The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (13 page)

For a moment there was silence. Oswald's face gave little away of the emotions he felt as he stared at the man on the ground before him. With the vagaries of war and allegiances, Cadwallon was largely responsible for Oswald returning to claim his place as the ruler of Bernicia. Had he not killed Edwin the year before, the sons of Æthelfrith would still be in exile. By also slaying Eanfrith, he had opened the way for Oswald's ascension to power.

Cadwallon was also responsible for killing many innocent men, women and children. He was a cruel killer who had sought to destroy all of the Angelfolc. He was sworn to eradicate their race from the island of Albion.

"You have done well, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You have proven yourself to be true and faithful. Your service will not go unrewarded. But first I must see this Cadwallon."

Oswald stepped forward, close to his defeated enemy. The onlookers quietened. They jostled and shoved to get a good view of the encounter between the two lords.

"Cadwallon ap Cadfan, you are before me today as an enemy of Bernicia," Oswald said, his voice ringing clear over the warhost. His words would be heard. And remembered.

From where he knelt, Cadwallon looked up at Oswald, squinting into the light. He spat a gobbet of bloody spittle.

Oswald continued, "You have destroyed our settlements. Violated our womenfolk. Defiled our holy places and slain innocents. What say you?"

Cadwallon spat again. Hate-filled eyes burnt from the grime-caked face.

He lowered his head and Beobrand wondered if he would not answer. The scene was as still as a carving and Beobrand would always remember it. Two kings, facing each other at either end of their reigns. One victorious and shining in the sun, the other defeated, kneeling and broken, head bowed. The eggshell blue sky framed the tableau. The warm afternoon sun seemed to give Oswald an aura of light around his head, such was the brightness of the reflection.

The stillness was broken by Cadwallon.

"Innocents?" He coughed out a cracked laugh. "Innocents, you say? Your kind have fallen on our land like a scourge. It is your kind that has despoiled our land. Taken our women. With fire and iron your father destroyed everything that stood before him."

"I am not my father," replied Oswald. His voice was sharp and cold, like shattered winter streams. Beobrand started at the words. He heard the echo of his mother's dying breath. "You are not your father's son," she had said to him, as she lay racked with fever. He still did not comprehend her meaning. Was it always thus, even with kings? The shadow of the father falling over the life of the son?

Cadwallon looked calmly up at Oswald. "No, you are not," he said. His face split in a smile. "Neither are you your brother. You are no fool and you still have your head."

There was no sound throughout the watching warriors. Oswald and Cadwallon held each other's gaze.

Eventually, Oswald turned to his brother. "Oswiu, hold him. We must avenge our brother and the people of Bernicia. This man's blood will begin to quench the pain of the land. His head will adorn my hall at Bebbanburg."

Oswald's tall young brother stepped forward. Oswiu bristled with rage. He grasped Cadwallon's shoulders roughly.

"Wait, my lord." One of the dark-robed holy men who had travelled with Oswald from the island of Hii spoke out in a tremulous voice. Oswald turned to him with a withering stare.

The monk swallowed and said, "This man should be tried with proper ceremony before God. Men should be assembled. A Witan of thegns..." His voice trailed off in the face of Oswald's furious gaze.

"I am king here," Oswald's voice was strong and hard as steel. "Cadwallon ap Cadfan is guilty of too many crimes to list. He is condemned in the eyes of the Lord. He is the enemy of Bernicia. The enemy of the Angelfolc. And the enemy of God. I will not suffer him to live any longer."

Oswald dragged his sword from its scabbard. He leaned in close to the kneeling man and whispered something. It was inaudible to Beobrand. Oswiu could clearly hear his brother's words, for his lips curled in a wicked smile.

Cadwallon tensed and lowered his head.

"Now step back, Gothfraidh," said Oswald, "unless you wish my sword to take your head this day also."

The monk scurried backwards so quickly that he stumbled and was caught by his brethren. At any other time this would have made the warriors laugh. But the weight of this moment sat heavily on all of them. It was not every day you saw the end of a king's life.

