The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (35 page)

If only Fearghas yet lived. He would have been the perfect man to stand at his side. He was humble, yet full of wisdom. Kind and loving, yet strong and disciplined. And he could speak the tongue of the Angelfolc. His mission into Deira had given him much experience in teaching. As a child Oswald had known the old abbot before Fearghas had set out south to carry the word of the Lord to the Northumbrians.

But Fearghas had gone to be with the almighty Father. It saddened Oswald. But life was full of sadness. You can only move forward and tackle the events as they unfold. He did not have Fearghas' wisdom, but he knew that no plans played out as intended in their conception. So it was that he had sent north for a new bishop. It had pleased him when Fearghas had sent the boy, Coenred, with the tidings of his passing and instructions to send to Hii for a bishop. The old abbot understood what was needed. Lindisfarena would become the sister of Hii. The east a reflection of the west.

Why the brethren had seen fit to send Cormán was still a mystery, but he would have to suffice. There were other things to concern Oswald. He must arrange a meeting with Penda soon. And also marriage to Cynegils' daughter. So many pieces in this game of tafl. A wrong move could spell disaster. Death. Or perhaps worse, a return to exile. Loss of the newly reconquered kingdom. Better to die in defence of what was his rather than to lose it all and flee like a whipped cur. Eanfrith had got that much right at least. Failure now was not an option. But success was a tenuous thing to hold on to. He could feel his doom lurking at every turn. He prayed and planned, but any mistake could see it all come crashing down.

The sudden flicker of firelight gleaming on red hair drew his eye. Finola, Eanfrith's widowed queen, sat at the far end of the high table, with the boy, Talorcan. She saw Oswald looking and smiled. She was a clever one. She was unhappy, he knew, but she never complained. He wondered sometimes at her lot. Although he was sure she would rather return to her people, she was treated well. Perhaps she was happier than when Eanfrith lived. He knew his brother. Had seen how he was with her. It brought sorrow to his heart to see one of such poise and beauty reduced to a peace-weaver. Another piece in the great game he played. But such was her part. He needed the support of her brother, Gartnait. So she and the boy remained at Bebbanburg.

A thrall stepped to his right and filled his fine glass beaker with pale mead. The beakers were a thing of wonder. Glass moulded and fashioned by some skill that no craftsman Oswald knew of could master. They had been brought on a ship from afar and had cost him dearly. Part of a set of four, he used them infrequently, for fear that they would be damaged. There were only three left, now, one having toppled from the board when it was upset by a thegn made unsteady on mead. The beaker had fallen and smashed into tiny shards. They were sharp as bone needles, and there was no way to repair the cup. Today he had chosen to use one of the beakers. Seeing it gave him pleasure. It reminded him that the abilities of man knew no limits. There were always new skills to discover. Crafts to master.

He nodded his thanks to the old Waelisc woman who poured the drink. She kept her eyes averted, but he noticed her hands were steady. She did not tremble in the presence of the king. For a moment he contemplated whether this was a good thing.

A commotion distracted him. Perhaps the food was ready to be served. He hoped so.

Looking down the long hall, he could see the doors that had been left open to the clement night air. The hearth fire raged. The movement beyond it rippled and danced. Who was that there? The room grew hushed. Oswald could not see clearly through the heat-flicker of the flames. He stood. In the entrance to the hall stood Cormán. But he was not garbed in clean robes ready to partake of the king's table. The man swayed unsteadily. His blood-splashed face was contorted by anger. His long locks, usually as well-groomed as any lady's, stuck out like the denuded branches of a leafless winter tree. In his right hand, the bishop held the ear of the young monk, Coenred. The boy, face pale, eyes wide, looked terrified.

Oswald felt the flash of his own anger. Was Cormán avowed to spoil everything? Would he never have peace while the man resided in Bebbanburg? The sooner he was gone to Lindisfarena, the better.

"What is the meaning of this, bishop?" Oswald kept his voice in check, did not allow it to rise. Despite this, the words were heard by all. "Why do you interrupt our feast?" The bishop did not respond immediately and Oswald realised he had addressed the man in the tongue of his people, not the musical words of the Hibernians. He repeated his questions for Cormán.

"My lord," Cormán said, his voice slurred and whiny, "this boy struck my face. Has drawn blood from Christ's bishop! I demand justice!"

Oswald looked from the bishop to the boy. He could think of no reason why Coenred would strike his superior. He thought well of the young monk. He had been recommended by Fearghas and in all his dealings with him, Oswald had been impressed by the boy's intelligence and eagerness to please. The bishop had done little to endear himself to the king or those who escorted him from Dál Riata.

"Demand you say? In my own hall you would make demands of me, bishop?" Many of his retinue would not understand the words Oswald now spoke, but the ice in them was clear.

Cormán swallowed, as if attempting to hold himself back. "The boy must be accountable for his sins!"

"His sins are God's affair, not mine. But if you seek justice for a crime, you must come before me at the proper time."

"But my king..." Cormán's tone was pleading.

Oswald cut him off. "Yes, I am your king and you would do well to remember it." He fixed Cormán with a cool stare until the priest closed his mouth. "You can come before me tomorrow, bringing witnesses to speak on your behalf. Until then, unhand the boy." Cormán held the king's gaze for longer than was proper. Oswald wondered again at the choice of this man to lead his people into the fold of Christ's followers.

Eventually, Cormán released Coenred's ear. The novice rubbed at it.

Weariness engulfed Oswald. All he had wanted was to eat and drink in peace and now the accursed bishop had made that impossible.

"Bishop, you are bleeding. Attend to your wounds. Begone."

Cormán stood for a long while, his brow furrowed. Eyes burning with an impassioned hate. Oswald could not tell if his loathing was aimed at him or the boy.

"Very well, Oswald King. I will return on the morrow and I expect justice to be done."

With that, the furious bishop spun on his heel. Flicking his hair away from his face with his hand, he stalked out of the hall.

CHAPTER 20

"Nathair!" Beobrand shouted, "Come out. I would speak with you."

Beobrand removed his helm and rested it on the saddle before him. He ran his half-hand through his sweat-drenched hair. It was a warm day. The winter had truly retreated back into the northern mountains of Dál Riata. The Tuidi valley was as balmy as a summer afternoon.

"Do you suppose the old goat is deaf?" said Acennan. He sat astride his dappled mare beside Beobrand. Against his wishes, they had come to Nathair's hall without more of Beobrand's gesithas. Beobrand didn't want to start a fight. Yet it seemed to Acennan it was too late for that. Blood had been spilt. And those arrows had flown from a bow held in the hands of a man. Most likely a Pictish man. Not an elf of the forest.

But Beobrand had been adamant. "If we ride in force, we show fear. And we will anger Nathair. We have ridden onto his land once with my warband. Perhaps this time we can talk more calmly."

Acennan had not liked it one bit. He had made Beobrand wear his battle gear. He too, was sweating under his heavy byrnie, his head soaked beneath his iron helm. He cuffed away beads of moisture from his forehead and looked around the village. The throngs of people they had seen on their first visit were absent. They must all be busy in the fields ploughing and harrowing.

They had seen some as they had left the forest and ridden over the small wooden bridge. They could see more with wooden hoes and rakes on the hill beyond the settlement.

A movement behind them made Sceadugenga snort, and take a quick step, circling on the muddied ground before the great hall.

Nathair stepped from between two squat huts. He was flanked by a pair of warriors. They were dour and broad-shouldered, armed with spear and shield. Beobrand recognised their kind. They had the air of men at their ease with violence.

The grizzled Pictish lord grinned. "No, this old goat isn't deaf, but perhaps you are." He looked at his men, who guffawed obediently. "We could have walked right up behind you and pulled you from your saddles."

