The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand wrapped his left arm around Anhaga's back, feeling the life and the strength leaving him as rapidly as a skylark flees a disturbed nest. Anhaga's legs buckled and Beobrand used all his strength to slowly lay him on the grass. Anhaga looked up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. He blinked twice and then his focus went beyond Beobrand. He gazed into the sky and his face relaxed, soothed.

  Beobrand cast a glance into the sky. There, above them, circled the great red kite. It had flown higher, lifted on the warm air of the midday sun, but now it folded its wings and tumbled down towards them. At the last moment, with barely enough time before it came crashing to the earth, the bird let out a cry and spread its wings wide again and soared once more into the sky. What this omen meant, Beobrand did not know.

  Looking back to where Anhaga lay, Beobrand could see that the life had left him. He pulled the seax from the wound. Blood bubbled and pooled there, pumping feebly. Anhaga released a rattling breath and all was still.

  Beobrand did not turn to acknowledge the kings who stood close behind him.

  He turned to the line of Northumbrian warriors and walked, stiff-legged back to their ranks.

  He saw where his gesithas waited. None would meet his eye.

  All except for Acennan, who watched, unflinching with baleful stare, as Beobrand approached.

  CHAPTER 31

  Beobrand patted Sceadugenga's neck. The stallion flicked its ears and nickered. It seemed they were both pleased to be home. Beobrand felt the knot in his stomach loosen slightly as he looked down into the bend in the Tuidi valley where Ubbanford nestled. The settlement was as they had left it. Smoke drifted and curled from the thatch. The unfinished hall presided over the rest of the buildings from its vantage point on the knap of the hill. They would be able to finish the construction now they had returned. With hard work and some luck, it could be finished before the season changed. They could winter in the new hall. Sunniva's hall.

  Beobrand looked back to where his gesithas marched. There was a spring in their step now. Home and hearth awaited them. He frowned when he saw Acennan walking with the others. He led his mare, choosing to walk with the men rather than ride with his lord. He had barely spoken to Beobrand since they had left the frontier of Mercia. The men felt the simmering anger that lurked between the two, and they were uncomfortable when Acennan and Beobrand were in close proximity. Beobrand understood this. He knew he had done wrong by Acennan. And Anhaga. And Sunniva. So he kept himself apart from the men.

  Oswald too had not addressed him directly since Anhaga's killing. The king had spoken to Penda for much of that day, the monks scratching away at their records of the decisions under the shade of the shelter in that meadow in Dor. The kings had parted on good terms it seemed, but when Beobrand had enquired over the outcome to Coenred, the monk would say little more than that decisions had been made and the kings were content. When he had pushed for more details, Coenred had snapped at him.

  "It is not for me to tell you the words of kings. It seems to me that had they wished for you to hear, they would have invited you to sit with them." Coenred had not met his gaze and Beobrand had not attempted to speak with him again.

  They had parted ways at Bebbanburg with scarcely a word between them.

  For a moment his thoughts clouded. Nelda's curse seemed ever more likely.

  The sound of the chatter of the men approaching reached him. He decided to wait no longer. They would arrive soon enough.

  He touched his heels to Sceadugenga's flanks and gave the horse its head. The stallion sped forward and down the slope at a reckless gallop. A rare smile tugged at Beobrand's lips. The unseen fingers of wind pushed his hair back from his face. He clung to the reins and pressed his thighs in tightly to Sceadugenga. He cared not whether he would fall, which made the run all the more enjoyable. There was no time to notice anything untoward about Ubbanford as he careened down the hill. It was all he could do to remain in the saddle, but as he reined in his steed on the open ground before Ubba's hall, a niggling doubt prickled his mind.

  Where was everyone? He looked up at the sky, gauging the height of the sun. The day was warm and there was much daylight left. There should have been men and women working the fields, tending the animals.

  The settlement was unusually quiet.

  Cold claws of dread scratched down his back. He leapt from the saddle and led Sceadugenga towards the hall.

  Raised voices emanated from the open door as a tall warrior, shield and spear in hand, stepped out. The man carried his war gear deliberately, as one expecting violence. His helm half covered his face, but Beobrand recognised him.

