The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

"She was not," replied Beobrand. "She sent her father on in the old way and she would have wanted the same."

  Rowena did not reply, but dipped her gaze. None could meet that barren stare for long.

  Beobrand turned back to his men. Maida looked up expectantly, but he paid her no heed. She frowned and looked to her husband, Elmer, but he did not notice. He was enthralled with his lord. Guilt lay heavily on him.

  "See to it that there is enough wood," Beobrand said, taking in all his gesithas with his gaze. "I trust you will not fail me in this."

  The men bowed their heads. None replied as Beobrand left the hall.

  Sunniva was clothed in her favourite blue dress. He remembered she had worn it the first time they had lain together, on the sunny hillside above Gefrin. Her head had been bound in linen, over the top of her head and below her chin, leaving her face exposed, eyes closed and peaceful. It would almost be possible to think she slept.

  There was little light in the chamber where she lay, but Beobrand could not pretend she was merely sleeping. Her pallor belied that. Her stillness was not that of one who is deep in rest. It was the absolute lack of movement of the dead.

  Beobrand had seen many corpses before, but he had never seen one so beautiful. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, dully lambent in the taper's flame-glow. Her skin was as smooth and perfect as the finest polished stone.

  And as cold.

  His breath caught in his throat. A sob escaped him. He fell to his knees before the bed where his wife lay.

  "I'm so sorry," he said. "So sorry. I should have been here. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? Oh, my love..."

  He allowed the tears to flow then. He had been holding them in check all the day as he rode the hills. He had pushed Sceadugenga hard. The stallion seemed to understand his master's need. The horse galloped with a furious power. The wind whistled and his hooves thundered. Beobrand revelled in the raw energy of the beast. The speed and danger of falling. He rode with abandon, half hoping to be thrown. But Sceadugenga was a good steed and Beobrand was not unhorsed. He rode as if he could out-pace the grief that threatened to consume him.

  But in the end, he had not been surprised to find that the horse had led them back to Ubbanford. The sun was low in the sky then and Rowena had met him at the door of the hall.

  "Lord," she had said, "the pyre is ready. You should take some time to bid Sunniva farewell before we take her up the hill."

  He had looked at her blankly then, but allowed her to lead him through the hall to the sleeping chamber where his dead wife awaited him. Rowena had left him alone with Sunniva in the gloom-laden room. Beobrand was glad of that now.

  He had not faced Sunniva since her death, and the sight of her lying there had all but unmanned him. It would not do for his men to see him thus. He roughly wiped the tears from his face. He stood and kissed Sunniva's blue lips.

  They were soft, yet cold. Unmoving. He closed his eyes for a moment. The touch of her mouth on his was familiar, and yet strangely cool and different. Like looking at a well-loved landscape that is disguised under a blanket of fresh snow.

  He shuddered. Stood.

  "Fare you well, my love," he whispered.

  Nobody could recall a larger funeral fire.

  It could be seen from far beyond the extent of Beobrand's hides of land. The sun dipped below the western horizon and Beobrand touched a torch into the dried tinder and twigs at the base of the wood pile. The wood was dry. His men had done well. The flames licked hungrily up the kindling, crackling and spitting sparks as a light breeze fanned the fire. Smoke spewed forth from some of the larger logs as the heat reached them.

  Sunniva lay peacefully on top of the pyre. Smoke began to billow around her. Wisps of her golden hair rose and wafted around her face, lifted by the wind and heat.

  The onlookers were silent. Awestruck, they watched as their lady's form was consumed. Her spirit would fly free in the smoke. The gods would surely take her into their hall.

  Beobrand had not spoken since coming to this place. He was aware of the presence of his people around him. Every one of the inhabitants of Ubbanford was atop the hill that night. He had nodded to Acennan as, together, they had undertaken the grim task of lifting Sunniva onto the heap of wood. Acennan's eyes were dark and full of sorrow.

  Sunniva's father, Strang, had been much heavier when they had lifted his body less than a year before. When they had found Strang, neither would have imagined they would be lifting his daughter's body mere months later. She was so light. Beobrand's mind brought back to him unbidden the image of Rheda. She too had been light, fragile. One moment so full of life and energy, the next no more than meat.