Oswald took the hilt of his sword in both hands. He held the patterned blade high. It shimmered and shone. Its shadow lay over Cadwallon's neck. Oswald nodded at his brother. Oswiu released Cadwallon's shoulders and stepped back in one smooth motion. As if rehearsed, at the same instant, Oswald swung his sword with great vigour.

It landed where its shadow had lain a moment before. There was the briefest of sounds at the impact. His blade was sharp and his arm guided it true. The metal sliced through sinew and bone and Cadwallon slumped forward, crumpled to the earth. The head did not roll free, but lay at an impossible angle. Blood gushed, pumping from the raw neck. It splattered Cadwallon's chin and hair and soaked into the ground.

Beobrand was transfixed. The king's head had twisted around and seemed to be staring at him. The crimson life surged from the body as the eyes blinked twice, and then they blinked no more. The light left them and the King of Gwynedd was gone from middle earth.

Oswiu stepped forward and used his own sword to cut the last threads of flesh that held Cadwallon's head to his torso. He looked to his brother, who seemed dazed. Perhaps stunned at the enormity of his action.

Oswiu touched Oswald's arm. "Brother," he said in a voice none save those closest to the king could hear.

Oswald stared at him for a moment. Shook his head, as if to clear it of dreams. Then nodded.

King Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, picked up Cadwallon's blood-drenched head and raised it aloft for all to see.

"Cadwallon ap Cadfan, King of Gwynedd, defiler of our land, is dead!" he shouted.

The warhost erupted in a tumult of cheers.

Beobrand stared down at the body lying in the muck. Blood still pumped feebly from the neck.

History was being made here in the brutal death of the Waelisc king. He knew that. But he could not take it in. His hands began to shake and it was all he could do to remain on his feet. He steadied himself against the warm solidity of the stallion. The rough hair of the horse was real. The rest of this day seemed like a waking dream.

"Scand would be alive if it weren't for you!" Acennan roared. His round face was contorted with rage. Beobrand recoiled from the heat of his anger. It burnt like the maw of an open forge fire.

Acennan's voice carried over the noise of the men who drank and ate. They were all too exhausted to celebrate. That would wait for when they returned to their halls. For now, on the hill of Hefenfelth, away from the stink of death, they were content in the knowledge that the Waelisc threat had been silenced.

Beobrand had sought out Acennan and the rest of Scand's retinue as they had made their way back to the Wall. But his friend had avoided him.

Beobrand had learnt of Scand's demise from Derian and the death fell heavy on him. His face had drained of colour at hearing Derian's tidings.

"I know you looked up to him, Beobrand," the bearded thegn had said, grim-faced. "We all did." His words fell like chiselled rock, sharp and hard.

"He was a great lord," Beobrand choked on his words. "I owe him everything." Scand had taken him in and offered him a place in his gesithas when all seemed lost. He had known him for less than a year, but he now felt his loss keenly.

Derian had patted Beobrand on the shoulder and nodded. He understood. They all felt the same way.

Scand's gesithas had walked with heads bowed, down-heartened despite Oswald's victory. Their future was uncertain and many of them had served with Scand for most of their life. His death was a sore blow.

"It is not easy to accept the death of one so beloved," Derian had addressed all of Scand's gesithas as they trudged back to Hefenfelth, "but Scand was a warrior. It was a good death. A lord's death."

The men had nodded, eager to hear words of comfort to soften the aching in their hearts.

"We too are warriors," Derian had continued, "and one day we will fall in the shieldwall. If the gods allow it and our wyrd is spun that way."

Tobrytan, one of the oldest warriors, had said, "Better to be slain in battle than to die toothless and crazed like some longbeard who's outlived his usefulness. I would rather die with honour, a death worthy of song, than live out my last days as another drooling mouth to feed."

Derian hoomed in his throat and the warriors had walked on, battle-weary and saddened at their loss.

Acennan appeared to be the only one who blamed Beobrand. His anger hurt all the more as they were the closest of friends.

