The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (20 page)

Taking a step back, Beobrand swung his sword wide, leaving himself open. To the onlooking warriors it was clear what would occur next. But Aengus was blinded by his own desperate hope; by the belief that he could best this huge warrior who claimed lordship over Ubbanford.

Aengus lunged at Beobrand's chest. Beobrand spun on his left foot, shifting his body to the right, allowing Aengus' blade to slide harmlessly past. At the same instant he brought down the heavy blade of Hrunting into the young man's outstretched arm. Such was the force of the blow that the arm was severed just below the elbow. Sword and hand fell to the earth. Aengus let out a shivering squeal the like of which none of those watching would ever forget. Blood spouted. The slaughter-dew gushed onto the churned earth.

Aengus fell to his knees. He gripped the stump of his arm to his chest. He mewled and choked. All who watched were silent. They knew the sword-sleep would be upon him soon. Aengus looked around him one last time, his eyes wide. Afraid. Then he slumped to the earth. Still clutching his ruined arm, he moved no more.

The bearded man who Beobrand had felled with a kick stirred and sat up. He groaned groggily.

Beobrand turned to the man who had spoken before. "Get him back on his horse and get off of my land."

The man did not argue. Nobody said a word as they lifted their injured comrade onto his horse. Acennan and two of Beobrand's gesithas lifted Aengus' corpse and placed him on his horse. They used strips of his cloak to tie him to the animal. Acennan handed the reins to one of the horsemen.

The horsemen left Ubbanford in stunned silence. They trotted down to the Tuidi and splashed through the shallow water of the ford. On the other side of the river the path disappeared into dense wood. The riders were quickly swallowed by the darkness under the trees.

Beobrand looked down at his mutilated left hand. It was shaking. The heft of Hrunting in his right hand kept it steady. But the sword weighed heavily now. He examined the blade closely. It was gore-slick. It would need cleaning. And sharpening.

Beobrand snorted without humour. So much for protecting Hrunting from more parries.

Aengus had strong bones.

Where it had sliced through the young man's limb, Hrunting's blade bore a large notch to the steel cutting edge.

Sunniva watched Beobrand with concern. He sat on a bench at one end of the hall of Ubbanford. After the fight he had been withdrawn. His hands shook as he washed them in a basin. The water was the colour of rust when a thrall threw it out into the afternoon sunlight.

She had never seen Beobrand kill before. She knew what he was capable of; had heard the stories. She'd seen him fighting with his fists. But she had never seen him weave the sword-spell that made him so formidable. She had looked on from the hilltop and marvelled at his movements. He seemed to flow like water. The bright blade of his sword flickered. Ripples on a stream.

The suddenness of the violence had shocked her. As had the ease with which he took the young man's life. The spray of blood was clear even from the distance where she waited with the women, children and Anhaga. She had known Beobrand was a warrior. A killer. But she wished she had never seen him fight. His presence had always calmed her. He was her protector. Now she had seen what his protection meant, she could not forget what she had witnessed.

He looked up at her. His eyes were shadowed, his stare vacant. She started. A small tremor snaked up her back.

He was still Beobrand. Her Beobrand. Her man.

"Let me serve you some mead," she said, reaching for a pitcher.

"No, let me," a stern-faced woman said. The older woman, lifted the ewer and filled an earthenware cup that rested on the board before Beobrand.

"Thank you, Lady Rowena," Beobrand said. He shook his head slightly, then drank deeply. He forced a smile. "It is good mead. Thank you for your hospitality. I wish we could have met under better circumstances." Beobrand swept his eyes around the room, as if expecting an enemy to leap from the shadows. The hall was warmly furnished with wall hangings. A small fire crackled merrily on the hearth, the smoke wafting up to hang in the rafters before seeping into the blackened thatch. The hall was not large, but it was well appointed and comfortable.

