“We will make our stand at the river.” Scand’s battle voice had returned to him and all the men gathered in Gefrin could hear his words. Gone was the uncertainty. Put aside was the fear for his lord. He had a clear objective now and he would act to see it done. Or he would die trying.
There was no time left to worry or think about Eanfrith’s fate. The warhost had been seen marching northward and from the account of the man who had seen the Waelisc, they far outnumbered the Bernicians. The river was the best place Scand could think of to defend. The trees would provide a funnelling effect and the water was a natural barrier that would slow their attackers down.
All the fighting men were there. Some, the men who had lived in exile with Eanfrith, were well known to Scand. They were stout of heart and hale. He could trust their resolve. Many of the others he was less sure of. There were younger men in the group and fewer wore armour than he would have liked. Many of the men simply wore a tunic and trousers. He had seen to it in the last few weeks that all had a shield and a spear. That was something. They would have to pray that the days of training would prove enough.
He surveyed the men’s faces. Most were grim and dour. Some of the younger lads looked eager, excited, almost happy. Those were the ones who had never stood in the shieldwall before. They would die first, or live to tell the tale and never smile at the prospect of battle again.
Beyond the men, the women and children, along with the longbeards were trailing out of Gefrin and heading east. They had a couple of carts and all of Gefrin’s livestock was being herded along with them. Finola’s red hair caught the light of the sun. She walked at the head of the column, with Talorcan at her side. Scand’s heart tightened. He loved the queen and the young atheling and hoped he would see them again in this world. It was a straggling group and he prayed they would not meet with any of Cadwallon’s warbands. He contemplated sending some of the young men with them, but thought better of it. They would be of no use against a concerted attack, but here, he could use their numbers.
Beobrand followed Scand’s gaze. He could see Sunniva at the front of the group, just behind Finola. Her golden hair glowed in the brilliant sunlight. She turned at that moment, as if she had felt him looking, and waved.
He could remember her words as she had clung to him desperately that morning. “Don’t you dare die, Beobrand son of Grimgundi. Fight with honour, but come back to me. You’re all I have now.” He had not replied. He had kissed her long and hard and then left to join the warriors in their preparations. He had no intention of dying, but he didn’t want to tempt wyrd by saying as much. He touched the iron hilt of Hrunting for luck, then checked that the hammer amulet was safely around his neck. He waved back, forcing a smile.
“We will go to the river and there we will form our shieldwall,” Scand said. “We will meet Cadwallon in battle and hold him there. We must be as iron. We will not break. We will stop these Waelisc in their tracks and make them pay dearly for marching into our land.”
He did not need to tell the men that their loved ones needed time to reach sanctuary at Bebbanburg. Many thought that Bebbanburg was where they should have been all along. It was impregnable and would be a perfect base. But their king had insisted on staying at Gefrin. He hoped it would not be their undoing.
At the river they waited. Waited and sweated. The day was hot and they were glad to have the cool water of the river to hand. At least they would not be thirsty. They dipped helmets into the water and slaked their thirst as the sun rose to its zenith.
The men congregated into groups of friends and discussed tactics. Some regaled others with stories of past battles, but the boasting sounded hollow. In the same way small dogs will bark when they are scared.
Beobrand sat beside Leofwine. The tale-teller carried a shield and spear; a seax hung from his belt. He was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Beobrand liked Leofwine, but he wished Bassus was with him now. The giant warrior’s presence would have done much to calm him. He seemed invincible. Beobrand wondered if he would ever see him again.
He found himself looking over at Acennan. A few weeks ago he would not have believed it, but now he was pleased to see him and would welcome him at his side when the weapon-play began. Acennan caught his glance and smiled briefly.
His thoughts drifted to the other time he had been in battle. He had not known what to expect then. He had been full of the tales told in mead halls. He had imagined battle as a glorious thing. Nothing had prepared him for the chaotic gyre of screams, blood, shit and piss of the shieldwall.
Some of the younger warriors tried to engage him in conversation. They asked him what the shieldwall would be like. How many men had stood with Cadwallon at Elmet? Did he think they could stand against the Waelisc king?
Beobrand didn’t answer and soon the questions ceased. What could he say? That Cadwallon’s men had numbered like the stars? That he could see no way that they could survive against the vastly larger Waelisc host?
