The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (30 page)

"Thank you," Anhaga replied. "It was stupid of me to fall on the ice." He flicked a glance back at Sunniva. Their eyes met and she turned away.

"Still, I suppose I am lucky," he said.

"Lucky?"

"I could have hurt my other leg in the fall," he said with a grin made hideous by the bruises.

With a last lingering look at Sunniva, he turned and limped towards the waiting men on the hill.

They had been away for so long that Beobrand had almost forgotten what Ubbanford looked like. Yet now, after all the months of travel, cold and battered by the elements, he had returned home.

Home.

It seemed strange to think of the place in that way. Strange, but right.

Sunlight finally forced its way through the heavy clouds that had threatened rain all day, to shine on the buildings that nestled by the river Tuidi. It was cold, but the sun warmed their spirits as much as their bodies.

They rode through the ford. The high water, swollen with rain and snow-melt, nearly reached the feet of the riders. The horses slowed, picking their way across the slippery rocks beneath the surface.

Sceadugenga tossed his mane, as if he too was pleased to return to familiar territory. Beobrand had been surprised by the depth of his own emotions when he was reunited with the stallion after the weeks on Hii and Muille. The horses had been well treated, and the red rags seemed to have worked their magic. No night hag had come to ride Sceadugenga into a lather of sweat. His steed was safe from any night terrors. It was Beobrand who found his nights tormented by a witch.

He often awoke to half-remembered dreams of darkness and evil. With Nelda's words echoing in his mind. Her scent still in his nostrils, as if she had been lying close to him while he slept.

He talked little of his nightmares. Of his fears. Of Nelda's curse.

Coenred had tried to console him. "The witch has no power," he'd said. "Only Christ has power over life and death." This was ridiculous, of course. Beobrand knew Coenred meant well, but when he looked at the boy's face he wondered if he even believed the words himself. He had been pallid and shaken when they had left Nelda's cave. If the Christ alone had power over death, why fear a witch? Or a sword?

Acennan had only talked of the encounter once.

"I should have killed her," he'd said.

Beobrand had shaken his head.

"Killing women is not my wyrd."

Acennan had snorted.

"Well, you killed her bird alright. Only a bird, like I said. And she was just a woman. A grieving mother. Do not dwell on her words, Beobrand. They are as hollow as an empty horn."

Just a woman? With no power? Beobrand wished he could believe that. But how had she known so much? She had drawn him to her lair for vengeance. She had failed to slay him there, but would her curse follow him? Had she pronounced his doom?

His fears had lessened somewhat with the passing of time and distance. But she was always there. On the edge of his mind as they travelled south.

The journey had been long and arduous. The return had been less eventful, and with less rain and snow. But it was the same distance. The same mountains needed to be traversed. The same rivers crossed. The Tuidi was the last great river. To pass it meant they were once more in the heartland of Bernicia.

"It looks like your new hall is already built," Acennan pointed to the hill that dominated the settlement.

Beobrand looked and saw men working on the frame of a large building. It was not close to being complete, but the scale and shape of it were clear. It would be a great hall. Something to be proud of. A hall fit for a warlord and his lady.

"Sunniva seems to have got the men working," Beobrand said. He scanned the village, but there was no sign of her. He yearned to see her. It had been so long since he had held her in his arms.

He looked to the forge, half expecting her to be coming from the smith's hut. But there was no smoke coming from there. No sound of hammer on iron. A tendril of fear wormed its way into his mind. Nelda's curse hung over him the way a cloud of flies buzzes over a pool of blood. "You will never know happiness. You will die alone."

Where was Sunniva?

As he looked, he saw the men on the hill leave their work and head down towards them at a run. Beobrand spurred Sceadugenga up the pebbled beach onto dry ground. Suddenly fearful for his wife, he cantered towards Ubba's hall.

Before he reached the hall, two armed men stepped from the doorway. They carried shields and spears. Wore helms. They were prepared for attack.

He reined in before them. Sceadugenga snorted, his breath clouding the air before the door wards. Beobrand recognised the men. They were his men. His gesithas.

"Your lord has returned," said Acennan, pulling his own steed to a halt.

One of the men stepped forward and removed his helm. It was Tobrytan.

"You are well come home, my lord," he said.

"Is all well here?" asked Beobrand. "Does the lady Sunniva fare well?" Fear gripped his throat. His voice was strained.

Could Nelda's curse reach here? Had something happened to his love?

"Aye," said Tobrytan. "Never fear. We have protected her." He seemed affronted at Beobrand's obvious fear for Sunniva's safety. "She is safe enough inside the old hall."

Such a feeling of relief flooded through Beobrand, that he almost fell to his knees as he dropped from Sceadugenga's back. He threw the reins to Tobrytan.

"My thanks," he said, and without pause, ran past the bemused warrior and into the hall.

Sunniva sat by the hearth fire. The gloom of the hall was a blessing. Bright light and loud sounds were as painful as knives in her skull. She needed solitude. She had sent Edlyn away. The girl had not disguised her disappointment. Sunniva regretted speaking harshly to her, but her head was fit to burst. She could not listen to Edlyn's prattling. Not today.

Lady Rowena was her only company. She understood, and was content to sit in silence. After some time, Rowena had picked up a comb and started brushing Sunniva's long hair. Sunniva had flinched, thinking it would cause her aching head more anguish. Yet, after a few moments, the motion began to soothe her. Rowena was good to her. Sunniva did not know what she would have done without her in the last weeks. She confided in Rowena. Trusted her. Having Edlyn to keep her mind occupied and Rowena to offer a friendly ear, to listen and not judge, had made the winter bearable.

She feared what would have become of her without Rowena in the last days. Her mind had grown dark. Her torment ever more difficult to push away.