  His vision blurred. He bit his lip. He would not cry. Tears would do no good. They never had.

  Gently they had lain Sunniva down and descended the ladders they had used to raise her to the height of the top of the funeral pyre.

  She was so lovely. He swallowed against the harsh lump in his throat. He watched as the smoke began to engulf her. He would never see her again. He blinked back tears. She was leaving middle earth. Leaving him alone.

  Without warning Beobrand spun towards Maida, who stood a few paces back from the pyre. She held Octa in her arms. He was swaddled in a blanket. Elmer stood beside her, one broad hand placed protectively on her shoulder.

  Reminding all the warriors present of why he was such a fearsome opponent in battle, Beobrand took a bounding leap towards Maida, instantly closing the gap between them. Instinctively she recoiled, holding Octa away from him, towards her husband.

  "Give me my son," Beobrand said.

  "Lord," Elmer answered for her in a hesitant voice.

  Beobrand cast a glance back to the fire. The flames were moving higher. There was no time to explain or to argue.

  "Give him to me," he shouted and snatched Octa from the woman's clutches.

  She shrieked. Others screamed out too.

  Beobrand ignored them and stepped back towards the fire.

  Acennan blocked his path. Their eyes met.

  "Step aside, I mean him no harm," Beobrand said.

  Acennan hesitated for a heartbeat, then allowed him to pass.

  Heat was rolling off of the fire now, making it difficult to get close. Sunniva was all but hidden by the conflagration of smoke and flames. But her form was still visible. The shape of her face darkly silhouetted within the blaze.

  Octa began to wail. It was the first time that Beobrand had held his son.

  Their son.

  He held him aloft, high above his head.

  More screams from the women. Did they believe he would toss his child onto the fire? Did they truly believe he was capable of such a thing? Perhaps.

  He supported Octa's tiny head in his half hand, the babe's feeble body in his right. He shifted him so that he would be able to see into the high part of the bone fire.

  "That is your mother, Sunniva, daughter of Strang," he said. "You will not see her again in this world, so look upon her now and do not forget, my son. Octa."

  He held him thus for a long while until his arms began to tremble. Octa stopped his weeping. He seemed entranced by the flames. Or perhaps by the vision of his mother.

  The people of Ubbanford fell quiet too. They were silent as their lord said farewell to his wife, and welcomed his son into this world. They watched as Beobrand stood beside the raging fire. He was still and solid. The flames cavorted and danced.

  After a long while he lowered the small bundle that was his infant son. He held him close to his chest, his muscular arms wrapped around Octa to protect the baby from the heat.

  He took a step backwards, and the women smiled. He meant no harm to the child.

  When he was a distance that was safe for the babe, Beobrand, planted his feet and stood, as immobile as rock, gazing into the fiery heart of the pyre.

  His gesithas saw a warrior, broad of shoulder, and hale of frame. The womenfolk saw the way he protected his child and they saw the new f
ather. A young man, unsure, and alone, and their hearts melted for him.

  Acennan looked sidelong at Beobrand and saw a friend. The firelight moved on his face. The glistening trails of tears were quickly burnt away in the glare of the pyre. It was impossible to take away Beobrand's jagged hurt, but it would soften in time, the way a rough stone will be smoothed by the constant tides of the sea.

  His people looked upon Beobrand as he stood vigil over his wife's bone fire and they each saw something different. Yet there was one thing that all of them agreed on.

  He was their lord.

  The next days were dark in Ubbanford. The sun's orb rose high in the sky each day. There were mere threads of clouds in the warm afternoons and those who worked on the new hall's construction, or in the fields, sweated and squinted against the brightness of the light.

  Yet a pall of darkness hung over the village as surely as if a storm cloud had settled above it.

  Beobrand's men felt keenly their failure. They awaited their lord's punishment, but none came, which only served to make them feel worse. They knew they had done wrong and wished to feel the brunt of Beobrand's wrath to expiate their guilt in some measure. The lack of ire directed at them made for an excruciating blend of self-loathing and self-pity. Fights broke out. Words of blame were uttered. Friendships soured.

