Saints And Sinners (Saints And Sinners Book 1) - John Broughton

Book excerpt

Chapter One 

Bryn Alyn, North-west Mierce, 697AD

Lit by the thinning arc of the sinking sun, Aethelbald prowled the ramparts of Bryn Alyn. To his fancy, the last red sliver resembled a mouth turned down, bathing him in melancholic light. The feeble glow suited his sombre mood and that of his comrade, Guthlac, pacing at his side. Weeks of enforced idleness and futile vigilance stoked their despondency, monotony gnawing at their youthful exuberance. Another two months of this torture to endure – if only Wealisc insurgents would resume their raids on Mierce! Silent in bored comradeship, they paused to lounge against the wooden parapet, until, heartbeat quickening, Aethelbald seized the arm of his companion: the blare of a horn!

Had the men of Powys summoned the courage to start an assault? At twilight? Sheer folly! The mysterious folk who had built this fortress at the dawn of Time had chosen the west-facing limestone cliff of Caer Alyn as a buttress to repel invaders. It meant a daylight attack was daunting, but only extreme foolhardiness might account for an onslaught in the gloom. In any case, as Guthlac pointed out, the strident note had resounded from the east.

Hurtling down from the parapet, Aethelbald halted, planting feet apart and arms folded, while the guards swung open the huge oak gates. In seconds, Guthlac joined him to witness the scouting party, out since noon, canter into the enclosure. Their leader, a half-blinded thegn who had fought with Guthlac’s father at the Battle of the Trente, dismounted and fixed his sighted eye on the commander.

“Lord, we came upon a rider in the forest watering his horse at the brook by Rhydtalog. He sought not to flee but asked to be led to you and Lord Guthlac. He spoke your names and claims to bring a message.”

An imperious wave of the hand made the horsemen part their animals to reveal a dark-haired, swarthy individual astride a bay mare. The features of Aethelbald clouded, “A Briton! Am I surrounded by dolts? A spy of Gwylog ap Beli spins a tale for witless fools to swallow…seize him! Haul him down and flay the truth out of him!”

Six of the party, prepared to haul the stranger from his mount, leapt off their horses.

“Stay!” Guthlac glared around the men, stilled at his command. Raising his hands in a gesture of apology to Aethelbald, his leader and closest friend, he said, “Let us hear what the Briton has to say for himself.”

Heedless of the hostile scowls and muttered threats directed at him, unruffled, the newcomer addressed them in their own Anglian tongue.

“Lord, I am indeed a Briton, my forefathers are of the Lindisfarona not of the Wealisc. I travel from Lindissi bearing a message.”

“Out with it then!” Aethelbald’s patience, eroded by inactivity, creaked like thin ice.

The messenger shook his head. He reached for his sword and the warriors surrounding him did likewise, only for the Briton to unhook the weapon and drop it, his seax followed.

“The message is for your ears only,” he indicated Aethelbald and Guthlac, lifted his chin in defiance and added, “and for none other.”

Within the storeroom adapted to plan sallies from the stronghold, hands flat on the chart-covered table, Aethelbald leant forward, curiosity aroused.

“What’s so urgent to make a man ride two score leagues and more?”

The messenger delved deep inside his tunic and pulled forth a heavy ring, handing it to the Miercian ealdorman. Aethelbald turned the band in his palm and stared at the roundel wrought with a fine-scrolled edge. The raised circle contained alternate strips of red and yellow gold – eight red and yellow stripes: the emblem of Northanhymbra. Overlaying them, embossed in white gold, shone the letter O.

“I’m sure this ring graced our former queen, Osthryth. How came you by it?” asked Aethelbald, passing it to Guthlac whose whistle betrayed awe and admiration for the lustrous jewel.

“Entrusted to me in secrecy by her hand, Lord, that you should know this message reaches you in good faith from the Lady herself.”

The news-bearer held up his hand in refusal when Guthlac tried to give back the ring, “My instructions are to leave it in your safekeeping, Lord.”

Guthlac passed it back to his leader who turned it in his hand once more admiring how the light caught its facets and played across the different coloured gold.

