“He wishes to see Attor,” said Acennan, also rising from his stool. “He wants to pray for him.”
Aidan spoke quickly.
“He says there is no time to lose. We are to take him to Attor.”
Beobrand sighed. He stood, feeling the throb of the healing wound in his leg once more.
“Must we disturb Attor? He has earned his rest.”
But Aidan was already striding from the hall. Acennan struggled to keep up. The monks and warriors quietened as the abbot left the hall.
Beobrand did not wish to face Attor again in the noisome hut.
Squaring his shoulders, he limped after Aidan and Acennan. He caught Reaghan watching him as he passed and he frowned. If only he could slip away with her. Walk by the river. Away from troubles. Away from sadness.
But he was lord of Ubbanford and his duty beckoned.
Beobrand sighed again and walked into the cool air of the evening.
*
Beobrand stood in the doorway and watched Aidan. He admired the firmness in the abbot’s step, the calmness in his voice. Aidan seemed not to notice the stench in the room. He swept in and went straight to Attor’s bed.
Attor, his eyes gleaming in the darkness, looked up at the priest with awe.
They spoke in hushed tones, Aidan using Attor’s name. Beobrand sometimes forgot that most of his gesithas had spent years amongst the Hibernians.
After a brief conversation, Aidan pulled back the bandage that covered Attor’s shoulder. Even in the dark of the room, the swelling was apparent, the skin taut and red around the seeping wound. Beobrand wanted to recoil, but held himself still. He clamped his jaw tightly, his teeth grinding. That was a wound elf-shot and destined to bring painful death to Attor. Again he felt the pang of guilt. That arrow had been meant for him.
Aidan seemed unconcerned. He leant forward and sniffed. He prodded the raw flesh and Attor was unable to prevent a small cry of pain.
Seemingly satisfied with what he had seen, the abbot turned and spoke in his native tongue. He spoke quickly and surely, as one who is used to giving orders and having them obeyed.
Beobrand did not understand the words. Thinking that Aidan had addressed Acennan, he expected his friend to reply, but was surprised to hear a soft feminine voice from behind him.
Reaghan was standing just behind him in the doorway. She must have followed silently behind them from the hall. She spoke to the priest and nodded.
In the last golden light of the evening she was beautiful, her pale angular face, wreathed in her sprawl of dark hair. A tiny bat flitted past the door, briefly silhouetted against the opalescent sky.
She was about to leave when Beobrand reached out and gripped her hand. Did she tremble at his touch?
Her face flushed. Turning to Beobrand she said, “The holy man has asked me to bring hot water, bread, mead, honey and clean cloths.”
“Does he truly believe he can save Attor?”
Aidan, stood and, seeming to have understood the gist of Beobrand’s question, responded in halting Anglisc. “Not I. Christ, the God.”
Beobrand could not allow himself to hope. There was little in this world that he had seen that made him trust in gods. And still… There was the victory at Hefenfelth after Oswald erected a great cross and had all the men pray. Would they have defeated Cadwallon without the Christ god’s aid? Or had they been victorious because of Thunor’s storm? Who could tell?
Beobrand stared at Aidan for a long while. The abbot patiently met his gaze. His eyes were deep and dark, and kind.
It could do no harm to let the man call on his god. Beobrand nodded.
Realising he was still holding Reaghan’s hand, he relinquished it with a slight feeling of loss.
“Bring him whatever he asks for.”
*
Reaghan watched as Aidan’s nimble fingers prepared the poultice for Attor’s shoulder. She had brought what he had requested and then lingered in the hut. Several of the monks had followed her back and were now quietly intoning incantations to their god in a language she did not understand. But rather than be frightened of the magic of the holy words, she found their chanting comforting.
Beobrand and Acennan had returned to the hall, and the sounds of raised voices and song drifted to her. As the ale and mead flowed, the atmosphere of gloom that hung over the settlement lifted somewhat. Though she knew that by morning the pall of doom would return again, with drink-fuzzed heads adding shortness of temper. She would do well to keep out of people’s way then.