Rowena and her daughter, Edlyn, a gangly girl with dark tresses and huge, limpid eyes, had approached them after the horsemen had crossed the ford. The lady of Ubbanford had introduced herself and her daughter and welcomed them into her husband's hall. Beobrand had told Acennan and the rest of the men to stay outside. To keep watch in case the raiders returned. And so that he could talk to Rowena without an audience.

"Nonsense," Rowena had said. "Those bastard Picts won't return today. Leave a couple of men. The rest, and the women and children must come inside and eat. My husband may be... away, but let it not be said that Ubbanford is a mean hall."

She set the thralls and village women scurrying about to prepare food for her guests. Cheese, ale, mead and bread were soon on the board.

"Later we can eat meat," she said. "But for now, slake your thirst and fend off your hunger with simple fare."

The men and their families set to and the sound of contented eating and drinking filled the hall.

At last, her duties as hostess seen to, Rowena came and sat at the high table with Beobrand and Sunniva. Edlyn came and sat at her mother's side.

For some time, none of them spoke. Then Rowena said, "Killing Aengus was not wise. His father and brothers will seek blood payment for his death. We are few here. They are savages. They will return and we will pay the price for your quick anger."

Beobrand bridled.

"They had killed one of your men. I sought to avenge him."

"Yes. Poor, brave, Ahebban. I do not feel sorry that you killed that turd Aengus. I give thanks to Woden for his death. Yet weregild for Ahebban's murder would have been more use to me than a bloodfeud."

Beobrand frowned. She was right. He'd been a fool to allow himself to give in to his battle lust. "I am sorry, my lady. You speak words of wisdom. But I could not stand by and allow the slaying of one of my people go unpunished."

"Your people?" She raised an eyebrow, inquisitively. "I thought I heard you say before that you are the new lord of Ubbanford. There can be only one reason for this. Tell me what tidings you bring."

Beobrand flushed. How could he be so clumsy? The mead churned in his stomach. He had stumbled to this moment he had hoped to approach with caution. Now there was no turning back from the course.

He stood and called out in a voice that carried over the conversations and eating, "Acennan, fetch the items we are to present to the Lady Rowena."

Without replying, Acennan rose and left the hall.

Beobrand looked down at the Lady Rowena. Her dark hair was streaked with silver. It was braided and tied back. She was no beauty, but she was striking. She reminded him of his mother. He stood solemnly awaiting Acennan's return.

The hall fell quiet as Acennan strode up to the high table carrying a small chest and a cloth-wrapped bundle. He placed them on the board and retreated.

Beobrand unwrapped the bundle to reveal a scabbarded sword. He held it out to Rowena hilt first and knelt before her. Beside her, Edlyn let out a small sob.

"My lady, here is your husband's sword. It is with a sad heart I must tell you that Ubba, son of Ubben, fell defending Bernicia and King Oswald in the battle south of the Wall."

The hall was still. Even the smallest children seemed to sense the solemnity of the moment.

"And my sons?" Rowena almost whispered, yet all there heard her words. "What of Almund? And Ealdian?"

"I am sorry, my lady. They fell with honour. They died where the fighting was fiercest. They stood bravely and fought well. You should be proud."

She was silent. Beobrand did not know what else to say.

Rowena's lips pressed together tightly. Her forehead wrinkled. Her eyes glistened. But she did not cry. Edlyn let out a ragged gasping sob and crumpled into her mother's arms. Rowena stroked her daughter's hair, but kept her eyes fixed on Beobrand.

"What is in the chest?" she asked.

Beobrand lifted the lid. Silver glinted inside.

"King Oswald bade me convey his thanks for the faithful service of Ubba, Almund and Ealdian. Many others did not heed his call to arms. This portion of the spoils of the battle is for you and your daughter. You should not want. Your men made the greatest sacrifice and they will not be forgotten."

Rowena brushed her fingers over the contents of the coffer. The cold chink of metal reminded Beobrand of the rattle of a byrnie.

"And you are my new lord?" Rowena asked, fixing him with a cool stare.

