The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  Derian had patted Beobrand on the shoulder and nodded. He understood. They all felt the same way.

  Scand's gesithas had walked with heads bowed, down-heartened despite Oswald's victory. Their future was uncertain and many of them had served with Scand for most of their life. His death was a sore blow.

  "It is not easy to accept the death of one so beloved," Derian had addressed all of Scand's gesithas as they trudged back to Hefenfelth, "but Scand was a warrior. It was a good death. A lord's death."

  The men had nodded, eager to hear words of comfort to soften the aching in their hearts.

  "We too are warriors," Derian had continued, "and one day we will fall in the shieldwall. If the gods allow it and our wyrd is spun that way."

  Tobrytan, one of the oldest warriors, had said, "Better to be slain in battle than to die toothless and crazed like some longbeard who's outlived his usefulness. I would rather die with honour, a death worthy of song, than live out my last days as another drooling mouth to feed."

  Derian hoomed in his throat and the warriors had walked on, battle-weary and saddened at their loss.

  Acennan appeared to be the only one who blamed Beobrand. His anger hurt all the more as they were the closest of friends.

  And because Beobrand agreed with Acennan. If they had not attacked at night, Scand would not have been caught unawares by a wounded foe.

  Beobrand looked at Acennan's furious features and wondered if this small conflict between friends amused the gods. After the countless dead the previous night, the heaped bodies feeding the carrion birds and beasts. After the death of a king and a great old lord like Scand, perhaps this was a welcome diversion for gods. Or did they not care?

  "He was as a father to me," replied Beobrand. His voice was flat. He wanted nothing more than to sit and share a horn of mead with Acennan. Every sinew of his being was tired. Tired almost beyond thought. But he could not turn away from his friend now. Their friendship rested on a seax edge.

  "You barely knew him," thundered Acennan. "I was his man for ten years. I knew him all my life. Once, in Hibernia, he saved my life in the shieldwall..." The anger drained from his voice then, replaced by an aching sorrow that made Beobrand's heart wrench. He had never seen Acennan weep, but now the stocky man's eyes welled with tears.

  "Oh my lord..." Acennan said, his voice quaking. He drew in a ragged breath and cuffed the tears from his eyes. "Do not speak to me of this, Beobrand. It was you who led the king to attack at night. And you who left Scand's side at the start of the battle." Acennan's face was as dark as the thunder clouds of the storm. "If only I had not followed you. Scand could still live."

  Grief washed over Beobrand then. Acennan had the right of it. His folly had caused Scand's death.

  "Do you think I do not know that?" Beobrand said. "I would blame the gods for sending me the signs. But it was I who chose to follow them. Perhaps it is my wyrd to see all those I care for die. I would have given my life to save Scand's, if I could."

  "If only you had," muttered Acennan.

  Beobrand turned his face from Acennan and took a step back, as if slapped. He could not see the look of anguish and remorse on his friend's face as he walked stiffly away from the camp into the night.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sunniva jostled for a good position to see the men returning. The palisade was crowded with womenfolk and children. After the arrival a few days before of straggling groups of survivors from Cadwallon's scourge of the land there had been no news. Until the previous morning. A rider had galloped into the courtyard of Bebbanburg shouting the joyous tidings that Oswald was victorious. Cadwallon was killed.

  The atmosphere in the fortress shifted. Thralls and servants rushed to prepare for the king's return. Vittles would be needed for a feast. There would be more people descending on Bebbanburg before they could expect any peace. A victory of this magnitude would be celebrated with thegns and ealdormen from all the shires of Bernicia. Wise women and holy men also made their preparations. They would be needed to tend to the bodies and spirits of those warriors who would return wounded.

  Bebbanburg was all abustle.

  There was a change in the spirits of those who had bid their menfolk farewell. But the air was not yet filled with jubilation. Women went about their chores efficiently enough. Floors were swept. Fresh rushes laid in the great hall. Animals were butchered. Bread was baked and ale was brewed in vast quantities. There could never be too much ale at a feast and every available pot was put to use. The scent of boiling and fermenting barley and gruit permeated the whole fortress. The barrels of sweet mead would be saved for the warriors of highest rank.

