The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (34 page)

CHAPTER 19

Following the calamitous display before the king's retinue that morning, Cormán retired to his room.

Coenred was pleased to find himself with no chores. He knew though, that he was still the youngest monk in Bebbanburg, and should Gothfraidh see him, he would be called on to perform some task or other. He would certainly have to spend time in prayer. For so long, he had been around others. From smoky halls to windswept trails through the mountains of the north, but always surrounded by others. Never a moment to himself.

He looked about him for sign of Gothfraidh, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Coenred would spend the day alone with his thoughts. Able to think. And to pray.

The day was dry and bright. He left the fortress and walked the dunes. Finding a secluded spot, he lay down, out of the breeze. The sand was sun-warm and dry. He pushed his fingers into it. Beneath the surface it was cool and moist.
He lay there for a long while. Feathery clouds formed and scudded across the pale heaven.

The marram grass whispered. Sea birds wheeled and spun in the air, their voices like those of children squealing with delight. The muffled crump of waves breaking on the beach.

There was no other person in Coenred's world. His mind tried to pull him towards dark thoughts. Dank thoughts of caves and curses. The bloody images of his worst dreams threatened his peace. But he pushed them all away. He watched the clouds. Listened to the birds. White as doves they were. He whispered the Paternoster over and over until the words held no more meaning to him than the screeches of the birds or the wind through the grass.

His mind found solace in the sounds. He closed his eyes. Gone were the images of blood and darkness. Softly and slowly, sleep embraced him.

When he awoke the sun was low in the sky. The air had turned chill.

He hurried back to Bebbanburg. He began to question the wisdom of leaving the fortress on his own. Given the events of the morning, the bishop's mood would surely be sour. Coenred did not wish to find out how being embarrassed before the king and his thegns had affected the bishop's temperament.

He hurried on, the sound of the birds now like laughter at his stupidity, the crash of the waves ominous. The breeze that had been soothing now cut at his skin.

Preparations for the evening's feast were well underway when Coenred ran into the yard beyond the gate of the fortress. Thralls and servants bustled about their business. A glimpse through the open doors of the hall showed the fire burning bright on the hearth stone. The boards set. Benches in place.

"Where have you been?" The voice was indignant.

Coenred turned his attention from the great hall, to see Gothfraidh standing before him. The old monk's face was blotchy. With colour high on his cheeks.

"Well?" Gothfraidh said.

Coenred stammered for a moment. Several retorts bubbled up in his mind, but he pushed them all away. Nothing he said would mollify Gothfraidh. Old Fearghas had taught him well not to always say the words that came to him. Sometimes it is best to bear anger and punishment in silence. Words seldom change the outcome for the better.

"We will talk more of this later," Gothfraidh continued, clearly frustrated at Coenred's silence. He probably took it for insolence, which is exactly what Coenred wished to avoid. "Bishop Cormán has been asking for you. Though why he would wish to see you, is beyond my ken. Go now. The feast is soon to begin."

Coenred did not wait for a second chance. He scurried off. He wondered whether he was escaping one punishment to receive another. Cormán's temper was terrible. But there was nothing for it. He would go to the bishop and pray that he had not spent the day plotting a terrible penance for him.

Reaching the door to the bishop's quarters, Coenred drew in a shuddering breath and knocked.

There was a mumbled response from behind the partition door. He could not make out the words, but recognised the voice as Cormán's and guessed the meaning from the tone.

It was dark in the small chamber that Oswald had provided for Cormán. The cloying scent of burning tallow from the candle was heavy in the darkness. After the clear air of the beach, the thick atmosphere stuck in Coenred's throat like phlegm.

Cormán sat hunched on a stool beside the wooden cot bed. His features were in shadow. He did not look up.

Coenred coughed gently, and said, "You asked for me?"

Cormán turned to him now, as if only just realising he was no longer alone. The flickering light from the candle fell on his face. His mouth was open, slack-jawed. His eyes seemed to focus on something far behind Coenred. For a long while Cormán remained thus, staring silently. Coenred squirmed.

"The feast will commence soon, my bishop," Coenred said at last, unable to bear the silence.

