The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (21 page)

Coenred felt the old man's bony dry fingers squeeze his hand one final time. "Bury me on this Holy Island. Overlooking the sands which are washed clean each day."

Fearghas had spoken no more. His hand had fallen from Coenred's grasp, to lie limply upon the abbot's chest.

The monks wailed. They would pray for Fearghas' immortal soul all the long night, keeping vigil over his earthly remains.

Coenred did not pray. Nor did he wail. He looked down at the body of the man who had saved him and wept quietly.

The lilting sound of the Latin of the monks' prayers washed over him like the sea washing over the sands, cutting it off from the mainland.

After some time, Coenred couldn't help but smile at the old man. Even in death Fearghas had seen fit to give him a difficult task to perform. Take news of the abbot's death to the king. And then bring a bishop from the island of Hii.

Coenred had no idea how to get to Hii. All he knew was it was further than he had ever travelled. It was so far away that it was in a different sea to Lindisfarena.

Was this one last punishment for being a poor student?

"You are sure of this?" Acennan asked. The dappled mare he rode was smaller than Sceadugenga, but as only Beobrand and he were riding, they could talk without fear of being overheard. The rest of the warband trudged behind them. They wore what armour they had. They each carried spear, seax and shield. Their gait was easy enough, but their faces were grim. There was every chance they were walking into a fight.

"I am sure," replied Beobrand. "The lady Rowena's first words to me were that I had been unwise to kill the boy. She was probably right."

"It is what we love about you," Acennan said, smiling. "You do not think too much before acting. No warrior wishes to follow a lord who treads as careful as a barefoot man in a forest filled with thorns."

Beobrand snorted. "I must talk to this Nathair before he sends his men back to Ubbanford. A bloodfeud must be avoided. Winter will be tough enough, without worrying about our neighbours."

They turned a bend in the path. Beobrand straightened his back and peered into the distance. The land was all new to him. They travelled a well-worn track, through dense forest. Perfect land for an ambush. It was unlikely, but he was well aware that he had already ensured they had enemies north of the Tuidi.

Two days had passed since they had arrived at Ubbanford. It was very possible that Nathair had already decided to retaliate for his son's death. Beobrand hoped Rowena was right when she said the old Pict would not act rashly.

Following the announcement of her husband and sons' deaths Rowena had taken some time to compose herself, but from that moment on, she had been a perfect hostess. It was clearly a difficult situation. Beobrand had brought more mouths to feed into the small settlement. And there was only so long they could all dwell under the same roof, in the hall that Rowena had called her home since her marriage to Ubba many years before.

The men who had women began building new houses the day after they arrived. The river valley rang with the sounds of axe on wood and the thud of wedges being driven into logs to split planks. Smoke drifted from firepits where wet wood was buried to enable it to be bent and fashioned for walls and fences. The people of Ubbanford joined the newcomers. The sooner the new families had homes, the less chance they would need to accommodate them in their own huts.

Seeing the activity gave Sunniva the idea for how to solve the problem of Rowena and the hall.

"You must tell her that you will build a new hall for us, Beobrand," she had said to him that night as they lay together in the dark warmth near the hall hearth embers.

Beobrand had been almost asleep. His mind was wandering into the forests of his dreams. Her voice pulled him awake. He thought for a moment. Knew she was right. As usual. Were women ever wrong? He grinned in the darkness. He pulled her close and kissed her. She returned the kiss and let out a small sigh of pleasure.

"I thought you were asleep," she said.

"I would be, if you'd stop your prattling!" he replied, receiving a playful slap for his cheek.

"You are right about the hall. Rowena must keep her home. And anyway, when retainers flock to me, I'll need a larger hall than this." He spoke only half in jest. Just days before he would never have believed he would have had his own warband. Now he dreamt of a great hall filled with a throng of gesithas.

"I will talk to her tomorrow," he said, kissing her again. "And I will say we should plan a feast to celebrate our handfasting."

