The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (49 page)

Beobrand's stomach twisted. There was something terribly familiar about the man being led on the leash from the Mercian camp. They were still some way off and he was hidden from view for much of the time by the two noblemen, but Beobrand had seen that limping walk too many times before.

Black Cloak righted the man, practically lifting him bodily from the earth, then, with a vicious cuff about the face, he sent the prisoner forward once more. The light fell squarely on the captive's features and Beobrand drew in a sharp intake of breath. The face was bruised and beaten, but there could be no doubt.

The man being led like a goat to sacrifice on Blotmonath was Anhaga.

The three men were approaching the shelter at the centre of the field now, where Oswald and Oswiu, not having been slowed by a tethered prisoner, already waited. The small group of five men — kings, noble thegns and one crippled servant — was watched by all. They were beyond earshot, but the onlookers strove to see a hint of the mood of the conversations; any sign that battle would ensue.

Athelstan raised his gnarly, ringed arm and pointed.

"Isn't that your man, Beobrand? The cripple?"

Northumbrian warriors peered at the men under the awning; flicked sidelong glances at Beobrand.

Beobrand said nothing. He clenched his jaw till his teeth ached.

The talks seemed to be getting heated. The Mercians gesticulated wildly. Anhaga received another slap that sent him to his knees. The report of the blow reached Beobrand's ears an instant after he saw the black-cloaked warrior's hand connect with Anhaga's cheek.

"By all that is holy, what has that cripple done?" asked Athelstan. "The Mercians don't seem to like him much."

Beobrand blanched as Oswald turned back and scoured the Northumbrian lines with his gaze. The king's eyes flashed with fury when he found Beobrand amongst the throng. Beobrand held the stare for a moment, then, with the sinking feeling that he knew all too well what Anhaga had done, he covered his eyes with his half-hand.

"Did you think to defy me so easily, Beobrand?" Oswald's tone dripped with venom. He did not raise his voice. There was no bluster. No screaming. He did not snatch up and throw the wooden cup from the small chest that rested beside the cot where he had slept.

He did none of these things.

Yet this quiet, icy intensity was more ominous. Beobrand had no doubt that his life hung in the balance of his king's judgement.

They were in the king's tent. It was bright outside, but they had closed the tent flaps, providing them with a semblance of privacy, though they knew that there could be no secrets when the walls were made of hide. Whatever was said within the confines of this space would be overheard and the news would travel through the camp and be known to all long before nightfall.

The air within the tent was still and hot. Sweat beaded Beobrand's brow.

Oswiu sat, brooding and silent on a stool, while his brother the king, paced.

"Do you think I am a fool? A witless animal?" Oswald asked.

"No, my lord king," answered Beobrand quickly. He thought the tent held only one fool, and it was not the king.

How could he have been so stupid? Acennan had warned him that his actions would lead to warfare. To the deaths of others. He had not cared, so blinded had he been by grief and the desire for vengeance. But now, the sweat trickling down his back, he understood.

Anhaga it seemed, had had the same idea as his lord.

"You thought to send your man," Oswald almost choked on his own anger. He visibly fought to control himself, to keep his voice lowered. "You thought to send your crippled servant to murder your enemy? Is that how you keep your oaths, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi?"

"No, my king." Beobrand's face flushed. "I did not send Anhaga to do this deed." Had it not been for Anhaga he would now be either dead, or a prisoner awaiting execution. Anhaga had failed to protect Sunniva against the hate of Wybert and had perhaps failed to mete out vengeance for her violation. Though it would seem he had done a better job than Beobrand at both. His actions would surely now bring about his death. And disgrace would be heaped upon Beobrand, his lord, as manure is thrown into a midden. And yet, Anhaga's very oath-breaking had prevented Beobrand making a terrible mistake.

"You did not send him, you say? And yet he attacked this Wybert in the heart of the darkness of the night. Is Wybert not your sworn enemy? Did you not say before us all that you would kill him for what you say he did to your wife?"

At the mention of Sunniva, Beobrand felt the cold fire of battle fury beginning to take hold of him. His eyes flicked from Oswald to Oswiu.

"Wybert is a worm," he spat. "It is not simply my belief that he defiled Sunniva. It is so. He spoke of the deed himself before Athelstan and all his gesithas. Anhaga was there in my hall when the attack took place. He was beaten hard for it, but was no match for the attackers."

Oswald stopped his pacing. He looked Beobrand in the eye and when he spoke again, his tone was softer.

"Yet you did not witness these events?"

"I did not. I was doing my king's bidding fetching the bishop from Hii. And now my wife is dead and cannot speak for herself." Beobrand let the implications of his words hang in the stifling air of the tent.

