The winter had passed slowly for Coenred. He couldn’t quite believe that Beobrand had left with the men who had threatened to kill him. He had fallen in with them so naturally, it made Coenred wonder if he was wrong about the young man from Cantware. Coenred had always made up his mind about people quickly, and once he’d decided to be someone’s friend, he was unswervingly loyal. He had been sure that Beobrand was a good person and even after his sudden departure, Coenred still liked to think that he wasn’t the same as the other warriors.
The month of Blodmonath, with the slaughter of the cattle, made way into Geola. The monastery began to prepare for the feast of Modraniht, the mothers’ night, when they celebrated the birth of the Lord Jesu. As the preparations progressed, Abbot Fearghas talked increasingly about the story of the birth of the Christ. Doubt began to gnaw at Coenred. Why had Beobrand decided to join the warriors despite his protestations about their intentions? What was it that drove him? He had said he sought vengeance for his brother’s death, but from whom? He had as much idea of who had killed his brother as Coenred did of who had murdered Tata. And what good would revenge do? Neither Octa nor Tata were going to come back from the afterlife. For a moment, Coenred thought bitterly that if Beobrand found his brother’s killer, he might be able to exact the weregild from his slayer’s kindred. Octa had been a thegn after all. But nobody would pay the blood price for a young orphan girl. He had immediately felt ashamed. He didn’t want money or goods for his sister’s life. Nothing could replace her and the thought of revenge just saddened him.
The winter had been harsh, and travellers had been few after Beobrand left. But the villagers and monks remembered what had happened to Coenred and how Beobrand had organised them. So Alric had taken on the task of setting up regular patrols at night. Nobody ever left the encampment alone. On a few occasions, other remnants of Edwin’s scattered army had arrived seeking food. Or mischief. Each time, Alric and the organised villagers sent them on their way. Coenred reflected how the Christian ideals of charity to others seemed to wane in direct proportion to how little food was left in the stores for the rest of the winter.
They all agreed that if another large warband descended on the village, they would flee again into the forest. Some of the villagers began to question the wisdom of the location of the monastery. It was on a well-used route through the forest, but was isolated and not easy to defend. Fearghas spoke eloquently in defence of the site. He said it was especially holy. The old ones who had built the first buildings there had been blessed. As proof he had pointed to the picture that was on the floor of the small chapel. It had been there when he had first come to the place and was surrounded by low stone walls. He and the monks had built up those walls with wooden lath, covered them in daub, then roofed them with thatch.
The floor was made of small coloured stones or tiles. It was of immense beauty. The swirling patterns around the edge framed the face of a bearded man, who Fearghas said was an angel. He had travelled to this place on his way from Hii, the island in the north-west, to Eoferwic. He hoped to start a Christian church there, converting the heathens to the one true faith, as Columba had done for tribes far north of the Wall. As a young man he had known the great Columba. He was the most inspiring of men and Fearghas had always secretly longed to have as much impact on people as the great man had. Perhaps he had not converted kings like Columba had, but he could not help feeling pleased with his achievements. He knew it was the sin of pride, but he told himself that he was doing God’s will, setting aside all earthly pleasures.
On his journey he had rested here for the night and when he had awoken the next morning, a shaft of light had illuminated the angel on the floor. It had been a sign from God Himself and Fearghas had not doubted that he should begin his mission there. Soon, others had joined him. Within a few years, the monastery housed several monks, took on young novices and catered to the spiritual needs of the dozens of villagers who inhabited the clearing.
Abbot Fearghas was happy that he’d not reached Eoferwic as he’d originally planned. He had since travelled to the capital of Deira and he did not like the crowded streets, the noisy traders, with their constant shouting or the smell. He enjoyed the quieter life of contemplation and teaching that he had created at Engelmynster. One of his greatest joys was seeing the boys he taught gain enough knowledge of the scriptures and the teachings of the Christ to leave the monastery. To make their way into the world to carry the good word to others.
Coenred was still young, but he was quick-witted, thoughtful and sensitive, if a little headstrong and impulsive. Fearghas thought it would not be long before he would be ready to leave the confines of the monastery. It was clear to Fearghas that the boy yearned for greater challenges than learning lines from the hagiographies every morning and reciting prayers with the other monks. Coenred had shown an aptitude at reading and writing, and his Latin was passable. Perhaps he would be a scribe, thought Fearghas. If he didn’t run off and do something stupid.
The old monk thought of the grief that had consumed Coenred only a few months before. The resilience of youth never ceased to amaze him. Coenred still had dark moments. He had matured since his sister’s death and his capture at the hands of the warriors in the forest, but his irrepressible character was not much changed. Fearghas had prayed for him and Jesu had answered his prayers.
Coenred had applied himself to his studies with a new enthusiasm over the winter. The short days had often not been long enough for the young novice, who always wanted more information. Frequently, at the end of the day, Coenred would ask Fearghas to explain to him one of the finer points of the scriptures. Or he would ask Fearghas to repeat the life story of the saint of the day. Fearghas welcomed the quest for knowledge and understanding. Coenred clearly had a yearning for answers to the imponderable questions of his existence.
