Beobrand flushed. How could he be so clumsy? The mead churned in his stomach. He had stumbled to this moment he had hoped to approach with caution. Now there was no turning back from the course.
He stood and called out in a voice that carried over the conversations and eating, "Acennan, fetch the items we are to present to the Lady Rowena."
Without replying, Acennan rose and left the hall.
Beobrand looked down at the Lady Rowena. Her dark hair was streaked with silver. It was braided and tied back. She was no beauty, but she was striking. She reminded him of his mother. He stood solemnly awaiting Acennan's return.
The hall fell quiet as Acennan strode up to the high table carrying a small chest and a cloth-wrapped bundle. He placed them on the board and retreated.
Beobrand unwrapped the bundle to reveal a scabbarded sword. He held it out to Rowena hilt first and knelt before her. Beside her, Edlyn let out a small sob.
"My lady, here is your husband's sword. It is with a sad heart I must tell you that Ubba, son of Ubben, fell defending Bernicia and King Oswald in the battle south of the Wall."
The hall was still. Even the smallest children seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment.
"And my sons?" Rowena almost whispered, yet all there heard her words. "What of Almund? And Ealdian?"
"I am sorry, my lady. They fell with honour. They died where the fighting was fiercest. They stood bravely and fought well. You should be proud."
She was silent. Beobrand did not know what else to say.
Rowena's lips pressed together tightly. Her forehead wrinkled. Her eyes glistened. But she did not cry. Edlyn let out a ragged gasping sob and crumpled into her mother's arms. Rowena stroked her daughter's hair, but kept her eyes fixed on Beobrand.
"What is in the chest?" she asked.
Beobrand lifted the lid. Silver glinted inside.
"King Oswald bade me convey his thanks for the faithful service of Ubba, Almund and Ealdian. Many others did not heed his call to arms. This portion of the spoils of the battle is for you and your daughter. You should not want. Your men made the greatest sacrifice and they will not be forgotten."
Rowena brushed her fingers over the contents of the coffer. The cold chink of metal reminded Beobrand of the rattle of a byrnie.
"And you are my new lord?" Rowena asked, fixing him with a cool stare.
He swallowed. "King Oswald has gifted me Ubbanford. I would be honoured if you would stay and offer me your counsel."
"What counsel could I offer you?" Her voice was desolate. Barren. "You are like all men. You believe every problem can be solved with metal. Iron or silver do not bring happiness." Rowena's eyes flicked to Sunniva, who stood to one side, where she nervously shuffled from one foot to the other.
A ghost of a smile played on Rowena's lips for a moment. "Though perhaps you know that already, young Beobrand."
She stood abruptly. "For now, eat, drink and rest, my lord," she emphasised the last two words, "while my daughter and I retire to grieve in peace. We will see what counsel I can give you later."
With that she swept from the room, behind the partition at the rear of the hall, ushering Edlyn before her.
CHAPTER 10
Dead.
Coenred could scarcely believe it.
Yet there he lay. His skin sallow and waxy. Never to move again in this world.
Abbot Fearghas had left them peacefully enough. After the violence and savagery of the last year, it was a blessing that the old man had been allowed to slip away into the arms of Christ surrounded by those who loved him.
He had been unwell for many days. The brief improvement Coenred had seen in him after they had met with King Oswald was quick to fade. His new vigour was short-lived, like the flame-flare of fat dripping onto a fire. Fearghas had directed the monks in the construction of their new home, but before they had even completed digging the vallum, he had begun to cough, a dry, hacking bark that reminded Coenred of the voice of the seals that thronged the beaches and waters around Lindisfarena.
They had taken the old abbot to the house of Cedd, the villager who had guided them from Bebbanburg. He was a man of some standing amongst the island folk. Cedd's wife, a woman who looked enough like Cedd to have been his sister, cared for Fearghas, brewing herbal infusions and rubbing foul-smelling unguents on his chest. But his cough grew ever worse.
The brethren had prayed for their abbot, but he'd urged them to continue digging the perimeter for their new monastery. They were to construct simple round huts within the confines of the trench.
