In Gefrin, they feasted long into the night. The king was in fine spirits and this rubbed off on his thegns. All except Scand. He sat gloomily in the corner and did not join in the merriment. The men glanced at him, and one of them, Galan, as jubilant as the king, called out to him, offering him mead and meat, but Scand was not interested. Perhaps he was ailing with something, they thought. Or maybe the king had rebuked him when he had pulled him away from the group. Whatever cloud hung over Scand, the others forgot about him as the drink flowed and the hall became raucous with boasting talk and tales.
Leofwine seized onto the mood and sang with a fine loud voice. Then, later, as the night drew in and the only light in the hall came from the embers of the hearth fire, he told the story of a troll that crept into a hall on just such a night. He told the story well, and the up-lit faces of the men were rapt. They were slack-jawed in expectation as he described the beast dripping with grime from the mere where he lived and how he ravaged the people of the hall with terrible strength. To fight the beast, the lord of the hall called upon a great warrior from across the sea. Leofwine called this warrior, Eanfrith, which gained a huge cheer from his audience and a broad smile from the king, who banged the table with his eating knife in appreciation.
In the way of stories, the hero defeated the fell beast and the warrior, Eanfrith, was rewarded handsomely for his bravery. Leofwine had told this story before with a differently-named hero, but in the full version the hero got old and died. Judging his audience well, he decided against completing the tale, preferring to leave the hero wealthy, famous and lauded by all.
As the applause and cheering abated, Eanfrith, his cheeks shining in the hearth-light, pulled a gold ring from his finger and tossed it towards Leofwine. It was a poor throw and the light was dim, so Leofwine dropped it. He reached down quickly and scooped it up, holding it high for all to see. His cheeks burnt.
“Gold for a golden voice!” slurred Eanfrith. “His skill at catching does not match that of his singing!” It was a poor jest, but the throng laughed loud and long.
Elsewhere in Gefrin there are women preparing their dead for burial, thought Leofwine, yet here we are feasting. He did not know what else he could do, but the thought sat heavy on him. He gripped the golden ring in his fist and hoped that Beobrand’s woman was not alone with her dead father that night.
*
A light rain fell during the night, drizzling over Beobrand and the others where they lay wrapped in blankets. Beobrand slept fitfully and rose before he was roused to take his turn on guard. He stood and stretched, his lower back and thighs stiff from the riding. They had ridden hard all the previous day, but they had not come upon the men they sought. Nor had they seen any other people. The land was desolate and lonely. As night fell, they had made camp and collapsed with tiredness.
A wind was blowing out of the north and the rain clouds were scudding south, breaking up as they went. Beobrand could make out the still figure of Acennan silhouetted against the deep, silken purple of the night sky. The stocky warrior was standing, leaning his head against the shaft of his spear. Beobrand wondered if he was asleep on his feet, but Acennan proved he was alert by speaking up as Beobrand approached.
“I could see their fire again. Before the rain. I don’t believe they know they are being followed. They make no attempt to conceal themselves.”
“We should leave before first light. With any luck we will catch them by surprise.”
“Yes. We should put an end to this tomorrow. We are far from our lord’s hall. It feels wrong. War is brewing and we should be with our lord.”
The use of the term “our lord” was not missed on Beobrand. It was a good feeling to be included by Acennan in Scand’s comitatus. He was unlikely to get anything closer to an apology or open acceptance.
“Why don’t you sleep for a while?” said Beobrand. “I will awaken you before dawn.”
“Very well. Don’t fall asleep or I’ll have to give you a beating.” Beobrand could not see his face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice.
*
Eanfrith’s mood was still ebullient in the morning. Despite the amount of mead and ale he had consumed, the king seemed as fresh as a child who had slept the whole night after a drink of warm milk. He ordered his steward to prepare horses and provisions for a journey for him and twelve of his most trusted thegns.
Thralls and bondsmen ran hither and thither filling sacks with hams, cheeses and all manner of other food. Skins were filled with water. Two slave girls brushed and wrapped the king’s best clothes for him to wear when attending the king of Gwynedd.
By the time Gwalchmei rode once more into Gefrin, Eanfrith and his thegns were ready to leave.