But Fearghas was getting old. He was sometimes so tired that these constant requests for more teaching left him short-tempered. Or even more short-tempered than usual. He smiled ruefully. He was well aware of how the young novices, and most of the older monks for that matter, thought of him. Old, irascible, hard to please and quick to anger. All of this was true, but he loved his brethren unconditionally and always sought to bring out the best in them.
Abbot Fearghas was feeling particularly annoyed at that moment. The weather was horrendous. A constant, cold rain fell in waves from a featureless, iron-grey sky. Little light filtered into the room where he sat with Coenred and four other novices. The damp and cold made his back ache.
“No, no, no,” Fearghas snapped. “For the hundredth time, you must add the iron salt after the encaustum is thickened. Otherwise the colour will not hold fast.”
He took the powder away from Coenred, spilling a little of the expensive ingredient onto the rough workbench where they were working.
“Now look what you’ve made me do. We have little enough of this stuff as it is.”
One of the other four novices, a pimply boy called Dalston, sniggered, attracting one of Abbot Fearghas’ infamous looks.
The old monk turned his attention back to Coenred. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”
But Coenred did not answer, he had turned and was looking beyond Fearghas, where someone was framed in the doorway.
Coenred’s face was pallid. His mouth had dropped open. The other novices’ gaze followed Coenred’s. Fearghas turned slowly to see who had intruded into his class on ink mixing.
*
The moment he realised they were at Engelmynster, Beobrand knew he was in trouble. He was sure that Hengist meant to harm those who had harboured him.
That was something he would not allow. His mind raced. What could he do to stop them? He had been waiting for the right moment to seek vengeance for Cathryn but the time for waiting had passed. Now was the time to act.
Yet there was only one of him, and five of them. He rubbed his left side, remembering all too well what had happened the last time he had attempted to fight them without any plan or advantage.
Hengist turned in his saddle with a sardonic grin. “Time for some fun,” he said. Dreng licked rain water off his lips and chuckled deep in the back of his throat.
“Don’t take too long joining us,” Hengist said. He spurred his horse forward into a canter, shouting over his shoulder, “I’m sure you won’t want to miss this, Beobrand.”
A heartbeat later, Dreng’s steed also surged forward. Mud thrown up by the horses’ hooves splattered Beobrand and the others. Both riders moved off quickly and were soon almost hidden from sight by the torrential rain.
Beobrand didn’t like the situation. Hengist and Dreng would reach the village long before he could. He broke into a clumsy run, slipping and sliding through the quagmire left by the horses. He ran down the slope as fast as he could, sensing the others chasing behind him. Now he had two enemies in front and three behind.
He ran awkwardly, his shield slapping against his back. He had a head start on Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair and while he ran he scanned the buildings before him for something that could tip the odds in his favour. The place looked empty. The storm was too violent to allow any hearth smoke to be seen and the weather was evidently keeping people inside. He watched as Hengist and Dreng turned towards the small group of buildings that made up the monastery. Coenred would probably be there. Beobrand was certain now that the main objective of Hengist bringing them back here was to kill Coenred. Hengist knew that Beobrand and the young monk were friends. Beobrand was sure that making him witness Coenred’s death would appeal to Hengist. Beobrand had stood against him and denied him the pleasure of the kill the last time they were here. Then, the night of Cathryn’s death, Beobrand had confronted them again. Hengist had been toying with him ever since, leading him back here for the perfect punishment for his defiance.
Hengist and Dreng reined their horses to a halt outside the monastery and dismounted. Seeing this, Beobrand began to make his way towards them, desperate to prevent them from fulfilling their brutal goal. But what would he achieve when he got there? Hengist and Dreng together would be more than a match for him and the others were on his heels, calling after him. Surely Hengist would want to have him present before hurting Coenred, that must be the whole reason for bringing him here. Inflicting pain gave them pleasure. To be able to inflict pain on Coenred and cause Beobrand anguish as a result, was the ultimate prize.
Beobrand gambled this was the case.
Please, Woden, Father of the gods, let me be right.
He changed direction all of a sudden, his mud-clogged feet skidding. He lost his balance and started to fall, only righting himself by pushing off the ground with his hand. He cast a glance behind him and saw his three pursuers stop, momentarily unsure of which direction to go. He offered up thanks to Woden and pressed on with renewed speed.
He shouted as he ran. “Arm yourselves! Enemies are amongst you! To arms, to arms!” The thunder of the rain partially drowned out the sound of his voice, but his words must have reached the houses. He saw a few faces peer out from doorways, but he kept going, screaming at the top of his voice all the while.
His breath ragged, he saw his destination approaching. The thatched cottage had been home to him for weeks back in the autumn. He was about to rush inside when the stocky figure of Wybert stepped out, blocking his path.
“Come back have you? What do you want?” Wybert sneered.
Beobrand stole a quick look over his shoulder. Hafgan was almost upon him, with the other two following only a few paces behind. There was no time to be wasted. This was not the time for talk.
He stepped in close to Wybert, putting all of his weight and considerable strength behind a straight punch to his jaw. Wybert’s head snapped back and he fell backwards into the hut.