"You will need the cells to be complete when the new abbot arrives," Fearghas had said when some of the monks advocated concentrating on their prayers for the sick abbot. A sudden bout of coughing had racked him. He'd spat into a bowl and then fallen back onto the mean bed where he lay.
"But you are our master," Coenred had said.
Fearghas had lain silent for a long while. His rheumy eyes had played over the gathered faces of the monks who surrounded him.
"I was never your master," he'd said. His voice had rasped like flint scraping flint. "I was your abbot. Your father in Christ. And I will go to sit with him soon." His eyes had seemed to focus on the soot-streaked thatch above him. Perhaps he could see through the roof. To heaven itself.
The monks had leaned in close. Fearghas was so still. Deathly pale and unmoving. They believed he had spoken his last when he coughed again, making them start.
He had laughed then, until the coughing seized him.
"How I love you all," he had said, when he was able to speak once more.
Coenred had stepped close. Lifted a cup of water to his lips. The stench of decay lay upon Feaghas. Oozed from him. Wafted from his mouth as if his very insides were rotten.
"We love you too, father," Coenred had said. And in that moment he had known it was true. He felt tears well. His eyes burnt. His throat grew tight.
Fearghas' hand gripped his with a strength that belied his frailty. He fixed Coenred with one of his infamous looks.
"Coenred, my son. You must take news of my passing to King Oswald. Remind him of his promise to God. This island is to be Christ's forever."
The tears had fallen then. Droplets pattered on Fearghas' robe, darkening the wool. "Yes, father," said Coenred. "But do not speak so. You will not die."
"We all die, Coenred. As you well know. Take the tidings of my end to the king. And tell him to send for a bishop. This land needs a shepherd. A shepherd from the blessed isle of Hii. You must bring a bishop back. You and that Cantware warrior friend of yours. You'll need company on the journey, for it is long."
Tears had blurred Coenred's vision. Fearghas' white hair wreathed his face, as if it rested on a cloud.
Coenred felt the old man's bony dry fingers squeeze his hand one final time. "Bury me on this Holy Island. Overlooking the sands which are washed clean each day."
Fearghas had spoken no more. His hand had fallen from Coenred's grasp, to lie limply upon the abbot's chest.
The monks wailed. They would pray for Fearghas' immortal soul all the long night, keeping vigil over his earthly remains.
Coenred did not pray. Nor did he wail. He looked down at the body of the man who had saved him and wept quietly.
The lilting sound of the Latin of the monks' prayers washed over him like the sea washing over the sands, cutting it off from the mainland.
After some time, Coenred couldn't help but smile at the old man. Even in death Fearghas had seen fit to give him a difficult task to perform. Take news of the abbot's death to the king. And then bring a bishop from the island of Hii.
Coenred had no idea how to get to Hii. All he knew was it was further than he had ever travelled. It was so far away that it was in a different sea to Lindisfarena.
Was this one last punishment for being a poor student?
"You are sure of this?" Acennan asked. The dappled mare he rode was smaller than Sceadugenga, but as only Beobrand and he were riding, they cou
ld talk without fear of being overheard. The rest of the warband trudged behind them. They wore what armour they had. They each carried spear, seax and shield. Their gait was easy enough, but their faces were grim. There was every chance they were walking into a fight.
"I am sure," replied Beobrand. "The lady Rowena's first words to me were that I had been unwise to kill the boy. She was probably right."
"It is what we love about you," Acennan said, smiling. "You do not think too much before acting. No warrior wishes to follow a lord who treads as careful as a barefoot man in a forest filled with thorns."
Beobrand snorted. "I must talk to this Nathair before he sends his men back to Ubbanford. A bloodfeud must be avoided. Winter will be tough enough, without worrying about our neighbours."
They turned a bend in the path. Beobrand straightened his back and peered into the distance. The land was all new to him. They travelled a well-worn track, through dense forest. Perfect land for an ambush. It was unlikely, but he was well aware that he had already ensured they had enemies north of the Tuidi.