As the black-garbed rider approached, Eanfrith turned to Scand. “I leave you in charge, old friend.”
Scand could not bring himself to smile, instead he bowed his head. “I will keep Gefrin safe in your absence. I will watch over Finola and Talorcan and see that no ill befalls them.” The queen had not come out to bid her husband farewell, but young Talorcan stood by Scand’s side, watching proceedings with a keen eye. Scand placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder protectively.
Eanfrith gave his son a brief smile and a nod. “Do as Scand says, Talorcan.”
“Yes, father,” he replied, but he did not look at Eanfrith.
Eanfrith turned his attention back to Scand. “You have nothing to fear here. Find yourself a nice girl. You should enjoy yourself.”
Eanfrith’s attempt at levity fell flat. He faced the approaching Waelisc rider.
Gwalchmei halted and said, “What decision have you taken, Eanfrith King?”
Eanfrith smiled. “I will ride to your camp and meet your lord.” He mounted his horse, a fine grey stallion held ready by the hawk-nosed Galan. Eanfrith swung into the saddle lithely. He was not a young man, but he had always been a good rider. The men who would ride with him mounted too. They were caparisoned in their finest trappings of war. Polished helms, silver-hilted swords, freshly painted shields. They were a formidable band of warriors, hale and strong.
Eanfrith turned to the men who were staying behind. “You are to follow Scand as if he speaks with my voice until I return. I will come back soon and I will bring good news of peace. Watch to the south, for our returning. Lead on, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar.”
They rode out of Gefrin, leaving a pall of dust hanging in the air. The day was clear and dry and the sun was warm, but as he watched the thirteen men riding after the black rider on the black horse, Scand felt a chill run down his back.
*
“Are you sure you want to burn him, child?” the elderly woman asked Sunniva. It was the old way, but most of the people of Gefrin now embraced the Christ priests’ teachings and buried their dead.
“I am sure. It is what he would have wanted. He lived with fire and would want to be sent on with fire.”
She was determined in this and had been awake since the first light of dawn collecting firewood. She had refused any help, piling it high into a pyre behind their house.
Now, four men helped to carry her father out to the mound of wood. They laid him down with reverence on the branches. The tightly-wrapped cadaver shifted and for a moment they thought the pyre would collapse. But after a moment, it settled. They moved away to a safe distance.
Sunniva walked slowly back to the forge where she had stoked the fire that morning, like so many other mornings. She scooped some of the charcoal into a pot. It was fitting that fire from Strang’s forge should start the flames that would consume his earthly remains.
She walked back around the house to her father’s waiting form. Men and women were gathered around to witness the smith’s final passing.
Sunniva stooped at the base of the dry wood, spilling some of the coals at different points. The kindling had been cunningly placed and flames quickly licked up the wood. She was good with fires. It was one of the things her father had taught her.
She stood close to the flames, the early morning breeze fanning them.
The heat grew too much for her. The onlookers were suddenly afraid that she meant to throw herself onto Strang’s bone fire.
Her tears were hot on her face. Her hair was whipped about by the wind rushing in to breathe life into the fire. Her father’s body was dark, blackened and blurred by the conflagration.
Wisps of her hair singed and shrivelled. Her eyes stung from the heat.
At last she staggered back. The women caught her. Their hands held her. Supported her. She sobbed, but there was no sound over the roar of the fire that sent her father’s body on to the afterlife.
The fire burnt for a long time.
The others slowly moved away. There were more dead to see to.
And life went on.
All around Gefrin people saw to their business. People mourned their loved ones. Newly-widowed mothers fretted about how they would feed their children. Livestock was taken to pasture. Warriors practised the art of killing.
But all the while the smoke from the smith’s funeral pyre painted a dark smudge on the sky.
Sunniva, daughter of Strang, watched over it all that long day. She watched until the embers collapsed in on themselves.
Never again would she hear her father working the metal at the forge, bending the strongest of elements to his will. Nor would she again sit with him and share food in companionable silence.
She was alone.
Her thoughts turned to Beobrand. She prayed over her father’s ashes, where his spirit could take the message to the gods. She prayed that her lover would find her father’s murderers. She asked that the gods would guide him. That he would find them, and kill them.
And then, the blood price exacted from her father’s slayers, she prayed Beobrand would come back to her.
Beobrand shook them all awake when the birds were announcing the imminence of the dawn. They ate sparingly of their provisions, drank a few gulps of water and did not light a fire. The lame horse was no better, but no worse.
They mounted up and moved off into the pre-dawn gloom. They had loosened their blades in their scabbards, donned helmets and sharpened spears. They all hoped that today would bring an end to the hunt. They rode quietly towards where Acennan had spotted the fire in the darkness.
The sun rose on a clear day. All of the clouds had blown away during the night. The riders’ shadows streamed in front of them, pointing the way westward. Further into the unknown.
As the light picked out the details of the terrain, their quarries’ camp could be seen clearly. It was closer than they had expected, on the lower slope of a large, tree-topped hill. Acennan, who rode at the front of the group, pointed and signalled for the men to prepare themselves. They drew their weapons and spread out. They rode up the hill in silence and were barely a spear’s throw away when one of the camp’s inhabitants saw them and raised the alarm.
The figures jumped up and readied themselves for combat quickly.
Acennan said, “Give them no time to prepare. Forward!”
The riders heel-kicked their steeds forward, quickly closing the gap.
The three figures in the camp drew together, forming a tiny shieldwall. Beobrand recognised each of them. Hafgan, the tall, lithe Waelisc was on the right, Dreng, the old, bloodthirsty warrior stood on the left and Tondberct, the young Bernician warrior whom Beobrand had considered a friend, stood in the middle. The three locked shields and stood against the horsemen who lumbered up the hill.
There was no sign of Hengist or a horse in the camp.
The incline took the speed out of the charge and before they could join in battle, Hafgan let fly with one of his javelins. Beobrand watched its flight. It wobbled as it left Hafgan’s hand, but the throw was true. It arced into the bright sky, a dark sliver of death streaking on duck-shell blue, before falling quickly to lance into the neck of the horse carrying two riders. The horse whinnied and shied off to one side. The javelin had not penetrated deeply and was shaken free. The men managed to slow the horse and dismount, but they would have to climb the rest of the way on foot. The horse galloped away down and eastward, toward the lame horse that had been left at the bottom of the slope.
Beobrand kicked his horse on, urging it to go faster. Acennan and another rider rode on either side of him.
When they got close to the puny shieldwall, the others pulled their mounts to a halt and quickly dismounted. It was not the way of the Angelfolc to fight from horseback. Shield to shield was the warrior way.
But Beobrand drove his horse on, raking its flanks savagely with his heels. He felt the cold, clarity of battle descend on him. If they faced them with their own shieldwall, the outcome would be uncertain. They were attacking uphill, they did not drastically outnumber their foe and they had sustained the first injury to their ranks with Hafgan’s javelin. Their only advantage was the bulk of the horses they rode. There was no time to think clearly about what he was doing. He’d made the decision almost before the idea had formed in his mind.
Acennan slid from his horse and pulled his shield onto his arm, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with his companions. He saw Beobrand riding on and saw he had no intention of stopping. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Onwards!” he shouted, and ran up the slope as fast as he could.
At the last moment Beobrand saw recognition in the faces of the three men who stood defiantly before him. Recognition and the realisation that he did not plan to stop. Fear too. This was the man who had faced Hengist and survived. They had seen Beobrand kill savagely with the ease of a ceorl scything hay.
Hafgan was the fastest to react. At the instant before impact he lifted another javelin from the ground and plunged it into the unprotected chest of Beobrand’s mount. The animal screamed. Dark blood splashed. The javelin snapped and whipped across Tondberct’s face, stunning him. The horse’s momentum carried it on, even as its lifeblood pumped from the wound in its chest. It crashed into Tondberct and Dreng’s shields, sending them both reeling backwards.
Prepared for the collision, Beobrand leapt from the saddle, launching himself at Dreng and clear of the flailing horse. He mistimed the jump and landed hard, sprawling to the dew-wet ground. The fall winded him, but he pushed himself up. He was exposed and vulnerable while prone. He drew Hrunting.
