The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  How would he live without the old abbot? The man had taken him in. Taught him. Cared for him. Given his life purpose. Shown him the way of Christ.

  Coenred had been gladdened to see the change in Fearghas when they had met King Oswald on the road and then later at Bebbanburg. The king had been exiled at Hii and Fearghas had known him as a youth.

  "Christ is coming to Bernicia, Coenred," Fearghas had said, as Oswald had marched south to confront Cadwallon. "Oswald will be victorious by the grace of God and he will see that the one true faith is followed. He is a believer."

  That Fearghas was liked by Oswald was clear. On his triumphant return the king had sought out the old abbot. They had prayed together. Then they had conversed for some time in hushed tones.

  "He wishes us to build a monastery," Fearghas had said once Oswald had left. "Just like on Hii. A holy place of solitude from where we can pray and follow the Regula. He has given the island of Lindisfarena to God."

  Coenred watched Fearghas now as he tottered across the sand. They could have been taken over by boat at high tide, or ridden over the sands. Oswald would have supplied horses. But Fearghas would not hear of it.

  "I wish to walk across the sands that are washed clean every day by the waters of the sea, as the soul is washed in the blood of Christ. It is fitting that the island is baptised each day by the ocean. Lindisfarena is a marvel of the Lord."

  Coenred looked at the sea in the distance and recalled the view from Bebbanburg earlier that morning. Then, the sea had covered the sand where now they walked. How could they know that the waves would not come rolling back around and fill the sand-flat between Lindisfarena and the mainland of Albion? They would surely perish. They were a long way from either the beach behind or the island before them.

  "Are you sure it is safe?" he asked the islander, who acted as their guide.

  The man laughed again. "As safe as safe can be," he said. "The waters won't return for a long while yet. Never you fear. You will come to know the ways of the sea and the sand, like a man knows his goodwife's rump." He cackled at his own wit.

  Coenred blushed. The mention of a woman's body reminded him of the devil-sent dream. He had awoken that morning with his rod swollen and throbbing with desire. He had dreamt of the fair-haired beauty from the hall. She was Beobrand's woman. In the dream she had been kissing him. Caressing him. Coaxing his body to a feverish state of arousal. Now, though the dream was long gone, he could not get her face, or the curves of her body, out of his mind. He was certain the other monks could guess what he was thinking.

  It was wrong to think of her. He had vowed to abstain from temptations of the flesh. How that would be possible with the dreams the devil sent him, he knew not. Much of the time, his body seemed to rule him. He would see a girl, or brush past a woman, only to find himself becoming aroused. The image of Sunniva, with her cascade of golden hair and lithesome body, had lodged in his thoughts like a tick burrows into soft flesh.

  He pushed Sunniva from his thoughts with difficulty. Fearghas and the others had almost caught up. He pressed on, not wishing to talk with them.

  He cast his mind back to the previous evening.

  It had been good to see Beobrand. He truly was blessed. Or lucky. He was successful in battle. Had the love of the fairest woman and had found favour with the king.

  It had come as a surprise when Fearghas had asked Coenred to read the gift-list. Gothfraidh, who had scribed the list, had been taken ill with a fever, and Oswald had asked Fearghas to step in. The elderly abbot had decided he would not be strong enough to stand for so long. So Coenred was appointed to the task.

  "It is an opportunity to see a great king at work," Fearghas had said. "Do your job well and heed what is said in the hall. Many great men will be there."

  Coenred had been nervous. It was a daunting prospect to stand by the gift-stool. The focus of every eye in the great hall had been on him and the king.

  Oswald, sensing his nerves, had spoken to him before the gift-giving began. "You have nothing to fear, young Coenred. Wise old Fearghas has faith in your abilities. I trust in his judgement. And so should you."

  Coenred had nodded, flushed with pride. But was unable to reply, so dry was his mouth.

  Oswald had passed him a decorated horn filled with mead.

  "Wet your lips, boy. You will be talking for some time."

  He'd taken a sip, feeling the sweet drink soften his throat. And blunt his nerves.