  But all the while the women's eyes held a distant look. Would their men come back? Would they soon be sewing a shroud while others feasted on the food and drink they now prepared?

  Sunniva tried not to think of what might be. She had suffered the burden of such thoughts too frequently of late. She wished to believe that the snuffed out rush light had been nothing more than the wind. That it was not an omen presaging the death of her man in battle. Yet try as she might, she could not dispel the fear that had worked its way into her very being.

  The constant shade of worry enveloped her like wet sackcloth. It weighed her down and chilled her. She was exhausted by her anxiety.

  In an effort to draw her mind away from the darkness that clouded her thoughts, she attacked chores with gusto. The other women, many of whom she had known since childhood, welcomed her into their midst. They liked the pretty, hard-working girl. They knew of her losses. They saw the despair threatening to engulf her. But she was strong, like her father and mother. The womenfolk looked upon her with affection. And prayed that Sunniva would not have to face another death so soon.

  "Careful there! Get down!" An elderly man shouted up to two boys who had clambered up to the highest point of the palisade. They stood precariously on the wall of one of the turrets that supported the wall.

  The boys' mothers' voices were added to those of the man. The lads looked angry, but grudgingly climbed down from their perch without incident.

  "We could see them from up there," one of them moaned. "It doesn't look like there are as many of them as when they went away."

  The boy's mother, cuffed him hard round the head. "Shut your mouth!" she snapped. People looked away. The boy's words had been heard by many. Fear gnawed at them all. Tension rose in the waiting throng the way boiling milk expands until it runs over its pot.

  Sunniva strained to see the first glimpse of the returning warhost. The weather had changed with the thunderstorm and now the sky hung low and grey over the land. A strong wind rushed in from the sea, pulling her hair about her face.

  Through the thin afternoon light she peered over the dunes. She pushed her hair from her eyes.

  Then, first came the wooden cross standard of Oswald, quickly followed by the king himself, resplendent in purple cloak and polished helm. Around him were gathered his mounted thegns, the richest and most valued of his comitatus. She could not make them out from this distance. Perhaps Scand would ride with the king's retinue, but she could not see him.

  At seeing the host moving northward on the road, the watching folk let out a cheer. The tension eased somewhat. But they would need to wait some more to find which men were returning whole and which broken. And which would not feast with their lord again on this earth.

  With a start, Sunniva let out a small sound that was lost in the commotion all around her. Her hand flew to her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes. But these were not tears of sadness or worry. They were tears of joy. For, riding on a huge black steed at the head of the column of men, she saw her man.

  She recognised the cloak that draped the flanks of the mount. The battered shield that hung from his back was attached with straps that she herself had fashioned for him. The boar helm, his fine sword. All of this she took in, but even without these details she would have known it was him. The way he held his head. The shape of his shoulders. The jut of
his jaw.

  She felt a warm glow in the pit of her stomach.

  Her man had returned as he had vowed to do. The omen had not been bad.

  Beobrand had come back to her riding a fine horse. He was riding. Close to the king.

  He had returned victorious and with good favour.

  She watched Beobrand for a long while as he grew closer. Her fine man.

  Other women let out cries and squeals as they too recognised loved ones. Some women were silent. No familiar faces smiled back at them from the ranks of warriors. Yet they did not lose all hope just yet. Perhaps they had just missed them in the crowd. Or they were wounded and being carried on a litter. Sunniva glanced around her at the anxious faces. There would be wails and tears from some that night. That was as certain as ravens spoke to Woden.

  She was sorry for them. She knew how much such grief hurt.

  She turned and made her way down the ladder quickly. She had to get away. Gloating would be mean, yet she could not keep her smile in check much longer.

  Beobrand had come back to her and all was well in the world again.

  "He hates me," Beobrand said.