Dreng was also climbing to his feet. Tondberct did not move. Hafgan pulled his long knife and turned, squinting into the rising sun, to face the men running up the hill towards them.
The horse thrashed on the ground, unable to rise now. Its whinnying cries were pitiful to hear.
Acennan and the other three warriors soon reached the camp. They stood, shield to shield, metal-garbed and menacing. They were some way behind Beobrand, but he did not want to lose the moment of advantage he had gained.
He took a step towards Dreng and spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Put down your weapons or be killed!”
Tondberct groaned. Hafgan and Dreng looked uncertain. Behind them, the horse’s harsh breaths were growing weaker. Its hooves now silent.
“Now!” thundered Beobrand. He took a step to close the gap with Dreng.
The old warrior licked his lips, his eyes darting this way and that, searching for an escape. In the faces of the five warriors before him, he saw none. Certain death awaited him if he chose to fight. He dropped his langseax.
A moment later, Hafgan dropped his knife.
Acennan let out a long breath.
“Lie down on the earth. Face down,” said Beobrand. His voice as cold and sharp as the blade in his hand.
Dreng, resigned to his defeat now, complied.
Hafgan still stood. He stared at Beobrand defiantly. “Why should I lie before you? You are no better than I.” His accent was strong, but the words were clear and easy to understand.
Beobrand walked slowly towards the Waelisc, stopping in front of him, close enough to smell his breath. “You will lie as I have commanded it. We are gesithas of Scand, thegn of Eanfrith, king of Bernicia. This is his land. By your hand innocent men have died.” All of his impotent rage at Cathryn’s death rose up within him. “Women too,” he said more quietly, so only Hafgan could hear. Their eyes met. Beobrand let his anger consume him. Without warning, he hammered his forehead into Hafgan’s face. The blow carried months of pent up aggression and shame and Hafgan’s head was flung back with the force of it. His nose broke and blood spurted. He fell to the ground in a daze.
“I said, lie down,” said Beobrand. He spat on Hafgan’s unmoving form and turned away. “Tie their hands.”
Acennan raised an eyebrow at Beobrand assuming the mantle of command so effortlessly, but now was not the time to confront him. He stared at the tall, pony-tailed man on the ground. Acennan’s hand involuntarily touched his own scarred nose, crooked since the fight with Beobrand.
He said, “I’ll say this for you, Beobrand. You know how to get your way.” He smiled wryly.
“Come on,” he said to the others, “tie their hands. Then we can decide what to do with them.”
*
“We cannot take them back with us. We will be slow enough as it is.” Acennan looked at Beobrand as he spoke. He was not happy with losing another horse, but he had to admit that the young Cantware warrior’s action had saved them a fight. Shieldwall to shieldwall, there was no telling how that fight would have gone. The three men they’d captured certainly looked able to acquit themselves in combat. It had been a foolhardy thing to do, but the gods smiled on the brave.
One of the men said, “We need talk no more on this. We saw what they did to the smith and the charcoal men. The old one wears Strang’s cloak brooch. They are all doomed by their actions.”
Their three captives lay on the ground some way from the fire that they themselves had built. Acennan and the others had added fuel to the embers and were now preparing a warming meal of roast horse meat. Acennan had made Beobrand butcher it. It seemed fitting, as he had caused its death. It had been a fine mount. Scand would not be pleased at its loss. But the cooking meat smelt so good that Acennan’s anger had already dissipated.
The lame mare and the javelin-injured horse had been brought up the hill, a little way from the campsite. There they had been tethered, along with the two other horses, to stakes in the ground. They were nervous from the fight. The smell and sight of the fallen horse made them skittish. But the men had been pleased to see that the javelin wound was superficial; the bleeding had already stopped.
Beobrand was silent for a long while after the confrontation with his erstwhile companions. His hands started to shake and he felt dazed. He concentrated on butchering his horse, hiding his trembling hands from the others. He left them to discuss the fate of their captives. Once his hands were still again, he spoke up.