He already skirted on the edge of despair. He did not want to dent the men’s courage with his own fears. Courage was all they had. That and the knowledge that their actions would give their families time to reach safety.
He could still hear Sunniva’s words. She was all he had too. He looked up at the sun and conjured up her face and radiant hair in his mind.
He sat in silence and prayed to Woden it would not be the last time he saw her.
*
As the sun started to fall into the west the men got restless. Could it be that the Waelisc had travelled some other way? Maybe their families would get cut off from Bebbanburg.
Scand told them to hold firm. They would need to fight soon and they could not afford to split up now. “The Waelisc have heard what a fearsome band of warriors awaits them and they are frightened,” he said. The men laughed.
Inside, he cursed silently at the time that had been wasted. Where was Cadwallon? They could have found a better place for this battle, or they could have gone with the womenfolk. Just as he was beginning to think that the men may be right in their fears, the mounted men he had sent south to watch the warhost galloped into view.
Their horses splashed through the ford, droplets glistening like jewels in the air.
They dismounted and their horses were led to where the few others were tethered. “They will be upon us very soon. We have ridden ahead of them for some time.”
All of the men stood up. Urgency and fear were upon them again.
“How many?” asked Scand.
The man paused. He took a cup of water that was offered and took a large gulp. He swilled it around his mouth and then spat, washing away the dust of the road. He lowered his voice so that some of the men could not hear his words. “Four, maybe five times our number, my lord.”
Scand looked closely at the path ahead of them. They could see the dust from the host as a pall on the southern horizon. A low-lying dun-coloured cloud.
The trees and bushes to the side of the path would squeeze the enemy force down the slope to the ford where the Bernician shieldwall was formed. The ford was as good a place to defend as any they would be likely to find. The river was too deep and wide for a long way east and west to be easily crossed. Nevertheless, they would have to make sure they kept a watch for the Waelisc trying to cross and outflank them.
Scand turned to the men, raising his voice to carry to all of them. “They are coming now. We have chosen the place of their destruction. The river will run red with their blood. There may be more of them, but you are each worth ten Waelisc!” They cheered. “Now stand strong and remember all you have practised. Keep the shieldwall strong and do not break. Their womenfolk will weep over their corpses tonight. For you are men of Bernicia and you will make them pay the blood price for attacking our land.”
The men formed the line. Linden shields were hefted. Swords and seaxes were loosened in scabbards and sheaths. Helms were placed onto sweaty heads. Men kissed talismans for luck. Beobrand felt a hollow queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere down the line to his right a young man doubled over and vomited into the river. Some of the men laughed, but more than one looked as if he might do the same.
Beobrand looked around him and saw that Acennan stood to his right. He was pleased. The stocky man was a fighter and he could think of nobody else in Gefrin he would rather have at his side. He noticed that Leofwine had been separated from him and was now three or four men away to his left.
They waited and watched as the Waelisc force slowly came into view over a shallow rise. It was as the man had said. The host was several hundred strong. Beobrand thought that at Elmet there had been more men, but it was hard to tell. One thing was certain: the Waelisc outnumbered the defenders.
At the head of the host was carried a standard. Beobrand had seen it before. At Elmet. It had been topped with a human skull then, but now it also had a head, which still bore flesh and hair, but it was too far away to make out the features of the severed head. Several straggling human scalps dangled from the crossbeam.
Scand peered at the standard. It was still some distance away. The dust in the air made it hard to be sure, but the head looked familiar to him.
He let out a gasp. He had known the face well in life and its features had suddenly become clear to him. His worst fears were confirmed. His lord Eanfrith was dead! He should have been there at his ending. It was his duty to fall with him.
One of the other thegns recognised the head and let out a cry. “We have failed our lord. He is killed by his enemy and we were not there to protect him.”
A ripple of disquiet ran through the men of the shieldwall. Scand knew that this battle could be lost before it began if the men lost morale. He stepped forward and addressed them, turning his back on the enemy amassing on the other side of the river.
“Do you see the head of our lord king? These Waelisc pigs have slain him with treachery. But they have made a grave mistake. They have come to us showing their vile deeds openly. Their crime is there for us all to see. And they have brought back our lord! Eanfrith watches us from Woden’s hall. Will you disappoint him? Will you let him see us fail here? No! We will make them pay the weregild for a king with their blood. With their lives.” He could sense the moment of doubt had passed. The men were once again ready for battle.
