Chapter Eighteen Pawns between Kings
Chapter Eighteen
Pawns between Kings
The Northumbrian fyrd moved out on a warm, misty morning. A bank of cloud had settled over the sea to the east, its thick, milky tendrils drifting in and wreathing through the narrow streets and alleys of Bebbanburg.
Hea sat astride a small, shaggy bay gelding named Rowan, waiting while the army made final preparations before departure.
Despite that the pony had long since shed his winter coat, he was still a hairy beast, with a spiky black mane that stuck out at odd angles.
Rowan’s furry ears flicked about inquisitively as he watched men and horses move around him.
Hea’s gaze was elsewhere. She watched Ecgfrith emerge from the Great Tower and descend the stone steps toward the throng. His wife followed a few discreet steps behind.
If Irmenburgh was distressed about her husband’s departure, she showed no sign. Her neat features were composed as usual into a serene expression, framed by a pale cream headrail.
At the foot of the steps, Ecgfrith turned to face her.
Hea could not hear the words that passed between them then, although their body language spoke volumes.
The king was a striking sight in leather, chainmail, and a wolf-pelt cloak that hung from his shoulders, making him look broader and stronger than he really was.
His expression was cool as he met his wife’s gaze and murmured a few words.
Irmenburgh looked up at him, and for a moment they stared at each other.
It was the most intimate scene that Hea had ever witnessed between the pair; a moment of silent recognition.
She had never thought their marriage close, or passionate, but in that look, she saw affection—a wordless acknowledgment of the bond they shared.
Ecgfrith murmured something, and the queen nodded. Then, he turned and strode away, leaving her staring after him.
A massive chestnut stallion awaited the Northumbrian king.
Rinan stood at its head, next to his own horse and held the beast while Ecgfrith swung up onto its back.
The horse snorted and pawed the ground, the moment the king had mounted.
It sensed the nervous tension in the air and was eager to be off.
Ecgfrith’s horse was not the only one excited to set out on this journey. Around them, male voices rose and fell, interspersed with laughter. The warrior nearest Hea—a rawboned man with long brown hair—cast her a wide grin. “We ride to victory eh, seer?”
Hea smiled back, although inside she felt sick with nerves. She was glad that news of her vision had boosted morale among Ecgfrith’s men—yet their enthusiasm this morning also caused a heavy cloak of responsibility to settle over her shoulders.
They might be riding to victory, but Bridei was journeying to his doom.
Once the king had mounted, Rinan swung up onto the back of his bay gelding, a bigger, heavier version of the beast that Hea rode.
The warrior then glanced over his shoulder at where the priest sat upon a stocky grey pony.
Seeing the man’s pallor and pinched face, Rinan grinned. “Ready for war, Oswald?”
The priest gave him a tight nod before forcing a sickly smile. “I will bring God’s word north with us.”
“Be sure you do,” the king interjected, throwing Oswald a look of thinly veiled disgust. “You’re to be of some use to me.”
With that, Ecgfrith urged his stallion forward, cutting through the throng toward the high gate.
Men and horses parted before falling in behind him.
Carried along with the tide, Hea rode out of the inner palisade and down the King’s Way.
Crowds of men, women, and children lined the thoroughfare, all gathered to see the king depart.
Bannermen rode before the king, holding aloft the Northumbrian standards—eight yellow rectangles on a blood-red field.
Despite her own trepidation, Hea felt her skin prickle at the roar of the crowd and the pride on the faces of those she passed. A pretty young woman with curly brown hair approached the king as he rode by, adoration on her face. She rushed forward and passed him a posy of spring flowers.
“To Northumbria and your victory, milord!”
Ecgfrith smiled down at her, taking the flowers in his gloved hand. Around them, the folk of Bebbanburg shouted their approval, their voices echoing in the still morning. Looking on, Hea felt her chest tighten with pride.
However, her elation lasted only until they left the fort.
The moment she was riding north, over rolling farmland shrouded in sea mist, the nerves returned. She had barely been able to eat anything the past two days, for her stomach had closed and anxiety had robbed her of appetite.
She rode now, around half a furlong behind the king and his bannermen. Spears bristled against the horizon, piercing the mist, and the sound of heavy hoofbeats, the snorts of horses, the jangling of bridles, and the creak of leather filled the grey morning.
Rowan strode out, often breaking into a jolting trot in his eagerness to reach the front of the column.
Hea had to keep a tight rein to hold him back.
A few yards to her left rode Oswald. He was not a natural horseman; one glance and she could see that.
Although Hea had not ridden often over the years, she was enjoying it and bonded quickly to her mount.
Yet with Oswald, it was not so—grim-faced, he clung to his pony’s bushy mane, his jaw clenched tight. With every stride, he lurched forward.