‘I’ll keep it willingly. One day, beautiful objects like this will be mine by rights.’

Back to matters in hand. The puzzled expression of Guthlac mirrored his own.

“What of your message?”

“Nought but a summons, Lord. Make all haste to Beardan!”

“Is all?”

“Ay, Lord.”

“Will you accompany us there?”

The messenger shook his head, “I fear not, for I have another aerende. I leave at dawn.”

“Whither are you bound?”

“…I must not say!”

“Sup with us tonight, friend,” Aethelbald said. “Go, tend your horse, rest before joining us in the hall at table.”

When the door closed, Aethelbald took the ring and contemplating it, said, “I loathe riddles! At board, we’ll ply the Briton with ale and loosen his tongue. By the gods, Guthlac, there’s mischief afoot! I may yet skin the cur alive for I swear I’ll get the truth out of him!”

When Guthlac was a princeling of Miercian royal descent he upped and left home, tired of studying, to form a war band. He paid for their arms from his own purse. He led them to Mierce’s troubled borderlands where he slaughtered, plundered and raped without mercy until King Aethelred ordered him to form a garrison at Bryn Alyn under the command of the teenaged Aethelbald, a kinsman also of royal descent. The leonine head and tall well-muscled build of Æthelbald belied his youthfulness. Yet, he proved more ruthless in battle than Guthlac. Away from fighting, the two young men shared a love of heavy drinking and wenching, thus they forged a deep friendship that would endure a lifetime.

An hour later, a serving woman ladled steaming white carrot and onion stew into bowls set before the ealdormen. The chair beside Aethelbald stood empty.

“What do you mean, he left?”

His bellow caused the servant to start and slop scalding liquid over her lord’s hand.

“Whore! Get out of my sight!”

The warrior struck out sending the ladle clattering to the floor and leaving a red weal on the skin of the offending arm.

“Hold!” Guthlac leapt up and caught the weeping serving maid, stroking her wet cheek before bending to pick up the utensil. “Our commander meant no harm, he is overwrought,” he said, grinning into her face and handing back the implement, “come! I beseech you, my stomach is that of a ravening wolf!”

She rewarded his good looks and gentle mock howl close to her ear with a feeble smile and a brimming bowl of stew.

The wench forgotten, Aethelbald stared at the warrior who had failed to fetch the messenger to table.

“Left?” he repeated.

“Ay, Lord. The men at the gate say he came straight from your quarters after delivering his message, gathered up his weapons, took his horse and rode out into the night.”

“Wolves devour him! Wights snatch his soul and carry it to Hell!”

The ealdorman dismissed the man and turned to Guthlac. “He’d leave at dawn, the cur said. He played us for a fool! It will be well for the Briton our paths never cross. What do you make of it?”

Guthlac tore at a piece of bread and dipped it in his stew, “The message is vouched by the ring,” his next words came muffled by food, “the messenger doubted our intentions…and he was right!”

Aethelbald frowned, considering their situation, “You’re right, of course. Our thegns can hold the fortress with Gwylog holed up in his den at Pengwern–”

“But what of our King?” Guthlac asked. “Should the Wealisc shrug off their lethargy and reave the farmsteads of Mierce, Aethelred will skewer our heads on stakes for leaving our post.”

“Powys, our spies inform us, turns its eyes westward where the men of Gwynedd play them at their own game of plunder and rape, of skirmish and ravages. That is why, my dull-witted friend, these eastern borderlands are as still as a graveyard.”

Guthlac laughed, “A mournful place befitting a headless ealdorman seems excuse enough to leave!”

“Agreed then, we set off at dawn!” Aethelbald clapped his comrade on the back and poured more ale for them both, adding half under his breath, so only Guthlac caught his words, “though no-one must know whitherward.”

At daybreak, with care for their horses legs, they picked their way down over the rutted, slippery limestone pavement fringing the summit of Bryn Alyn. Aethelbald gazed around, pleased to be leaving the joyless outpost behind but at the same time overawed by its wild beauty. To the north, the Irish Sea reflected the rosy hue of the rising sun while overhead, the towering song of the skylark accompanied them. His eyes roved to the west to the Clwydian Hills where he could almost imagine the bald pate of Moel Fama nodding a sullen farewell.