Beobrand felt his cheeks redden. The man was making a fool of them. "You could have tried, old man. But it would not have ended well for you." His ire was threatening to run free. He could feel it pulling at its bit. It was all he could do to rein it back. He took a long breath. He had not come here to fight. He swung from the saddle and indicated for Acennan to do the same.

"So, what brings you here?" Nathair asked, a smile still playing at his lips.

"I have come to speak with you. And to return something that I believe belongs to your son, Torran." Beobrand reached up to his saddle bag and pulled out the goose-feather fletched arrows.

Nathair eyed the arrows soberly, all humour gone.

"Come then, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You'd best come inside."

"I hear you, southerner," Nathair picked up the earthenware jug and refilled the wooden cup before Beobrand. Beobrand nodded his thanks. "And I have thought on your words," continued the old Pict, "since last we met." He scowled, and spat onto the rush-strewn floor.

Beobrand looked around the hall. It was dark and drear. A small fire crackled on the hearth. Smoke drifted and swirled around the pillars and rafters. Weapons and war gear adorned the walls. A great sword hung behind the lord's chair. It was sheathed, but gold glinted from its pommel. A couple of wiry hounds worried at a bone in the shadows. They growled softly, setting Beobrand on edge. The room reeked of stale food and sour ale. It smelt old. Decayed.

Here in the gloom it was easy to forget that outside was bright spring sunshine. From within these walls, it would not be difficult to believe the world was always winter. Beobrand took a draught of mead, watching the grey-haired lord over the rim of his cup.

The man looked wan. Tired. His skin had the jaundiced pallor of age. Both the hall and its lord were decrepit. Shades of their former glory.

"I still grieve for Aengus. But I have no quarrel with you. He was ever headstrong. Foolhardy." His hand shook as he lifted his drinking horn to his cracked lips. "I have spoken with the men who were there at his end. They say you warned him."

Beobrand glanced at Acennan. It was uncomfortable to listen to these words from the father of the boy he had slain. Acennan raised his eyebrows. He gave a slight shrug and concentrated on his own drink.

"He died well," said Beobrand. He did not know how to offer condolences to this man. He knew what it was to suffer loss, but he could feel no remorse at Aengus' death. "It was a warrior's death."

The old man fixed him with a dark stare. His eyes glinted in the shadows. It was the predatory glare of a wolf. He may be old, but he still had teeth. There was no softness in those eyes. Nathair had not become leader of his people with tenderness. Beobrand would do well to remember that.

Beobrand held the man's gaze. He would not back down. The challenge was there. It could not be ignored. Nathair knew that he could not hope to stand in combat against the young warrior thegn from Cantware, so he attempted an exertion of his will. For a moment, all was still in the hall. It was as if the very air itself held its breath. Then Nathair broke the stare. He seemed to crumple.

"Aengus never knew what it was to be a warrior. His mother spoilt him." He rubbed a hand over his face. "She was a wonderful woman, his mother."

For a time nobody spoke. Nathair's warriors sat sullenly at the far end of the table. They appeared embarrassed of their lord's show of weakness. Eventually, Nathair let out a trembling sigh. He scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands.

"I do not seek vengeance for my boy's death," he said, his voice once more strong.

Beobrand picked up one of the arrows that lay on the board before them. The white feathers stood out in the shadows like snow on a midnight mountainside.

"So what of this then? It was not my wyrd to die pierced by these arrows, but your sons wish to exact the price for their brother's death."

Nathair glowered, his brow furrowed.

"I will speak with them."

"Make sure you do. There need be no more bloodshed between us."

"I will speak with them," the old man repeated, his voice cracking with emotion. "I am yet lord here!"

His warriors shifted uncomfortably on the bench.

Beobrand drained his mead and stood. He had had his fill of this place. Wished no longer to remain here in the dark with this old wolf.

"If your sons attack me or my people, I will kill them. I will not allow another attack to go unanswered." His words were clear and sharp as ice. "If you would have peace between our people, you must keep them in check."