"Feast?" Cormán started as if slapped awake. "Oh yes. It must be late."

Silence fell on the room again.

"Do you need something from me?" Coenred asked.

"Come sit on the cot, Coenred, I would talk to you." Cormán patted the bed. Coenred noted that Cormán had used his name for the second time that day.

He took a step towards the bed.

"Do not be afraid," Cormán said. The very words brought fear into Coenred's heart where before there was mere unease. What was that other smell he could detect? He scanned the room quickly. Took in the shape of a jug and cup on the small table. Was that the aroma of mead?

"Sit," Cormán repeated, again indicating the bed. His voice was blurred from drink, Coenred was sure of it. He did not wish to be here, but could see no way out.

He sat.

"Bless you, child," said Cormán, "you have been good to me. I know I am not always easy..."

Coenred could feel his cheeks grow hot. He did not know how to address this Cormán. This was a man he had not spoken to before. The dark of the room bore down on him. Like the stone vaulted roof of a cave.

"I have seen the way you look at me, Coenred." Again, Cormán used his name. He was more uncomfortable by the moment. "You are oft afraid. But you need not fear me. I see the goodness in you. The way you sought to help me before the king today. I thank you." Cormán shifted his weight. The stool creaked. Outside a dog barked.

Cormán placed his hand on Coenred's shoulder. Coenred tensed at the touch.

"You have no need to thank me. Shall we go to the feast now?" He made to stand, but Cormán held him where he was.

"There will be time enough for the feast later."

Everything was wrong here. Coenred knew it. Could sense it as surely as he had known that Nelda was evil. She had said terrible things about Cormán.

Could they be true?

Cormán's hand dropped to Coenred's lap. For an instant it lay there on his thigh, pale and limp. "You have been very kind to me, Coenred." Cormán's hand slid from just above Coenred's knee up towards his groin. The fingers caressed and probed his flesh through the rough wool of his robe.

Coenred was appalled. He sat transfixed watching the pallid, fleshy hand spider-creep towards his crotch. This could not be happening. This was sin most foul. This man was his abbot.

His bishop.

The shepherd.

Protector.

Cormán's fingers reached their goal. Coenred shuddered as Cormán fondled and groped.

Coenred found his voice at the same instant that he broke from the stillness that had held him motionless.

"Stop!" he shouted and pushed Cormán's hand away.

The bishop, panting loomed over him. Pushed him back onto the cot. "You have wanted this for a long while," he slurred, mead-sickly breath dribbling over Coenred, "show me some more kindness."

The man was evil. He would take his pleasure with Coenred, just as the men had sated their lust with his sister Tata. They had taken everything from him. All that remained was Christ and his brothers in the faith. Now Fearghas had left him. Was this pitiful excuse for a bishop going to deprive him of the one remaining certainty in his life?

Unbidden he thought of Beobrand. Would that his friend were here now. He would put a stop to this as quickly as one snuffs out a candle flame. But Beobrand would not save him. Not this time. Coenred had told him many times that he did not understand Beobrand's desire for vengeance. But in that instant, with Cormán's hand groping at him, his weight overbearing, his putrid breath making him gag, he could think of nothing more than being rid of the man. He owed it to Tata, who had not been able to defend herself.

Summoning strength from deep within him, like air being blown into the heart of a forge's fire, Coenred screamed.

"Get off of me, you devil!"

He raised his knee with brutal force into Cormán's groin. The bishop grunted and tried to roll away. He was not fast enough. Coenred's rage, unleashed now, ripped through him; a rabid beast in search of blood. He snarled like a cornered dog and lashed out at Cormán's face. He made contact with his fist, a glancing blow, but he felt cartilage crunch as Cormán's nose broke.

The bishop retreated from the incensed novice, fending off Coenred's blows with his raised hands.

Coenred leapt to his feet and fled the room.

What have I done? What have I done? The words ran through Coenred's mind over and over as he ran across the courtyard. He had no idea where he was running. He just knew that he had to flee. He had struck the bishop. There had been blood. He thought he had broken his nose. How had it happened? What had possessed him to hit Cormán?

He skidded on some horse dung, unnoticed in the gathering gloom. He lost his footing. Hit the ground hard.

Winded, he gulped, trying to suck in air. He couldn't breathe! He had hit the bishop and now he was going to die, unable to breathe. Was this God's punishment?

He panicked. His lungs were empty, but he could not draw breath. Was this how he would die? He should not have lashed out.

Then, all of a sudden, cool air whistled into his chest. The panic eased. He would not die. He was not being punished by God.

He could still feel the lingering touch on his thigh. See the lecherous leer. It was the bishop who should be punished. Not him.

As if in answer to his thoughts he heard a scream of rage behind him. He was innocent and the bishop was guilty of a terrible sin. But Coenred was no fool. He knew that the world did not work in that way. Often the innocent pays for the crimes of the evil. He leapt to his feet. He must get away from this place. It was his only hope. He ran towards the main gate, but saw it had been barred for the night.

Where to go? He cast about for an escape. He saw none.

"Stop boy!" Cormán's voice cut through the general hubbub that emanated from the great hall, where the feasting had already begun. He spoke in the words of the Angelfolc. His accent was strong and the words sounded like the voice of one who attempts to sing, but has no ear for music. "Stop boy!" He screamed again, then added in Latin, which none save Coenred and any other monk within earshot would understand, "He must face justice!" His voice was thick with drink and indignant anger.

Cormán did not speak well, but his ire was clear. His words and gesturing towards the young monk merely emphasised his meaning. Coenred watched as two wardens left their post outside the doors of the hall and made their way towards him.

His heart sank. There was no escape now. He resigned himself.

Cormán continued to scream as the guards, almost apologetically, took hold of his arms. They marched him to the hall entrance, where the bishop stood in the pool of light cast from within. He was all bloodied nose and wild gesticulation. He seemed close to taking leave of his senses, such was his rage.

He reached for Coenred, who flinched, trying to avoid Cormán's touch. But the wardens held Coenred firm, apparently the sight of the bishop's bloody face enough to prove the boy's guilt in their eyes. They allowed Cormán to grab Coenred by the ear. They appeared eager to relinquish their hold on him, for they let the bishop lead Coenred into the warmth and light of the hall.

Cormán twisted the ear in his grasp and dragged Coenred forward. It hurt badly. Coenred recalled not so long before when one of Hengist's men had pulled him into driving rain using his ear in just the same savage way. Beobrand had saved him then. He felt the heat of the hall fire against his cheeks now. The ruddy faces of those gathered in the hall turned to stare. There would be no rescue for him this time.

The hall gradually fell silent.

Oswald was looking forward to the feast. The smell of meat and mead bringing the anticipation of a full belly, the promise of convivial conversation. Tales, boasts, riddles, laughter. He longed for the respite from the trials of leadership.

It had been a long day. The catastrophic events of the morning's aborted attempt at sharing the Holy Eucharist an all too recent memory, vivid in Oswald's mind. He had hoped to show the men the solemnity and power of the Christian teachings, and introduce them to Cormán. But instead of convincing any doubters and stilling any concerns people may have in the appointment of the new abbot and bishop, the very man who was so key to his plans turned a simple ceremony into what many of the more traditional thegns saw as an omen of blood. Oswald had been careful not to show his full displeasure in the bishop, but he was furious. Why had Ségéne sent Cormán? The men who had travelled with the bishop disliked him. Oswald was not surprised. Cormán had always been a prickly man, prone to peevishness. Oswald was willing to bow to the decision of Ségéne and the brethren of Hii, but this morning's debacle had served to make him further question the appointment. He needed a man who could lead Bernicia to righteousness. To do that, he would have to be someone who could interact well with all manner of people in the kingdom. From the haughtiest thegns to the lowliest ceorls; Angelfolc, Waelisc and Picts alike. Oswald dreamt of leading a nation united under one ruler and one god. He was the man to rule on earth. He could wield the sword and defeat the foes of Bernicia with his brother at his side. But he needed a man to shepherd the people into the light of Christ's love.