The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (26 page)

They rode up to the entrance unhindered, their cloaks whipping about them. Oswiu dismounted and approached the two door wards who stood in the wind-shadow of a porch. He flashed them his best smile and spoke in the tongue of the Picts. One of the guards entered the hall, while the other eyed up the group of mounted men who waited impatiently to be invited in to share the warmth and hospitality of the lord's table.

After a long while the hall doors had been flung open and a large, bearded man was silhouetted there. He spoke to Oswiu. His tone was not friendly. Oswiu raised his voice, gesticulating wildly. The large man shouted a long stream of words and then spat at Oswiu's feet. Oswiu flushed with fury. He spouted abuse at the man, as he turned and walked back into his hall. The doors slammed. The door wards returned to their posts. They would not meet the gaze of any of Oswiu's retinue.

Oswiu stood still for a time. Then he mounted and told the men to prepare for a long night.

Eventually they spent the night shivering in the lee of a hill, with no fire for warmth.

After they had chewed on some stale bread, washed down with water so cold it burnt the throat, Beobrand turned to Acennan.

What did the Pict say to Oswiu?" he asked.

"He said a lot of things," Acennan replied, keeping his voice low. "None of them nice."

"I do not need an interpreter to understand as much," said Beobrand.

Acennan shrugged. "He said he would bow the knee to no Seaxon. He said that neither Oswald nor his brother were welcome in his hall."

"And he will regret it." Both Beobrand and Acennan started at the sound of Oswiu's voice. He was wrapped in a fur cloak and they'd thought him asleep. Now he glowered from the darkness and his voice was flint and iron.

"I will not forget the man's insolence. I will return here one day. And he will pay dearly for this night."

Beobrand did not know the name of the lord who had refused entry to Oswiu. He may have been sitting in the warmth of his hall while they sat hunched around a spitting fire of damp twigs. Yet Beobrand did not envy him. For the Pictish lord had made an enemy of Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith, atheling of Bernicia.

Beobrand remembered Cadwallon. The blood running into the earth. The Waelisc king's sightless eyes staring into his own.

The sons of Æthelfrith did not make good enemies.

Coenred shivered uncontrollably. He could barely hold his horse's reins. All sensation had left his fingers long ago. He leant into the horse's neck, trying to take some of the warmth from the beast. But it did no good.

The horse slipped on an icy stone, hidden beneath the snow. Coenred grabbed hold of the mane. He did not want to fall. It was a long way down from the animal's back, and a lot further into the valley. His bones would shatter if he fell. Of that he was certain. They had been chilled for so long they would splinter like icicles.

At least it was not raining anymore. He had thought it would never end. Images of one of the stories Fearghas used to tell had come to him in those long, dreary, sodden days. A tale of a man and his ship built to withstand a great God-sent flood. Filled with all the animals of the world, so the story went.

Coenred shook his head. How was that possible? He had seen some large ships since moving to the coast, but none that could house more than a handful of animals. None would be large enough even to host the horses of the company he rode with.

He looked along the line of horsemen. Oswiu led the way. Beobrand and Acennan brought up the rear. Coenred gripped the reins tightly and glanced back at them. Beobrand raised a hand in greeting. Acennan, round face shining and ruddy, grinned. Neither of them seemed to feel the cold as he did. He knew all these warriors scoffed at him. He was weak. Thin. Of no use in a battle. And yet the king trusted him to carry the message to the abbot of Hii. And Fearghas had entrusted this mission to him. The brilliance of the sun on the snow brought tears to his eyes. Why had Fearghas sent him on this journey? He missed the other monks and, despite his jokes with Beobrand, he would have enjoyed helping to build their cells on Lindisfarena. The work would be hard but the island had felt like home from the moment he had stepped onto its beach. It seemed right to construct the shelter he would inhabit.

Well, no good would come of weeping after the whey was spilt. He knew he should not complain. But by the holy rood it was so cold. As soon as the words had formed in his mind, Coenred regretted them. Fearghas had told him once, "Pray to the Lord with words of hope and love. He will listen to your woes and miseries if that is all you can give, but think of all the people he must hear."

Trying to be thankful, Coenred offered up a silent prayer of gratitude that his horse had not thrown him into the valley. Still, it was hard to be grateful for feeling as if your toes would snap off at the slightest knock. The wind cut his cheeks and his eyes streamed.

And then, as he crested the brow of the rise and joined the others who had congregated there, all thoughts of discomfort fled. Gone was his desire to be anywhere else. For below them was the ocean. It was a deep blue at the edges of his vision, with the sun shining white from its surface like burnished rippling silver. Across the expanse of water lay several islands, nestled green gems on the shimmering blue. To the north, separated by a stretch of sea, lay a huge isle, the end of which could not be seen.

Never had he seen such a sight. The ocean rolled on endlessly into the horizon-haze of the distance. The isles scattered off of the mainland made him think of God throwing rocks into the ocean, the way a child would place stones in a stream for stepping. Coenred could not stop himself from smiling with the joy of it. His complaints about the journey and the elements now seemed shallow. Stupid. He was suddenly glad Fearghas had sent him. The cold in his body seemed unimportant when the power of the Lord was displayed so clearly before him.

"Behold, the western isles of Dál Riata," said Oswiu. "This is the edge of Domnall Brecc's kingdom in Albion. We have endured the worst of the journey." Oswiu shaded his eyes with his hand and stared out at the largest island to the north west. "It seems we are further south than I had thought. We will head for the coast and find a ship to take us on to Hii. If God smiles on us with the weather, we should be in Ségéne mac Fiachnaí's hall by Geola."

CHAPTER 14

In the end Geola was many days in the past when they finally crossed over to the holy island of Hii. They had spent the shortest day of the year in the hall of Lord Tavin. He was an affable, if gruff, man, well-known to Oswiu, who had stayed with him many times during his exile in these parts.