“Relax, priest.” One of the warriors riding alongside Oswald called out to him. “Stop riding as if you have a spear up your arse—we’ve got a while yet before we meet the Picts.”
Male laughter rang out around them, and Oswald’s shoulders hunched before he cast the warrior who had spoken a quelling look. Still, he did his best to loosen his posture, much to the mirth of the men riding behind him.
Jedburgh burned. Smoke drifted up into the noon sky, staining it dark. The screams of village folk, as they ran from the flames and raiders, echoed over the soft green of the borderlands.
Bridei stood amongst the ruins of the village and surveyed the damage his men had wrought.
His gaze narrowed as he watched the ealdorman’s hall go up like a torch—wood, wattle, and straw devoured by hungry flames.
It was a pity to lay waste to Jedburgh—the hamlet had been one of the most prosperous of the borderlands—but it was necessary.
His men had killed any locals who opposed them, including the ealdorman himself, while letting the rest flee south.
Someone had to bring word to the Northumbrian king.
“This should put a wasp up Ecgfrith’s arse.” Fearghus had stepped up beside Bridei. The warrior was splattered with blood but unhurt; it had been a short but violent struggle to take Jedburgh, and they had lost three of their own men which was vexing.
Bridei nodded brusquely, his gaze still on the burning hall. “That’s the intention,” he replied.
Heolstor appeared at his side then, a burning torch in his hand. “That’s all of the houses torched,” he announced.
Bridei tore his gaze from the flames. “Did you make sure the homes were empty first?”
Heolstor nodded. “A child was hiding under the table in one of the hovels, but I sent her away before I set fire to the dwelling.”
“Good.” Bridei’s gaze slid around the market square in which they stood.
Overturned carts and cabbages, parsnips, and bunches of kale littered the ground—the raid had interrupted the morning market.
“Leave the food behind. As soon as we’re gone, folk will come back to reclaim it …
I don’t want them starving on our account. ”
Fearghus gave him an incredulous look. “You won’t get any gratitude, Lord Bridei. They’ll curse you anyway.”
“I don’t want their thanks,” Bridei replied, resheathing the iron sword. “It’s just unfortunate they’re pawns between two kings.”
“What now?” Heolstor asked. “Do you want to risk riding south, raiding another village?”
Bridei shook his head. “Ecgfrith will have mobilized his army by now—it’s time we turned north.”
Heolstor frowned. “We’re retreating?”
Bridei grinned at him. Heolstor was a good friend, and a skilled fighter, but he lacked tactical skills and cunning. He slapped the Angle on the back. “No, we’re going to leave a trail for him to follow.”
Heolstor’s deepening frown told him that the warrior still did not understand his meaning.
Bridei gave a huff of frustration; he had already spoken of this campaign to Heolstor numerous times, but he still failed to grasp what Bridei had in mind.
To him, such maneuvering was cowardly. He preferred to rush headlong into battle.
Bridei stepped back and gestured around him.
“The lowlands will suit the Northumbrian fyrd—they are used to this land, and even though our numbers are likely to be evenly matched, they could easily beat us on this terrain. We need to lead the Northumbrians north, to the land of hills, gullies, and ravines. That’s where we will make our stand. ”
“How far north are you planning?” Fearghus asked, his heavy brow furrowed.
“North of the River Forth,” Bridei replied. “Let’s make Ecgfrith sweat a bit first.”
Both warriors laughed at that, although they looked surprised. The Forth was a number of days’ ride north—they had not expected Bridei to lead Ecgfrith on such a merry dance.
“He’ll be livid,” Heolstor warned Bridei. “By the time he catches up with us, Ecgfrith will be ready to strangle you with his bare hands.”
Bridei grinned once more. “That’s the idea.”
Fearghus gave a low whistle. “You truly hate the man, don’t you?”
“Aye.” Bridei’s grin faded. “I have many reasons to.”
Memories that were best forgotten arose then.
The beating Ecgfrith had given him, one week after his arrival, when he had referred to his father, Beli, as ‘Lord of the North’.
Being made to sleep with the dogs for a month when he had insulted the king in Pictish.
Ecgfrith’s refusal to let him visit his dying mother.
And then finally … the whipping Bridei had been given for defending Hea from Rinan.
Every one of these slights stuck in Bridei’s craw.
Aware that Fearghus and Heolstor were watching him, trying to read his face, Bridei shrugged.
He was too old to carry around the slights of boyhood, and it irritated him that he still grew angry when he thought of Ecgfrith’s mistreatment of him, and of his disdain for Bridei’s people.
Bridei did not want his men to pity him—for he was no sniveling weakling.
Even so, the need for vengeance burned like a torch within him. He had suffered the Northumbrian yoke for too long; it was time to cast it off forever.
“Ecgfrith knew this day was coming,” he growled. “He has always known.”