Two days had passed since they had arrived at Ubbanford. It was very possible that Nathair had already decided to retaliate for his son's death. Beobrand hoped Rowena was right when she said the old Pict would not act rashly.
Following the announcement of her husband and sons' deaths Rowena had taken some time to compose herself, but from that moment on, she had been a perfect hostess. It was clearly a difficult situation. Beobrand had brought more mouths to feed into the small settlement. And there was only so long they could all dwell under the same roof, in the hall that Rowena had called her home since her marriage to Ubba many years before.
The men who had women began building new houses the day after they arrived. The river valley rang with the sounds of axe on wood and the thud of wedges being driven into logs to split planks. Smoke drifted from firepits where wet wood was buried to enable it to be bent and fashioned for walls and fences. The people of Ubbanford joined the newcomers. The sooner the new families had homes, the less chance they would need to accommodate them in their own huts.
Seeing the activity gave Sunniva the idea for how to solve the problem of Rowena and the hall.
"You must tell her that you will build a new hall for us, Beobrand," she had said to him that night as they lay together in the dark warmth near the hall hearth embers.
Beobrand had been almost asleep. His mind was wandering into the forests of his dreams. Her voice pulled him awake. He thought for a moment. Knew she was right. As usual. Were women ever wrong? He grinned in the darkness. He pulled her close and kissed her. She returned the kiss and let out a small sigh of pleasure.
"I thought you were asleep," she said.
"I would be, if you'd stop your prattling!" he replied, receiving a playful slap for his cheek.
"You are right about the hall. Rowena must keep her home. And anyway, when retainers flock to me, I'll need a larger hall than this." He spoke only half in jest. Just days before he would never have believed he would have had his own warband. Now he dreamt of a great hall filled with a throng of gesithas.
"I will talk to her tomorrow," he said, kissing her again. "And I will say we should plan a feast to celebrate our handfasting."
A fox burst from the cover of the undergrowth, spooking the horses and bringing Beobrand back to the present. Sceadugenga skittered to the side, colliding with Acennan's mount. Beobrand tugged on the reins until the stallion was once more under control. The fox seemed as surprised as they were. It blinked at them for a moment, still, as if frozen. It then disappeared into the brush at the other side of the path. A streak of red fur in the forest gloaming.
Acennan's mare, a solid, docile animal, seemed hardly to notice that anything untoward had occurred.
"Your horse is as dull as you," Beobrand said.
"And Sceadugenga acts first before thinking of the consequences, just like his rider," replied Acennan instantly.
Beobrand laughed. He was glad he could count on Acennan's friendship and humour once more.
Up ahead the forest thinned. The grey light of the overcast day washed onto the path. They had been walking for a long while. Beobrand reined in and turned in the saddle to address the men. His men. He was uneasy sitting astride the steed while they walked.
As they didn't have enough horses for them all to ride, Beobrand had wanted to walk along with his gesithas. Acennan would not hear of it. "You must ride," he had said. "The men need to look up to you. You are young, but they respect who you are in battle. But you are not their friend any longer. You cannot seek to be liked by them. Or to be one of them. They must respect you. Love you. Fear you even. You must be a lord. You must ride."
In the end, Beobrand had agreed. He saw the sense in what Acennan said, but he had made Acennan ride with him. If he was to be apart from the men, he needed at least one ally.
Now he surveyed the warriors' expectant faces and he saw Acennan was right. They looked up to him. He could feel the weight of their expectation. He would not let them down.
"We are getting close to Nathair's hall," he said. "Lady Rowena said it lay not far beyond the forest edge. You will keep your blades sheathed. I do not wish for more bloodshed. I will talk to this Nathair. We will not fight. Any man who starts a fight will answer to me." He cast his gaze across all of the men. He saw only earnest concentration and belief in him gazing back.
"Come, my gesithas, let us show this Pict who his new neighbour is." He swung Sceadugenga's head round and touched heels to his flank.
