The grizzled man appeared to be the leader. He held up a hand.
“What would you be wanting from us on this fine morning, priest?” he asked, his voice rasped and rumbled like boulders rolling down a mountain.
Coenred halted. Without a word, Beobrand and his gesithas formed a defensive line behind the monk.
“I heard you men were trading in all manner of goods,” said Coenred. To Beobrand’s ears his tone sounded high-pitched and reedy with anxiety.
The leader’s eyes narrowed and he looked along the line of warriors who were arrayed behind Coenred.
“You heard right,” he said at last. “We are traders. But why bring so many swords to a wic. If you mean to barter and haggle, silver is what you need, not steel.”
For a moment, Beobrand was worried that Coenred would not answer, but the monk straightened his shoulders and returned the man’s gaze.
“The land is ever dangerous for one carrying valuables. The almighty God protects me from evil, but I have found that strong arms and swords protect treasures better than prayer alone.”
The sailor weighed his words for several, uncomfortable heartbeats, before grinning broadly.
“If you seek trade and you bring valuables with which to barter, then you have come to the right place,” he said, stepping aside and waving them towards the fires. The weasel-faced man’s eyes followed Beobrand as they walked forward. Beobrand forced himself to ignore him.
“You are well come,” said the crooked-nosed leader. “I am Wada. Brimwulf is my ship.” He waved an arm at one of the vessels, a fat-bellied trading ship. Beside the nearest fire stood a stocky man with an expensive-looking fur-trimmed hat. His red cloak was held in place with a golden clasp. “This is Thurcytel,” said Wada. “He is the captain of the Waegmearh. We travel together.”
“I thought you travelled with a third ship also,” said Coenred.
Wada tensed, looking at the monk askance.
“What is it you seek, priest?” asked Thurcytel. “And what is it to you who we travel with?”
Beobrand cursed silently at Coenred’s clumsy question. He scanned the men around them. They were heavily outnumbered, but none of the seamen wore armour. If they attacked quickly and with determination, Beobrand thought they would be able to cut themselves free and rush back to Brimblæd.
Coenred shook his head and smiled.
“I care nought for your travelling companions,” he said. “It is just that when we stopped at Hastingas, Lord Dudoc told us of three trading ships that had travelled west a few days earlier and I had presumed you to be said ships. As to what it is I seek, well, Dudoc’s wife, the Lady Aelfgyth, said she had seen a fine example of a relic, an exquisite rood encasing a most holy item, amongst the things you had offered her husband. Now it just so happens that I have been sent by my bishop, his most holy Utta, in search of artefacts with which to adorn his new church. He has vowed that it will be the finest house of God in all of Albion. And he will spare no cost to furnish it in all the splendour he can find.”
Beobrand looked at Cynan, who raised an eyebrow. It seemed he was as surprised as he at Coenred’s quick thinking. Beobrand was not sure what Utta or Aidan would have to say about the ease with which the monk lied, but he had nothing but admiration for his friend’s cunning.
“There was a third ship with us,” said Wada, an unreadable expression on his face, “but we had a difference of opinion with the captain and we have parted ways.”
Beobrand let out a slow breath, struggling not to let the disappointment show on his face. There was no sign of Ardith or Grimr on the beach. Both must be on the missing ship.
“I see… and the rood?”
“Well, that too was true. At least it was when we moored at Hastingas. But it would seem you are not the only Christ priest in search of such.”
“Indeed?” said Coenred.
“Yes, we sold it to the priest of yon church not two days ago,” he gestured up a rise to where a small timber structure stood.
“How unfortunate,” murmured Coenred. “I would so have liked to see it. Lady Aelfgyth said that it was of exquisite craftsmanship.”
“Why don’t you go up to the church and see it?” said Thurcytel.
“You never know,” grinned Wada, exposing yellow teeth, “he may sell it to you for the right price.”
“What a splendid idea,” said Coenred. “Come, Attor, let us take a look at this relic and see what price we might strike with the priest.”
“Shall we go with you?” asked Beobrand, uneasy at having to defer to Coenred. The gaze of the captains and their crews was heavy on him. He did not wish to remain here with these men who had attacked and plundered Háligsteorra and, until recently, held Ardith captive. His hand itched to drag Hrunting from its scabbard and to lay about him, slicing and rending these seamen. With an effort, he clenched his hands at his sides.
Coenred turned to him, a small smile playing on his lips. He seemed to be enjoying himself now, thought Beobrand. He could scarcely believe it, but he should not have been surprised, he knew his friend was brave and quick-witted once he pushed his fear to one side.
“I do not need to sully the sanctity of God’s holy house with all of your swords and seaxes, mighty Octa,” Coenred said. “Remain here with these good men and share with them the mead we brought, if it is not too early for such drink.”
“It is never too early for mead,” chuckled Wada.
Beobrand wished to speak out against Coenred’s decision, but he knew he could not without exposing their pretence.
“As you wish, master,” he said, dropping his gaze. Fraomar handed him the skin of good mead they had brought with them, a gift from Dudoc. Beobrand weighed it in his half-hand for a moment, before tossing it to Wada. The older man caught it easily. Unstopping it, he took a long draught.
“And, Octa,” Coenred paused and said over his shoulder, “you can look through the other things these men have on offer while I am away. You know what sort of things I am looking for.”
Coenred gave Beobrand a meaningful nod before turning and walking away.
“Yes, master,” said Beobrand.
Unease scratched down his back with chill fingers as he watched Coenred walk away purposefully with only the unarmoured, lithe warrior, Attor, to protect him.
Chapter 28
It was gloomy in the small chapel. The building creaked in the wind, even though there was only a light breeze blowing in off the sea. Lines of light shone between the thin planks of the walls and the whole place smelt of resin and sawdust. It reminded Coenred of the chapel Beobrand had ordered to be built for the Christ followers of Ubbanford. That was a flimsy building too, little more than a hut, not a church fit for the Almighty. Here though, it seemed the lord of Seoles had plans to erect a more lasting construction for the edification of God. For outside the shaky timber chapel Coenred and Attor had passed slabs of dressed sandstone. Trenches had been dug for the foundations of the walls of what would become a mighty building overlooking the Narrow Sea. Coenred had measured it out in paces – the finished church would be at least the length of five men lying end to end. This would be a house of God to rival that within the fortress walls of Bebbanburg, or the stone building at Eoferwic or the new construction at Inhrypum.
It would certainly be a solid structure, a fitting testament to God’s greatness. Not a feeble, rickety wooden affair like this, or the building Beobrand had deigned to have built for them in Ubbanford.
Gothfraidh had always rebuked Coenred for being ungrateful. “It is warm enough,” the old monk had said. “If it is luxury you seek, you have chosen the wrong calling.” Coenred had seen precious little luxury in his life and when he spent time in the halls of lords and kings, he found the warmth, rich food and plentiful drink little consolation for the intrigues and politics that frequently led to conflict, suffering and death. The machinations of nobles were like a game to them. A deadly game in which he too often found himself playing a role, or at
least observing from close quarters.
Once more he found himself far from home and in the company of warriors. Coenred smiled as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. What would Gothfraidh have thought of this latest adventure? Coenred could scarcely believe how easily he had acted the part of the master of Beobrand and the other warriors down on the beach. His hands were shaking as he had walked up the hill towards this timber building. His mind reeled at the temerity of it all. What would have happened if the seamen on the beach had seen through his ploy? Would they have fought Beobrand’s gesithas? Dalston’s pale face, blood gushing from his throat, eyes wide and terrified, came to him then in the gloom. Of course they would have fought. These were murderers. Death-dealers who thought nothing of killing. He had known their kind all his life.
