had for you, I will allow you to leave unharmed and with your weapons. But if I see you again in my lands, I will not be so lenient a second time. Now, get him out of my sight.”
He turned his back on Hengist and spoke quietly to Galan, who laughed. Thralls moved out of the shadows and started setting the boards and fetching fresh food and mead.
The man holding Beobrand turned him towards the door of the hall and pushed him towards it, still holding the knife at his throat.
Outside dark had descended. Hengist, Beobrand and the others were all pushed out of the hall porch and into the cold darkness. The leader of the door wards picked up their weapons and threw them into the mud at their feet. He could see Hengist contemplating attacking.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said. “Pick up your things and be gone. Unless you think you are quicker than an arrow.” He nodded to his left, where two men were standing in the shadows of the hall with hunting bows. Each had an arrow on the string and the bow pulled taut, ready to loose. At such close range they could not miss, and an arrow, though not often a weapon of war, would kill or maim a man, as soon as killing a hare.
For a long moment nobody moved. Beobrand looked at their adversaries and decided he would charge at one of the bowman if they started to fight. Perhaps he could put off his aim and close the gap close enough to tackle him with his hands. More of Ecgric’s gesithas stepped out of the hall, stacking the odds further.
In the end, it was Dreng who moved first. He stepped forward, not taking his eyes from the door ward, and reached down to retrieve his own gear and Hengist’s sword. He handed the sword to Hengist and Beobrand heard him whisper, “We should leave. It is not worth it. Wyrd placed Galan there, it cannot be helped now.”
Hengist was tight-lipped and quivering with pent up anger, but he offered Dreng a small nod and took his sword.
“Pick up your things, men. We are leaving.”
Beobrand and the others cautiously collected their belongings, wary of treachery from the door wards and warriors congregated at the entrance to the hall. But the men proved honourable for they allowed them to leave Ecgric’s lands safely. When they had walked some distance from the hall and were swallowed by the night, Beobrand heard sharp laughter behind them, then the doors to the hall slamming.
They walked on in silence into the gloom. Nobody talked, but Beobrand’s mind was full of questions. He wondered at Galan’s insistence that he had seen Hengist dining with Cadwallon. What had he to gain from lying? Was Hengist’s reaction proof that it was true, or merely a seemingly typical violent response to his honour being slighted?
After some time, Tondberct broke the silence, his breath misting in the cold night. “Oh well, I didn’t really like the smell of that stew, and a warm fire would just make us soft.”
Nobody laughed.
Beobrand focused on the shape of Hengist’s set shoulders and trudged along in his wake. He would get no answers to his questions tonight.
*
As the days grew shorter, and the weather ever harsher, the small band set up a semi-permanent camp beside a stream.
The site was protected from the wind by a steep, wooded bank. There was an overhang of earth and tree roots that provided them with shelter from the elements. To this natural barrier, they added some wattle fences and built up a makeshift roof of branches and leaves. On the coldest and wettest days, their constructions did little to protect them. They would miserably hunch under their meagre shelter and wait for more clement times. But on clear days, when the wind did not rush along the stream bed and rattle the bones of the denuded trees, the camp was as comfortable as any hall.
A few days after the encounter at Ecgric’s hall, when it had become clear that they had settled into this new camp, with no intention of travelling on, Beobrand broached the subject of the incident with Hengist. The day was cold, but dry and they were sitting by the fire as night approached. It had been a pleasant day of activity, preparing firewood and constructing the fences for the shelter. Now they all sat, tired but content in the warmth of the crackling flames. It was easy to almost forget how Hengist’s anger and violence had erupted like fire from dry tinder.
“Hengist?” Beobrand said, stretching his legs out to loosen the muscles and also to warm his feet closer to the flames.
“Aye?”
“Why did you get so angry with Galan? Surely it was a mistake and you were not with Cadwallon.”
Everyone turned to look at Beobrand. Artair stopped whittling the piece of wood he held. Dreng licked his lips nervously. Tondberct fidgeted, as if preparing to flee. Beobrand was suddenly afraid.
Hengist stared at him for a long moment and then said, “Do you think to question me, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi? Do you also believe me dishonourable? Treacherous?” Hengist’s eyes bore into him, unwavering and unflinching.
Beobrand looked away. He searched the faces of the others. All averted their gaze; none would stand at his side in this. He was all alone. He felt small and weak then. As he had so many times when his father had taken his fists to him.
“No, I just…”
“Just what?” asked Hengist. “Think carefully before you speak again, young Beobrand.” The air was heavy with unspoken threats.
As so many times before when facing his father, all Beobrand wanted was to make the situation go away. “I’m sorry, Hengist. I meant no harm.”
The tension ebbed from the camp and Hengist leaned forward and threw another log onto the fire in a shower of sparks.
Beobrand was ashamed at his own weakness. The taste of it was in his throat as he stood and walked away from the others and he hated it.
*
It was while they were at the camp that Hengist began to train Beobrand in the art of combat. Beobrand was horrified at Hengist’s sudden explosive violence, but was equally eager to learn to fight like him. If he could fight well, surely he would not feel so impotent.
Hengist seemed to enjoy training the young warrior, and it was clear to the others lounging by the fire, that Beobrand was a natural. He picked up stances and moves quickly and began to look at ease with a shield on his left arm and a spear in his right hand. His injuries still hurt, but he was able to push the pain out of his mind. He continued practising until his body ran with sweat and his muscles steamed in the cold air. By the end of each day, he collapsed by the fire and fell asleep listening to the others telling stories of battles, drinking and women they had known.