The smoke from the small fire in the hut stung her eyes. The room was crowded with people and the heat was stifling. Aidan ceased stirring the contents of the small pot over the fire for a moment and addressed his brethren.
“Your prayers are blessed and welcome, but I fear our patient needs some air to breathe if we are to allow God to bring him back to health. The night is warm. Please go outside and offer up your prayers directly into the heaven above. Thank you, my brothers.”
The monks left, one or two grumbling under their breath.
The chanting started up from outside the hut and now, without the need for quiet in the confined space, they set to singing loudly in their strange tongue. Aidan chuckled and raised an eyebrow at Reaghan.
“Well, it may not be any quieter in here, but at least it won’t be as hot and cramped.”
Reaghan did not return his smile. He seemed kindly. Fatherly. But she did not know him and could not trust a stranger.
He made no further comment, merely setting aside the pot from the fire. In another pot he had placed some of the mead she had brought. He had asked for the strongest she could find and she had shyly asked Ceawlin, knowing he always had a secret store of white mead set aside for his and Aethelwulf’s legendary late night drinking sessions. At first he had been suspicious, but when she had told him the drink was for the monks to try and heal Attor, he had quickly remembered where there was a flask of fine mead.
Now the mead was hot, but not yet boiling, and Aidan lifted it from the fire, his hand wrapped in a rag. He then took one of the cloths she had taken from the dairy hut. They were used to strain whey from the curds and were boiled clean. Dipping the cloth into the hot mead Aidan proceeded to wash Attor’s wound. After wiping some of the pus away from the festering gash, he lifted the mead and poured it into the jagged flesh.
Attor had been dozing, but now he awoke with a whimpering scream.
“I know it hurts, my son,” said Aidan, stroking the warrior’s sweat-drenched hair away from his forehead, “but it must be cleaned.”
Attor stared up at the abbot, his eyes glazed with the pain. He nodded and Reaghan saw the muscles in his jaw clench. He would not allow himself another scream.
Outside in the darkness the monks’ voices rose in song as if seeking to drown out the sounds of Attor’s torment.
The wound now clean to Aidan’s satisfaction, the abbot picked up the poultice he had made. He had heated honey, bread and mead into a thick paste. He spooned the concoction into one of the cloths and then, before it could cool, he placed it firmly over Attor’s shoulder. Attor drew in a sharp breath.
With dexterous fingers Aidan bound the poultice in place.
“The pain should ease soon,” he said.
Attor relaxed, letting out a long breath.
“Now there is nothing more to do but pray that God will deliver you. I will check on you in the morning.”
“Thank you, father,” Attor said in the abbot’s own tongue. His voice was thick with pain and fever, but Aidan beamed and patted the warrior on the hand.
Stepping out into the cool of the night, Reaghan realised she had no chores to do. She rarely had time to herself but she had had enough of the chanting monks. They may be holy men, but their eyes still followed her as she walked past where they knelt.
She walked away, leaving their strange words to drift heavenward. Would the Christ god really hear their prayers? Could it be possible that Attor would survive? Sh
e shrugged. Who could know? She hoped Attor lived. She cared little for the quiet, frightening warrior, but Beobrand was troubled enough with his recent losses. He would take Attor’s death hard.
She recalled the warm touch of Beobrand’s calloused hand on hers that evening. The cool, ice-blue eyes. She often saw him watching her; could sense his need.
With a start, she found that her aimless steps had led her to the crest of the hill. The bulk of the new hall rose up before her. The scent of roasted meat reached her and her stomach growled. She was hungry, she told herself. That is why she had come to the hall.
There was nothing else that had called to her.
She thought of how the women treated her. As if she was to blame for something. She could not deter him from his interest in her. He was lord and she was thrall. She must abide by his command.
But perhaps the womenfolk saw something she had not dared to think of before.
Stepping into the shadow of the hall and nodding to Aethelwulf, who stood as door ward, she allowed a new thought to come to her. She may not have a choice when commanded by her lord, but he had not ordered her to return to the hall this night. She could tell herself that she sought food, but deep within, she knew she came in search of another kind of sustenance.