Peering into the darkness of the chapel, his mind turned, as it so often did to another shadow-filled church many years ago. He could remember walking, as if pulled by some hidden force, into the gloom, each step taking him closer to the white, bloodless form on the altar. The horror and revulsion he had felt at seeing his sister’s broken body had overwhelmed him. Tata had been violated and slain by men such as those who had ripped the life from Dalston and stolen the casket meant for Eanflæd.
Gothfraidh would have believed him mad to attempt to hoodwink such killers. Dalston, with his nerves and uncertainties, would have been appalled. On several occasions, Beobrand had told Coenred he was brave. He did not feel brave, but he could not deny that part of him thrilled at the deceit. Besides, it must be better to avoid bloodshed, if possible. Jesu would surely forgive his lies.
If He could forgive robbers and murderers, what would a few lies matter, when they were employed to do what was right?
Coenred shuddered, unsure if from the cold or from the excitement of what had transpired on the shingle shore.
“Are you well?” Attor asked. The warrior stood close by, hands resting on the hilts of his seaxes, body taut, ready for battle.
Coenred realised he had halted in the doorway of the church and had remained immobile there for some time, lost in his memories. He could not imagine there would be cause for Attor to use his blades in this holy place.
“I was just thinking,” he said and stepped into the dark interior of the chapel.
It was still and quiet inside, the floor merely packed earth. The room was empty, save for a table at the far end. The table was covered with a white cloth. Atop it rested the finely carved casket Coenred had last seen plucked from Dalston’s grip before the monk was pushed, bleeding and terrified, into the dark waters of the North Sea.
Coenred shivered again and walked towards the table. The dark memories of Tata’s pallid form threatened to fill his mind, each step taking him further into the past and the chapel in Engelmynster. He took a deep breath, pushing the thoughts of his sister away with an effort. As he reached out a trembling hand to open the box, he saw again Dalston’s fear-wide eyes. There were too many memories in this place. His thoughts beat and flapped in his mind, black and dirty, like soot-streaked raven wings. Coenred closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it of the horrors of the past. He whispered the paternoster under his breath and his breathing slowed.
Opening his eyes, he pushed up the lid of the casket, wondering if the relic would still be within. It was. Just as he remembered. A small Christ rood, fashioned of gold and inlaid with precious stones, rested on a bed of silken cloth. Reaching in, he pulled out the cross, turning it so that the thin shafts of light in the church caught it, picking out the garnets and emeralds and the intricate scroll work of the metal.
Attor gasped.
“This is truly a thing fit for a king,” he said.
“Or for a queen,” replied Coenred. “The gold and gems have their value, of that there is no doubt, but this holds something of much more worth.”
“What could be worth more than the gold and the stones?” asked Attor, his tone hushed and incredulous.
“Behold,” said Coenred, and with his fingernail he prised open a tiny compartment that rested beneath the largest emerald. The hinges of the minuscule box were of the finest craftsmanship, and the box that lay within the body of the cross could easily be missed if one did not know it was there.
Attor peered into the dark recess in the reliquary. It seemed empty until Coenred tilted it into the scant light that filtered in through the doorway.
“What is it?” Attor asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Inside the hidden recess was a small twist of dried thorny twigs. Around them was wrapped a strand of hair, fair and long.
“This is part of the very crown of thorns pressed upon the brow of our Lord Jesu when he gave his life for you and I.” Coenred repeated what he had been told by Abbot Aidan, but he could not help wonder at how the thorns were still intact. They must have been hundreds of years old. A miracle, he had been told.
“Is that a hair?” asked Attor, his voice filled with awe. Ever since Aidan had healed him from a festering arrow wound, saving him from certain death, Attor had been a devout follower of the Christ.
Coenred smiled despite himself to hear Attor’s innocent amazement and joy. He chastised himself for his lack of faith. Who was he to question the abbot?
“Yes,” he said. “It is a hair from the very head of the son of God.”
He glanced at Attor. The slim gesith’s face was rapt, his mouth open, eyes wide and glistening.
“May I hold it?” asked Attor.