Deep along a forest trail, riding side by side, Guthlac glanced at the fierce countenance of his comrade, and was startled to meet an intense stare.

“What?”

“Here, we can talk. There are no ears to seize on careless words.”

“Well?”

“The loyalty of our queen lay ever with her homeland and not with Aethelred. Too much blood spilt between Northanhymbra and Mierce to hope their wedding might heal old wounds.”

“Ay, added to her father’s defeat at the Trente with her brother slain…”

A jay, in a pink and blue flash, burst from a blackthorn bush and startled their horses. Aethelbald cursed and soothed his skittery beast before continuing.

“We must be wary, Guthlac, I sense a plot. At the centre is Beardan and the nun, our erstwhile queen.”

“A plot?”

The face of Guthlac, troubled now, brought a wry smile to Aethelbald’s lips. His friend’s childlike sincerity bordered on ingenuity. He would trust him with his life but not if any threat involved deceit.

“It might not be a coincidence,” he flicked a hand at a bothersome horsefly, “the kingdom of the Hwicca preoccupies Aethelred. Remember, their King Oshere is kinsman to Osthryth.”

Wordless, they rode on but not in silence, the air laden with buzzing insects and birdsong until Guthlac asked, “Ay, but where do we fit into this supposed plot?”

“What do we have in common apart from bedding comely wenches and supping ale?”

“We’re both warriors?”

Aethelbald snorted, “Ay, and each has two arms and two legs for that matter! Think on, we’re both sons of two of the mightiest men in the north of our kingdom!”

“So?”

“So? So! By Thunor’s anvil, Guthlac! Is there not a grain of guile in yon pretty maid’s head of yours? If Osthryth wishes to weaken Aethelred in favour of Northanhymbra will she not seek to detach the underkings from their Miercian overlord? Might she not desire to dethrone the king and put her son in his place?”

“And you think this is her game?”

Aethelbald brushed his long blond hair back from his brow, “Of one thing I’m sure, we’ll find out when we get to Beardan.”

They dismounted by a brook fringed by lush grass where they filled their leather flasks after leading their horses to drink and to graze. Over a frugal meal of bread and cheese, Guthlac resumed their earlier conversation, “We ought to go back to Bryn Alyn. Why risk being drawn into a secret scheme against the King?”

Aethelbald sat up, eyes blazing with an ardour Guthlac had rarely seen. Taking Osthryth’s ring from inside his tunic, he stared at it long and hard as though drawing inspiration from the jewel. Fist closing over the ornate band, he thrust it back out of sight.

“My father’s father shared the throne with his brother Penda, to rule over North Mierce. There was no love lost between the brothers and when Oswald of Northanhymbra took up arms against Penda, my grandsire fought beside him and was slain at the battle of Maserfield. By Thunor’s hammer, are you following me, Guthlac?”

The younger man met the steely gaze of his companion and looked down at the ground. In truth, the harshness and passion in his comrade’s voice disconcerted him.

“Ay, go on!”

Aethelbald drew up his knees to his chest and leaned his forearms on them. This concentrated Guthlac’s attention on the piercing blue-grey eyes blazing amid the coarse beard and long hair.

“Since his death, Penda’s offspring rule over Mierce. My father was never king.” The warrior sprang to his feet and his powerful frame towered over his friend, “but I have my dreams. Our King Aethelred is old. He is loosening the grip of Mierce on the south, making concessions to Kent and the Estseaxna whilst he fails to crush the Wealisc. The court is rife with would-be successors each weaker than the other. What we need is a Bretwaldas – a ‘Britain-ruler’ – someone to sweep aside the underkings and take control, one brave and ruthless – of the ilk of Raedwald – now he was a great king!” He held out his hand and seizing Guthlac’s, hauled him to his feet. Thrusting his face into his friend’s, he said, “I am that man! Not Aethelred or any other! That is why we go to Beardan. One day, I shall rule from the coast in the south to the land of the Picts. I swear it to you. Remember these words!”