The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (43 page)

"Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, King of Bernicia and Deira by the grace of the Lord God, bids you come to Bebbanburg."

Beobrand beckoned to one of the thralls, a dark-haired, slender Waelisc girl, and she came and refilled his cup with mead. He drained it and indicated she pour more. He noticed absently that her hands did not tremble as they had after he had beaten Anhaga. The warmth from the liquid oozed through him, leaking into his limbs and his head. He was aware that he was drinking too fast, but the blurring of the jagged pain inside was welcome. He had been alone with only his thoughts for company on the ride to Gefrin and back, and his thoughts cut and scraped wherever they touched. Mead smoothed the edges.

"I heard you the first time, Erconberht," Beobrand said, his tone harsher than he had intended. "I cannot go now." His mind turned to the urns he had removed from his saddle bags. "I have matters I must attend to."

"But lord," Erconberht said in an outraged tone. "The king himself has summoned you."

"By Thunor," Beobrand slapped the table before him. Mead sloshed out of his cup. "I heard you!"

The hall was suddenly quiet.

Erconberht stood his ground, his brow wrinkled into a dark frown. Acennan stared at Beobrand. Their eyes met. Acennan gave the slightest of nods, confirming what Beobrand already knew. His head was clouded. Fuzzy from the drink. From grief and fatigue. Yet all he had left in this world had been given to him by his king. No matter how much he wished to hide away, to wallow in his sorrow, he could not. He was his lord's, bound by his oath. If he refused his king's summons he would be an oath-breaker. A nithing. His men would leave and he would be left with nothing.

But the thought of losing his men was not what moved him. He could not break his oath. His word was his alone. He would not lose his honour.

"I cannot leave at first light as you would wish," he said at last. His words sounded slurred to his own ears. He sat up straight. "But I will answer my king's summons, as is my duty."

Erconberht inclined his head slightly. His face was impassive, as if nothing untoward had been said.

"You are to bring as many spear bearers as you can."

"Are we to march to war then?"

"That is not for me to say," answered Erconberht. "But bring your warband with you to Bebbanburg."

The men in the room pondered those words. There were glances from some of the women. Surely war could not be upon them again so soon.

"Very well," said Beobrand. He was tired of this. He could face these questions and concerns in the morning. For now, all he wanted was to drink, until he had to think no more.

"In the morning you will ride back to Bebbanburg and tell Oswald king that Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, follows with his warband. But for now, eat and drink. The board is laden with food. Enjoy it."

He beckoned to the thrall again.

She had deep dark eyes, and long lashes. She could almost be thought of as pretty.

Beobrand opened his eyes slowly. Gingerly. His head throbbed. His mouth was sour from mead. The gloom of his chamber was still. Comforting. Absently he reached out and stroked the warm skin of his wife's back.

The shape next to him let out a soft moan and stretched languidly.

His hand recoiled, as if he had touched a forge fire.

That was not Sunniva. Sunniva was dust and crumbled bones. Cold in an urn.

Memories from the previous night tumbled in his mind. The hall, hot and noisy. Smoke from the hearth. The sweet flavour of mead. The thrall girl refilling his cup over and over. His hand reaching out for her. Pinning her small frame to the bed while he thrust angrily into her. The shuddering release.

The tangy scent of their coupling reached his nostrils. His gorge rose.

He grabbed his kirtle and britches and stumbled from the dark room.

How could he have done such a thing? And in the bed he had shared with Sunniva. Self-disgust bubbled up from the depths of him and he barely made it out of the hall and into the daylight before he emptied his guts in a steaming puddle on the earth. He retched again. Dizzily, he leaned against the door frame. Another spasm made him arch over, but nothing more came. He spat and made his way groggily back into the hall.

The dark-haired thrall was leaving the sleeping area at the back of the hall. She spotted him and instantly cast her gaze downward. Beobrand looked away, as if by not seeing her, he could pretend the events of the previous night had never occurred.

"Would you care for something to break your fast," said a voice close by.

Beobrand started, he had not noticed anyone approaching. Spots danced before his eyes as he spun to see Anhaga. The steward's face bore the reminder of Beobrand's rage. Anhaga's expression was impassive, but did Beobrand detect a certain disapproval in his eyes? He looked back to the slave girl. She left the hall. Beobrand relaxed somewhat.

"Just some bread and ale, Anhaga. Then we must talk."

The food and drink went some way to settling Beobrand's stomach, but his head still pounded as he walked beside Anhaga some time later.

Beobrand had suggested they walk up the hill to the new hall. Anhaga had said nothing, but followed his lord and was now limping determinedly in an effort to keep up with him. Beobrand slowed his stride. He cursed himself silently. Did he think of nobody but himself? To make the man walk when he had meant to show him that he was sorry for his actions. Anhaga must think him cruel.

He supposed he was. That part of himself that made him a deadly foe in battle could quickly make of him a monster. A man who would beat those weaker than himself. A man like his father. Or Hengist.

He would not let that happen. He would apologise, something neither of those brutish men would ever have considered.

The weather had turned and seemed to fit his mood. Clouds had rolled in. The sky was a melancholy grey. His right foot ached, reminding him of the kick that must have broken at least one toe. A thin drizzle fell that had soaked both men to the skin before they were half-way up the hill.

Anhaga slipped on the wet grass, falling forward. Instantly, Beobrand flung out his left hand and caught hold of Anhaga's cloak in an effort to right him. But the sodden wool slipped through the weakened grasp of his injured hand and Anhaga pitched forward onto his hands and knees with a grunt.

Both men cursed at the same moment. Each angry at his own disability.

Beobrand offered his right, whole hand to Anhaga, who, after a hesitation, clasped it and pulled himself up.