  "Elmer, what tidings? What is afoot that you greet your lord with arms?"

  Elmer quickly pulled off his helmet.

  "My lord," he said, his voice breathless, "you are well met." He cast around behind Beobrand, but could see nobody else. "And the others?" he asked, his jaw clenching against the possibility of grim news.

  "They are following on foot. They will be here shortly. But tell me. What has happened here?"

  Elmer grew pale. "The tidings are of the worst kind." He took a deep breath and said, "Tobrytan is slain."

  "Who has done such a thing?"

  "It was the sons of Nathair. Their father is dead and without the shackles of his will over them, they came seeking vengeance. Tobrytan and I stood strong. We turned them away."

  Other figures came out of the hall into the afternoon sun. The lady Rowena had a splash of blood on her mantle. Edlyn, all pale face and huge eyes, stood at her mother's side.

  "Lady Rowena," said Beobrand, "are you hurt?"

  "No," she replied, "the blood is Tobrytan's." Her face was drawn. The woman had endured much over the last year. It was good that she still had her daughter, she had lost so much else.

  Elmer's wife, Maida, came out of the shadows of the hall and went to her man. On her hip, she carried Octa.

  Beobrand's heart leaped in his chest. He was not alone after all. The boy was safe. Beobrand was shocked at the strength of his own emotion at seeing Octa. With force of will he turned away from the baby with his tuft of blond hair.

  "How did this happen?" Beobrand asked.

  Elmer did not answer, seemingly content now to defer the telling of the tale to Rowena.

  "It seems," she said, "that after they had been turned back from," she hesitated, "your lands, Torran, loosed an arrow which pierced Tobrytan's throat. We brought him back here. But we could not staunch the flow of his lifeblood."

  Anger like a bitter winter storm filled Beobrand's being. He recalled the arrows whistling towards him as he fled along the bank of the Tuidi.

  "This was a craven act," he spat. "Torran will pay for this. I warned them not to cross me again."

  "There is more," muttered Rowena, her voice unusually tremulous.

  "Yes? What? Speak then. Tell me all. I must hear."

  "As they fled from Ubbanford, they found one of the thralls in the low meadow, near the river. It was Reaghan."

  "Reaghan?" said Beobrand. The name was unfamiliar. A Waelisc name.

  "She..." Rowena hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, then apparently deciding there was no alternative, she continued. "She was the girl who... attended you... on your last night here before you travelled to Bebbanburg."

  Beobrand started. He had tried not to think of the slight girl. Her thick dark hair. The long lashes. Her pale, fragile body, that had trembled and bucked under his drunken thrusting desire in the darkness. Yet the image had come back to him again and again. He had scarcely allowed himself to think on her, yet he had been secretly looking forward to returning to Ubbanford. He felt so alone. He had hoped the dark thrall would be able to help him forget.

  He gripped Sceadugenga's reins tightly. His knuckles whitened.

  "Did they kill her?" he asked, dreading the reply.

  "No," Rowena said. "But I fear it may be worse for her."

  "Worse than death?" asked Beobrand.

&nbs
p; Rowena nodded, her face grim with dark understanding of what befell women at the hands of men of war and violence.

  "They took her with them."

  A piercing shriek shattered the still of the night.

  The men looked about nervously for some sign of the source of the scream, but they saw none. They touched amulets and weapons for protection from the evil things that stalked the night. They hoped it was an animal of some kind. The alternative did not bear contemplating.

  They had walked in silence under the trees for most of the night. They had no need to talk. Their hasty plans had been discussed at Ubbanford and they had marched over the Tuidi with the setting of the sun. Their only sounds were the crunch of shoes on loose gravel, the jingling of war gear, the occasional clank of a helm against a low hanging branch. And the dull thudding steps of Sceadugenga and Acennan's mare. The horses' hooves had been wrapped in thick cloths in the hope that the muffled sound would not travel far and alert their quarry.