Beobrand leapt in after him, jumping over his supine form. The hut’s single room was smoky and dark. Before his eyes could adjust, the light from the guttering fire glinted off of a spearhead that was hurtling towards his chest. With instinctive lightning reactions, Beobrand spun to one side and the spear narrowly missed his body, instead snagging his sodden cloak.
“Wait! It is I, Beobrand,” he said before Leofwine could make a second lunge. “You are under attack, but not from me. There are others right behind me.”
As if in response to his words Tondberct’s voice, breathless from exertion, called through the doorway. “Beobrand, come outside. We don’t want to hurt you.”
Beobrand’s eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom inside the hut and he was able to make out Alric, armed with an axe, standing beside Wilda, who was clutching a large knife. “Beobrand?” she asked, “Is that you?”
Alric stepped forward. “What have you done, boy?” He moved towards Wybert. “You’d better pray he’s alright.”
“He should be fine,” answered Beobrand. “I’m sorry. There was no time to talk.”
“I can hear you talking in there!” came Tondberct’s voice. “Come on out and we can all talk together.”
Alric helped Wybert up and moved him with Leofwine’s help to the back of the hut, where they lay him on a low pallet. Wilda moved to his side, fussing over him. He moaned groggily.
Alric and Leofwine turned back to Beobrand. Alric hissed, “What is happening? Who are the people outside?”
“There’s no time to explain,” said Beobrand. “You have to trust me. There are five armed men in the village. Three here and two more at the monastery. I think they mean to kill Coenred. Perhaps others too.”
Alric’s face hardened. “We’ll see about that.” He reached up to one of the roof beams and brought down a horn that had been hanging there. He moved towards the doorway, placed the horn to his lips and blew five short blasts. The sound was loud in the confines of the hut, but much of the sound was directed out of the open doorway. Alric paused, took a deep breath, then repeated the five blasts on the horn.
“That should bring us some reinforcements,” he said, with a cold smile. “We’ve not been idle since you left, Beobrand. Now you’ll see.”
Wybert sat up, despite his mother’s protestations. “You bastard,” he rasped, looking at Beobrand with utter hatred. He made as if to stand up, but Wilda firmly pushed him back.
“We need to fight our enemies, Wybert,” said Alric, looking at Beobrand appraisingly. “Not our friends.”
Reaching his hand to his chin and wincing at the touch of his probing fingers, Wybert answered, “Friends don’t punch you in the face.”
“Enough!” said Alric, drawing a conclusion to the conversation. “If you are strong enough, Wybert, pick up your weapon and prepare to stand strong in defence of Engelmynster, your friends and your kindred.”
Wybert got up shakily. He gave Beobrand a sour look, but said no more.
For a moment, nobody spoke and the only sounds were the constant drone of the rain falling on the thatch and the crackle of the fire on the hearthstone. Then a horn sounded somewhere not too far away. Three long blasts. A reply to Alric’s call to arms.
Alric raised his horn to his lips again and blew.
Hefting his axe, he turned to Beobrand, Leofwine and Wybert. “Let’s show these ruffians what happens when you attack Christ’s children.”
With that Alric strode out of the hut into the driving rain. Beobrand didn’t think he counted as one of Christ’s children. Nonetheless, he drew his langseax, unslung his shield from his back, lifted it on his left arm, tensing slightly at the jolt to his still-tender ribs, and followed Alric outside. Leofwine and Wybert trailed out after them.
In front of the hut stood Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair. All three brandished their weapons, but didn’t have the confidence they’d displayed only moments before when attempting to draw Beobrand out from shelter. Beobrand was now flanked by three armed men, making them outnumbered. The horn sounded again, this time closer. More allies were coming. The three of them stood close together, gaining strength from their proximity to each other. Their eyes were frightened.
They could see the reinforcements approaching now. Five more men, armed with knives, cudgels and spears, were walking determinedly towards them through the mud and rain.
The new group of villagers was getting close. Soon Tondberct and the two Waelisc brothers would be surrounded. They would have to fight. It was a fight they knew they could not win.
Some silent communication passed between them, and, as one, they turned and fled towards the forest.
The new group of villagers let out a cheer and ran forward, meaning to give chase. Alric held up his hands to stop them. “Wait, there are two more,” he said. “At the monastery. We think they mean to kill Coenred. There’s no time to waste.”
Without waiting for a response, Alric broke into a lumbering run towards the monastery buildings at the other end of the village clearing. Beobrand ran at his side. Leofwine, Wybert and the others needed no further encouragement.
*
“Well, well, well, what have we here?” Hengist sneered from the doorway. He moved into the room, allowing Dreng to enter behind him. The small chamber was already crowded with the five novices, Abbot Fearghas and the workbench. The overbearing presence of the two large warriors made it cramped. The novices moved as far from the two intruders as they could, cowering against the far wall.
Fearghas stepped forwards, placing himself in between the warriors and the boys. “This is a place of worship and reflection. These boys are studying the works of God. Do you seek food or shelter from the rain? I’m sure we can find something to give you. Perhaps you could dry your wet clothes by a fire in the village.”
Fearghas knew the men had not come for food or shelter, he could see the malice in their eyes. They reeked of wet wool, sweat and woodsmoke. A lust of violence radiated from them like one more stench. Perhaps they were possessed by evil spirits. He did not know how, but he must protect the boys in his care from these men. Please Lord, protect these innocents from these men of war, he prayed silently.
Hengist laughed. “We can take the food we need. We want to complete what we started back in the autumn.” His eyes roved across the novices and settled on Coenred. “As I recall, we were going to cut off your head and display it on a spear. Before your friend interrupted us.”
Coenred felt sick. He had tried not to think about his brief time in the woods with these men. He’d thought he’d never see them again. That they would become a bad memory. Yet here they were, the large bearded leader and the evil-looking, toothless old one and there was nobody but Abbot Fearghas to protect him. Fleetingly, he thought that he should pray. Christ would protect him. Then he looked straight into Hengist’s eyes. He saw the madness and cruelty there and all thought of prayer left his mind, like smoke borne away on a breeze.
Hengist made to take a step towards Coenred and the novices. Fearghas stood his ground. “You cannot have him or anyone else. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be gone from here!” Abbot Fearghas’ voice was surprisingly strong for one so frail.
Hengist paused. He didn’t know what magic this old man was capable of by invoking the names of his new gods. He had seen people wither away after being cursed. His own mother used to weave her spells with words of power. Who knew what powers this new Christ god had, especially inside his sacred buildings? He shuddered. The old priest must be silenced and they should get outside, where the wind and rain could wash away his incantations.
Without warning Hengist struck Fearghas across the face with the back of his left hand. His knuckles connected solidly with the old man’s nose, crunching the cartilage. His eyes glazed over, rolling back into his head. Blood was already flowing from his nose, as he sank to the floor, dazed. Any other man who had stood against him as the old priest had would already be dead. But something in his demeanour made Hengist decide not to use his weapon. Perhaps striking him down with the words of his spell still on his lips in this enclosed space would bring down the wrath of the Christ god. Hengist feared no man, but he had a healthy respect for gods, both new and old.
Dreng had drawn his seax and pounced on Fearghas’ senseless form.
“Leave him!” shouted Hengist, the extent of his own fear surprising him. “We’ve come for the boy.” He pointed at Coenred, who felt his legs grow weak. He moved as far as he could from the two warriors, pressing his back against the rough wall.
Dreng moved grudgingly away from Fearghas. He pushed past the workbench to get to Coenred. The boys moved aside, allowing the old warrior to get to his new prey. When he reached the last boy before Coenred, the young monk did not move. It was Dalston and he was paralysed by fear. Dreng grabbed the young novice by the hair, using it to pull him out of the way. Dalston let out a whimper and his bladder released. The sharp tang of warm piss filled the air, as shivers began to rack the boy’s body.
Ignoring the weeping youth, Dreng seized Coenred by the ear. Twisting it savagely, he pulled Coenred towards Hengist and the doorway. Coenred didn’t resist. He tried to keep pace with the old warrior to alleviate the pain in his ear. He managed a quick look back at the frightened faces of the novices in the room before he was dragged out into the pelting rain. There would be no help from that quarter.
The cold rain and wind buffeted Coenred’s face. Dreng let go of his ear and gave him a hard shove in between his shoulder blades. Coenred sprawled in the mud. He pushed himself up onto his knees, but before he could stand or contemplate running away, Hengist kicked him in the stomach with such force that he was lifted off the ground. He landed on his back, unable to breathe. He lay in the mud looking up at the dark clouds roiling overhead. He struggled to draw a breath. Panic engulfed him. So he really was going to die. His vision blurred, darkening at the edges.
After what seemed like a long time, when he thought he was about to pass out, Coenred finally managed a shuddering intake of air. As the air filled his lungs, his senses flooded back and with them an intense pain in his midriff where Hengist’s boot had connected.
From the village came the sudden sound of five notes on a horn. They were muffled by distance and the storm, but clearly audible. Coenred recognised the signal Alric had made to warn of attack. About time. Perhaps he wasn’t going to die after all. Would Christ see fit to spare him again?
He turned his head and saw Hengist and Dreng standing over him, rain streaming down their faces. They were not looking at him.
“By Tiw’s cock, what is that? And where are Beobrand and the others? I thought they were right behind us,” said Hengist, peering into the driving rain in the direction of the sound of the horn.
The mention of Beobrand made Coenred start. So he was still alive and with these men. What part did he have in this? Surely he couldn’t want to kill him.
Just then another horn sounded. Longer notes this time, a different pitch.
Despite the pain in his stomach and the waves of nausea that were now making his mouth fill with saliva, Coenred saw an opportunity to escape while the warriors’ attention was diverted. He hadn’t prayed for help, so it was unlikely God would save him.
He had better help himself.
The first horn sounded again. The warriors were distracted. Coenred scrabbled up from the ground away from Hengist and Dreng. But they were standing and Coenred was starting from lying flat on his back in the mud. After only a few strides he was pulled back by a strong hand gripping his robe. He was brought to a halt and he felt the cold iron of a blade pressed painfully into his throat.
“Where do you think you’re going, eh?” Hengist held him tightly. The blade at his neck kept him still. “We’ve got plans for you.”
“Looks like we’ve got company,” said Dreng. He went to the horses and retrieved both of their shields from where they had been tied to the saddles. Dreng held his shield in his left hand and then grabbed Coenred by the throat while Hengist readied his own shield.
Running through the rain towards them came Beobrand and eight other men. All armed, but none wearing armour. Only Beobrand carried a shield. His face was dark with fury. Hengist grinned.
Dreng spoke quietly beside him. “It is good that Beobrand’s angry. The boy is good with a blade, but he’s no match for you.”
Hengist snorted. “Beobrand won’t be a problem. But where are Tondberct and those two damn Waelisc inbreds?”
Dreng scanned the village for sign of their friends. “Two against nine are not good odds.”
“No, but not impossible odds. Not against these peasants,” said Hengist.
Beobrand and his companions stopped a few paces away from them.
“Come to see us kill your little friend, Beobrand?” said Hengist. “Did you believe I wouldn’t come back for him? He’s been dead these last months. He just hasn’t known it.”
Beobrand stopped a few paces from Hengist. He looked Coenred in the eye and saw the fear there. It struck him that Coenred didn’t respond in any way to him. He is not sure if I am here to help him or to help them kill him. The thought saddened him.
“If you kill Coenred, you will both die. There are nine of us.” He waved his arm in the direction he had come. “Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair have fled.”
Dreng looked around furtively. He licked his lips. The rain stopped falling abruptly, throwing a blanket of eerie silence over the village.
Hengist smiled. “We will kill the boy if you try to attack. We can take him with us. Ride away from here. You’ll never catch us.”
Beobrand saw the truth in Hengist’s words. A shiver ran down his spine. It was not brought on by the cold wind on his rain-soaked clothes. He had to stop them from leaving with Coenred.
“You came here for a death. Let him go and face me instead.”
Hengist’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I want to do that?”
“To prove you can best me. I have beaten all the others, but you have never fought me. I wonder if you are craven.”
“As soon as I release him, they will set upon us. You think I’m a fool?”
“You have my word that if you beat me in single combat, they will let you leave in peace.” Beobrand turned to Alric. “Swear an oath on whatever you hold sacred that your people will let this man go if he beats me.”
Alric appeared troubled. He looked Beobrand in the eye for a long time. Beobrand gave a slight nod.
“Aye. I swear on the bones of our Lord Jesu Christ that you will be given free passage should you beat Beobrand in combat. But first you must let the boy go.”
Hengist hesitated. Dreng shuffled his feet in the mud. Coenred looked from Beobrand to Hengist.
Beobrand broke the silence. “A coward it is then. Too scared to face me? Unbelievable. The great Hengist is scared of the boy he trained.”
“Let him go.” Hengist waved at Dreng, but his eyes never left Beobrand’s. There was murder and death in that stare. Madness too. Fear suddenly gripped Beobrand. He’d seen what Hengist was capable of. He was no match for the older warrior. His stomach tightened.
Dreng pushed Coenred away. Hengist sheathed his knife and drew his sword slowly from its plain scabbard.
All eyes were on the blade as Hengist pulled it out with great ceremony. He held it aloft for a moment, and then pointed it at Beobrand. The shimmering patterns from the forging of the blade made it look like the skin of a serpent. Or the rippling waves of the ocean. It was a thing of beauty and great value. It was a noble blade.
“Where did you get that sword, Hengist? Why do you never unsheathe it?” asked Beobrand, readying himself for the attack that would come all too soon. He sensed the men behind him back away, giving them space to fight. A glimmer of emotion passed over Hengist’s face, sowing a seed of a thought in Beobrand’s mind. “Did you steal it?” he asked. Hengist’s eyes widened. Then, almost as an afterthought, Beobrand said, “Like the coward you are.” To the onlookers, he seemed calm, in control. Inside he churned with pent up emotion. And fear.
Hengist’s jaw clenched.
“I am no coward, Beobrand. It was I who saved Edwin. This sword is named Hrunting and it was my wyrd for it to be mine. I didn’t steal it. I brought the justice of the gods on them both!” Beobrand didn’t understand Hengist’s words, but he had clearly struck on something to rile his foe. He needed any advantage he could get, so he pressed on.
“Your words make no sense, Hengist. Are you spirit-touched? You talk of justice. What do you know of justice?”
“I know that betrayal should be paid for with death. That is why I killed Elda,” spittle flew from Hengist’s mouth. He was working himself up into a rage. “And why I killed Octa!”
Without warning Hengist charged.
Despite being prepared for the attack, Beobrand was startled. He threw up his shield to ward off Hengist’s long-reaching lunge but he did not feel the impact of metal on the leather-bound wood. Hengist skipped to the side, lithe and agile, sure-footed even on the muddy ground. As he moved, he flicked out the tip of his sword behind Beobrand’s shield and opened up a cut on his arm. Beobrand staggered backwards. Off balance. Feeling clumsy. His arm stung. The warmth of blood trickled inside his sleeve.
His mind was in turmoil. Had Hengist really killed Octa and Elda or was he trying to make him lose concentration? Beobrand could not allow that to happen. He pushed the thoughts from his head. He was going to need his full focus and everything he had learnt if he was to have any chance of surviving this fight. He regained his footing and resumed the fighting stance Hengist had taught him.
Hengist laughed. “Come on then, Beobrand. Show us what you’ve learnt.”
They circled each other. Beobrand tense, keeping his guard up, Hengist relaxed and loose, his shield held at his side, his sword dancing in intricate patterns. The watchers were silent. Coenred held his breath.
Hengist attacked again. He led with his shield, crashing boss against boss. He followed through with a cut to Beobrand’s feet, but this time Beobrand anticipated the move and leapt backwards.
They circled again. Each looking intently for signals that would give away the other’s next move.
Beobrand was biding his time. He hoped more than anything for Hengist to make a mistake. He kept his shield up and continued to mirror Hengist’s movements. His shield arm was tiring. The pain from the cut was getting worse. He would have to attack soon.
As fast as a cat, Hengist attacked once more. They clashed shields again, Hengist using his forward momentum and strength to lever Beobrand’s to the side and down. He sent a probing cut with his sword over the shield’s rim, aimed at Beobrand’s face. Beobrand twisted his body and was able to parry the strike with his langseax. Though how, he was not sure. He had barely seen Hengist’s attack. Sparks flashed briefly in the dim light as the two blades collided.
They parted. Beobrand went on the offensive almost instantly in an attempt to catch Hengist by surprise. He wielded his langseax with all his strength and skill, landing a flurry of blows upon Hengist’s shield. Hengist effortlessly deflected all of Beobrand’s attacks. He laughed again. “Is that the best you can do?”
Beobrand could feel his strength sapping. The cut on his arm must be deeper than he had originally thought. Soon he wouldn’t be able to lift his shield at all. He could see no way of breaking down Hengist’s defence. Beobrand had been walking all day, then he had run and now he was losing blood. Hengist was hardly out of breath.
Every time they moved Beobrand could feel his feet shifting and sliding, making him clumsy, slow to react. Hengist seemed unaffected by the poor condition of the ground.
They exchanged more blows, ending up shield to shield. For a moment they were staring at each other. Hengist’s eyes were full of malice, a gleeful violence. Then he gave a shove, lifted his sword up and under Beobrand’s shield, cutting into his side, beneath his ribs.
Beobrand let out a cry and jumped back. Hengist did not press home his advantage; content to watch his young adversary suffer some more before delivering the killer blow.
The pain in Beobrand’s side was excruciating. He wanted to probe it with his fingers to find how bad it was, but he could not risk letting his guard down for a moment. The warmth of his blood soaked into his woollen jerkin. He scanned the faces of the people watching the fight. It looked as if everyone in the village had arrived while he had been fighting Hengist. Now they would all be able to witness his death. At least they now so vastly outnumbered Hengist and Dreng that there was no chance of the two escaping.
“Octa died a coward’s death,” said Hengist. “Alone in the dark. No sword in his hand.”
If Hengist hoped to unnerve Beobrand, his words had the opposite effect.
“You mean you murdered him in the dark when he was not prepared to fight you,” Beobrand panted. “There is no dishonour for my brother. But you are craven. The worst kind of man.”
The pale face of Coenred caught his eye. The young monk was staring at him earnestly, worry etched on his features. But something else too. Could it be pride?
Beobrand said, “It is not dark here and I am armed and ready, Hengist. Come to me and let us finish this.”
Hengist let out a roar and took three bounding steps towards Beobrand, lunging forwards with his sword point, hoping to strike inside Beobrand’s guard.
Beobrand was slow to react. His near exhaustion, coupled with his loss of blood, made him sluggish. He moved to meet Hengist’s charge, but he was too late. Hengist’s sword was aimed at his right shoulder and there was no way he would be able to lift his shield in time. He attempted a desperate leap to one side, but his left foot slipped in the slick mud. He fell, sprawling into the mire.
His timing could not have been more perfect if he had made the move intentionally. Hengist’s sword slid safely over him. Instead of running him through the shoulder, it pierced thin air. Hengist’s speed carried him forward, unable to slow himself down or adjust his attack. His feet crashed into Beobrand’s thighs. He lost his balance and he toppled over on top of Beobrand.
Beobrand instinctively raised his langseax to ward off Hengist’s falling form. His blade sliced into Hengist’s unprotected face. The sharp blade opened up a cut from Hengist’s chin to his left eyebrow. He dropped the sword, let out a shriek and rolled away from Beobrand, clutching his face with both hands.
Beobrand staggered to his feet, not quite sure what had happened. The onlooking crowd let out a ragged gasp. Dreng moved to Hengist’s side. Helped him to his feet. Blood was streaming from the gash in his face. Hengist clamped his right hand to it. His left still clutching his shield. His right eye stared balefully at Beobrand.
“What have you done, you bastard? By Tiw, I’ll eat your heart!” Beobrand stood his ground, swaying slightly, his legs weak. Alric and some of the villagers took a few steps forwards.
Dreng pulled Hengist towards the horses. He helped Hengist onto his horse, then mounted his own. “Come, brother,” he whispered, “You cannot win this fight today.”
“This hasn’t finished!” screamed Hengist. “I will have my revenge on you, Beobrand. I swear it on all the gods.” He had dropped his hands to the horse’s reins, his face a bloody ruin. “I’ll kill you and take back Hrunting. Your life and the sword are both mine.” He turned his steed, kicked his heels to its flanks and galloped away northward.
Dreng followed him, his horse flinging up gobbets of mud in its wake.
A stillness fell on those watching. They stared after the two horsemen until they had been swallowed up by the gloom of the forest road.
Beobrand could not quite believe what had just transpired. He silently thanked Woden, father of the gods. For surely the gods had guided his hand and caused him to slip at exactly the right moment. To think it had been blind luck was too frightening. He began to tremble. He could feel the strength ebbing from his limbs. Perhaps he could go and lie down in the dry of Alric and Wilda’s hut, when a strangely familiar voice penetrated his foggy senses.
“Well, Edwin said you’d be a mighty warrior!” roared the voice.
Beobrand spun round, dizziness blurring his vision. Striding towards him was the hulking figure of Bassus, King Edwin’s champion and Octa’s best friend. He was resplendent in his war gear and leading a chestnut horse. There were several other riders dismounting behind him.
The huge warrior tossed the reins of his horse to Coenred, who was standing looking dumbstruck. Bassus stooped and picked up the beautiful, patterned-bladed sword from the ground where it lay and walked to Beobrand, smiling broadly.
Beobrand was confused. “What? How are you here?” he blurted out.
“Well, there I was thinking you might actually be pleased to see me. I have to say I am pleased to see you. I was sure you were with Octa, drinking in the hall of the gods.” He gave Beobrand an appraising look. Beobrand’s face was gaunt from a winter of sleeping rough and foraging off the land. He had a scar under his left eye. His left arm and side were stained crimson from his injuries. He was soaking wet and covered from head to foot in cloying mud.
“From the look of you, you haven’t got far to go to join your brother.”
With his cloak, Bassus wiped Beobrand’s blood from the sword’s blade, admiring the workmanship. “Well, I never thought to see this sword again. It seems it has chosen to be reunited with the kin of its previous owner.” Beobrand looked at Bassus, confused by his presence.
He proffered the sword to Beobrand, hilt first. “Hrunting was gifted to your brother by King Edwin. It seems it was not lost in the sea after all.”
Beobrand took the sword. “Hengist murdered Octa. I must avenge him…” His voice trailed off.
Bassus placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “We can talk of this later.”
Beobrand was in no state to have a conversation. He was wavering on the verge of consciousness. Bassus turned to the assembled crowd. “My companions and I are travelling north. We mean no harm. We seek refuge here for the night. We will pay well for food and shelter.” The tension eased from the villagers. “But first, let’s get young Beobrand here somewhere warm and dry and his wounds tended to.”
Alric stepped forward. “He can come to my family’s home. Come, Beobrand.” He placed his hand on Beobrand’s arm.
The glazed look left Beobrand’s eyes and he turned to Coenred. “Well, I make us even now. That’s twice I’ve saved you. I told you a son of Grimgundi always repays his debts.”
*
Bassus stretched his feet out to the fire. He had ridden all day and for many days prior to that, and riding always made his feet cold. The weather since leaving Cantware had been foul. Wind and rain most days, and freezing nights. Still, it was better than travelling by ship, which is what Queen Ethelburga had wanted. He hated sailing more than he hated riding. It was not natural for men to get into fragile wooden boats and travel over vast expanses of endless ocean. Every year, when ships were lost at sea, or wrecked on the rocky coastline of Northumbria, Bassus couldn’t help but feel that the sailors had got what they deserved. You could fall off a horse and get back up with a bruise or a broken bone. Fall out of a ship and you were never coming back to dry land. Ethelburga had said that by sea he would get the message he was carrying to King Eanfrith of Bernicia sooner than if he travelled by road. Bassus had replied that if he drowned, Eanfrith would never get the message, so he would ride.
In the end, Ethelburga had relented and not ordered Bassus to do her bidding exactly. Since the death of her husband, she was less certain of her position and was unsure whether her husband’s men would follow her as they had followed him. After Edwin’s defeat at Elmet, a handful of his most trusted thegns had survived. Led by Bassus, the small group had escaped the field of battle, ridden hard north to Bebbanburg, where Ethelburga, the princess Eanflæd and the little atheling Wuscfrea waited. From there they had sailed south to the lands of Ethelburga’s brother, King Eadbald, in Cantware.
Bassus remembered those dark days clearly. The defeat at the hands of Penda and Cadwallon had been absolute and terrible. First Osfrid, Edwin’s heir had fallen. Edwin, dismayed and blinded by his loss, had struck out to avenge his son. He had charged forward on his own, causing the shieldwall to split and falter.
Bassus blamed himself. He should have reacted more quickly to the danger. He should have sensed the tide of battle shifting and acted accordingly. Instead, his king had been struck down and it was all Bassus could do to pull him away from the thick of the fighting before they were completely overrun. In those last moments, Edwin saw clearly what he had done and what the outcome of the battle would be. He had gripped Bassus’ wrist and made him swear on all the gods, both old and new, that he would follow Queen Ethelburga in his stead. Bassus would have gladly laid down his life for his lord, so he was powerless to refuse the request. But now, in the rare moments when he allowed himself to think on the past, he felt a deep-seated shame that he had not died on that battlefield.
Despite being back in her homeland in the south, Ethelburga still feared for the safety of her children. There was no clear ruler over the northern kingdoms. The exiled heir to Bernicia, Eanfrith, had returned. Osric, Edwin’s cousin, had sat himself on the throne of Deira. Cadwallon continued to vie for control of the two kingdoms, emboldened by his victory over Edwin, who had ruled both.
With the first green shoots of spring, a trader from Eoferwic had arrived in Cantware recounting tales of Osric being killed and his forces routed by Cadwallon during a siege.
It was this unsettled situation that had led Ethelburga to send a message north. It was possible that Eanfrith would seek to unite the two kingdoms as Edwin had done. If he was successful, he would surely wish to dispatch with as many potential usurpers of his throne as possible. So Ethelburga had decided to send a message of peace and Christian love to Eanfrith. He was reputed to worship Christ, albeit following the Hibernian traditions taught in the Pictish lands where he had been exiled, and not the teachings as laid out by Bishop Paulinus and Pope Honorius in faraway Rome. Nevertheless, she wished him prosperity and victory over his enemies in the name of the Lord. She also let it be known that her children were no threat to him. Despite this, Ethelburga decided to remove Wuscfrea, her one remaining son, along with Yffi, her stepson Osfrid’s son, from the courts of the noble houses of Albion. At the same time as Bassus had been sent north with the message to Eanfrith, the boys had been sent south to be fostered in the court of her cousin, Dagobert, in Frankia. She prayed they would be safe there, far from the machinations of the different royal lines of Albion.
Bassus sighed as the warmth of the fire began to seep into his bones. His toes tingled as the blood returned. With a conscious effort, he brought his focus back to the present. He had decided long ago that dwelling on the past was for fools. You could not go back and change your actions, so why go over and over your mistakes in your memory? Because he was a fool. A sentimental fool, who was getting old. He smiled at the thought. It was true that he was not young anymore, though he still had several useful years left in him, he hoped.
He looked over at the sleeping form of Beobrand. Now there was youth. Beobrand had endured terrible hardship, both of body and mind, and yet he shrugged off his ills as a duck’s feathers shed water. Well, perhaps not that easily. His wounds had been cleaned and bound and it would take several days until he was fighting fit again, but the colour had returned to his face after a small meal of pottage and some mead. Now he slept soundly. The sleep of a child. But he was a child no longer. The last vestiges of childish roundness had left his cheeks. His body and face had taken on a hard edge that was lacking when last Bassus had seen him.
Bassus still found it hard to believe the boy’s story as it had been told to him that afternoon. How he had survived against all the odds, escaping the battlefield at night. Then being nursed to health here in this village, narrowly avoiding marauding Waelisc from Cadwallon’s force. And finally joining up with some survivors of Edwin’s warband and travelling the wilds throughout the winter. Beobrand had told him little of what had happened during the long winter months, but he had clearly learnt how to fight. When Bassus and his companions had arrived, the fight between Beobrand and Hengist was almost over. Beobrand had been injured and was struggling, yet he still carried himself well, blocking, parrying and attacking like a seasoned veteran. Bassus knew Hengist too. He was a warrior to be reckoned with, savage, skilled and ruthless, with a nasty penchant for wanton violence. So Bassus was surprised at the outcome of the fight. The moment he’d recognised Beobrand, he’d decided to step in to stop Hengist from killing Octa’s younger brother. Just at the moment he’d taken a step forward and was preparing to shout out a command to both warriors to put up their weapons, Beobrand had slipped and ended the fight with the terrible blow to Hengist’s face.
Beobrand wasn’t just a natural warrior, mused Bassus. He had the commodity that warriors prized more highly than any other: luck.
Bassus turned his attention to the young monk who sat next to Beobrand like a faithful hound. He had been introduced as Coenred and there was clearly a strong bond of friendship between him and Beobrand. It was he who had found Beobrand and nursed his wounds after the battle of Elmet. It seemed that Hengist had threatened to kill the boy, which is what prompted Beobrand to fight him. Just like his brother. Brave to the point of careless, and a more loyal friend you would not find.
As he watched, Coenred’s head sank slowly forward. His chin ended up rested on his chest and he fell ever so slowly sideways, until his head rested on Beobrand’s legs. Bassus smiled. He really did look like his dog now.
Alric, who was sitting quietly next to Bassus, broke the silence. “I’m surprised Coenred stayed awake as long as he did,” he said quietly. “It’s been a terribly long day, and he took a real beating from those bastards.”
Bassus grunted. He didn’t feel like speaking. He was happy to sit here watching over Beobrand and the monk. From outside came the sound of distant laughter. Bassus’ companions had been put up in different homes in the village, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. The storm had blown itself out. The night was still, allowing the noise to travel far.
Alric didn’t press him into conversation. Instead he refilled Bassus’ drinking horn with ale. Bassus nodded his thanks, taking a deep draught. It was good. Fresh and light.
Both men raised their drinks in silent toast.