“With care.” Coenred offered the cross to Attor who, after hesitating briefly, took it in his hands. His eyes and face seemed to glow with the reflection of the gold.
“What are you doing?” a harsh voice snapped from behind them. The room darkened as a bulky figure filled the doorway, blocking out the early morning light.
Coenred spun around, guilt and terror gripping him. Attor turned more slowly and calmly took a step away from Coenred, into the shadows.
Coenred squinted to make out the features of the newcomer to the chapel, but his face was in shadow. The man was broad, but not tall. He wore a long woollen robe not dissimilar to Coenred’s own, but his hair was cut differently, with just the crown of his head shaved, leaving a circular bald patch surrounded by a ring of dark hair.
Coenred let out a breath.
“We were merely looking at this holy object,” he said.
The stocky priest stepped further into the chapel. The movement felt like a threat of violence. His eyes flicked at Attor, taking in the golden cross in the warrior’s rough hands.
“Put that back,” he spat. “It is not for the likes of you to touch.”
Attor allowed his left hand to drop to the hilt of one of the seaxes that hung from his belt.
“Am I not good enough to touch this?” he asked, his voice rasping like a whetstone dragged along a blade. “Am I not one of Jesu’s flock? I have been washed of my sins by the holy Abbot of Lindisfarena, and I have oft partaken of the body and blood of the Christ in memory of his sacrifice.”
The priest’s eyes widened at Attor’s words. The hand on the seax and the talk of blood as clear a threat as a blade pulled from a scabbard.
“Put it back,” he said, with less venom in his voice. “It is not yours. It is a most holy relic.”
Attor held his gaze for a long moment, before stepping to the table and placing the rood into the casket. Coenred noted that he also carefully closed the secret door in the artefact.
Coenred stepped toward the priest, his hands open in an attempt to ease the tension in the gloomy church. From outside came the sound of men talking and the harsh crack of chisel on stone.
“As you can see,” he said, “I too am a man of God. I have come from the holy isle of Lindisfarena, far to the north.”
The priest said nothing.
“As a follower of Christ,” continued Coenred, “I am sure you would like to know from whence this relic comes.” He paused, hoping for some acknowledgement of his words or of their
shared beliefs. He was disappointed. “The cross is stolen,” he said at last. “It was sent from Northumbria by my lord King Oswiu as a gift for his bride to be Eanflæd of Cantware.”
“I care not from where it comes,” said the priest, his words as harsh as a slap. “Or for whom you say it was destined. It is my lord’s now. Bought with his silver. And it will rest here forever. Have you not seen the stone outside? My church will be magnificent. Pilgrims will come from all over Albion and beyond to see the crown of thorns and hair of the Lord Jesu the Christ.” His eyes shone in the gloom, sparkling with his greed and ambition.
Coenred took a deep breath and swallowed back his anger.
“We were attacked by pirates,” he said. “One of my brethren gave his life protecting this holiest of gifts.”
“Well,” said the priest with a sneer, “he didn’t do a very good job, did he?” He pushed past Coenred, evidently keen to check that nothing was amiss with the cross and its carved casket.
A coldness wrapped around Coenred as suddenly as if he had been plunged into the autumn sea. Dalston must have felt as cold, the instant before he died, as he had drifted down into the chill depths of the Whale Road, the light dimming as he fell ever further from the sun and the air, the salt of his blood mingling forever in the cold brine of the ocean.
The church grew dark and Coenred’s ears rushed with the sound of his own blood pumping through his body. He yet lived, Dalston would never again know what it was to feel the wind ruffle his hair, or the touch of the rough wool of his robe against his skin.
Fury at the injustice of it and the priest’s cruel words bubbled within him and, as if witnessing another, Coenred watched his own long-fingered hands reaching for the priest’s dark robe. He saw his fingers grip a fistful of the rough spun cloth, but he felt nothing. His body was as numb and unfeeling as the sea, as cold as winter and as unforgiving as death.
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