  "Come on, boy," croaked the islander, bringing him back to the present. "When the sea decides to come back and drown these sands, it comes as fast as a galloping horse, so it does."

  Coenred ran towards the man with a start. He darted a look over his shoulder to where Fearghas and the others still walked at a sedate pace.

  The guide guffawed and slapped him on the back. "It is true that the sea rolls in quick. But not yet." He turned back and walked the last stretch of sand up onto the dry beach of Lindisfarena. He giggled to himself all the way.

  Coenred frowned. He looked forward to the day that he knew the safe path himself. He did not relish the idea of walking this way again with the crooked islander man. Despite knowing that the man was jesting at his expense, he quickly followed him onto the island. You could never be too safe.

  He breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't realised how tense he had been to be walking on the seafloor.

  The wind whipped the hair that hung round the back of his head, as he watched the other monks approach. The wide open space was very different from the monastery in the forest that had been his home for the last few years.

  Abbot Feaghas and the others joined them on the shore. Fearghas held out his hands.

  "My brothers in Christ. We have all suffered trials in the last weeks. God has tested us. But with His grace we have prevailed over adversities. King Oswald is a good king. A Christ-loving king. And he has gifted Lindisfarena to God and to His work. Engelmynster is no more. We must pray each day for the souls of those who fell protecting us."

  Coenred thought of Alric and the other men who had stood in a puny shieldwall against the Waelisc warriors.

  Fearghas continued: "But God has provided us with a new sanctuary. We are no strangers to hard work. Saint Benedict taught that 'idleness is the enemy of the soul'. Now we must work harder than ever. Let us go forth and build a monastery before the winter is upon us. Let us turn this island of Lindisfarena into a Holy Island. Now, we shall recite the Pater Noster to bless this place."

  The holy men lowered their heads to pray. As they chanted the familiar words of the prayer, Coenred looked about him.

  "Pater noster, qui es in caelis:sanctificetur Nomen Tuum"

  The scrub and grassland stretched over a low rise. Gulls cavorted in the strong winds above the monks' bowed heads.

  "Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie; et dimitte nobis debita nostra"

  The islander looked perplexed. Scared of the dark-robed, chanting clerics.

  He would come to understand that the Christ is a god of love. As would the other islanders.

  "sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris;"

  Coenred did not welcome the idea of hard work. But standing there, surrounded by men and boys who were his only family now, he was suddenly struck by a strange feeling.

  "et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a Malo."

  With the last familiar words of the Lord's prayer still warm on his lips, Coenred realised how this island made him feel.

  He had never been to this place before. And yet he felt like he belonged.

  Like he was coming home.

  Beobrand roused himself from the blankets and cloaks where he lay with Sunniva. His head was tender. His mouth dry. It had been the best of feasts. Woden's hall, crowded with mighty fallen warriors and gods, could be little better.

  He rose and pulled on his kirtle and britches, careful not to waken Sunniva. Pale light filtered from small windows. A dim dusty ray illuminated the curve of her breast.
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  His mind returned to the events of the previous day. Reunited with Sunniva, they had coupled ferociously. His mouth curled in a private smile as he recalled the feel of her. The scent of her hair. The weight of her body pressing on his. Being held firmly inside her. He could imagine no greater feeling.

  And then the feast and the gift-giving. He had never believed he would receive such honours from King Oswald. Land. A horse. Riches. It was the stuff of dreams.

  He pulled aside the partition and made his way stealthily out of the building. He was not the only one awake, but many still slept. It had been a long night. And the mead had flowed.

  Outside in the cool morning air, he sat on a barrel to pull on his shoes. He fumbled with the straps of his leg bindings, cursing quietly under his breath. He still could not get used to the missing fingers on his left hand. He concentrated. After a couple more failed attempts, he managed to get the bindings tied. He missed those fingers. But it could be much worse, he knew. Screams came from a building on the other side of the courtyard. There were many men who had returned from Hefenfelth with dire wounds. Many more had not returned at all.