She closed her eyes, trying to forget. She focused on the strokes of the comb running through her long tresses. Recently, these headaches had become more frequent. Nothing seemed to keep them at bay. She had tried different wyrts and poultices that old Odelyna concocted for her, but to no avail. Only darkness and rest gave any respite.

With a crash and a gust of cold air the door to the hall was flung open. The flames flared up with the draught. She opened her eyes and sighed. Surely Anhaga could not need her again? She had told him to leave her be. She thought he, of all people, would understand her need for peace.

But it was not Anhaga who loomed in the doorway. Dark against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, stood a huge figure. She squinted. The light shot shards of agony into her head. Was this Nathair? Or one of his sons? She had secretly thought that the day would come when they would attack. And, although the gesithas would defend them with their lives if necessary, she was under no illusions of the possibility they would not be saved.

Sunniva and Rowena both stood. Rowena took her hand. Squeezed. They would face whatever danger befell them together. But what of Edlyn, and the other women? And the children? Sunniva felt the weight of the lives of the folk of Ubbanford then.

"Who goes there?" she said, her voice shrill. "What do you mean by entering Ubba's Hall?"

"It is I, your lord and husband," said the figure. The sound of the voice brought tears to her eyes. She had longed to hear it so many times in the dark days.

Sunniva let out a sobbing cry.

Beobrand, hale, strong, reassuring, strode across the hall.

"My love," he said, his arms outstretched.

All strength left her. She collapsed into Beobrand's embrace. He crushed her to his chest.

Her head throbbed and the iron rings of the byrnie pinched her. But she did not care. She allowed the tears she had held in check for so long to flow now. Great sobs racked her. She cried tears of sorrow. Bitter and hot anguish at all that had befallen her. All she had lost.

Yet her weeping was not all of sadness.

Beobrand's large hands caressed her head gently. Smoothed her already shining hair.

"My love," he whispered over and again in her ear.

Elation made her smile through the pain and the crying.

For her man had returned to her.

"Well, what did you think of Cormán?" Beobrand asked. He cared little for Sunniva's opinion on the Christ priest from Hii, but she seemed reticent to come to bed. He was tired, having ridden all day, and then drinking vast quantities of ale and mead well into the night. He watched Sunniva with bleary eyes as she brushed her hair by the light of a rush light. The shape of her body beneath the shift she wore was obvious. The swell of her breast. The curve of her hips. He swallowed. Gods, he had missed her so. He could feel his body awakening at the sight of her and the promise of what lay beneath her undergarments.

Despite his growing passion, his tiredness tugged at his eyes. He would not allow sleep to consume him yet. He shifted in the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. He must keep awake.

Sunniva had not answered him. Perhaps she had not heard. Or maybe she listened to the sound of the others still carousing in the hall beyond the partition. They had retired early. Sunniva had looked pinched and tired all night. She had not complained, but she was not herself. After some time, when he thought it would not be seen as an insult to their guests, Beobrand had announced that he felt unwell and would go to his bed.

Acennan had caught his eye as he left with Sunniva. He had smiled and winked. It seemed he did not believe Beobrand's pretence of illness. Beobrand did not care. All he could think of was to be alone with Sunniva. Throughout the night he could scarcely pay attention to anything else.

"Well, what did you think?" he repeated.

Sunniva looked at him, her eyes dim, unfocused. "Hmmm? The priest?"

"Yes, Cormán."

Sunniva thought for a moment before replying. At last she said, "He seems arrogant. For one who comes to this land as a stranger, he would do well to learn the tongue of the Angelfolc."

"I have thought similar things," said Beobrand. The priest's face seemed permanently fixed in a scowl of disdain. He clearly believed himself above those whom he was sent to teach in the ways of the Christ god.

"Now, come to bed, my love," said Beobrand, lifting the furs and blankets enticingly.

Sunniva drew in a long, deep breath. She then put down her brush and slid beneath the covers.

Her thigh brushed against him. Their feet touched. A thrill ran though his body. He suppressed a shiver. They had barely touched, yet he could feel himself harden and grow. He burnt for her. So many weeks, so many dark nights alone. The other men had bedded thralls or servants in the halls where they had stayed. Beobrand had kept his desires in check. Sunniva had given herself to him absolutely. She was his anchor, keeping him steady in the tumultuous seas he had found himself in. War, blood, honour and oaths. The affairs of kings and athelings. He was afraid that should he allow himself to give in to his lust with another woman, he might lose Sunniva. And he needed her. Of that he was certain.

He reached for her, his whole right hand pulling her towards him. He could already imagine the taste of her mouth. The softness of her lips.

She tensed beneath his hand. Resisted moving.

"What is it, Sunniva?" he asked in an urgent whisper. He strove, but failed to keep the frustration from his voice. The warmth of her body engulfed him beneath the furs. His hand rested on her arm with his wrist brushing her breast. His whole body thrummed like a lyre string.

"I... I am sorry, my husband." Sunniva's voice was brittle and small.

A coolness entered Beobrand then. The wings of jealousy and doubt began to flap at his mind. Had he been wrong to hold himself faithful to her all these months?

"Sorry for what, Sunniva?"

She tensed once more under his hand. Perhaps at the harshness of his voice.

"I would give you that which you seek. I want it too, believe me," she said. "My bed has been cold these many weeks. But I am not well."

All at once his anger snuffed out, before the spark of jealousy had fully kindled.

"Are you sick?" he asked. He thought of her pallor throughout the evening. He cursed his stupidity and selfishness.

"It is nothing," she answered. "I just need to sleep. Tomorrow, I will feel restored, I am sure." She offered him a thin smile. "I think I will need all my strength to cope with your passion. I fear my head would split in two should we lay together tonight. I am sorry."