And because Beobrand agreed with Acennan. If they had not attacked at night, Scand would not have been caught unawares by a wounded foe.

Beobrand looked at Acennan's furious features and wondered if this small conflict between friends amused the gods. After the countless dead the previous night, the heaped bodies feeding the carrion birds and beasts. After the death of a king and a great old lord like Scand, perhaps this was a welcome diversion for gods. Or did they not care?

"He was as a father to me," replied Beobrand. His voice was flat. He wanted nothing more than to sit and share a horn of mead with Acennan. Every sinew of his being was tired. Tired almost beyond thought. But he could not turn away from his friend now. Their friendship rested on a seax edge.

"You barely knew him," thundered Acennan. "I was his man for ten years. I knew him all my life. Once, in Hibernia, he saved my life in the shieldwall..." The anger drained from his voice then, replaced by an aching sorrow that made Beobrand's heart wrench. He had never seen Acennan weep, but now the stocky man's eyes welled with tears.

"Oh my lord..." Acennan said, his voice quaking. He drew in a ragged breath and cuffed the tears from his eyes. "Do not speak to me of this, Beobrand. It was you who led the king to attack at night. And you who left Scand's side at the start of the battle." Acennan's face was as dark as the thunder clouds of the storm. "If only I had not followed you. Scand could still live."

Grief washed over Beobrand then. Acennan had the right of it. His folly had caused Scand's death.

"Do you think I do not know that?" Beobrand said. "I would blame the gods for sending me the signs. But it was I who chose to follow them. Perhaps it is my wyrd to see all those I care for die. I would have given my life to save Scand's, if I could."

"If only you had," muttered Acennan.

Beobrand turned his face from Acennan and took a step back, as if slapped. He could not see the look of anguish and remorse on his friend's face as he walked stiffly away from the camp into the night.

CHAPTER 7

Sunniva jostled for a good position to see the men returning. The palisade was crowded with womenfolk and children. After the arrival a few days before of straggling groups of survivors from Cadwallon's scourge of the land there had been no news. Until the previous morning. A rider had galloped into the courtyard of Bebbanburg shouting the joyous tidings that Oswald was victorious. Cadwallon was killed.

The atmosphere in the fortress shifted. Thralls and servants rushed to prepare for the king's return. Vittles would be needed for a feast. There would be more people descending on Bebbanburg before they could expect any peace. A victory of this magnitude would be celebrated with thegns and ealdormen from all the shires of Bernicia. Wise women and holy men also made their preparations. They would be needed to tend to the bodies and spirits of those warriors who would return wounded.

Bebbanburg was all abustle.

There was a change in the spirits of those who had bid their menfolk farewell. But the air was not yet filled with jubilation. Women went about their chores efficiently enough. Floors were swept. Fresh rushes laid in the great hall. Animals were butchered. Bread was baked and ale was brewed in vast quantities. There could never be too much ale at a feast and every available pot was put to use. The scent of boiling and fermenting barley and gruit permeated the whole fortress. The barrels of sweet mead would be saved for the warriors of highest rank.

But all the while the women's eyes held a distant look. Would their men come back? Would they soon be sewing a shroud while others feasted on the food and drink they now prepared?

Sunniva tried not to think of what might be. She had suffered the burden of such thoughts too frequently of late. She wished to believe that the snuffed out rush light had been nothing more than the wind. That it was not an omen presaging the death of her man in battle. Yet try as she might, she could not dispel the fear that had worked its way into her very being.

The constant shade of worry enveloped her like wet sackcloth. It weighed her down and chilled her. She was exhausted by her anxiety.

In an effort to draw her mind away from the darkness that clouded her thoughts, she attacked chores with gusto. The other women, many of whom she had known since childhood, welcomed her into their midst. They liked the pretty, hard-working girl. They knew of her losses. They saw the despair threatening to engulf her. But she was strong, like her father and mother. The womenfolk looked upon her with affection. And prayed that Sunniva would not have to face another death so soon.