“These men are guilty of all you saw in the charcoal men’s clearing. But there are other acts for which they should be given justice.” He paused, aware that all the men were listening to him. “I have been a witness to man-slayings of the worst kind. And the forcing of women.”
A man laughed, ready to make a ribald comment, but one look from Beobrand saw the words dry up in his mouth.
“It is no matter of jest to see a young woman violated and then murdered.” He stared at each man in turn, daring them to make light of his words. None accepted the challenge. “I know you have seen battle. In that there is honour. But these men, and the man who rode with them, enjoy killing and torturing those who cannot defend themselves.”
“You rode with them,” a man said. “Aren’t you as guilty as them?”
Beobrand lowered his eyes. “I was weak. But I did try to stop them. I fought their leader.”
“We have heard the tale told by Leofwine in King Eanfrith’s hall,” Acennan said. “Let no man here doubt Beobrand’s honour. Any that does, will have to answer to me. I say Beobrand should decide what we do with them, as he knows their crimes better than us. What say you, Beobrand?”
Beobrand stared at the three tied men. Helpless now, just as Cathryn had been. Dreng lay with his eyes closed, reconciled to his fate. Hafgan glared at him, his face caked with dried blood. His swollen, puffy eyes defiant and full of hate. Lastly, he looked at Tondberct. Easy-going and quick to jest. He had thought him a friend. Yet Tondberct had done nothing to stop Hengist and the others from their savagery. He had stood by and would have watched as Hengist killed Coenred. He had turned against Beobrand completely in Engelmynster.
“Did Hengist ride with you?” he asked.
Tondberct was suddenly hopeful. If he told Beobrand what he wanted to hear perhaps he’d let him go. “He did. He left us two days ago.”
“Why did he leave you?”
Tondberct’s eyes flicked to Dreng. “We quarrelled. He wanted to go south, we wanted to travel west. He rode away. You know what his moods are like. He’s been worse since… since you fought him.”
“Where did he plan to go?”
“I don’t know. He said he might join Cadwallon or Penda. He made no sense. He babbled a lot about your sword. Said it should have been his.”
“Why don’t you shut your mouth, you snivelling runt?” spat Dreng. “I am tired of listening to you prattle like a woman.”
Beobrand ignored Dreng. He stared into Tondberct’s eyes. They were pleading with him. He remembered that cold night in the forest when he had stared into other pleading eyes. Anger filled him.
Sensing that his doom was about to be pronounced, Tondberct said in a whining voice, “Come on, Beo. We had some good times, didn’t we? You could release us. We’d never come back to Bernicia. You’d never see us again. We’d disappear. I swear it!”
“Your oath is like chaff on the wind. Your words are hollow.” Beobrand’s voice was as hard and chill as the ground underneath Cathryn’s mutilated corpse.
“But I never killed anyone,” Tondberct continued, starting to snivel. “That was the others.” He sounded pathetic, like a child blaming an older sibling for some small misdemeanour.
It was probably true though. Tondberct was never comfortable with the violence in the way that Hengist, Dreng and the others were. Beobrand had also stood by and witnessed terrible acts. His shame threatened to engulf him as it came flooding back.
“You chose your path a long time ago, Tondberct. You could have left. You could have fought.”
“But they would have killed me!” Tondberct was weeping now. Dreng and Hafgan turned away from him, ashamed. Dreng spat and then licked his lips.
“They might have. But it would have been an honourable death. A man’s death. A warrior’s death.”
Beobrand didn’t want to hear Tondberct’s crying anymore. It grated on his soul. He wanted rid of all these men who had been present in that forest clearing. Who had witnessed his shame.
“Hang them all,” he said and turned away.
Tondberct’s cries rose to a new pitch.
*
Eanfrith had a warm feeling inside. The ride south to Cadwallon’s camp only took a couple of days and the weather was kind. His men were understandably tense, feeling they were riding into the jaws of the wolf, but Eanfrith assured them they would come to no harm. He did not wish to tell them about his secret pact with Cadwallon. Most warriors were simple when it came to the ways of kings and diplomacy. They were governed by a simple code of oaths and honour and would not comprehend that a king could not always be so simplistic in his dealings. He had done what was needed to get back the kingdom that had been his father’s and he was proud of that.
As they rode south, Eanfrith enjoyed surveying the land that was now his. It was vast and beautiful. Rugged and fertile. When they passed farms or settlements he made sure that the people knew who he was and that he was riding south to secure peace for the whole of Bernicia. The people were scared. They had suffered much in the winter and expected the worst when they saw riders approaching with a warlike aspect. On more than one occasion they found houses empty, their inhabitants having fled at the sight of the armed men. Those people they did see stared blankly back at the king. He had armed men with him and therefore he should be respected, but one king was to them the same as any other. If he could bring peace to the land, then the gods be praised. But the rumours from the south were that the Waelisc were amassing a warhost to ride north into Bernicia. This man with a handful of warriors was unlikely to stop war from coming.
The further south they rode, the more nervous the locals and other travellers were. When they were less than a day’s ride from the Waelisc camp, they began to come across buildings that had been razed to the ground. Eanfrith was displeased. “These are my people,” he said to Gwalchmei, “why have their homes been destroyed?”
The Waelisc replied, “You must not forget, Eanfrith King, that we have been at war with Edwin for a long time before now. We did what we had to do. I’m sure you understand.”
The explanation made sense to Eanfrith. He understood that nothing was simple.
“I understand,” he said, airily. But as they passed an increasing number of burnt out buildings, his men became more uneasy.
When they arrived at the camp they were shocked at its size. There were tents and makeshift shelters covering a huge area to the south of the massive Wall that crossed the land from east to west. The Wall made up the northern perimeter of the camp. They could see men standing on the Wall as they approached. Behind them, the camp was shrouded in a thin fog of smoke from dozens of campfires.
As they rode up to the broken gateway through the Wall, a group of riders made its way out to them and hailed Gwalchmei in their musical tongue. They spoke briefly.
Eanfrith understood their tongue well, having lived for many years amongst his wife’s people in Dál Riata, but the men spoke in hushed tones and he was only able to make out his own name and that of the king he was to visit.
Gwalchmei then said, “King Cadwallon will see you directly. He is expecting you and is anxious to meet you.”
They followed Gwalchmei and the new riders through the camp. Picking their way between the different shelters and fires, the Bernicians could feel all the eyes of the Waelisc warhost on them. The enmity was palpable. One man spat at Eanfrith. Others laughed and made insulting gestures. Eanfrith shrugged all of this off as the crude ignorance of the lowly Waelisc warriors. They were little more than savages. You could expect no better from them. He ignored them and rode on after Gwalchmei.
Their destination soon became clear. A wooden hall situated on a small rise in the middle of the encampment. It was a large hall and must have belonged to the local ealdorman or thegn.
At the riders’ approach, a murder of crows rose in a raucous flutter from where they had been feeding. Flapping away, they left their meal exposed. They had been feasting on three bodies that dangled from roughly made gibbets. The corpses’ faces were black and bloated. Their eyeless sockets stared blindly at Eanfrith and the others as they passed.
Eanfrith shuddered. “Who were those men? Why were they hanged?” he asked Gwalchmei.
Gwalchmei shrugged. “Every large group of warriors like this will always have some who choose not to obey the laws of their lord. They must be punished as an example to the rest.”
They reined in their mounts at the entrance to the hall. Servants saw to the horses and helped them carry their baggage.
Gwalchmei led the way to the doors of the hall, where he turned and addressed Eanfrith and his retainers. “King Cadwallon does not allow armed men to approach him.” There was consternation amongst Eanfrith’s men, but Gwalchmei continued quickly. “However, as a gesture of the peace and friendship that we hope will live between our kingdoms, you may keep your weapons. There is nothing for you to fear here, and we should fear nothing from you.”
The warriors, somewhat mollified, but still uneasy at being surrounded by Waelisc, followed their lord into the dark interior of the hall.
Inside, it was much like any other hall. Benches ran down either side and boards had been laid out with food and drink. A welcoming fire blazed on the hearthstone. At the head of the hall was an ornately carved wooden seat, upon which sat a slim man. He was dressed in fine robes and had a golden torc about his neck. Many rings adorned his fingers and arms. Gwalchmei strode to him and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and stood, spreading his arms expansively.