A fox burst from the cover of the undergrowth, spooking the horses and bringing Beobrand back to the present. Sceadugenga skittered to the side, colliding with Acennan's mount. Beobrand tugged on the reins until the stallion was once more under control. The fox seemed as surprised as they were. It blinked at them for a moment, still, as if frozen. It then disappeared into the brush at the other side of the path. A streak of red fur in the forest gloaming.

Acennan's mare, a solid, docile animal, seemed hardly to notice that anything untoward had occurred.

"Your horse is as dull as you," Beobrand said.

"And Sceadugenga acts first before thinking of the consequences, just like his rider," replied Acennan instantly.

Beobrand laughed. He was glad he could count on Acennan's friendship and humour once more.

Up ahead the forest thinned. The grey light of the overcast day washed onto the path. They had been walking for a long while. Beobrand reined in and turned in the saddle to address the men. His men. He was uneasy sitting astride the steed while they walked.

As they didn't have enough horses for them all to ride, Beobrand had wanted to walk along with his gesithas. Acennan would not hear of it. "You must ride," he had said. "The men need to look up to you. You are young, but they respect who you are in battle. But you are not their friend any longer. You cannot seek to be liked by them. Or to be one of them. They must respect you. Love you. Fear you even. You must be a lord. You must ride."

In the end, Beobrand had agreed. He saw the sense in what Acennan said, but he had made Acennan ride with him. If he was to be apart from the men, he needed at least one ally.

Now he surveyed the warriors' expectant faces and he saw Acennan was right. They looked up to him. He could feel the weight of their expectation. He would not let them down.

"We are getting close to Nathair's hall," he said. "Lady Rowena said it lay not far beyond the forest edge. You will keep your blades sheathed. I do not wish for more bloodshed. I will talk to this Nathair. We will not fight. Any man who starts a fight will answer to me." He cast his gaze across all of the men. He saw only earnest concentration and belief in him gazing back.

"Come, my gesithas, let us show this Pict who his new neighbour is." He swung Sceadugenga's head round and touched heels to his flank.

The hall and the surrounding buildings were as Rowena had described to him the day before. A dour longhall hunched in the middle of a group of smaller buildings. The hall's roof was moss-strewn and ragged. White smoke trailed from several of the squat huts to be lost in the low cloud that brooded over the village. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking reached them. A stream ran across the path. Several lichened planks spanned the brook.

Beobrand hesitated for a heartbeat, before urging Sceadugenga to cross the boards. He prayed a silent prayer to Woden that the bridge was stronger than it appeared. His horse's hooves clattered over the wood, which seemed sound enough. He heard Acennan's mount crossing behind him.

A scream rent the tranquillity of the scene. Sceadugenga's ears lay flat on his head. He tossed his mane. Beobrand held the reins in his left, half-hand and patted the stallion's neck with his right.

A woman, who had evidently been washing clothes by the stream, ran as fast as she was able towards the buildings. She screamed all the while in a tongue that Beobrand did not comprehend. She was a plump, comely young woman. Her hair streamed behind her as she ran. Her breasts and buttocks bounced and jiggled fetchingly beneath her dress.

"By Frige, I think I'm in love," said Acennan.

Beobrand shot him a cold look. Now was no time for jests.

Figures began to congregate before the hall. Some carried farm tools. Some bore spears. All were armed.

Beobrand continued to ride slowly forward. To halt now would be to show fear. He sat tall in his saddle. Expression stern. Back straight. He kept his eyes fixed on the hall. At the edges of his vision he detected movement. Women and children ran for cover. Heading for sanctuary in some secret part of the forest. Perhaps some would even hide inside a hollow tree, just as he and Coenred had hidden from marauding Waelisc warriors all those months ago. To be the bringer of fear to the inhabitants of this place saddened him. Yet he knew it must be so. He meant no harm to those who fled, but should the men stand against him, he would give them no quarter.