"I should not have beaten you," Beobrand said. He felt an acute shame at what he had done to this man. "You are a man of honour. Alone of all my men, you stood between Sunniva and her attackers." Beobrand struggled to find the right words. "I should not have beaten you," he repeated at last.

Anhaga could not meet Beobrand's earnest eyes.

"I am sorry, lord," he said. "I should have done more. I should have stopped them... I..." His words faltered, caught in his throat.

"You are no warrior, Anhaga. You did your best."

Anhaga's face clouded. He looked up at Beobrand.

"I dreamt of being a warrior once. As a boy I was skilled with spear and seax."

"You have not always been... thus...?" Beobrand glanced at Anhaga's twisted foot.

Anhaga smiled, but there was no mirth there. It was the resigned smile of one who has given up dreams. And forsaken hope.

"No, I have not always been crippled."

They walked on in silence. The hilltop was quiet and still. The rest of the men had been kept away by the rain.

Beobrand looked at the half-finished hall. His gaze was drawn to the site of the pyre. The blackened ground was testament to the end of his own dreams. His own hopes. Then he thought of his son, Octa. So tiny. So weak. Yet he would grow and he would need a father.

Anhaga broke the silence and, as he talked, Beobrand understood that he had never really spoken to the man before. He knew nothing of him.

"You and I have both suffered disfigurement. We have that in common, if nothing else." Anhaga stared wistfully at the remains of Sunniva's funeral fire. "I was not always crippled, just as you were not born with missing fingers."

"What happened to you?" asked Beobrand.

"The same thing as you," said Anhaga, with a strange expression on his face.

"I fell foul of Hengist."

"Hengist?" asked Beobrand, looking sharply at Anhaga. "You knew him?"

Anhaga wiped rain from his face, wincing as his fingers rubbed the bruised flesh around his mouth. He did not look at Beobrand, instead staring into the murky, rain-blurred distance.

"I knew him." He sighed. "We were friends once. Long ago."

"You grew up together?"

"Yes. We played and hunted. Teased other children. We were like brothers. He was older than me. Stronger, taller, a better fighter and hunter. I wished I were like him." Anhaga shook his head. "I pushed myself to match him in all he did. We trained together and I learnt the way of weapons, but he was a natural. Like one born to wield sword and spear. It was said that his father had been a great warrior. It could be true. You saw him fight. It was frightening. But I yearned for his skill."

Beobrand rubbed at the stumps of his missing fingers. He remembered the savage glee with which Hengist had fought. The speed. The grace. He too had wished to be like him.

"What happened?" Beobrand asked. He could scarcely believe that the threads of their wyrd had become so tangled.

"King Edwin's Christ priest came to our village. He was a tall, dark man. He spoke with a strange voice. From the lands over the sea to the south they said he came. It was the first we'd heard of the Christ. We had worshipped the old gods before then, and they had served us well. This stranger spoke of eternal life, and no more sacrifice. It had been a hard winter and people were eager to listen."

Beobrand nodded. People were always quick to turn to whichever god offered the most rewards. Everlasting life and an end to sacrifice was an attractive proposition.

"Hengist's mother was the holy woman and well-respected. She had always been treated well by the folk of the village. But when she stood before the Christ priest and cursed him, he was unmoved. He seemed to feel no fear. We had always feared Nelda's wrath."

Beobrand's eyes narrowed at the mention of her name. So it was true. The woman in Muile was Hengist's mother. And it seemed the weft and warp of her life was also woven with theirs. Beobrand remembered her rage. The flashing blade in the dark. Her screaming curse. He prayed their paths would not cross again.

Anhaga continued, oblivious of the effect of his words on Beobrand. "Her temper was as quick and deadly as her son's and nobody would cross her. The tall priest stood there and let her spout her spells and witchcraft. In the end he closed his eyes. Held up his hands and spoke words in a tongue none could understand." He paused, his eyes unfocused. His mind was back at that place all those years ago.

Beobrand did not speak. He waited for Anhaga to continue. This was the most he had heard the cripple talk and he regretted never having taken the time to learn more of him before. Was he so wrapped in his own world that he cared nothing for others? Acennan, his good friend, had told him he had been married. Had once had a child. How was it possible that he had not known these things?

"I can remember that day," continued Anhaga, "as if it was yesterday. The priest spoke his words in a quiet voice and the village became still. Nelda too was silent. As the priest spoke, the sky grew dark. People stood and looked up as black clouds gathered. Then the priest opened his eyes and pointed at Nelda. In his left hand he gripped the symbol that hung around his neck. It was like the hammer of Thunor, but is said to look like the tree on which Christ was nailed. I'll never forget what happened next."

Beobrand's throat was dry.

"Tell me."

"He said in our tongue, 'In the name of our Lord Jesu Christ leave this place that these people may know the true word of God.' For a moment, nobody moved. And then there was a crash of thunder loud enough to make grown men scream. It was chaos. Terror gripped us all. People threw themselves to the ground. Then we saw that lightning had struck the sacred ash tree where Nelda performed her rites. It was burning."

"So the Christ god destroyed the sacred tree?" Beobrand spoke in awed tones.

"It didn't take the villagers long to act on what they had seen. Their fear of Nelda changed to hatred and anger. They drove her out. She fled westwards. I never saw her again."

Beobrand did not mention his encounter with the witch on Muile, but he could not prevent a shudder. How had she travelled so far? And to what end? How had she heard of her son's death at his hands?

"But what of Hengist? And your leg?" he asked.

"Hengist did not leave with his mother. I wish that he had. He was almost a man by then and was fond of a girl. Othili was her name. She had skin as pale as milk. Freckles on her nose. Eyes the green of a summer forest."

At the mention of Othili, Anhaga's face lit up, despite the bruises. It was easy to see that Hengist had not been the only one fond of this girl.