The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (40 page)

"Not for a wrong to you, lord," Acennan took in a deep breath and seemed to steel himself. "He says the weregild is for a wrong done to lady Sunniva."

Athelstan stood as Beobrand entered the hall. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes downcast. His usual arrogance was not present. The burly thegn motioned with his hand and the men who had been sitting with him also rose. Beobrand saw they were Athelstan's closest hearth warriors. Men of courage. Hard men. Dealers of death, like their lord.

Beobrand's own warband sat alongside Athelstan's men. Many were old friends. Shield brothers from the time of Oswald's exile. There was a tension in the air, but it seemed to stem from recent events and the tidings Athelstan brought, rather than any conflict between the two groups of warriors.

All of these battle-hard men seemed timid now. Subdued. They fidgeted as Beobrand and Acennan approached.

"Well?" Beobrand said. "What brings you to my hall?" He was in no mood for formalities.

Athelstan could not meet his gaze. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it without uttering a sound.

"Speak, man," said Beobrand, "you have travelled this far. You had best tell me that which you wish to say."

"I come at a dark time," said Athelstan. "We have heard of your loss. I am truly sorry." The older warrior's bearded face was ashen. "This makes the news I bear even more difficult. I bring tidings of a terrible crime."

"These are the darkest times. I have no stomach for riddles now, Athelstan." Beobrand pulled a bench out from the table and sat. Despite the long sleep, he had no strength. His body ached. All he wanted was to sleep once more. He did not wish to have to listen to Athelstan. Acennan had said he had spoken of weregild for Sunniva. For what, he did not know. Beobrand could not imagine, but at the thought of injury being done to his wife, he felt his ire already building within him, like a stream swelling behind a dam of pebbles.

Athelstan and his men sat. Acennan beckoned to one of Rowena's slaves.

"Bring food and drink," he said.

The young woman, dark hair swishing, scurried away, keen to distance herself from the men. Violence was in the air, its scent as strong as the wood smoke from the hearth.

"Speak, Athelstan," Beobrand said.

"You know me as a man of honour," Athelstan said.

"I know no such thing. I know you for a bully. A man who would paw another's woman before his men and laugh."

One of Athelstan's gesithas stood abruptly, reaching for his seax.

Athelstan raised his hand. All colour had fled his face. "Sit, Betlic."

Betlic glowered, but sat down.

Athelstan continued. "We have not been friends, it is true, but I would that you believe me when I say I have never meant you harm. I would never have harmed your lady. That I come here now should vouch for my honour, for it is not a pleasant task I have. It would have been easier on me to remain in my hall and hope you would not find out about the events I must tell you of."

Beobrand frowned. "Tell me then, and have done with it."

Anhaga limped up to the table with a platter of cheese, bread and cold meat. The dusky slave girl brought mead and ale.

None of the warriors touched the food or drink.

"You will remember that I had taken the oath of Wybert, son of Alric."

"Of course, but what of Wybert. I do not see him here." He was glad Wybert was not there. The man hated him and Beobrand did not want to be reminded of past failures.

"Indeed. Wybert is not here. He is no longer in Bernicia. Or even in Northumbria, I would wager."

"Again, you speak in riddles. Just tell me what has happened."

"Very well." Athelstan paused. He reached for a cup and beckoned to the slave. She poured ale and he took a long draught. He wiped the froth from his moustache, squared his shoulders as if standing before a strong enemy and set about recounting his dark tale.

"Some months past, after we had returned from the lands of Mercia and Wessex, Wybert set out hunting with another of my gesithas, Synn. The winter was bad and wolves had been spotted. They said they would like to have wolf skins to wear. I did not care for the hunt. The journey south had been long and cold. I preferred to stay in my hall by the fire. Getting old, I suppose." He took another swig of ale. Having started his story, he seemed to find the words easily. Beobrand sat in silence, awaiting the news that concerned Sunniva. Beneath the table his fists were clenched.