He reined in Sceadugenga in the open area before the hall. The crowd of people shuffled nervously. Their loathing for him came off them like a stench, yet nobody had the courage to speak out.

Beobrand waited until Acennan, sat on his mare, was positioned to his right. He heard his gesithas come to a halt behind them. The villagers' eyes darted from the mounted thegns to the grim-faced shield-bearers arrayed in a wall of wood and metal.

"Nathair!" Beobrand shouted. There was no response. The villagers fidgeted. Some threw glances over their shoulders, looking for their lord.

"Nathair!" he repeated. "I would talk with you. We do not come to fight."

There was a long pause.

"Perhaps this Nathair is too frightened to show himself," said Acennan.

Beobrand ignored his friend. His gaze was fixed on the door of the hall. A swarthy man with bald pate and straggly grey hair stood there. Either side of him stood two young men. One was broad and burly, like the old man. He held a large axe in his massive fists. The other was slimmer and carried no weapon. And yet he was somehow more forbidding. Weasel-quick eyes seemed to miss nothing.

Several other men followed them out of the hall-gloom. They blinked at the hazy light. Beobrand recognised the men who had ridden with Aengus. The black-bearded warrior he had felled with a kick glowered through bruised and puffed eyes. He would not hesitate to kill Beobrand if given the chance.

The crowd parted. Allowing their leader and his retainers to step from the hall and approach Beobrand. Though Nathair did not come too close.

"I am Nathair mac Gaven, lord here," the balding man said, his voice clear, yet thickly accented. He stared directly at Acennan and said, "And I am not too frightened to show myself."

Acennan flashed his teeth in a grin.

"You must be the new lord of Ubbanford," Nathair said, turning back to Beobrand. "It was you who killed my son, I am told."

"I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, thegn of King Oswald and the lord of Ubbanford. And I did kill your son."

Nathair looked down at the ground. Sighed deeply. "A lord must protect his own," he said after some time. "Why have you ridden here today? We are still mourning our loss."

"I come to tell you that I slew your son as payment for the murder of one of my people. I do not seek to quarrel with you. I do not wish for a bloodfeud between us. I look for peace."

"I understand," said the old Pict. "A feud would be costly. Many would die. These lands are tough enough, without fighting your neighbours."

The axe-wielding man stepped forward. "You dare come here? You talk of peace, yet you murdered my brother. You are right to fear the bloodfeud. I will not rest until you are food for the fox and the crow. I will drink my mead from your skull before I am done."

Beobrand placed his hand on Hrunting's hilt. His eyes were the colour of a cloudless winter sky.

"If you force me to draw my blade, it will not be sheathed until it has drunk its fill. I warn you once more. Do not seek revenge for your brother's death. Do not come to Ubbanford to steal livestock. Do not raise a hand or weapon against my people, or I will descend upon this place with Thunor's fury."

Beobrand encompassed his warband with a wave of his hand. "We all stood in the darkness at the Wall, as Cadwallon's force crashed against our shieldwall. We held back the king of Gwynedd at the ford of Gefrin. I do not recall seeing your faces there."

Nathair stared at Beobrand with defiance. The son with the axe cast his eyes down. Perhaps in shame.

"Ubba and his sons answered their king's call. They paid with their lives, and their names are spoken with reverence. They have glory in death. They answered Oswald's call, while you Picts cowered north of the Tuidi." He thought of Scand and the countless others who had stained the earth red at Hefenfelth. "You were quick to ride on Ubbanford when it had no lord." Beobrand felt the battle-fury surging within him. He gritted his teeth. Held back the ire.

"I will not warn you again. If you cross me or mine, I will slay you all. Leave us be, and you can live in peace. A peace bought for you with the blood of others braver than you."

Nathair's face was thunder. "You would speak to me thus? Here? Before my people? My son's corpse lies in the hall. Talk not of bravery and sacrifice. Where was Oswald last winter when Cadwallon's wolves stalked the land? Where was his brother, Eanfrith? We defended ourselves then."