King and thegn glared at each other. At last, Oswiu broke the tense silence.

"Could it not be that Anhaga, having been present at the horrendous attack felt compelled to seek vengeance on behalf of the lady Sunniva? Perhaps he felt it his duty as an oath-sworn man of Beobrand's. He must have believed he had failed to protect his lord's woman."

Beobrand felt the sting of those last words as if the atheling had struck him a blow.

"It was I who failed to protect her," he said in a small voice. "Anhaga is no warrior."

"He may not be," said Oswald. "But he has wielded a blade against a man under Penda's protection, so Anhaga must die."

Beobrand let out a shuddering breath. How had he failed so absolutely? Anhaga had shown nothing but a true heart and loyalty to him and Sunniva. And now he would pay the ultimate price. Beobrand clenched his fists. The skin cracked on the knuckles. He grimaced at the pain. How could he be so blind? Acennan too had proven himself time and again, and he had repaid him with violence.

He was no lord. Was he nothing more than a reflection of his father? A man who grasped hungrily at wealth and beat those who loved him?

"Yes," said Oswald, his voice flat. "The cripple must die. His treachery will cost me dearly. Penda has demanded blood. And treasure. He will have both. It may be as my brother says. Perhaps Anhaga saw it as his duty to seek revenge. But this does not matter. Anhaga's lord's oath to his king is stronger." Oswald stepped close to Beobrand. Light glinted from the golden cross pendant the king wore around his neck. Oswald's eyes were dark; his pupils great black pools in the gloom. "I do have your oath, do I not, Beobrand of Ubbanford?"

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he stared into those unblinking eyes. Beobrand wondered if the king's Christ god enabled him to see through his eyes and spy his thoughts. Oswald had given him everything: trust, riches, land. Beobrand had sworn his oath to him and he shuddered now to remember how close he had come to forsaking his vow. Riches, land, even loved ones could all be taken by cruel men and even crueller gods. A man's word was all he truly owned. He would never break faith with his lord again.

"My lord king," said Beobrand. "You are a good king. You are just and generous. I gave you my oath and my word is iron. I will not break my oath to you. You are my lord and I am yours to command as you will."

Oswald held his gaze for a long while, and then nodded.

"I told you what breaking the truce would bring, did I not?"

Beobrand assented with an inclination of his head.

"The price to pay for violating the peace is death," Oswald said. "Wybert's lord, Grimbold, also demands retribution for the injury to his man. I have agreed the price. You will pay it, Beobrand. And pray that Wybert does not die, or the weregild doubles."

Beobrand stiffened his jaw and nodded. He did not speak. There was nothing to say. He would not pray for Wybert. If he survived the day, it meant little. Beobrand swore a silent oath on all the gods and on Sunniva's memory that he would see Wybert dead.

"You may go now," Oswald gestured towards the tent entrance with his hand. "And be ready at the midpoint of the day, when the sun is highest in the sky."

"Ready, lord?"

"Anhaga is to be slain at midday," said Oswald. "And to show good faith to Penda, you, as Anhaga's lord, will slay him."

CHAPTER 30

"He's in here." The large bearded Mercian, fearsome in his chain-knit byrnie, held aside the leathern flap.

Coenred waited patiently for Gothfraidh to shuffle past, then followed him into the murky interior of the tent. It stank of sweat and piss, the air heavy and acrid. Coenred wrinkled his nose at the noisome air, but he did not detect the sweet, sickly smell of the wound-rot that often came before the death of warriors.

Coenred allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The tent was a jumble of warriors' gear. There were furs of different kinds, bags, sacks, cloaks, a couple of wooden boxes, but there was only one inhabitant. It seemed the other warriors had no desire to be here with him.

The warrior pointed to the far corner. "Over there." The man hesitated for a moment as if unsure whether to remain or leave. Eventually he said, "Don't touch anything. Say your spells and then begone. I'll wait outside."

Coenred and Gothfraidh tentatively picked their way through the detritus on the ground, stooping beneath the low ceiling of the tent.

Wybert seemed to be asleep. Or perhaps death had claimed him already. His lips were pale and thin, his skin tinged with a grey pallor. Coenred stared down at the still form. He had known him for a long time, but they had never been close. Coenred had been a novice, studying under Fearghas and the other monks, Wybert was the son of one of the ceorls of Engelmynster. Coenred had never liked him. There had been a mean streak to him. Coenred did not understand why. Wybert's parents were loving and kind. His brother Leofwine was sensitive and charismatic. Yet Wybert had always seemed to be chasing something just beyond his reach. And his inability to grasp whatever it was he sought filled him with a deep-seated anger. That anger bubbled up and manifested itself in insults and petty vengeances for supposed slights. