The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  She relaxed, allowed her head to fall back onto her pillow. Odelyna moved about the room efficiently tidying things away.

  Beobrand was still shocked at the strain and suffering etched on Sunniva's face. He stroked her hand. "You have done well, my love. You need to rest, and then you can see our son again."

  She made a satisfied noise at the back of her throat. Seemed to drift into sleep again.

  "We need to think of a name for him," she said quietly, eyes still closed. "Would you like to name him after your brother perhaps? In his memory and honour?"

  Beobrand had given no thought to a name. The idea of having a child had seemed so distant. But now he played with the idea in his mind. Octa. It was a strong name. His brother had been a warrior of renown. It would do his son proud to bear the name.

  "Yes," he kissed her hand again, "Octa would be a good name for our fine boy."

  "Octa," she whispered. She opened her eyes. They were dazed with exhaustion. And something more. Glazed with pain. Her hand gripped his tightly. Grimacing, she let out a groan.

  "Sunniva?"

  Beads of sweat sprung up on her brow. Her eyes roved around. It was as if she did not see him.

  "Sunniva, my love. Rest now." Her grip tightened. She began to pant, thrashing her head against the pillow in torment.

  Terror scratched its talons down Beobrand's neck. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he could hear the echo of a witch's curse.

  "Father...? Why are you angry?" Sunniva's voice was that of a child. Tentative and tearful.

  "I am not angry," answered Beobrand. Father? What did she mean? Panicking now, he looked to Odelyna.

  "What ails her?"

  "Step aside. Let me look at her." Odelyna's tone was curt. Was there an edge of fear in her voice?

  Beobrand looked down helplessly as the old woman touched Sunniva's head. She recoiled as if stung by a bee.

  "Step back, man," she said. She flustered around the bed while Sunniva began to cry. Long wailing sobs racked her frame.

  "Father, please don't shout so. I'm sorry," Sunniva wept.

  Beobrand took a hesitant step back, allowing Odelyna room to work whatever magic she had at her disposal.

  He did not ask why Sunniva spoke thus. He had seen it before when his sister's spirit was close to flight, she had begun to speak of things that were not there. Did they see the spirits of those who had gone before them? Despite the warmth in the room, Beobrand's skin prickled with a sudden chill. The hairs on his arms rose.

  Sunniva would not die. Odelyna was here. He had let Rheda and his mother slip away, but he had no magic. No knowledge to save them. No wyrts or potions. Odelyna was old and wise. She may be a cantankerous old crone, but she would save his wife from the clutches of death.

  Sunniva could not die.

  The old woman had taken some leaves from a pouch. She touched them to the taper flame. Pungent smoke wafted into the room. Odelyna murmured words under her breath. Words of power. Words of the old gods.

  All the while, Sunniva raved.

  "You can save her, can't you?" Beobrand asked.

  Odelyna continued with her chanting.

  "You can, can't you?" Beobrand could hear the fear in his own voice. This was not the fear of battle, when you believe that an enemy may strike you down. There, your strength and guile could save you from the sword blow. Your skill at sword-play could turn death to your will.

  Here, in this fear-filled, smoky womb of a chamber, Beobrand faced that most terrifying of things: the fear of losing a loved one with no way to fend off the inevitable. He had faced this before. Seen it too often for one of his years. But never had he believed Sunniva was so fragile.

  He must be mistaken. This was not as bad as it looked to him. One look as Odelyna's drawn features told him otherwise. Her chanting was frantic now.

  Sunniva let out a shriek and then fell still.

  Beobrand rushed to her side, barging past Odelyna, who let out a cry and stumbled out of his way. Wraiths of smoke eddied around him. His throat was thick with the sickly scent.

  Sunniva lay still, her eyes closed. Oh no! Woden, All Father, do not take her from me. Do not take her. Do not take her.

  He clutched her hand. It was as hot as the edge of the forge where she could so often be found. There was some evil fire in her. Had she been elf shot? Was this Nelda's curse at work?

  She was unmoving. Was she gone? Beobrand choked back a sob. It could not be so.

  Sunniva's eyes flickered open then. Beobrand released a ragged breath. She lived! Everything would be well again. He felt foolish to have allowed himself to become so upset.

  "Sunniva, I was afeared. Thought I'd lost you."

  "I am here, my love," she said. "I will always be here." She offered him a small smile. Her voice was tired, her eyelids drooped. Her eyes closed. Her hand felt hot enough to burn.

  "You need to rest now," said Beobrand.

  Her eyes opened once more. There was an urgency in them now. Sunniva fixed him with a piercing stare. "Wait! Do not leave me. Send for my son. I must see him."

  "You can see him later, when you have rested."

  "No. Send for him now. I will have time to rest soon."

  A chill ran over Beobrand. Sunniva's voice had changed. When he made no move, Sunniva turned to Odelyna.

  "Please, Odelyna," she implored. Something in her tone, or perhaps some secret communication between the women made Odelyna nod, turn and leave the chamber.

  Alone together for the first time in days, Sunniva and Beobrand gazed into each other's eyes for a long while.

  In that moment, Beobrand knew that which he had most feared would come to pass. Sunniva said nothing, but he knew.

  "But you are well now..." his voice faltered.

  She shook her head on the pillow. Tears welled in her eyes, trickled down her flushed cheeks.

  "I am sorry, my love," she said.

  Beobrand felt tears burn his own eyes. His sight blurred.

  "Don't speak so... you are well." His tears scored wet trails down his cheeks. This could not be happening. Yet he knew the truth of it. The light in Sunniva's eyes was dimming.

  "Don't leave me!" he said, sudden anger flashing. "Don't leave me alone, Sunniva."

  She squeezed his hand tightly.

  "You will never be alone," she said, a ferocity in her tone. "I will always be with you and our son."

  Her hand relaxed its grip on his.

  "Our son, Octa," she said, her voice almost too hushed to make out the words. A smile played on her lips for the briefest of moments. Then her life-breath left her with a whisper. Sunniva's head slumped to one side on the pillow as if she had fallen into a deep sleep.

  That night, the people of Ubbanford heard many screams coming from the old hall. First the pained cries of childbirth had punctuated the villagers' conversations. Womenfolk had looked at each other knowingly. They shared the pain Sunniva suffered. It was the common bond of all mothers. The men did their best to ignore the screams, drinking more deeply than usual from their cups and horns.

  There had followed the welcome wailing of a hale child breathing its first breaths. The women looked at their own sleeping children with a remembered fondness that was often forgotten in the daily strife and struggle of life. They felt blessed to have healthy children. Those who had lost children were moved at the sounds of new life. It was a warming sound and many silent prayers were offered up to the gods for the child's health and long life.

  Shortly after, the night was shattered by the loudest and worst cry of all. This was a sound none of them welcomed. It was an inchoate scream of loss. Grief, ire and utter anguish all added their voice to this one animal sound. Children awoke, sure that a night-stalker had come into the settlement. Parents hushed them, sent them back to sleep with soft words. Men and women embraced. Many made love in the dark that night. They still had someone to hold. Someone to keep them warm. To keep the darkness of solitude at bay.

  There
was no mistaking the meaning of that last scream in the stillness of the night.

  Their lord had lost his lady.

  The gods had given life with one hand and taken payment in death with the other. Such was the way of gods.

  Most men accepted their wyrd. Took what the gods chose for them. Be it good or bad.

  Beobrand screamed his rage into the night so that even the gods would hear.

  Beobrand was not like most men. He had fed the ravens and wolves more than warlords twice his age. He had defeated champions and kings. To hear his scream in the darkness was to hear the voice of death and vengeance.

  Beobrand was not one to accept his wyrd without a struggle.

  The longbeards, sitting by their hearths shook their heads. Death could not be conquered. It was the end of all things.

  They knew this, but their new lord was young and strong. His battle-skill was already legendary. He would no more be able to change that which had happened this night than he could stop the sun from rising in the morning. But they were afraid of what he might do in his grief. Young men were not wise. The gods alone knew what mischief Beobrand could be responsible for.

  That night the old men slept fitfully and their sleep was tinged with nightmares.

  PART THREE

  THE CURSE

  CHAPTER 23

  Acennan found Beobrand slumped by the river. It was cold in the shadow of the valley. Mist curled over the water. On the far bank, as still and brooding as Beobrand, stood a heron. As Acennan disrupted the silence with his arrival, the great bird shifted its head slightly. To catch a better glimpse of him perhaps. The bird appeared to decide he was no threat, for it resumed its stance of silent vigil on the water, ignoring the men on the other riverbank.

  Beobrand sat with his back to the grey bole of a birch. He did not acknowledge Acennan's approach.

  Dew lay thick on the long grass and foliage at the river's edge. Acennan's shoes and leg bindings were soaked through. If Beobrand had sat there all night, he must be drenched.

  "I was worried for you," said Acennan. "You should come back to the hall."

  Beobrand drew in a deep breath, let out a sigh.

  "Leave me, Acennan," Beobrand croaked, his voice hoarse. "I do not wish to talk."

  The memories of the night were hazy in Beobrand's mind. He knew what had happened, but it was as if he glimpsed the events through a fog. He had screamed his anger at Woden. Spat his contempt for Thunor. Bellowed with fury at Frige. Coenred's Christ god had felt the lash of Beobrand's sorrow and hatred that night. The gods forsook him at every turn. His life was awash with death and blood.

  His wyrd had brought him happiness for a fleeting time, before snatching it away once more.

  Nelda's word's whispered in his thoughts. She had said he would die alone. She had cursed him. Hengist's mother's magic would bring about his doom. Mete out the suffering and vengeance that her son could not.

  Clumsily, Beobrand lifted the flask of mead, but it was empty. A single drop of the sweet liquid touched his lips, its honey flavour reminding him how much he had drunk. His stomach lurched. His head ached. Water filled his mouth as bile bubbled up in his gullet. He rolled to one side and vomited noisily.

  When he had voided the worst of the contents of his guts, his stomach heaved again, in an attempt to bring up the poison within him. But no matter how long he puked, he would never be rid of this pain.

  The retches turned to sobs.

  Acennan took a few steps down the riverbank. The heron looked sadly over at the noisy men. Slowly, it spread its massive wings and flapped away downriver. Over the water it went, disappearing into the mist.

  For a time the only sounds were Beobrand's coughing sobs and the creak of the heron's wings.

  Beobrand wiped his mouth on his sleeve; rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. He stood shakily, leaving a steaming puddle behind him.

  "Leave me," he repeated, "there are no words. Not for this."

  "I understand your pain."

  Beobrand felt the ire kindle in an instant. The taste of his bile was acid in his mouth.

  "You understand? How can you? She is gone! Taken from me. I am cursed..." His anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He was too tired, too spent.

  "Perhaps we are all cursed," Acennan said. Beobrand looked at his friend. There was a shadow over his features.

  "Yet," Acennan ran his hands through his hair, "we do not need to be cursed to lose the ones we love." He stared into the mist for a time. A fish broke the smooth surface of the river with a muted splash. Ripples rolled out. Beobrand was silent. His mouth was foul-tasting, but his stomach seemed more settled now. He stepped to the water's edge, knelt and cupped cool water into his hands. He rinsed his mouth and spat. He splashed some onto his face.

  "I had a wife once," Acennan said into the silence. "And a boy."

  Beobrand straightened.

  "You never mentioned them before," he said.

  "I do not like to talk of them." Acennan sighed. "I think of them often, but to speak of them... hurts still. It hurts less than it did, but it still hurts."

  Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat. "What happened to them?"

  "They died." Acennan sighed.

  Beobrand did not answer for a long while. He knew very little of Acennan's life before they had met. He had asked him about his travels. About battles he had fought in. Warriors he had seen in the shieldwalls in Hibernia. He vaguely recalled asking him once if he had a woman. Acennan had answered, "No, not any more." Beobrand had sought no more details. Sunniva would have been so angry with him. She always asked Beobrand after the health of his gesithas' children and wives. He never knew the answers to her questions, which annoyed her. The wellbeing of his men's brats and women had never seemed important.

  His eyes filled with tears.

  "I am sorry, Acennan," he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "In the darkest part of the night, I thought of Sunniva and my brother. And my sisters. I could see them. They beckoned to me. It would be so easy. To take my seax and cut my throat. Like an animal at Blotmonath."

  Beobrand stared into the grey waters of the Tuidi.

  "I meant to do it. I could join them." He snorted a mirthless chuckle. "But when I went to pull out my seax, I couldn't find it. I'd left it back at the hall."

  "I am glad of that then," Acennan said. "For to take your life would be the death of a craven, and I know you to be no such thing. Besides, you have a son now. Would you want him to never know his father? Who only heard tell of him as a man who took his own life through grief?"

  Beobrand glowered, but did not answer.

  "You are no coward, lord. There are great tales to tell of your exploits. There will be more. A son deserves to hear such tales from the mouth of his father."

  Beobrand thought of his own father. Was he also looking on from the afterlife, waiting for his son to join him? He would be laughing to see Beobrand's anguish.

  "I am no craven," Beobrand said. He squared his shoulders, took in a deep breath of the cool morning air.

  "Let us return to the hall. I would meet my son."

  When they returned to the hall Anhaga was waiting at the door. His face was pale, drawn and gaunt. He wrung his hands in distress and as he followed them into the hall, Beobrand noticed that his limp seemed more pronounced. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen. He had grown close to Sunniva these past few weeks. He was taking her death hard.

  The cripple bowed his head, but seemed incapable of speech.

  Rowena, hearing them arrive, rose from a chair at the rear of the hall.

  "My lord, I am pleased to see no harm has come to you. We were worried."

  No harm? His heart had been ripped from his chest. His bowels torn from his guts. His skin flayed from his bones.

  "I wished for peace. To think," he said. "Where is my son? I would see him."

  Rowena cast a quick glance at Acennan. He nodded.

  "The babe is well. He is with Maida
. He is sleeping." She took a step forward, gently placed her hand on his arm. Her eyes were full of pity. "Which is what you should be doing."

  She was right. The weight of the last day and night pressed down on him. His eyes were heavy. He could barely place one foot before the other.

  "Yes. I will sleep." Perhaps he would dream of better things. But he doubted that. The gods brought dreams to men, and they had turned their back on him. He made to move past Rowena, but her hand held him still. Would she not let him rest?

  "What?" Exhaustion and sorrow made his tone sharp. As brittle as ice.

  For a moment, Rowena seemed unable to utter a sound. Then she composed herself and said, "You cannot sleep in your chamber, lord."

  "Come, I would sleep now. Enough of this." He brushed her aside. Another hand gripped him. This time it was strong. Unyielding.

  Beobrand spun round. He had no time for this. His wife was dead, and he merely wished to fall into a slumber where he could forget.

  Acennan's jaw was set. But he did not release his hold on Beobrand.

  "Come with me and we'll find somewhere for you to sleep," Acennan said.

  Beobrand stared at him for several heartbeats. His mind was still addled by drink, tiredness and the trials of the night. Slowly, he understood why they held him back. He blinked away tears. He would not cry again. Certainly not before Rowena and Anhaga.

  He shook off Acennan's hand.

  "Is... Is she..." Beobrand bit his lip, then continued. "Is she being tended to?"

  "Yes, my lord," Rowena replied. "The womenfolk are with her. I awaited your return, but I will go back to help with Sunniva's preparations now."

  Beobrand turned away from them then. The sound of her name too much for him. He strode towards the doors.

  "I will rest now," he said, but did not look back. "Awaken me when I can see Octa."

  "Octa, lord?"

  Beobrand halted in the doorway for a moment.

  "My son," he said, and stepped into the early morning sunlight.

  It felt to Beobrand that he had scarcely closed his eyes when a strong hand shook him awake. He groaned. His head throbbed. The scar beneath his left eye ached. The old wound to his ribs pained him as it had not done since last he had stood in battle. He should never have drunk so much mead. The puking had strained his muscles and the drink had not chased his pain away.