“Will you make them regret killing Eanfrith king?”
“Yes!” came the answer from the shieldwall. As they raised their voices, so they raised their spirits.
“Will you make them pay?” he screamed.
“Yes!” they replied in a raucous roar of inchoate anger.
“Make your king proud!”
They cheered and jeered at the Waelisc.
Scand stepped back into the centre of the line, lifted his shield and drew his sword. Yes, we will make them pay for what they have done.
The men saw a strong, grey-bearded thegn, resplendent in metal-knit shirt and polished, boar-emblem helm. But his weapons were heavy and his helm weighed down on his head.
He closed his eyes for a moment. A wave of tiredness and grief washed over him.
He felt old.
*
The first Waelisc to arrive stopped someway short of the river. The others were forced to spread out behind them.
Cadwallon rode at the head of the host. He sat astride a fine dappled gelding. Gwalchmei rode at his right hand on his enormous black stallion. They reined in to survey their enemy and the black horse took a bite at Cadwallon’s mount. The king’s steed skipped to the side to avoid the other horse’s teeth. It was not the first time this had happened on the short journey up from the Wall and Cadwallon was annoyed.
“Apologies, lord king,” said Gwalchmei. He tugged at his reins to let his horse know who was truly in control.
Cadwallon wondered whether Gwalchmei’s horse’s obvious dislike reflected its owner’s true attitude towards him. The young warrior always seemed so self-assured of his position. He had always been faithful and useful, it was true, but there was no need to act as if it was an accepted fact. His smugness prickled Cadwallon. He would soon have to tug on Gwalchmei’s reins. It was time he understood the reality of his situation. He would be nothing without his king.
They had stopped just beyond a spear throw’s distance from the river. Before them they saw the force that Eanfrith’s loyal retainers had managed to organise. There were little more than a hundred of them. They stood two-men deep in a shieldwall that bristled with spears. The afternoon light sparkled on the water and the polished helms and spear points of the Seaxons.
“They have chosen their position well,” said Gwalchmei. “We will not gain full advantage of our numbers.”
Cadwallon shrugged. He could see it was true. The path to the ford was heavily overgrown on either side, with large trees along the banks of the river forming a natural barrier.
“No matter. Form the men up into ranks. We will use the weight of our numbers to push them back and crush them.”
Gwalchmei turned his horse and started shouting orders at the men.
Cadwallon remained where he was, looking over the water at the defenders of Gefrin.
He watched as an old warrior wearing fine battle gear stepped in front of the ranks of warriors. The greybeard turned his back towards him and shouted words of encouragement to the men in the shieldwall. It was difficult to make out the words over the noise of his own warhost behind him, but Cadwallon caught some words. He smiled. It seemed they had seen the latest addition to his standard. They shouted and cheered, but he knew the damage had been done. They had seen their lord defeated. Their resolve would soon buckle like a poorly forged sword.
He would defeat this last resistance before nightfall. He was feeling confident. He had conquered Deira and killed three Seaxon kings in under a year. Men had flocked to his banner. Even some Seaxons, hungry for spoils of war and to be on the winning side. He could accept some of their kind to make up the front ranks of the shieldwall. They were strong and savage, but he was pleased that the size of his host now meant he no longer needed that damned brute Penda of Mercia to help him.
Bernicia would be his alone.
*
Acennan passed Beobrand a leather flask of water. They had been standing now for a long time and they were all drenched in sweat. The Waelisc formed up into a strong shieldwall of several men deep. Beobrand took a swig of the warm water. It tasted sharp and tangy. He spat and handed the flask back to Acennan.
“Looks like the waiting is over,” he said.
“Thank the gods for that,” answered Acennan. “Perhaps we can kill these whoresons and go home before dark. I’m tired.”
A few men chuckled.
Beobrand turned to Leofwine to his left. “Heed me when the battle starts, Leofwine. I’m expecting a song about it later.”
Another ripple of laughter, but the mood was tenser than ever now. Leofwine smiled a thin smile, but could not tear his gaze away from the enemy host as they started to make their way towards the river.