Beobrand’s loneliness called to her. She could not bear to see him thus.
She walked into the heat and noise of the hall. Heads turned to see who had entered and then turned away quickly. It was only a slave.
At the high table sat Beobrand, his hair golden in the firelight. He fixed her with his piercing gaze across the hall.
He had come for her in the darkest of nights. She remembered the strength of his arms holding her to his chest as they rode back to Ubbanford.
Reaghan walked towards the high table, ignoring the hubbub of the hall. Beobrand watched her all the way.
She could not look away from him as she came ever closer. She felt a warmth in the pit of her stomach as she understood what had brought her back to the hall.
Beobrand had rescued her from darkness.
Perchance she could rescue him.
Chapter 4
Beobrand awoke with a sense of wellbeing that he had not felt in a long while. He stretched, careful not to disturb Reaghan, who yet slept beside him. Early morning light trickled into the chamber, picking out the shape of her slender neck; the soft swell of her small breast. Her hair was a dark, unruly tangle.
For a moment, a stab of guilt made Beobrand tense. It should have been Sunniva beside him. The hall was her dream and she had overseen much of its construction. He had seen the disapproving look on Rowena’s face as he had led Reaghan to his sleeping quarters. But what was he to do? He was not one of the Christ monks, forgoing the touch of women.
Sunniva was dead. He drew in a long breath. She was gone. Perhaps Nelda’s curse would prove true and he would die alone, but for now, he was yet living. And this quiet, slight Waelisc thrall made him feel alive.
When he had retired for the night, he had been surprised, but pleased that she had followed. She had not spoken, merely taking his hand and entering his bed chamber with him. He had been shocked at the response of his body to her touch. It was as if he had been asleep for weeks and was now woken by Reaghan’s stroking fingers and warm lips.
They had coupled slowly at first, each unsure of the other’s reaction. He was afraid of causing her pain. She was so much smaller than him. But as their passion mounted, she had seized his hips with her legs and pulled him into her.
“You cannot hurt me,” she had whispered in his ear.
So he had thrust hungrily into her until they had both collapsed in panting exhaustion.
They had talked no more, each content to bask in the other’s body-warmth.
The last thing Beobrand remembered was hearing the Christ monks’ chants drifting on the night breeze. It reminded him of his time at Engelmynster. He had been alone and lost then too. There he had been saved from his darkness by the young monk, Coenred.
He smiled at the thought. Coenred was a good friend, but Beobrand preferred Reaghan’s methods of reminding him that life was not over. He wondered how the monk was faring on Lindisfarena. Maybe he would travel there before the end of the summer. It would be good to see him again.
From the hall came the sound of running steps. Loud voices.
As quickly as a slap, his sense of calm was replaced with memories of blood and flames in the dark of a terror-filled night.
Had Torran and the Picts returned? Beobrand sprang from the bed. His leg protested at the sudden movement, but held. He pulled Hrunting from its scabbard. The sword’s grip was cold in his fist, the blade a-gleam and sinuous with serpent-skin patterns in the dim light of the room.
The footsteps and shouts grew nearer. He readied himself to fight. Whoever came for him would regret it. He hefted Hrunting, prepared to make his assailant pay dearly. The door was flung open. For an instant Beobrand was set to lunge, to spit the man who dared attack him in his sleeping chamber. And then the truth crashed in, like ice water splashed on a slumbering face. This was no interloper. No marauding Pict. It was his friend, Acennan.
Trembling, sick at how close he had come to killing his most trusted warrior, Beobrand lowered his sword. He was shocked at his own actions. A lord should not be frightened in his own hall.
Acennan took in the scene, his gaze flicking from the battle-blade in Beobrand’s hand to his lord’s body to the thrall girl, face pale and startled, crowned in a dark tousle of hair, propping herself up on an elbow in the cot.
Beobrand was suddenly aware of the morning chill of the room on his skin. He had leapt from his bed naked. He felt his cheeks flush.
“Well?” he asked, anger tinging his voice. “What brings you to awaken me thus?”