“Welcome, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, son of Aethelric, lord of Bernicia. I am in your debt and have long wished to meet you. Come drink from my cup.”
He poured mead into a shallow bowl and proffered it to Eanfrith. Eanfrith stepped forward, aware of the gravity of the moment and accepted the bowl and drank deeply.
“Thank you, Cadwallon ap Cadfan, king of Gwynedd and ruler of the land of Deira. It brings me joy to meet you at last.” He handed the bowl back to Cadwallon who drained the last of the mead.
The two men smiled at each other and turned to the warriors gathered in the hall.
“Let us feast!” said Cadwallon and offered Eanfrith a large chair at his right-hand side. It was not as grand as the one Cadwallon sat upon, thought Eanfrith, but no matter. The Waelisc king was clearly friendly and Eanfrith was overjoyed at the reception. He had not dared admit it even to himself, but he had been secretly worried about this encounter. He felt the tension wash away as the drink warmed him. He put his worries aside and allowed himself to relax.
The Waelisc king lavished food and drink upon his guests. They were served heron, plover, pork, hare and venison. Never had any there eaten more or better fare. The bowls and drinking horns were kept full to the brim with ale and mead and after some time Eanfrith and his men were laughing uproariously. All concerns had left them and they slapped each other on the back and told tales of bravery to their host and his retinue. Many of the Waelisc did not understand much of what was said to them, but they smiled in response to the loud Seaxon men.
When Cadwallon stood and raised both of his hands for silence it took some time for the men at the benches to quieten down. Eventually a hush fell on the room and Eanfrith and all of his men looked to the Waelisc king. He brushed his long hair back from his face and smiled at Eanfrith.
“I hope you have enjoyed the feast. It seemed the least I could do.” Eanfrith and his gesithas hammered the boards with their knives and drinking horns. Some cheered to Cadwallon’s health. When they settled down, he continued, “I thank you again for your aid against Edwin, my enemy and yours. I think I could like you, Eanfrith,” he paused, “if you were not one of the accursed Seaxon who blight our land.” Eanfrith’s smiled wavered. Had he heard correctly?
“I told Gwalchmei you would not be so foolish as to come to my camp with only a handful of men. But he had heard tell of your pride and I have to say, I am pleased that you have come. It will make taking Bernicia that much easier with you dead.”
A chill washed over Eanfrith, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. Those of his men whose drink-addled heads could understand what Cadwallon had said were leaping to their feet. Drawing swords and seaxes. Preparing to fight.
Eanfrith remained seated. He looked upon the hall with a strange detachment. Many armed Waelisc had entered the hall while their king spoke and now Eanfrith saw the first of his men cut down as he was rousing himself from the bench where he sat. Blood misted in the smoky air. Benches were overturned. Iron rang against iron. The hall was a tumult of raised voices, screams and the clatter of weapon-play.
He saw Galan, wide-eyed and incredulous, turn to him, as if he expected his king to somehow stop this nightmare. Galan opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, a blade was dragged across his throat. He blinked in surprise, still staring at Eanfrith in dismay, even as his blood spouted onto the board before him. And so this is how their bloodless conquest of Bernicia would end. All their scheming had been for nought.
Eanfrith watched as one by one his men were slain. All the while he sat quite still. He was numb. He could not understand how this had happened. How could he have failed his people so absolutely?
Desolation and regrets swept through him. He would never see Talorcan become a man. He had not been a good father to the boy. Or a good husband to his wife. He was surprised that in this moment, so close to his end, he should think of Finola. He had loved her in his own way, but never as she deserved.
With the killing of Eanfrith’s last man, a hush fell upon the hall.
He turned to look at Cadwallon. “How…?” he couldn’t speak. “Why…?”
“Because, Eanfrith King,” Cadwallon replied, his voice dripping scorn, “you are a fool.”
Eanfrith felt a looming presence behind him. He turned, saw the raven-haired man, Gwalchmei, stepping towards him, sword glittering in the firelight.
And Eanfrith knew that Cadwallon was right.