“Hold your ground, men,” shouted Scand. “Make your fathers and your lord king proud.”
There was a tremor in the shieldwall as men hefted their shields and weapons, readying themselves for combat.
The Waelisc walked slowly down to the water’s edge. There they paused. Several threw javelins and other projectiles. Most clattered harmlessly off of raised shields. One stone hit Beobrand on the shoulder, making him wince. The boy who had vomited earlier mistimed lifting his shield and a short throwing spear struck him in the hip. He screamed and fell back. He was replaced in the shieldwall and pulled to the back of the line, whimpering.
Cadwallon’s men stepped into the shallow water of the ford. The water lapped around their ankles.
Those who had something to throw now returned the Waelisc attack. Spears and stones flew across the river. A few spears landed in the ranks behind the shieldwall and men cried out in pain. But the warriors did not falter and they were now so close that Beobrand could make out individual faces and details.
Both sides let out screams of defiance. The noise was deafening, terrifying.
Fear gripped Beobrand then. He shivered, the sweat on the back of his neck suddenly chill. He stared at the man moving towards him. The man he would meet in battle in moments. The man he must kill. Bile rose in his throat and he thought he might disgrace himself.
“Hold!” shouted Scand, his voice carrying over the battle-cheers of friend and foe alike.
Before Beobrand loomed a hulking figure. Iron-knit shirt, white, leather-clad shield, with gleaming boss. Blood-shot brown eyes and wild hair. The Waelisc line took a step forward and the shieldwalls met with a clash.
Beobrand used his weight to push forward, then pulled back momentarily. Acennan pushed his spear into the gap. The man with the blood-shot eyes wavered, tried to defend the blow from Acennan. Beobrand did not hesitate and pushed his own spear overarm into the man’s throat. The man’s gurgling scream went unheard over the cacophony of death. He fell into the shallow water of the ford and was trampled by his companions as they stepped into the breach.
Beobrand let his spear fall with the man and quickly drew Hrunting. His fear had fled like a coward flees combat. He welcomed the cold anger of battle lust like a long-lost friend. Gone was the time for fear or thought. He had become an instrument of death once more. He grinned at Acennan.
He swatted away an ineffectual swipe over his shield, then thrust his sword under the shieldwall and felt it connect. He jabbed it harder and it opened up flesh and sinews, till brought to a halt against bone. He twisted the blade and pulled it back. The face of the young man before him went deathly white. The sword had opened a terrible wound in his groin. Dark blood spurted and the boy collapsed.
All along the line the Bernicians were faring well. The Waelisc had poor footing at the edge of the river and were attacking up the slight rise out of the ford. The Bernicians were defending their homes and their loved ones. They could not give any ground.
Acennan and Beobrand quickly fell into a pattern of teamwork. Singly they were each formidable foes, but together, they were unstoppable. Blood misted the air before them.
Beobrand swung his sword in a downward chopping motion into the unprotected head of a man with straggly grey hair. Acennan shoved his shield forward, hacking downwards with his sword into the shins of their enemies. The river was clogged with bodies. Sweat, blood and splashed river water covered every man with a slumgullion of gore.
The Waelisc fell back from the onslaught leaving a space around the two. Beobrand stepped forward into the gap, meaning to drive towards the grisly standard and Cadwallon, who fought at the centre of the line. Acennan pulled him back.
“We must not break the shieldwall! It would be our undoing.”
Beobrand remembered Elmet and how he had been cut off from his companions. He nodded and stepped back into his place. Acennan smiled, showing his teeth. They were stained with blood. His lip was bleeding but he was oblivious.
Beobrand looked left and right, trying to assess the passage of the battle, but it was impossible to tell which way things were going. All along the line men were killing and dying, but the gods alone knew if either side was winning.
Many had already fallen on both sides, but the Waelisc seemed to be taking the worst of the battle. Some men were able to stagger back behind their lines, others lay where they fell and were either pulled out of the way or trampled. All was chaos. Chaos and death.
He caught a glimpse of Scand’s polished helm and white beard. He was laying about him with a fine blade that flashed silver in the sun. The Waelisc were scared to approach him. Closer he saw Leofwine and his heart rejoiced at seeing him still hale. The young scop was standing tall. He was pushing his shield against the Waelisc shieldwall, jabbing over the rim with his spear.