"Days passed and when they returned, they did not have pelts to show for the hunt. I laughed at them then. I was pleased to have stayed home, in the warm. Well, winter gave way to Solmonath and we forgot about the failed hunt. Until a few days hence." Athelstan paused again. Drank. Took a slow breath. "Wybert had been drinking. He was loud, boasting and telling tales with the other men in the hall. The boasts got bigger, the tales more outrageous until Wybert made a boast that brought silence to the room."

Athelstan's men looked down at their hands. They had been there in that hall. They knew what had been said.

The muscles in Beobrand's jaw bunched. His teeth ached from the pressure, but he did not pay heed.

Athelstan scratched his beard.

"What was the boast?" asked Beobrand.

Athelstan could not meet his eye.

"You have walked the path of this tale to this door, Athelstan," Beobrand said. "Now you must open it."

Athelstan hesitated, then gave the slightest of nods. "He told how he had ploughed Beobrand half-hand's woman."

There was a gasp from Beobrand's gesithas.

Beobrand closed his eyes. Could this be true? His stomach twisted. Bile filled his throat. He swallowed it back with an effort. He would not disgrace himself before those gathered here. Athelstan continued talking into the bleak silence of the hall.

"Wybert laughed, as if he thought we would be proud of what he told us. We were not. He spoke of how they had come north knowing you to still be in the land of the Picts. They came to your hall. I believe when they came here, they found your men away, hunting the very wolves that they had been stalking. I do not know how it happened, or why, but Wybert told us they had forced themselves upon the lady Sunniva."

Beobrand stood abruptly. He shook his head. He did not wish to hear this. He stepped from the bench. The room was filled with smoke. It stung his eyes. Stole the air from his lungs. He pulled in great breaths through his open mouth.

"Why do you come here? Why do you speak of these things?" Beobrand's voice was clipped, shards of iron thrown from blades clashing in battle. "If Wybert is not with you that I may exact payment from him, why have you come?"

"I would have brought them to face justice. Both men. But Synn fought us and perished. Wybert fled. He broke his oath to me. Stole a horse and rode south. He is no longer my man. But he was. So, I have come that there may be no bloodfeud between us. I was his lord. I bring weregild for his acts."

Beobrand rounded on his gesithas. "How could this happen? You had to protect her. You made your oaths to me and yet you have forsaken my lady. You have failed me." Beobrand shook with the strength of his emotion. His gesithas were aghast. They had known none of these tidings. Their faces were grey in the dim light of the hall. They hung their heads in shame.

Tobrytan, tears in his eyes, went to his lord and threw himself at his feet.

"Lord, have mercy on us. We did not know." He wailed with a grief as real as Beobrand's, for the men had all loved Sunniva. "We failed the lady Sunniva. We failed you. We did not know. Oh gods, we did not know!" He sobbed into the rushes, undone by his anguish.

Beobrand could not look upon him. "Was there nobody here to protect my wife?" Beobrand asked.

Athelstan spoke. "Wybert talked of beating one of your servants. He said the man was puny, but fought with all his might to defend his mistress. Wybert and Synn beat him about the face cruelly. Left him senseless."

A slight movement to Beobrand's left drew his attention. Anhaga stood there, trembling and wide-eyed. Those eyes had witnessed the terrible events Athelstan spoke of. In an instant it all made sense to Beobrand.

With his disfigured left hand he lashed out and grabbed Anhaga by the throat of his kirtle. He pulled him savagely close. Spat words into his fearful face.

"You knew! It was you, was it not?"

Anhaga did not answer. His eyes shone with terror at his lord's wrath.

"Why did you not stop them?" Beobrand screamed at the wretch. "Why?" Having taken hold of the cripple, Beobrand suddenly found an object for all of his rage. This man, this cripple, who Sunniva had never trusted, had been present at the moment she was defiled and he had failed to stop the men.

Without a thought, Beobrand's right fist crashed into Anhaga's cheek. It was Anhaga's fault. He pulled back his fist and pummelled it into Anhaga's face again. The man let out a cry of pain, but did not seek to protect himself. Why would he? He was a coward. A pathetic creature that allowed women to be raped.