  In an effort to keep busy, the warriors resumed work on the hall on the hill. Where before they had accompanied their work with good-natured banter and jests, now they toiled with scarcely a word being spoken. The work did not progress as quickly as it should have with the fine weather. Their hearts were not in it. They would look at where Sunniva used to sit in the last days before her confinement and then their eyes would be drawn to the grey-black stain on the hill. The place of her pyre. More than one of the men needed to wipe tears from their cheeks. There seemed to be more stray dust blowing into eyes than before Sunniva's death. Perhaps it was ash from the remnants of the blaze that had consumed her flesh.

  For Beobrand the days were long. He rode far on Sceadugenga. He traversed rivers, passed beneath the thick canopy of brooding forests and climbed the steep hills to the south, from where he could see a great distance all around. He avoided contact with others, preferring his own company. He had no desire to talk, but that left his mind free to wander. And the paths of his memory were treacherous, like an ice-locked marsh. Any misstep could plunge a traveller through a skin of ice into the dark morass of a frigid mere, never to return.

  Sceadugenga's hooves picked a sure trail through the land of Bernicia. Beobrand's thoughts were not so sure-footed. When he stumbled into the darkest memories, he was glad of his solitude. What would his men have thought of their lord, a man they looked up to for his battle-skill and strength, with hot tears of shame and regret streaming down his young face?

  On the day following the pyre, Beobrand took a clay pot and collected the ash. This he secured on Sceadugenga's saddle and rode south. He passed in the shadow of the standing stones that had been raised by some ancient race. Perhaps they had been erected by the same giants who built the Wall further south, though that seemed unlikely. The circles of stones that dotted the countryside were large and imposing, but more natural somehow than the Great Wall, or the straight roads such as Deira Stræt.

  He saw few people. This land was wild and untamed. The windswept hills spoke to him. They cared nothing for the passing of life. Kings were as nothing to them. He touched the earthenware pot where it nestled behind him in a leather saddle bag. The land would not remember Sunniva. Or any of the others he had seen die. Where were the people who had raised the stone circles? Where were the giants who built the Wall? They had gone the way of all things. And yet, remnants of their existence were still to be seen. Perhaps that is all men can hope for. For some small part of their lives to remain visible to others after their death.

  And then of course, there were children.

  He could still not envisage Octa the wrinkled infant becoming a child. Or a man. It seemed impossible to Beobrand that he was truly a father. His own father's shadow loomed over his thoughts. Would he be a truer father to Octa, than Grimgundi had been to him? Would Octa hate and fear him, as he had loathed his own father?

  As he rode, alone with his thoughts, with only the ghosts of family and loved ones for company he understood why he had fled from Ubbanford. Why he had scarcely acknowledged Octa's existence. He had told himself that babies were for women, and this was true. But there was more than that.

  He had imagined that he somehow blamed the child for Sunniva's death. Those black thoughts had come to him, but there was a further reason that he ran from his son.

  Beobrand was frightened. He was terrified that he would be the same man his father had been. That he would beat and threaten Octa, hammering the child into a weapon to be used against him, just as he had turned on Grimgundi.

  He reined in Sceadugenga by a trickling stream, allowed the horse to drink. Along the banks of the stream grew rushes. Spear-straight they rustled in the breeze. Beobrand gazed at them. They brought back the images of the shieldwall. The thicket of waving spears. He had risen to prominence by dealing in death. Perhaps he owed something to his father after all. All those he hated had made him the man he now was.

  A warrior.

  A weapon.

  A death-bringer.

  First Grimgundi, with his beatings. Then Hengist, his brother's slayer, abuser and murderer of innocents, had trained him in the ways of battle.

  And was Grimgundi even his father? His mother's dying words still plagued his memory. What had she meant by them?

  He ran his deformed left hand over the stubble on his jaw. His beard was growing fuller now, as if by siring a son he had truly become a man. Or perhaps it was when he began to slay men.