For much of the time Hengist commanded Beobrand to run through patterns of lunges, parries, crouches and defensive blocks. Sometimes he would call on one of the other warriors to spar with Beobrand. At first, he was outclassed by all of the others, receiving many knocks, scrapes and bruises to add to the injuries he’d sustained in Elmet. But by the end of the second day’s training, he bested Tondberct.
Tondberct was overconfident. He had seen the experienced Dreng beat Beobrand resoundingly in a few heartbeats. He readied himself in a defensive stance, shield high, spear held higher. Beobrand suddenly bellowed and thrust his own spear into Tondberct’s shield, pulling it down, as Bassus had shown him. Tondberct, caught off guard had tried to retreat, but this only resulted in his shield being pulled further from his body, leaving him more exposed. He panicked and decided to go on the offensive, aiming a vicious spear thrust at Beobrand’s face.
Beobrand caught the spear shaft on the rim of his shield, lifting it harmlessly over his head. At the same moment, he let go of his own spear and drew in a smooth motion the bone-handled knife that Immin had given him. He rolled inside Tondberct’s reach, almost embracing him, his knife’s keen edge against his friend’s throat.
There was a moment while Beobrand and Tondberct stood close together, unmoving. Then Hengist started laughing. Dreng and the two Waelisc brothers joined in. It was an audacious and risky move. If he had mistimed it, he would have been left with a small knife against the much longer spear. But he had executed the manoeuvre with precision and grace. If it had been a real fight, Tondberct would have been dead.
“That is what I like to see,” said Hengist. “I teach you moves for two whole days. Then you go and do something like that. Nobody can teach you that. You have a warrior’s instincts and you’re not scared of anything, are you?”
Beobrand felt scared of a lot of things. Particularly Hengist. But while he was fighting, he did not think of his fear. For those moments there was only him and his adversaries, and the inescapable desire to overcome them at any cost.
Beobrand’s gaze met Tondberct’s and there was something there he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t smiling ruefully at having been beaten by his friend, and he wasn’t angry at having lost so easily, either of which reactions Beobrand would have understood.
The look he saw on Tondberct’s face was fear.
*
With each passing day Beobrand got stronger, faster and much more deadly. Tondberct would no longer spar with him, after having lost seven or eight times in a row. They still joked together and were seemingly friendly, but there was a tinge of resentment in Tondberct over Beobrand’s rise to prominence in the group. This, coupled with Tondberct being threatened by Beobrand’s skill, meant that their conversations were often stilted.
Artair posed little problem for Beobrand after a few days. The stocky Waelisc was strong and skilled, but lacked Beobrand’s speed and instinctive feeling of how to beat an opponent. He was too predictable. His brother Hafgan, was a different matter. He was tall, like Beobrand, and as fast as a cat. He wasn’t as experienced or skilled as his older brother, but he made up for this by being much less predictable and extremely quick. After a fortnight of practice, Hafgan was still able to beat Beobrand on almost every other encounter.
When Beobrand asked Hengist if he could face him, the older warrior laughed. “You wouldn’t prove more than a mouthful for me if you can’t best the others.”
But Dreng proved impossible for Beobrand to vanquish for several weeks.
The old man had so much experience, was so accomplished in the art of parrying with both shield and his long-bladed langseax, that Beobrand would wear himself out trying to find a gap in Dreng’s defences. In the end, Dreng would effortlessly flick out the tip of his langseax and touch Beobrand wherever he chose. Sometimes he would draw blood. He always pretended it had been an accident and apologised to the younger man. But there was a glimmer in his eye, and he would lick his lips with his fleshy tongue and smile for a time afterwards.
The balance shifted when Hengist told Beobrand he had learnt the basics with the spear and he should now pick up a blade to train with.
“A sword is a true warrior’s weapon,” said Hengist, fingering the fur-lined hilt of his broadsword. “If you can’t get a sword, a langseax is the next best thing. Here, you can use mine.” He tossed him his long-bladed langseax. Longer than a dagger or knife, it was a more formidable version of the seax, the single-edged knife that gave their people the name the Waelisc used to describe them: Seaxon.
The instant Beobrand held the blade, it felt right. It wasn’t the sword he had always dreamt of, but its balance was good and all of those days he’d spent with Selwyn gave him a seemingly instant prowess.
He began training with renewed vigour and the others realised that where he had been a natural with the spear, with a long-bladed weapon, he would soon be unstoppable against all but the most highly accomplished opponent. He had an affinity for the langseax that the others had not seen before in any warrior, except in Hengist, who was the best swordsman any of them had witnessed.
“You have used a blade before,” Hengist said, intrigued. “Who taught you?”
Beobrand swung the langseax through the air in a flourish, flashing a grin at Hengist. “My uncle, Selwyn. He was a great warrior and trained Octa and I to use a sword.”
Hengist rubbed his beard, watching Beobrand’s stances. “Well, he taught you well,” he said.
After only a couple of days with the langseax, Beobrand was able to vanquish Hafgan three times out of four. And a few days after that, he beat Dreng for the first time.
The older warrior made the mistake of letting his guard down in an attempt to draw Beobrand in, but he had underestimated the young Cantware warrior. Beobrand made a feint towards the exposed area, as Dreng expected. Then, at the moment Dreng committed himself to hit Beobrand’s extended right arm, Beobrand spun fully around, landing a brutal blow to Dreng’s rump with the flat of his langseax’s blade.
Dreng fell sprawling to the ground while the others burst into peals of laughter. Dreng pulled himself up and rubbed his backside and smiled sheepishly, but the look he flashed at Beobrand was dark and murderous.
“That was a risk to turn your back on an enemy, boy,” Dreng rasped. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.”
The laughter died down and Beobrand thought that Dreng’s comment was more a veiled threat than a tip on his fighting technique. He swallowed hard and vowed not to let Dreng out of his sight.