  Beobrand touched his hand again to Hrunting's pommel. The sword's presence reassured him. But with each touch his body thrummed with the pent up excitement of impending battle. He could feel the black coolness of battle lust pushing its way into his mind. He had felt such sorrow and anguish for so long, he welcomed the opportunity to unleash his anger. He could not fail again. Reaghan might only be a thrall, but she was his. He would protect her and return her to Ubbanford. And those who had taken her would pay.

  He could just discern the shapes of those around him. The night was cool and quiet. A light mist had risen from the ground and the river and they passed like wraiths through the murk. They were shades lit by the dim glow of the half-moon that filtered through the leaf canopy. The broad, comforting form of Acennan trudged close by. As they had readied themselves to leave, Beobrand had approached him. He did not wish to force his friend to speak with him, but they could not march into danger as they had been. Without talking. Avoiding each other. When the sword-play began, chaos would reign and they would all need to depend on one another.

  "We march to fight, Acennan," he had said.

  Acennan had continued wrapping strips of cloth tightly around the branches they had cut for torches. These were then being passed to Attor, who soaked them in fish oil, so they would burn long and hot.

  "Acennan?" Beobrand had said.

  Acennan had looked up at him from where he sat. The skin around his eye still showed the yellow and green reminders of the bruise Beobrand had inflicted. Beobrand tried not to flinch at the sight.

  "You can rely on me, Beobrand, if that is what you were going to ask." He stared at Beobrand for a time. "You have my oath and I am no oath-breaker. And besides," he had reached up and pointedly touched his bruised eye, "it will be good to have a fight where I can hit back."

  That would have to be enough. Beobrand hoped that Acennan would see fit to forgive him, but for now, all he wanted was to know he had his friend's sword and shield protecting his flank.

  The rest of the men had been grim-faced as they prepared. Elmer, who had not travelled south to witness the events at Dor, had spoken out.

  "Are you sure of this, Beobrand," he had said.

  Beobrand had rounded on him. "If you have no stomach for the fight, Elmer, you can stay with the women. Help Maida with the children." He had regretted his anger the instant the words left his mouth. Elmer had stood before the sons of Nathair and seen Tobrytan killed. He was no coward.

  "I know you are a brave man, Elmer. Forgive me. But we will do as I have said. I have spoken. The sons of Nathair will die and we will bring back Reaghan."

  Elmer had nodded and spoken no more. The others, aware of Beobrand's quick temper, had bent their heads to the tasks at hand. Weapons were sharpened. The torches were prepared.

  The women had brought them small parcels of food as they prepared to leave. Maida brought Octa to Beobrand. The baby was alert and wide-eyed, the light of the late afternoon sun giving his skin a ruddy, hale aspect. Beobrand had reached out and placed his hand upon Octa's tiny head. His wispy hair was as soft as goose down. He was so small. So fragile.

  "My thanks to you for keeping him safe, Maida, Elmer-wife."

  She had beamed and then gone to bid farewell to her husband.

  The lady Rowena had come to him as he tied the cloths to Sceadugenga's hooves. Her shadow had fallen on him and he'd looked up.

  "Finish them once and for all, Beobrand," she had said, her voice hard and cold as the crag of Bebbanburg. "Finish this and then come back. Come home. Your son needs a father. And we need a hlaford." She had reached out and gently touched his arm before walking back into her dead husband's hall. She had not looked back.

  They were close now. The misty glow of open land showing where the forest path ended.

  "We halt here," whispered Beobrand. In the mist-shrouded night his voice sounded unnaturally loud.

  They huddled close in the gloom to hear Beobrand's whispered words.

  "Attor, you know what to do." Attor was the slightest of Beobrand's gesithas and he wore no metal armour, preferring instead to rely on his agility and speed. He could pass unheeded through the darkness like a nihtgenga, a dweller of the night forest, and he was deadly with the long seax he wore at his side.

  "We will wait for you here, as agreed," continued Beobrand, "but we will be ready. If you need us, shout and we will be there in moments." Beobrand grasped the arm of the slim warrior. "Go silently and may the gods smile on you."

  Attor showed his teeth, a dull gleam from his dark bearded face. "The gods will smile on all of us, but not on those Pictish bastards. I'll return shortly, be ready with the fire."

  And with that, he slipped into the night and was lost to sight and sound.

