"The feast will commence soon, my bishop," Coenred said at last, unable to bear the silence.
"Feast?" Cormán started as if slapped awake. "Oh yes. It must be late."
Silence fell on the room again.
"Do you need something from me?" Coenred asked.
"Come sit on the cot, Coenred, I would talk to you." Cormán patted the bed. Coenred noted that Cormán had used his name for the second time that day.
He took a step towards the bed.
"Do not be afraid," Cormán said. The very words brought fear into Coenred's heart where before there was mere unease. What was that other smell he could detect? He scanned the room quickly. Took in the shape of a jug and cup on the small table. Was that the aroma of mead?
"Sit," Cormán repeated, again indicating the bed. His voice was blurred from drink, Coenred was sure of it. He did not wish to be here, but could see no way out.
He sat.
"Bless you, child," said Cormán, "you have been good to me. I know I am not always easy..."
Coenred could feel his cheeks grow hot. He did not know how to address this Cormán. This was a man he had not spoken to before. The dark of the room bore down on him. Like the stone vaulted roof of a cave.
"I have seen the way you look at me, Coenred." Again, Cormán used his name. He was more uncomfortable by the moment. "You are oft afraid. But you need not fear me. I see the goodness in you. The way you sought to help me before the king today. I thank you." Cormán shifted his weight. The stool creaked. Outside a dog barked.
Cormán placed his hand on Coenred's shoulder. Coenred tensed at the touch.
"You have no need to thank me. Shall we go to the feast now?" He made to stand, but Cormán held him where he was.
"There will be time enough for the feast later."
Everything was wrong here. Coenred knew it. Could sense it as surely as he had known that Nelda was evil. She had said terrible things about Cormán.
Could they be true?
Cormán's hand dropped to Coenred's lap. For an instant it lay there on his thigh, pale and limp. "You have been very kind to me, Coenred." Cormán's hand slid from just above Coenred's knee up towards his groin. The fingers caressed and probed his flesh through the rough wool of his robe.
Coenred was appalled. He sat transfixed watching the pallid, fleshy hand spider-creep towards his crotch. This could not be happening. This was sin most foul. This man was his abbot.
His bishop.
The shepherd.
Protector.
Cormán's fingers reached their goal. Coenred shuddered as Cormán fondled and groped.
Coenred found his voice at the same instant that he broke from the stillness that had held him motionless.
"Stop!" he shouted and pushed Cormán's hand away.
The bishop, panting loomed over him. Pushed him back onto the cot. "You have wanted this for a long while," he slurred, mead-sickly breath dribbling over Coenred, "show me some more kindness."
The man was evil. He would take his pleasure with Coenred, just as the men had sated their lust with his sister Tata. They had taken everything from him. All that remained was Christ and his brothers in the faith. Now Fearghas had left him. Was this pitiful excuse for a bishop going to deprive him of the one remaining certainty in his life?
Unbidden he thought of Beobrand. Would that his friend were here now. He would put a stop to this as quickly as one snuffs out a candle flame. But Beobrand would not save him. Not this time. Coenred had told him many times that he did not understand Beobrand's desire for vengeance. But in that instant, with Cormán's hand groping at him, his weight overbearing, his putrid breath making him gag, he could think of nothing more than being rid of the man. He owed it to Tata, who had not been able to defend herself.
Summoning strength from deep within him, like air being blown into the heart of a forge's fire, Coenred screamed.
"Get off of me, you devil!"
He raised his knee with brutal force into Cormán's groin. The bishop grunted and tried to roll away. He was not fast enough. Coenred's rage, unleashed now, ripped through him; a rabid beast in search of blood. He snarled like a cornered dog and lashed out at Cormán's face. He made contact with his fist, a glancing blow, but he felt cartilage crunch as Cormán's nose broke.
The bishop retreated from the incensed novice, fending off Coenred's blows with his raised hands.
Coenred leapt to his feet and fled the room.
What have I done? What have I done? The words ran through Coenred's mind over and over as he ran across the courtyard. He had no idea where he was running. He just knew that he had to flee. He had struck the bishop. There had been blood. He thought he had broken his nose. How had it happened? What had possessed him to hit Cormán?
He skidded on some horse dung, unnoticed in the gathering gloom. He lost his footing. Hit the ground hard.
Winded, he gulped, trying to suck in air. He couldn't breathe! He had hit the bishop and now he was going to die, unable to breathe. Was this God's punishment?
He panicked. His lungs were empty, but he could not draw breath. Was this how he would die? He should not have lashed out.
Then, all of a sudden, cool air whistled into his chest. The panic eased. He would not die. He was not being punished by God.
He could still feel the lingering touch on his thigh. See the lecherous leer. It was the bishop who should be punished. Not him.
As if in answer to his thoughts he heard a scream of rage behind him. He was innocent and the bishop was guilty of a terrible sin. But Coenred was no fool. He knew that the world did not work in that way. Often the innocent pays for the crimes of the evil. He leapt to his feet. He must get away from this place. It was his only hope. He ran towards the main gate, but saw it had been barred for the night.
Where to go? He cast about for an escape. He saw none.
"Stop boy!" Cormán's voice cut through the general hubbub that emanated from the great hall, where the feasting had already begun. He spoke in the words of the Angelfolc. His accent was strong and the words sounded like the voice of one who attempts to sing, but has no ear for music. "Stop boy!" He screamed again, then added in Latin, which none save Coenred and any other monk within earshot would understand, "He must face justice!" His voice was thick with drink and indignant anger.
Cormán did not speak well, but his ire was clear. His words and gesturing towards the young monk merely emphasised his meaning. Coenred watched as two wardens left their post outside the doors of the hall and made their way towards him.
His heart sank. There was no escape now. He resigned himself.
Cormán continued to scream as the guards, almost apologetically, took hold of his arms. They marched him to the hall entrance, where the bishop stood in the pool of light cast from within. He was all bloodied nose and wild gesticulation. He seemed close to taking leave of his senses, such was his rage.
He reached for Coenred, who flinched, trying to avoid Cormán's touch. But the wardens held Coenred firm, apparently the sight of the bishop's bloody face enough to prove the boy's guilt in their eyes. They allowed Cormán to grab Coenred by the ear. They appeared eager to relinquish their hold on him, for they let the bishop lead Coenred into the warmth and light of the hall.
Cormán twisted the ear in his grasp and dragged Coenred forward. It hurt badly. Coenred recalled not so long before when one of Hengist's men had pulled him into driving rain using his ear in just the same savage way. Beobrand had saved him then. He felt the heat of the hall fire against his cheeks now. The ruddy faces of those gathered in the hall turned to stare. There would be no rescue for him this time.
The hall gradually fell silent.
Oswald was looking forward to the feast. The smell of meat and mead bringing the anticipation of a full belly, the promise of convivial conversation. Tales, boasts, riddles, laughter. He longed for the respite from the trials of leadership.
It had been a long day. The catastrophic events of the morning'
s aborted attempt at sharing the Holy Eucharist an all too recent memory, vivid in Oswald's mind. He had hoped to show the men the solemnity and power of the Christian teachings, and introduce them to Cormán. But instead of convincing any doubters and stilling any concerns people may have in the appointment of the new abbot and bishop, the very man who was so key to his plans turned a simple ceremony into what many of the more traditional thegns saw as an omen of blood. Oswald had been careful not to show his full displeasure in the bishop, but he was furious. Why had Ségéne sent Cormán? The men who had travelled with the bishop disliked him. Oswald was not surprised. Cormán had always been a prickly man, prone to peevishness. Oswald was willing to bow to the decision of Ségéne and the brethren of Hii, but this morning's debacle had served to make him further question the appointment. He needed a man who could lead Bernicia to righteousness. To do that, he would have to be someone who could interact well with all manner of people in the kingdom. From the haughtiest thegns to the lowliest ceorls; Angelfolc, Waelisc and Picts alike. Oswald dreamt of leading a nation united under one ruler and one god. He was the man to rule on earth. He could wield the sword and defeat the foes of Bernicia with his brother at his side. But he needed a man to shepherd the people into the light of Christ's love.
If only Fearghas yet lived. He would have been the perfect man to stand at his side. He was humble, yet full of wisdom. Kind and loving, yet strong and disciplined. And he could speak the tongue of the Angelfolc. His mission into Deira had given him much experience in teaching. As a child Oswald had known the old abbot before Fearghas had set out south to carry the word of the Lord to the Northumbrians.
But Fearghas had gone to be with the almighty Father. It saddened Oswald. But life was full of sadness. You can only move forward and tackle the events as they unfold. He did not have Fearghas' wisdom, but he knew that no plans played out as intended in their conception. So it was that he had sent north for a new bishop. It had pleased him when Fearghas had sent the boy, Coenred, with the tidings of his passing and instructions to send to Hii for a bishop. The old abbot understood what was needed. Lindisfarena would become the sister of Hii. The east a reflection of the west.
Why the brethren had seen fit to send Cormán was still a mystery, but he would have to suffice. There were other things to concern Oswald. He must arrange a meeting with Penda soon. And also marriage to Cynegils' daughter. So many pieces in this game of tafl. A wrong move could spell disaster. Death. Or perhaps worse, a return to exile. Loss of the newly reconquered kingdom. Better to die in defence of what was his rather than to lose it all and flee like a whipped cur. Eanfrith had got that much right at least. Failure now was not an option. But success was a tenuous thing to hold on to. He could feel his doom lurking at every turn. He prayed and planned, but any mistake could see it all come crashing down.
The sudden flicker of firelight gleaming on red hair drew his eye. Finola, Eanfrith's widowed queen, sat at the far end of the high table, with the boy, Talorcan. She saw Oswald looking and smiled. She was a clever one. She was unhappy, he knew, but she never complained. He wondered sometimes at her lot. Although he was sure she would rather return to her people, she was treated well. Perhaps she was happier than when Eanfrith lived. He knew his brother. Had seen how he was with her. It brought sorrow to his heart to see one of such poise and beauty reduced to a peace-weaver. Another piece in the great game he played. But such was her part. He needed the support of her brother, Gartnait. So she and the boy remained at Bebbanburg.
A thrall stepped to his right and filled his fine glass beaker with pale mead. The beakers were a thing of wonder. Glass moulded and fashioned by some skill that no craftsman Oswald knew of could master. They had been brought on a ship from afar and had cost him dearly. Part of a set of four, he used them infrequently, for fear that they would be damaged. There were only three left, now, one having toppled from the board when it was upset by a thegn made unsteady on mead. The beaker had fallen and smashed into tiny shards. They were sharp as bone needles, and there was no way to repair the cup. Today he had chosen to use one of the beakers. Seeing it gave him pleasure. It reminded him that the abilities of man knew no limits. There were always new skills to discover. Crafts to master.
He nodded his thanks to the old Waelisc woman who poured the drink. She kept her eyes averted, but he noticed her hands were steady. She did not tremble in the presence of the king. For a moment he contemplated whether this was a good thing.
A commotion distracted him. Perhaps the food was ready to be served. He hoped so.
Looking down the long hall, he could see the doors that had been left open to the clement night air. The hearth fire raged. The movement beyond it rippled and danced. Who was that there? The room grew hushed. Oswald could not see clearly through the heat-flicker of the flames. He stood. In the entrance to the hall stood Cormán. But he was not garbed in clean robes ready to partake of the king's table. The man swayed unsteadily. His blood-splashed face was contorted by anger. His long locks, usually as well-groomed as any lady's, stuck out like the denuded branches of a leafless winter tree. In his right hand, the bishop held the ear of the young monk, Coenred. The boy, face pale, eyes wide, looked terrified.
Oswald felt the flash of his own anger. Was Cormán avowed to spoil everything? Would he never have peace while the man resided in Bebbanburg? The sooner he was gone to Lindisfarena, the better.
"What is the meaning of this, bishop?" Oswald kept his voice in check, did not allow it to rise. Despite this, the words were heard by all. "Why do you interrupt our feast?" The bishop did not respond immediately and Oswald realised he had addressed the man in the tongue of his people, not the musical words of the Hibernians. He repeated his questions for Cormán.
"My lord," Cormán said, his voice slurred and whiny, "this boy struck my face. Has drawn blood from Christ's bishop! I demand justice!"
Oswald looked from the bishop to the boy. He could think of no reason why Coenred would strike his superior. He thought well of the young monk. He had been recommended by Fearghas and in all his dealings with him, Oswald had been impressed by the boy's intelligence and eagerness to please. The bishop had done little to endear himself to the king or those who escorted him from Dál Riata.
"Demand you say? In my own hall you would make demands of me, bishop?" Many of his retinue would not understand the words Oswald now spoke, but the ice in them was clear.
Cormán swallowed, as if attempting to hold himself back. "The boy must be accountable for his sins!"
"His sins are God's affair, not mine. But if you seek justice for a crime, you must come before me at the proper time."
"But my king..." Cormán's tone was pleading.
Oswald cut him off. "Yes, I am your king and you would do well to remember it." He fixed Cormán with a cool stare until the priest closed his mouth. "You can come before me tomorrow, bringing witnesses to speak on your behalf. Until then, unhand the boy." Cormán held the king's gaze for longer than was proper. Oswald wondered again at the choice of this man to lead his people into the fold of Christ's followers.
Eventually, Cormán released Coenred's ear. The novice rubbed at it.
Weariness engulfed Oswald. All he had wanted was to eat and drink in peace and now the accursed bishop had made that impossible.
"Bishop, you are bleeding. Attend to your wounds. Begone."
Cormán stood for a long while, his brow furrowed. Eyes burning with an impassioned hate. Oswald could not tell if his loathing was aimed at him or the boy.
"Very well, Oswald King. I will return on the morrow and I expect justice to be done."
With that, the furious bishop spun on his heel. Flicking his hair away from his face with his hand, he stalked out of the hall.
CHAPTER 20
"Nathair!" Beobrand shouted, "Come out. I would speak with you."
Beobrand removed his helm and rested it on the saddle before him. He ran his half-hand through his sweat-drenched hair. It was a warm day. The w
inter had truly retreated back into the northern mountains of Dál Riata. The Tuidi valley was as balmy as a summer afternoon.
"Do you suppose the old goat is deaf?" said Acennan. He sat astride his dappled mare beside Beobrand. Against his wishes, they had come to Nathair's hall without more of Beobrand's gesithas. Beobrand didn't want to start a fight. Yet it seemed to Acennan it was too late for that. Blood had been spilt. And those arrows had flown from a bow held in the hands of a man. Most likely a Pictish man. Not an elf of the forest.
But Beobrand had been adamant. "If we ride in force, we show fear. And we will anger Nathair. We have ridden onto his land once with my warband. Perhaps this time we can talk more calmly."
Acennan had not liked it one bit. He had made Beobrand wear his battle gear. He too, was sweating under his heavy byrnie, his head soaked beneath his iron helm. He cuffed away beads of moisture from his forehead and looked around the village. The throngs of people they had seen on their first visit were absent. They must all be busy in the fields ploughing and harrowing.
They had seen some as they had left the forest and ridden over the small wooden bridge. They could see more with wooden hoes and rakes on the hill beyond the settlement.
A movement behind them made Sceadugenga snort, and take a quick step, circling on the muddied ground before the great hall.
Nathair stepped from between two squat huts. He was flanked by a pair of warriors. They were dour and broad-shouldered, armed with spear and shield. Beobrand recognised their kind. They had the air of men at their ease with violence.
The grizzled Pictish lord grinned. "No, this old goat isn't deaf, but perhaps you are." He looked at his men, who guffawed obediently. "We could have walked right up behind you and pulled you from your saddles."
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 25