As Beobrand looked, he saw Leofwine’s spear point find its target. It raked down his enemy’s unprotected arm. Blood flowered, but the man did not fall back.
“Beobrand!” Acennan’s shout alerted Beobrand to the danger that faced them. He turned back to the river. In front of them, the men had regained their courage. The Waelisc shieldwall had reformed and the warriors charged forwards. Beobrand and Acennan braced themselves. Beside them their companions did the same. The shields once again smashed together with jarring force.
Beobrand sensed more than felt a seax coming under his shield rim. He slid his shield down as hard as he could and caught the wrist that wielded the seax with the rim of the linden board. The knife fell to the ground to be stamped into the mud.
Taking advantage of the opening presented by the lowered shield, a black-haired man with striking green eyes swung a huge axe at Beobrand’s face. Beobrand barely managed to lift his shield in time and the strength of the blow splintered the linden. The axeman swung again and again. His attack was so ferocious and his strength so prodigious that Beobrand found himself being battered backwards. After a few blows his shield was a tatter of splinters and leather strips, with merely the boss remaining intact. He was breathless. He could not carry on like this. He took a step back and forced himself to be calm.
The man stepped forward and once more lifted his axe over his head. Beobrand parried the downward cut with his shield boss and saw that losing most of his shield would provide his salvation. He could see his adversary’s movements clearly, and his attacks had become all too predictable.
The axeman took another swing. Beobrand changed his footing and sprang forward. His sword slid through the links of the man’s battle-net and deep into his belly. His green eyes were wide with surprise. A heartbeat before he had been so sure that after the battle men would sing of how he, Cadman, had slain the blond devil with his mighty axe. Now he could feel the strength leaving him as his lifeblood poured into the mud. The axe swung down and then fell from Cadman’s fingers. It bounced off Beobrand’s back and grazed against his calf, drawing blood. Their eyes met for a heartbeat before Beobrand punched him full in the face with his shield boss. Teeth smashed and the light went out of the green eyes as Cadman fell on the muddy beach of the ford.
Beobrand had been forced back but now returned to Acennan’s side.
“I thought you would be joining your ancestors then,” Acennan said, smiling his bloody grin.
“I have other plans,” laughed Beobrand.
Again the area in front of them opened up, giving them a moment to catch their breath. Both lines were tiring now. Their arms were aching, leaden.
Surveying the battle, they could see that the fighting was most fierce around Scand. Cadwallon’s banner was there and his closest retainers were trying to break the shieldwall by killing the Bernician leader. Scand and his gesithas were putting up a defence worthy of legend. A pile of dead and dying lay before them.
Beobrand searched for Leofwine and saw that he was still in the line, shield and spear in hand. He had a cut to his head, and blood soaked his long, flaxen hair. As Beobrand watched he saw with dismay that a new enemy stepped up to face Leofwine. He recognised him instantly. His face had once been handsome, but now it was a mask of terrible ugliness. The puckered, raw scar from eye to chin had been inflicted by Beobrand himself. He gripped the hilt of his brother’s sword, anxious to be able to finish what he had started.
“Hengist!” he screamed. But Hengist did not hear him. He strode towards Leofwine, who looked like a hare that had been fixed in the gaze of an eagle.
Beobrand could not stand by and watch. He must protect his friend. Vengeance was within his grasp. Hrunting was already slick with the gore of his enemies, now it would drink the blood of his brother’s slayer.
He started to move towards his enemy, but Acennan held him back.
“I must help Leofwine. Let me go!”
But Acennan shook him. “If you go, the shieldwall will part and we all will die! Look, they attack again!”
*
The battle raged on till the men on both sides were exhausted. Time and again the Waelisc threatened to break the Bernician shieldwall, but each time Scand’s men rallied. Still, in the end they would have been overwhelmed despite their bravery and the toll they took on their enemies. It was as inevitable as night following day. More than half their number had fallen. Of those left standing, few were uninjured and all were so tired they could hardly think.
They would have been defeated but for wyrd.
For it must have been wyrd that made Scand’s fine sword blade shatter.