  They tethered the horses to branches at the edge of the path. They would not be needing them for what was to come. They had brought them to help carry back any injured. And Reaghan. They knew not if she would be able to walk.

  "Aethelwulf," hissed Beobrand, "see to the fire, but have a care to keep it in the pot. The rest of you, ready yourselves and take the torches."

  The movement of the men, rustling and stealthy, still sounded as loud as a shout in the hazy darkness.

  From where Aethelwulf knelt, there was a sudden flare of light, gone as quickly as it had appeared. For the briefest of moments the men, the horses and the trees were illuminated. If anyone was watching in the dark, they would surely see the light.

  "Position yourselves between Aethelwulf and Nathair's hall," said Beobrand. The men shuffled around.

  Then Aethelwulf struck his flint again. As they watched, they saw how he captured the spark inside a large earthenware pot where he had already placed a small pile of dried fungus shavings. The spark rested on the fungus fleetingly and then dwindled to nothing, plunging them all into darkness again.

  For a third time, he struck a spark. Again the spark fell into the prepared bed of tinder. Aethelwulf, his crooked nose and beard aglow from the tiny flame, leant over the pot and pursed his lips. His breath brought life to the flame and he fed it with slivers of dry wood. The light grew from the pot and gave a warm glow to the faces of the men who looked on.

  Another otherworldy shriek split the night and the men looked up from the warmth of the fire that called to them in the darkness with the seductive voice of home and hearth. A flash of ghostly white flitted across the path in the direction they had travelled.

  "By the gods, it is a night spirit," said Ceawlin, terror in his voice.

  Acennan muttered, "It was only a bird." And with those words, echoed from the darkness of a winter cave far away, the vision of Nelda's jackdaw, Muninn, came to Beobrand. The white-rimmed eye, twitching with a malevolent intelligence. Charcoal wings beating. Jagged talons stabbing at his eyes.

  He glanced at Acennan. His eyes were like the embers of a funeral pyre in the flame-glow. Acennan met his gaze and nodded slowly.

  "Only a bird," Acennan repeated, as if he knew what Beobrand was thinking.
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br />   Yes. Merely a bird. Muninn was nothing more than broken bones and feathers now. Beobrand raised himself up to his full height. The men looked to him for strength. He was their lord. He could not cower in the night, frightened of the calls of birds.

  "Do not lose your nerve now, my gesithas," said Beobrand, forcing his voice to remain calm. "It is but a white owl. They scream to each other in the dark, but they are birds, nothing more." The faces of his men were strange in the trembling flicker of the flame in the pot. He was unsure his words had settled their fears. Ceawlin's eyes were wide.

  "They scream, but when they hunt they are as silent as spirits, and so must we be. And as unseen. Now, cover that pot and get ready to move. Attor should be back soon."

  Aethelwulf placed the lid on the pot, leaving a small gap for air to allow the flames to breathe. He took cloths from a pouch and wrapped the base of the pot with them so that he could carry it without fear of burning his hands. The smallest amount of yellow light seeped from the gap, lighting Aethelwulf from below and giving his face the aspect of a savage creature from legend.

  They stood silently for some time then, each lost in his own thoughts in the darkness. Beobrand fought against the memories that threatened to drown him in their misery. Instead, he focused on his anger. He longed to feel the weight of Hrunting in his hand again. He recalled the sneering features of Wybert. He could scarcely believe the man had survived the attack by Anhaga, but such was what he had heard before leaving Dor. But Wybert would die at his hand. He had sworn it. And he had sworn to protect the people of Ubbanford. The sons of Nathair had awoken a bear by killing Tobrytan and capturing Reaghan. Beobrand stoked his fury. He was surprised to find he was thinking of the Waelisc girl. He remembered her hair. The touch of her skin. Her scent. And then, unbidden, his son's tiny features played in his mind. These Picts had sealed their doom when they had raised their hands to his people. His kin.

  From the darkness, as silent as fog rolling over a fen, stepped Attor. The pale light from the fire pot picked out his face. His mouth was wide in a savage grin. In his hand he held his seax. It was black in the darkness with fresh blood.