  He did not wish to allow these dark thoughts to spoil the feeling of happiness that he had woken to. The screams ceased mercifully and he pushed thoughts of death from his mind.

  There was only one thing that tainted the otherwise fine morning. Acennan still refused to talk to him. Not being able to share his success with his closest friend weighed heavily on Beobrand. He hoped Derian was right and Acennan would forgive him soon.

  He stood and threw his cloak around his shoulders. He was again silently cursing his missing fingers as he attempted to fasten his cloak pin when a shadow fell over him.

  Looking up, Beobrand gave a start. It was Acennan, as if summoned by his thoughts.

  "Here, let me help you," said Acennan, reaching for the clasp. His fingers were thick and strong, but nimble. The clasp was affixed to the cloak in a matter of a heartbeat.

  "Thank you," said Beobrand. "I always seem to need your help." He gave a weak smile.

  Acennan snorted.

  "I am sorry about Scand," said Beobrand. "We should not have left his side."

  Acennan did not reply for some time. Then he said, "I have been giving it much thought. You're right. We should not have left our lord's side. But we did. You had no hold on me. I did not need to follow you. I had no right to blame you for Scand's death. I too am sorry. I did not mean what I said."

  Beobrand felt as if sacks filled with rocks had been removed from his shoulders, such was his relief.

  "No you didn't need to follow me. But I didn't need to lead you either. I was foolish."

  "Well, perhaps I should not have followed. You were not my lord... then."

  "Then?" asked Beobrand, his heart quickening.

  "Well, you'll need a warband if you are to be a mighty thegn, will you not? Some of the lads and I wish to swear our oath to you. We can think of no better lord to serve." Acennan grinned.

  Beobrand returned the smile.

  "If you are sure. You cannot have looked far if you can find no better lord than I."

  Beobrand grabbed his friend's forearm in the warrior's grip. Gratitude flowed through his body like strong mead.

  He had woken with land and riches. Had hoped for nothing more. Yet now his faithful friend had returned to him.

  And he had brought a warband with him.

  Sunniva was breathless. Everything was happening so fast. The morning after the gift-giving, many of the inhabitants of Bebbanburg had slumbered long after sunrise. But now, as the sun reached its zenith, the place was frantic with activity. The courtyard was full of people and animals, all preparing to leave.

  Some had already left the confines of the fortress to return to their halls. Taking with them spoils of war and tidings of victory.

  Leaving.

  She could hardly believe it was true. It seemed an age since she had known the freedom of walking under the open sky, birds and the rustle of trees her only companions. Instead she had suffered the smells and noises of the overcrowded fortress. As often as she could, to escape the noisome hall where she slept, she would stand on the palisade and look out at the land rolling away to the west and the wide expanse of iron-grey sea to the east. Now, she had come up for one final look before they left.

  She looked towards Lindisfarena. Earlier she had watched as the small figures of the dark-clad monks had trudged into the distance, heading for the island. One of them was Coenred, a friend of Beobrand's. She had met the boy the day before and liked him instinctively. When she realised he had saved Beobrand's life and the bond of shared experience they had, she liked him all the more. He was light-hearted and quick to smile. Yet there was a sorrow pulling at the edges of his eyes that she recognised all too well. He had suffered much. She hoped he would find happiness on the holy island where the monks planned to build their home.

  A commotion in the courtyard below pulled her attention away. A large black horse was rearing, kicking its hooves out and whinnying. The crowds scattered. An hostler clung to the horse's bridle with his left hand. In his right he held a hazel switch with which he beat the animal about the neck and head. The man was furious and screamed abuse at the beast, all the while laying about it with the whip.

  A man stepped quickly from the onlookers behind the hostler. From his ungainly limp she recognised the man as Anhaga, the wall-ward. Anhaga stepped in close and caught the man's wrist before he could continue to torment the creature. Then, snatching the switch from his hand, he whipped it across the face of the hostler.

  "Hurts, doesn't it?" he said, his words dripping with anger.

  The hostler stood open-mouthed. Shocked at what had transpired. Anhaga thrust the switch into his chest. The hostler took it, still speechless. A red welt was beginning to form on his cheek.

  "Now be about your business," said Anhaga. "And do not let me catch you beating another fine horse with no good reason."

  The man looked around him. He saw no support from the watching faces. Glowering at Anhaga, he turned and stalked away.

  Anhaga took the bridle of the stallion and smoothed its neck with his palm. He whispered soothing words in its ear. The crowds realised there would be no further excitement and carried on with their own preparations for leaving.

  Sunniva hurried down the ladder and made her way to Anhaga and the horse. She threaded her way through the people, bales, carts and other horses. By the time she arrived, Beobrand was standing by Anhaga's side and they were deep in conversation.

  Sunniva's words of thanks dried in her throat. She had hoped to be able to thank Anhaga for his intervention with Beobrand's steed and then to send him on his way. Much in the same way as he had dismissed the hostler. Not with a switch to the face, but just as quickly. The crippled-man unnerved her. She was no stranger to men eyeing her with hunger. But Anhaga's gaze roved over her whenever their paths crossed in a way that made her skin creep.

  Upon her arrival, Beobrand and Anhaga turned to her.

  "Sunniva," said Beobrand, "by all the gods, I swear you are more beautiful each time I see you." Since the gift-giving, Beobrand's spirits were high. He was energetic and happy. She couldn't remember him happier.

  "Thank you, my lord," Sunniva replied, demurely bowing her head with a smile. Beobrand laughed at her use of the title.

  "Do you not think she is beautiful, Anhaga?" Beobrand asked.

  Sunniva kept her eyes downcast, but could feel the cripple's gaze sliding over her like slimy scrofulous slugs. She suppressed a shudder. Not to worry. They would be gone from this place soon enough. To their new home. Her smile returned and she looked up at Anhaga.

  Anhaga's grin was broad. "Indeed, lord. She is as beautiful as Frige herself!"

  "I am blessed," said Beobrand.

  This talk of gods and goddesses made Sunniva uneasy.

  "Thank you both," she said. "Now, we have much yet to do if we are to leave this day, Beobrand. Thank yo
u for the help with Sceadugenga, Anhaga. Now we must be getting on." Sunniva turned away from Anhaga. The implicit dismissal was clear. Beobrand didn't seem to notice, but Anhaga frowned.

  "You are right, as always," said Beobrand, with a wink to Anhaga. "There is much to do. Perhaps Anhaga could help you."

  "I don't think I need his help," said Sunniva.

  "He is a useful man. He knows everyone here, and has a way with horses. And unruly hostlers."

  "Yes, but..."

  "It will be good for the two of you to get to know each other." Seeing the bemused look on Sunniva's face, Beobrand raised his hand to his forehead. "Of course, you do not know. I have asked Anhaga to join us at Ubbanford. He cannot stand as a warrior. His twisted leg makes it impossible." Behind Beobrand, Anhaga frowned again. "But he is a good man. Honest and hard-working and we'll need a steward to help you run the house."

  Beobrand misread the look of anguish on her face as confusion.

  "Do not fear. It is all agreed. We spoke last night at the feast and I petitioned the king to give Anhaga leave to come with us."

  Beobrand slapped Anhaga on the back.

  "You do as she says, Anhaga. She speaks with my voice. Now I must find Acennan." He strode away.

  Anhaga said, "Well, my lady, what would you have me do?"

  She watched Beobrand's broad back as he walked away. Sunniva's stomach churned. Of all the news she could have heard this morning, this was the most unexpected and disquieting.

  She forced herself to look into Anhaga's eyes. His smile did not seem to reach them. He cocked an eyebrow expectantly.

  She could think of nothing to say.

  Eventually, all she could muster was, "Do my lord's bidding." With that she turned around with a swirl of her cloak and hurried inside the hall where Beobrand and she had slept.

  She had to check one last time that all of their belongings had been packed away.

  It was important that she check, she told herself.

  She was not fleeing. That would be ridiculous.

  By the time they had organised their belongings, the sun was falling into the clouds that loomed over the hills in the west.