Scand stood in the front of his line and fought with courage. He defeated all who stood against him. He seemed invincible, despite his age. The Bernicians took heart at their leader’s war-prowess. Their enemies’ resolve began to falter. This battle should have been over quickly. Yet the Bernicians stood fast. The sight of their white-beard lord slaying foes like a young man filled them with pride. They would make him proud. They would make their dead king, who looked on from atop the Waelisc banner, proud too. They would not back down.
But they would be defeated.
They were only men, and men can only do so much. They fought on. For honour and to make the Waelisc pay dearly for this land. But as the sun dropped in the sky and the shadows lengthened, they did not fight to win.
Then, weary and half blinded by sweat and blood, Scand stepped forward to meet the next in a long line of men to kill. The young Waelisc staggered over the heap of dead, half sliding towards the grim warrior. He swung his short sword at the helmeted head, but Scand parried the blow with his own blade. It was notched and pitted from many battles, but it chose that moment to break. Shards flew out, flashing red and gold in the afternoon sunlight. For a moment, neither Scand nor his enemy could understand what had happened. Scand lost his balance, falling forward to one knee, as if in obeisance to the young man. The Waelisc regained his wits quickly and made a desperate lunge at the old warrior’s chest. Scand’s byrnie turned the blade and before the man could strike again, one of Scand’s retainers leapt forward with his shield to protect his lord. Scand’s closest companions rushed to their lord’s aid and the man was quickly killed.
They pulled Scand to his feet and handed him another blade. They prepared for the next attack. They looked left and right. The shieldwall was ragged. Gaps had appeared. They would be overrun soon.
But wyrd had played its part and they would not die that day. The Waelisc were retreating. Their king had been wounded and they huddled close to him, backing away through the corpse-clogged stream. For when Scand’s sword was broken, one of the iron shards had flown as true as if thrown by dexterous hand and embedded itself into Cadwallon’s cheek. It was close to his eye and caused him great pain.
The Bernicians could scarcely believe what they were witnessing. Each had made his peace, sure that soon he would breathe no more on this earth. Now, with the last rays of the sun dappling the blood-pink water in front of them, they began to hope again.
They removed helmets and ran gore-sticky fingers through sweat-drenched hair. They were thirsty, but would not drink of the water befouled by so many dead.
Beobrand watched the Waelisc retreat. Could it be that he would live to see Sunniva again?
All around him men were staggering back towards Gefrin. Moving away from the charnel stench of the river. Some men sat down, shock and fatigue making them slack-jawed and slow. Acennan slapped Beobrand on the back. “Well, they won’t forget this day soon,” he said, smiling. His face was a mask of blood and mud splatter.
Beobrand couldn’t smile. He could feel his hands starting to tremble, his legs were weak. He just wanted to sit down and catch his breath. Then he could talk.
Acennan shook him by the shoulders. “Hey! No time to rest now. We are going to need to move. We cannot stay here.”
Scand seemed to have the same thought. He was clearly exhausted, but he pulled himself up to his full height, stood before them and raised his voice. His throat croaked from the constant shouting, but his words still carried.
“Men of Bernicia, you have fought with courage and honour today. You should be proud. You stood like rocks against the sea. Unmovable. Ours was the victory today. Eanfrith king looked on and he saw heroes. Men worthy to sit at his mead bench.
“We have lost many, but the battle of Gefrin’s ford will be remembered in song for generations. Where few stood against many and did not break.”
The mention of song brought Beobrand out of his lethargy. Where was Leofwine? What had befallen Hengist? Had it truly been him he had seen in the Waelisc shieldwall? He looked for Leofwine amongst the men listening to Scand, but he could not see the bard’s handsome face.
“Our loved ones will be halfway to safety by now, but we cannot rest,” the old lord continued. “Dark is almost upon us. We must follow them through the night. We have bought them the time they needed, but now we must join them.”
The men roused themselves and prepared to leave. The bodies were rich pickings for weapons, armour and jewellery and many men became rich in those few moments after the battle. Acennan collected things of value from the men they had slain, but Beobrand looked for only one thing. It didn’t take him long to find it.
Leofwine lay sprawled face down. His long golden hair was brown with drying blood and filth. He was unmoving. Beobrand’s stomach tightened. He fell to his knees next to Leofwine and turned him over.