They had found a ship to take them to Hii, but their plans for the crossing had been dashed as clouds rolled in and a new storm battered the coast.

"The weather here changes as suddenly as a woman changes her mind," Tavin had said, when they had reached his hall on the coast of Muile, the largest of the western islands. Hii lay beyond it, off its most south westerly point and they had been hoping to reach the holy island before the weather broke. A bedraggled company they were, and Tavin had laughed to see them so. Many days later, the drain on his winter supplies had made him less prone to jests. He had been as pleased as they were to see them move on.

None was more pleased than Beobrand. He had never liked winter. Hated being cooped up in the dark and smoke. Bad enough in a place you called home. To be an uninvited and unwelcome guest, surrounded by the sounds of words you could not understand saw Beobrand become increasingly short-tempered. He longed to be done with this mission. It made no sense to him that he had been sent.

But here he was. In another smoky hall, while the atheling and the learned holy men of Hii debated who to send as a bishop back to Lindisfarena.

The winds had abated somewhat, and they had been able to make their way along the coast of Muile, and then the short crossing to the isle of Hii. It was as remote a place as he could have imagined. Each night the sun plunged into the ocean far away. There was no sound but for the wind, the waves and the birds.

On the first night on the island, Coenred had found Beobrand looking out into the west as the sun dropped towards the end of the earth.

"Is it not a wondrous vision?" Coenred had said. "This place is truly holy. I understand now why it is so important."

"Why is that?" Beobrand had asked.

"Here we can know God. There are no distractions from prayer and learning."

Beobrand had snorted. "Distraction is not a bad thing." He longed for the distraction of Sunniva's warm limbs intertwined with his.

"Maybe not for you. But for men of Christ, peace and silence are to be treasured."

"It is possible to have too much quiet," Beobrand had said, his face clouding. "It leaves too much time for thinking. And remembering."

That was three days before and since then, Beobrand and the other warriors had played their fill of tafl and knucklebones. There was little food to be had. Not enough mead or ale. And no women.

"How can it take so long to decide who to send back with us?" Acennan suddenly blurted out. He stood and spat into the small hearth fire that struggled to keep the cold at bay. "We must leave before Solmonath, if we are to be back to our homes for the Hreðmonath sacrifices."

Several of the men nodded, grunting in agreement.

Coenred stood and said, "Wise men think long before making decisions. Though you would not understand that, it seems to me."

Some of the men laughed. "Be careful, Acennan," said Beobrand, "the boy would not beat you with a sword, but his tongue is sharp!"

"As for Hreðmonath," continued Coenred, "you have no need of these sacrifices. Christ died on the tree for you. It was the ultimate sacrifice." Coenred's words had the weight of strong belief behind them, lending them heft. And the talk of sacrifice gave the men pause. Death was the strongest of magic. Everyone knew this.

The door swung open. All eyes turned to the figure framed there. Fresh air breathed new life into the fire. Smoke wafted around the room, as thick as morning fog.

Oswiu stood in the doorway. "The bishop of Lindisfarena is chosen. We can return to Bernicia."

The mood of despondency in the smoke-choked hall lifted.

"There is only one thing we must do first," said Oswiu.

"We are to do what?" Beobrand asked. His tone was incredulous, but he was careful to keep the irritation from his voice. He had seen little in Oswiu to imagine the atheling had an abundance of patience.

"It is a small thing. This woman -"

"This witch," interjected Acennan. Beobrand shot him a warning glance. It would do them no good to anger Oswiu.

"Well, she holds some sway over the locals. Attends births. Provides salves," Oswiu continued. "You know the way peasants are."

Beobrand looked at Acennan. His friend's face reflected his own thoughts. If she was harmless, why had the monks not solved their problem themselves? It did not escape his notice that Acennan and he were the only two warriors present who were not part of Oswiu's comitatus. Did that make them expendable?

Still, there seemed no way out of this. Oswiu ordered. They obeyed. And the sooner they faced what was ahead, the sooner they could return to Bernicia. To Ubbanford. To Sunniva.

"What is it that this woman is said to have stolen from the monks?" Beobrand asked. His mouth was dry all of a sudden. Picking up a wooden cup from the board before him, he took a long swig.

"It is a thing of great value. A silver platter. It was brought here by my mother. Oswald asked that we bring it back to Bebbanburg, its rightful home."

"Why only send the two of us?" Acennan asked. "If it is so important, we could all go."

"Are you a-feared? Acennan, the great warrior, scared of a woman?"

Acennan bridled. He straightened his back. Placed both his broad hands on the table. Beobrand willed him to hold in check his ire at the affront.

Oswiu and Acennan held each other's gaze across the board. Unspoken threats were loud in the silence. After some time, Oswiu said, "I meant no harm, Acennan. I merely jest." It seemed Oswiu did not wish to push Acennan too far. He was wise not to anger him. Even athelings and kings bleed and die. Perhaps Oswiu was thinking the same thoughts. Perhaps he remembered his brother Eanfrith here on this isle, alive and well just the year before. Greatness is no defence against a strong sword.

"The brethren here do not wish to raise this hag any further in the eyes of the people. To send many warriors, or an atheling of Bernicia, could elevate her. You are to bring an end to this problem quickly and quietly."

Beobrand chose to ignore the implication in Oswiu's words. He did not wage war on women. "And once we retrieve this plate, we leave?"

"Yes. We are all eager to return. This winter has been long. I too have left a woman behind, Beobrand. I know you feel the absence keenly."

Beobrand nodded. Acennan had relaxed, but his eyes glittered with a silent anger.

"It will be good to get back," Beobrand drained the rest of the ale from his cup. "We have been too long away. Where does this woman abide?"