The hall and the surrounding buildings were as Rowena had described to him the day before. A dour longhall hunched in the middle of a group of smaller buildings. The hall's roof was moss-strewn and ragged. White smoke trailed from several of the squat huts to be lost in the low cloud that brooded over the village. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking reached them. A stream ran across the path. Several lichened planks spanned the brook.
Beobrand hesitated for a heartbeat, before urging Sceadugenga to cross the boards. He prayed a silent prayer to Woden that the bridge was stronger than it appeared. His horse's hooves clattered over the wood, which seemed sound enough. He heard Acennan's mount crossing behind him.
A scream rent the tranquillity of the scene. Sceadugenga's ears lay flat on his head. He tossed his mane. Beobrand held the reins in his left, half-hand and patted the stallion's neck with his right.
A woman, who had evidently been washing clothes by the stream, ran as fast as she was able towards the buildings. She screamed all the while in a tongue that Beobrand did not comprehend. She was a plump, comely young woman. Her hair streamed behind her as she ran. Her breasts and buttocks bounced and jiggled fetchingly beneath her dress.
"By Frige, I think I'm in love," said Acennan.
Beobrand shot him a cold look. Now was no time for jests.
Figures began to congregate before the hall. Some carried farm tools. Some bore spears. All were armed.
Beobrand continued to ride slowly forward. To halt now would be to show fear. He sat tall in his saddle. Expression stern. Back straight. He kept his eyes fixed on the hall. At the edges of his vision he detected movement. Women and children ran for cover. Heading for sanctuary in some secret part of the forest. Perhaps some would even hide inside a hollow tree, just as he and Coenred had hidden from marauding Waelisc warriors all those months ago. To be the bringer of fear to the inhabitants of this place saddened him. Yet he knew it must be so. He meant no harm to those who fled, but should the men stand against him, he would give them no quarter.
He reined in Sceadugenga in the open area before the hall. The crowd of people shuffled nervously. Their loathing for him came off them like a stench, yet nobody had the courage to speak out.
Beobrand waited until Acennan, sat on his mare, was positioned to his right. He heard his gesithas come to a halt behind them. The villagers' eyes darted from the mounted thegns to the grim-faced shield-bearers arrayed in a wall of wood and metal.
&
nbsp; "Nathair!" Beobrand shouted. There was no response. The villagers fidgeted. Some threw glances over their shoulders, looking for their lord.
"Nathair!" he repeated. "I would talk with you. We do not come to fight."
There was a long pause.
"Perhaps this Nathair is too frightened to show himself," said Acennan.
Beobrand ignored his friend. His gaze was fixed on the door of the hall. A swarthy man with bald pate and straggly grey hair stood there. Either side of him stood two young men. One was broad and burly, like the old man. He held a large axe in his massive fists. The other was slimmer and carried no weapon. And yet he was somehow more forbidding. Weasel-quick eyes seemed to miss nothing.
Several other men followed them out of the hall-gloom. They blinked at the hazy light. Beobrand recognised the men who had ridden with Aengus. The black-bearded warrior he had felled with a kick glowered through bruised and puffed eyes. He would not hesitate to kill Beobrand if given the chance.
The crowd parted. Allowing their leader and his retainers to step from the hall and approach Beobrand. Though Nathair did not come too close.
"I am Nathair mac Gaven, lord here," the balding man said, his voice clear, yet thickly accented. He stared directly at Acennan and said, "And I am not too frightened to show myself."
Acennan flashed his teeth in a grin.
"You must be the new lord of Ubbanford," Nathair said, turning back to Beobrand. "It was you who killed my son, I am told."
"I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, thegn of King Oswald and the lord of Ubbanford. And I did kill your son."
Nathair looked down at the ground. Sighed deeply. "A lord must protect his own," he said after some time. "Why have you ridden here today? We are still mourning our loss."
"I come to tell you that I slew your son as payment for the murder of one of my people. I do not seek to quarrel with you. I do not wish for a bloodfeud between us. I look for peace."
"I understand," said the old Pict. "A feud would be costly. Many would die. These lands are tough enough, without fighting your neighbours."
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 15