He swallowed. "King Oswald has gifted me Ubbanford. I would be honoured if you would stay and offer me your counsel."

"What counsel could I offer you?" Her voice was desolate. Barren. "You are like all men. You believe every problem can be solved with metal. Iron or silver do not bring happiness." Rowena's eyes flicked to Sunniva, who stood to one side, where she nervously shuffled from one foot to the other.

A ghost of a smile played on Rowena's lips for a moment. "Though perhaps you know that already, young Beobrand."

She stood abruptly. "For now, eat, drink and rest, my lord," she emphasised the last two words, "while my daughter and I retire to grieve in peace. We will see what counsel I can give you later."

With that she swept from the room, behind the partition at the rear of the hall, ushering Edlyn before her.

CHAPTER 10

Dead.

Coenred could scarcely believe it.

Yet there he lay. His skin sallow and waxy. Never to move again in this world.

Abbot Fearghas had left them peacefully enough. After the violence and savagery of the last year, it was a blessing that the old man had been allowed to slip away into the arms of Christ surrounded by those who loved him.

He had been unwell for many days. The brief improvement Coenred had seen in him after they had met with King Oswald was quick to fade. His new vigour was short-lived, like the flame-flare of fat dripping onto a fire. Fearghas had directed the monks in the construction of their new home, but before they had even completed digging the vallum, he had begun to cough, a dry, hacking bark that reminded Coenred of the voice of the seals that thronged the beaches and waters around Lindisfarena.

They had taken the old abbot to the house of Cedd, the villager who had guided them from Bebbanburg. He was a man of some standing amongst the island folk. Cedd's wife, a woman who looked enough like Cedd to have been his sister, cared for Fearghas, brewing herbal infusions and rubbing foul-smelling unguents on his chest. But his cough grew ever worse.

The brethren had prayed for their abbot, but he'd urged them to continue digging the perimeter for their new monastery. They were to construct simple round huts within the confines of the trench.

"You will need the cells to be complete when the new abbot arrives," Fearghas had said when some of the monks advocated concentrating on their prayers for the sick abbot. A sudden bout of coughing had racked him. He'd spat into a bowl and then fallen back onto the mean bed where he lay.

"But you are our master," Coenred had said.

Fearghas had lain silent for a long while. His rheumy eyes had played over the gathered faces of the monks who surrounded him.

"I was never your master," he'd said. His voice had rasped like flint scraping flint. "I was your abbot. Your father in Christ. And I will go to sit with him soon." His eyes had seemed to focus on the soot-streaked thatch above him. Perhaps he could see through the roof. To heaven itself.

The monks had leaned in close. Fearghas was so still. Deathly pale and unmoving. They believed he had spoken his last when he coughed again, making them start.

He had laughed then, until the coughing seized him.

"How I love you all," he had said, when he was able to speak once more.

Coenred had stepped close. Lifted a cup of water to his lips. The stench of decay lay upon Feaghas. Oozed from him. Wafted from his mouth as if his very insides were rotten.

"We love you too, father," Coenred had said. And in that moment he had known it was true. He felt tears well. His eyes burnt. His throat grew tight.

Fearghas' hand gripped his with a strength that belied his frailty. He fixed Coenred with one of his infamous looks.

"Coenred, my son. You must take news of my passing to King Oswald. Remind him of his promise to God. This island is to be Christ's forever."

The tears had fallen then. Droplets pattered on Fearghas' robe, darkening the wool. "Yes, father," said Coenred. "But do not speak so. You will not die."

"We all die, Coenred. As you well know. Take the tidings of my end to the king. And tell him to send for a bishop. This land needs a shepherd. A shepherd from the blessed isle of Hii. You must bring a bishop back. You and that Cantware warrior friend of yours. You'll need company on the journey, for it is long."

Tears had blurred Coenred's vision. Fearghas' white hair wreathed his face, as if it rested on a cloud.