Beobrand punched him again. And again. Blood streaked Anhaga's face. Beobrand's knuckles split. Slick with blood, his own and that of Anhaga, his right fist became a smith's hammer. His left hand, gripping the kirtle tightly, became the anvil that held Anhaga in place.

The man became limp, insensate, yet Beobrand continued to strike him, the head lolling this way and that as he struck.

Hands gripped his arms.

Slowly the uproar of the hall filtered through the haze of fury. He pulled his gaze with difficulty from Anhaga's bloodied face. Turned to see who dared to lay their hand upon him.

Acennan. His friend's canted nose a reminder of another such violent assault. Another time, and another place.

Slowly, the room came back into focus. Aethelwulf and Garr were beside Anhaga. They were uncertain. They looked on their lord with fear. Their fate had not yet been decided. They too had failed Beobrand. They looked at the blood-streaked limp form of the hall steward and saw their own future there. Beobrand shook his head. He slowly relinquished his grip on Anhaga. Garr and Aethelwulf caught him and carried him away. They looked glad to be gone from their lord's presence.

Acennan gripped Beobrand's shoulder. Whispered, "Come, my friend. Sit. You must eat and drink."

Beobrand's hands began to shake. He clenched his fists in an effort to stop the trembling. He walked stiffly to the gift-stool at the end of the hall. He sat heavily. The hall was silent. He looked at the blood dripping from his right fist. He always shook so after combat. It would pass soon. But this had been no combat. He had beaten the man senseless. Anhaga had not defended himself. And if what Athelstan said was true, the cripple was the only man who had stood up to Sunniva's attackers. He had worn the results of the beating upon his face when they had returned from Dál Riata.

Acennan called for water for Beobrand to wash his hand. The slave girl brought a wooden bowl and a cloth. Beobrand nodded his thanks to Acennan. He sighed as he rinsed away the blood. His knuckles were already bruising, the split skin smarting at the touch of the cloth. The water was pink when the thrall took it away. Beobrand noticed that her hands also shook as she lifted the bowl.

At the lower tables the men had started to converse in hushed tones. Acennan remained by Beobrand's side, but did not speak. There was nothing for him to say. No counsel to give. This day had been one of nightmare. His wyrd had led him into a darkness greater than that of the winter of his arrival in Bernicia. His wyrd brought him loss, followed by gain, then greater loss. It was the gain that made the loss the more acute. Perhaps this was what the gods enjoyed. He felt like a plaything of the gods then. Cursed, despite having his own hall, a warband and treasure. These things were as nothing now.

Cursed.

He could almost hear Nelda's screech in the darkness outside of the hall. Was she still plotting and weaving her magic from her cave on Muile? Or perhaps she travelled south to wreak her revenge for her son's death. Perhaps she was even now in Ubbanford, lying in wait for him with her dagger and her hate.

He shivered.

Shaking his head to clear it, he called for mead. He drank deeply.

The furnace of his rage was a banked fire now, the flames dampened down by his sorrow and shame. He had not been here to protect Sunniva. He had allowed this to happen. Once again he had been unable to defend those he loved most.

Vengeance may not bring peace, but it was all he had left.

He held up his hand for silence. The knuckles throbbed. All the men turned their attention to him.

"Athelstan, we have not been friends, it is true. But you have come here with good faith. You are a man of honour, as you say. I thank you for that. There will be no feud between us. And you may take your treasures back to your own hall." Athelstan made to reply, but Beobrand silenced him with a gesture. "If I accept the weregild, I accept payment for the crime, and I do not. I will have blood for what was done. No treasure can recompense me. There will be no feud between your household and mine. But Wybert is no longer your man. Here, before you all, I pledge vengeance on Wybert. Let it be known that I will not rest until he is dead. I swear an oath before you and all the gods that I will take Wybert's life. He is as one dead even now. His life is mine."