Acennan struggled to stifle his smile.
“You should come with me. You will want to see this.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Oh, and you will not be needing your sword… Or Hrunting either.”
Acennan could hold it in no longer. Beobrand was sure his friend’s laughter would be heard all the way down to the river.
*
Aidan stood as Beobrand strode into the small room.
“Lord.” The abbot inclined his head.
“What news?” asked Beobrand, his voice tight. He still shook from the sudden panic he had felt at Acennan’s arrival. He covered his unease at his own reaction with brusqueness. “Has Attor gone?”
Aidan exchanged a look with Acennan.
“See with your own eyes,” he said, stepping aside.
Beobrand’s throat felt thick. He swallowed. Forcing himself to step forward, he looked down at the cot, expecting the ashen features of a corpse to be staring back at him. Yet Attor still lived. He offered Beobrand a thin smile, exposing yellowing teeth. Gone was the pallor of impending death. The sweat-sheen of elf-shot fever had departed. Could it really be? Odelyna had said he would die.
“How is this?” Beobrand would not have believed it, if he was not seeing it before him.
Aidan spoke in his soft voice and Acennan translated.
“The Lord God is merciful. We prayed and He has answered. It would seem Attor has more to do on His earth before entering the realm of Heaven.” Aidan placed a gentle hand on Beobrand’s shoulder. “Perhaps, Beobrand, you also have work to do for the Lord.” Acennan did not comment on the words he spoke for Aidan, but his eyes twinkled in the darkness.
Beobrand and Aidan stared at each other for a moment. Beobrand wondered if it was his wyrd to be the plaything of gods. He looked away, back at Attor.
“It’s good to see you on the mend. We thought we’d lost you.”
“I fear I would have travelled a lonely path had not the good abbot come to save me.” Attor grinned, then repeated the words in the Hibernian tongue for the abbot’s benefit.
“It is not I who needs thanks, Attor,” said Aidan, Acennan again acting as interpreter. “It is the Lord our Father in Heaven.
When you are strong enough, I hope you will be baptised.”
“I will, and gladly,” said Attor, eyes twinkling. Gratitude and happiness came off of him like heat from a hearth.
“Show me the wound,” said Beobrand. He knew little of baptisms and the way of the Christ followers, but he had seen his share of battle-cuts and was keen to see how the arrow wound, that should have been black and oozing, was faring after a night of prayer.
Aidan unwrapped the bandage and peeled back the poultice. The scent of honey mingled with the odour of putrefaction. Aidan wiped the shoulder clean. Attor winced, but Beobrand could see that the swelling was down, the colour of the flesh close to normal, the skin less raw.
Aidan turned to some pots on the small fire.
He spoke quietly and waited for Acennan to repeat his words for Beobrand.
“He says he will prepare a fresh poultice. It will need changing a few more times yet.”
Beobrand leaned forward and sniffed. The stench of wound-rot was gone.
Attor grinned.
“It is a miracle,” he said.
Beobrand watched as Aidan heated mead, honey and bread, and then spooned the contents into a fresh cloth. Whether a God-sent miracle or some magic the Christ priest knew for curing wounds, Attor would live. Beobrand smiled at him. The trembling had receded now and his sense of wellbeing was returning.
“I am indebted to you,” Beobrand said to Aidan. Acennan echoed the words in the abbot’s tongue.
Aidan looked up absently from where he worked.
“You owe me nothing. I am God’s servant. Thank Him.”
“Well, I thank you and your god too.” Beobrand took in the dark smudges under the abbot’s eyes. “But I see a man who has not rested much this night. You must come back to my hall and I will have you and your monks fed like kings. And when you are ready to continue to Bebbanburg, I will escort you.”
“Food would be most welcome, but simple fare is all we need. And we do not need an escort. God guards us as we travel the land.”
It was true that they had travelled for many days and weeks through treacherous country to reach Bernicia, but Beobrand remembered Coenred’s sister, Tata, broken and bloody on the altar of the church of Engelmynster. She had believed Christ would protect her too.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 4