  Sunniva stroked his chest, her fingers soothing him. "Nonsense. He is angry at what happened. He needs someone to shout at. He chose you. You need to give him time. Talk to him."

  "But he refuses to talk to me," said Beobrand. He sighed. He was conflicted. Content in the warmth of Sunniva's embrace, yet dejected at Acennan's ire. "I tried to speak with him, but he spurns me." Beobrand stared up at the rafters above where they lay. He was still warm and languid from their lovemaking.

  "Don't fret, my love. He is your true friend. I have seen it. He sat with you as the wound-fever pulled you towards death. Does he not risk all to defend you in the shieldwall? Give him time."

  "I just want him to forgive me," said Beobrand.

  "There is nothing to forgive. You listened to the gods and they showed the way to victory. Scand's death is not on your head."

  Beobrand was not so sure. He had been reckless. He was not wrong for pushing Oswald to attack at night. Leaving his lord's side was a different matter. Would Scand be alive had he remained at his side with Acennan. Only the gods could tell. Acennan certainly believed it. Beobrand shook his head. Who was he to disagree with his friend?

  "I should not have strayed from Scand's side. It was our place to protect him. Or to die alongside him."

  Sunniva raised herself on one elbow and leaned over him. Her sweet-smelling hair veiled his face as she kissed him deeply.

  "Do not speak so. I want a man who is alive. There is too much death in the world to be wishing for it."

  She slid her hand down. Softly caressed him. He closed his eyes and moaned quietly. He could feel himself stir at her touch.

  "Oh, and you are alive, aren't you?" There was laughter in her voice. She squeezed gently. He gasped.

  "Put worries from your mind, my love," Sunniva said, all the while fondling and stroking his growing shaft. "You have returned to me as you vowed. Soon we will need to prepare for the feast. You will be in a place of honour. Your actions have seen to that, my brave man."

  He snorted with derision. He was not brave. Foolhardy perhaps. But her attentions were making it difficult to focus on such things as recriminations. The battle seemed far away and long ago.

  He slid his hand down the soft curve of her belly. His fingers brushed through the short hair there and then found the slick, warmth of her. Still moist and ready for him, following their recent coupling.

  Sunniva made a sound deep in her throat and moved on top of Beobrand.

  "We'll be heard..." Beobrand whispered, then drew in a sharp breath as Sunniva guided him inside her.

  Through the thin partition made of cloaks and blankets they could hear others moving and talking. Preparing themselves for the upcoming feast. A woman laughed too loudly. The desperate cackle tried to push the fear of the last few days away.

  Sunniva began to move her hips. She kissed his mouth long and deep.

  "Again, you mean? Let them hear." He could hear the smile in her words. She continued moving. His hands roved up her thighs and gripped her arse. By the gods this felt so good.

  "Remember what else you vowed to me?" Sunniva asked, her breath hot against his face.

  He tried to think, but his mind was full of her. He pushed more deeply into her and she moaned.

  "I can barely remember my name at this moment," he panted.

  "You said I would give you a fine son. And I know of only one way that can happen." She silenced any more words with her mouth on his.

  Sunniva's rhythm increased. Beobrand matched her, thrusting with urgency.

  All concerns of others overhearing them were forgotten.

  The warmth of the great hall washed over Beobrand. A great fire burnt on the hearth, its flames giving a ruddy light to smiling faces. But Beobrand also felt the warmth of satisfaction. The pleasure of lying with Sunniva was still fresh. His body remembered the joy of it. He grinned at the memory.

  Men looked up from the benches and grinned back. Some waved or called his name, raising their mead horns.

  Beobrand was uncomfortable with the attention, but he allowed himself a sliver of pride. He had merely done what any of the warriors would have done in his stead. And yet it had been his wyrd to mount the steed and bring Cadwallon back to Oswald.

  "Beobrand, isn't it?" A heavy-jowled man with grey hair staggered into Beobrand's path. He was familiar to Beobrand, but he could not place him. He had seen so many new faces over the last months. Some for an instant over an enemy shield, others at the mead benches of different kings. Many were now dead. It was hard to remember them all.

  "I thought I recognised you," said the man loudly, swaying slightly, like a ship moored in a swelling sea. Beobrand was still unsure of the man's identity, but a needle of doubt pricked the back of his neck.

  "You have come a long way since you visited my hall with Hengist," the man said, and Beobrand remembered at once. He was Ecgric, son of Eacgric, lord of a small shire to the south. Beobrand had seen him briefly when he travelled with Hengist. Hengist had taken offence at implications made about his honour. Ecgric had thrown them out of his hall.

  Beobrand swallowed. He knew not what to say to this man. When last he had seen him, he had been in the thrall of Hengist.

  "I heard the tale of how you killed Hengist. A fine kill indeed. The man was an animal." Ecgric looked Beobrand up and down. His clothes were not those of a famous warrior. Sunniva had cleaned his kirtle and brushed his cloak as best she could. But he had no fine cloak pin at his shoulder. No warrior rings on his arms.

  Beobrand said nothing. He wished for nothing more than to sit at a bench and revel in the joy of being alive after so much death-giving.

  "And I hear you are once again the hero. Killing Cadwallon, no less!"

  "I did not kill Cadwallon," said Beobrand.

  "No? But you brought him to our good king Oswald, did you not? So you did for him, right enough. And a great deed that was too. Now perhaps we can have peace."

  "I hope so," said Beobrand, trying to edge past Ecgric's bulk. He cast a glance to Sunniva, where she was already helping the other women to serve the men with food and drink. She seemed to sense his gaze and looked back with a radiant smile. "I would like to settle down. Raise a family."

  "You are a wise man, for one so young," said Ecgric. He lifted his horn to his lips to drain the liquid there and was disappointed to find it empty. "Your name is on everyone's lips. Some even whisper that it was you who told the king to attack at night. A daring move. Brave." He cast about for some more mead.

  "The king had a vision in a dream. His god led us to victory." Beobrand pushed past the old man, heading deeper into the hall.

  Few knew that he had given Oswald the idea for the night raid. Beobrand wished it had never occurred to him. Perhaps the omen of the snuffed out light had been bad. Maybe the gods were laughing at him even now. His lord,
Scand, was dead. And Acennan blamed him.

  Beobrand stood still for a moment. He watched the mass of merry-making men. A few days before they had stood in the lightning-rent night, blood-letting with fury. They had all lost friends. The beasts and birds would be bloated from the slaughter-meat. Yet here they now sat. Laughing. Eating. Drinking. Later they would swive their women.

  It all seemed like a dream. If he thought too hard on these things, he would drown in the misery of his own thoughts. Scand had told him not to dwell on the past. They were wise words. He missed the old lord.

  Beobrand shook his head to free it of darkness the way a dog shakes water from its fur.

  He looked for the bench where Scand's retinue had chosen to sit.

  He hoped Acennan could also heed Scand's advice.

  "Hail, Beobrand!" Derian waved him over and Scand's gesithas shuffled along the bench to allow Beobrand to sit.

  Acennan sat at the far end of the bench. Their eyes met briefly as Beobrand sat, but conversation would be impossible. Beobrand was saddened. He wished to be done with the bad feeling between them. But not having the chance to talk with his friend did bring its own relief. He could relax; bask in the warmth of the hall and the men who had taken him in as one of their own.

  "It is good to see you, Beobrand," Derian's teeth flashed from his dark, grey-flecked beard.

  Sunniva leaned between the two men before Beobrand could answer. He caught the scent of her hair. She handed Beobrand a horn filled with amber liquid. With her other hand she placed a trencher of choice cuts of meat on the board before him. She touched his shoulder softly and gave him a smile that dispelled thoughts of sadness from him. She moved away, serving others. Beobrand watched her go. The sway of her hips reminded him of that afternoon. He sighed. He was blessed in many ways.

  As if he could hear his thoughts, Derian said, "You are a lucky one. A woman like that to warm your bed and you have sword-skill to match your strength. I can see why Scand liked you so much."