The young tale-teller groaned. He was alive! But his skin was white. The splashes of dirt and blood stood out starkly on his pallid face. Looking down, Beobrand saw a gaping wound in Leofwine’s stomach. He knew then that his friend would die.
Leofwine’s eyes flickered open. “Did we win?”
Beobrand swallowed. Was this victory?
“I think so,” he answered, his voice cracking. “They retreated when Cadwallon was injured.”
“I recognised him,” Leofwine said.
“Who?”
“The man who has killed me. It was Hengist. You stood before him in Engelmynster. But I am no warrior, Beobrand.” He smiled a wan smile. “That much is clear.”
“I will kill him,” Beobrand said. “He has taken too much from me.”
Leofwine stared at Beobrand for a long time before speaking again. “I think you will. It will make a great tale.” He started to laugh, but it turned into a cough. A trickle of blood bubbled from his lips. He closed his eyes briefly against the pain. When he opened them again, they were unfocused, as if he was looking at something distant. “But I fear someone else will have to do the telling,” he said. He closed his eyes again and soon Beobrand understood that Leofwine’s spirit had departed.
Never again would men sit enthralled by the melodious voice of Leofwine, son of Alric. Beobrand stroked his long hair and his mind turned to Octa. So many dead. Why did he still live? He felt tears burning his eyes, but they did not fall. He had seen too much of death in this past year. His tears had dried up in him, like a stream can run dry in the heat of summer.
Victory should not be like this. He felt empty. All about him was death and dying.
He wanted to lie down next to Leofwine and weep for his friend. Or perhaps simply to sleep. But Acennan found him and drew him to his feet.
As if in a dream Beobrand carried the burdens Acennan handed to him. In a daze he traipsed along with the others leaving the battlefield to the ravens.
They could not carry their dead and hope to escape from the Waelisc warhost if they were pursued. So their companions were left were they had fallen and this weighed heavily on them all. Those who had survived the day could not rejoice. The cost had been too high.
Their shadows streamed long before them as they walked into the east.
Soon the sun fell below the horizon. The air grew cooler and darkness wrapped the land like a shroud.
*
That night was interminable. They were all so tired that walking a dozen steps would have seemed impossible and yet they trudged on through the night. They knew that if they were caught in the open by the Waelisc they would have no chance of surviving another battle. Many of the Waelisc had not stood in the shieldwall, so would be fresh. Their only chance was to get to the safety of Bebbanburg. And so they walked on.
There were not enough horses for them all to ride. Those mounts they had, carried the wounded.
Once all the light had gone from the western sky, they could clearly see the beacons that still burnt as a warning of attack.
The question went unspoken, but thought by many: Why had Oswald not ridden to his brother’s aid from Bebbanburg at the sign of the beacons? None knew the answer.
The warriors were too exhausted and disheartened at the loss of their king and hall-fellows to talk much. They lowered their heads, hoisted their weapons and shields on their backs and forced their feet to move them forwards towards the east. Towards the coast. Towards Bebbanburg.
Beobrand followed the man in front of him and tried not to think. But he could find no peace. The image of Leofwine’s pale face was etched into his mind’s eye. Leofwine joined the ranks of all the others killed by Hengist. Beobrand was filled with sorrow, but his sadness fuelled his anger the way a breeze fans the flames of a fire. And as he walked the flames of his anger forged his desire for vengeance into the strongest steel deep within him. He would meet Hengist again and when he did he would destroy him.
It was when they stopped to rest that they saw the fires in the west.
A huge conflagration illuminated the clouds as if the gods themselves had lit torches or dragons were sweeping down and razing all before them with their fiery breath. The men gazed at the distant flames for some time before Acennan broke the silence.
“And so the mighty hall of Gefrin is destroyed.”
They knew that he was right. The Waelisc must have moved up from the river to the buildings of Gefrin and put them to the torch. As they watched, more fires sprouted like yellow and red flowers in the black night.
No more was said. But it took no cajoling to get the men back to their feet. They had nothing to return to now. Behind them lay death and fire. Their only hope lay ahead.
The wounded were checked and those who had died were left at the resting place, so that others could ride.
And thus their numbers dwindled.
But the burning of their lord’s hall rekindled the spark of their spirits. It was a final insult and could not be ignored. The Waelisc would have to pay.
They walked on, straining to see the first light in the east that would presage the dawning of a new day.