  There was one thing that he was sure of. As certain as the fact that a tree can be felled by a man with an axe. Whatever his past, and however he had come to this, he was a warrior now. A weapon-wielder who would bring death on his enemies and those of his lord.

  Wybert was his enemy now, and Beobrand would go to whatever lengths were needed to find him. And to kill him. Vengeance did not bring peace with it. He knew this now. Yet it was all there was for him.

  Revenge. And service to his lord.

  With all of these thoughts vying for supremacy in his mind, Beobrand pushed on southward. He did not ride aimlessly. He knew where he was heading.

  He crested the last hill and peered down into the valley. The sun was behind the western hills now, the valley in shadow. He could just make out the blackened beams of the great hall. The hollow shell like the jutting ribs of some giant's carcass. The other buildings were mostly burnt-out husks. Cadwallon's Waelisc host had destroyed the once proud township of Gefrin. The glow of the blaze had been visible in the sky all the way to the coast.

  There were a few small buildings that seemed to have avoided the fires, or perhaps had been rebuilt since, as inhabitants of Gefrin returned to their homes. Trails of smoke drifted from the intact buildings. Beobrand spotted a man leading a donkey behind one of the dwellings.

  Beobrand looked about him. The day had been warm. Ragged clouds streaked the sky. It would grow cold in the night, but he could not face talking to strangers now. He found the trail he was looking for and followed it some way down the slope of the hill.

  The secluded meadow, surrounded by rowan and pine, was as he remembered it. The sweet scent of heather brought back the memory of that warm summer day. Sunniva had been so beautiful. He had been intoxicated by her. The touch of her small hands on his body. The warmth of her pliant flesh beneath him. The taste of her mouth.

  Beobrand dismounted. Reaching for the saddle bag, he lifted the urn containing Sunniva's ashes. Placing it reverently on the ground, he prepared a meagre camp. He removed Sceadugenga's saddle and tethered him nearby. He had not come prepared for sleeping outside but he did not wish to light a fire. It would attract attention from Gefrin below. It would be a cold night.
But he would not be alone. He clutched the unyielding earthenware pot to him, wrapped both himself and it in his cloak and stretched out on the lush grass.

  This was where they had first lain together.

  It seemed fitting that it was where they would spend their last night.

  The stillness of the hill enveloped him. He had ridden long and hard. His body was tired. His mind tortured. Yet sleep came rapidly.

  He did not recall his dreams when he awoke the next morning, but the dew that fell on his upturned face in the darkness mingled with the salty tears that were already on his cheeks.

  CHAPTER 25

  The sun cast long, stark shadows into the Tuidi valley when Beobrand returned. His body ached from the saddle. He was tired, but his head was clearer than when he had set out. Thoughts threatened to pull him into an abyss of despair. He could feel them tugging at his memories, striving to drag him into a darkness that lurked at his core. He would not despair. Wyrd had set him on this path and he would see it through.

  He focused on what he had. A hall. Land. A warband of loyal gesithas. A son. But what good were all these things, if he could not find happiness? He could not prevent himself asking the silent question. The darkness scratched and gnawed at his mind. How could he continue? He had lost all those he loved. At every turn he was surrounded by death. He truly was cursed. Forsaken by the gods.

  Beobrand saw a rider off in the distance. He was glad of the distraction from the slavering maw of his black thoughts. He reached to his side and loosened Hrunting in its scabbard. The hilt of the sword at once settled his nerves. Calmed his mind. There was a certainty in the sword's presence. Its purpose was clear. It would not fail him. Beobrand bared his teeth and dug his heels into his steed's flanks. Should the lone rider prove to be a brigand, he would rue the day he chose Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, as a victim. The stallion leapt forward into a gallop, clearly with power in reserve despite the long ride back from Gefrin.

  They closed the distance quickly, the other rider also spurring his horse into a run. Sceadugenga whinnied a greeting to the other horse. At the same instant Beobrand recognised the rider. They drew close and Beobrand pulled Sceadugenga to a halt. The horse tossed its head, blowing and snorting. The dappled horse of the other rider moved in close, rubbed its nose on Sceadugenga's flank.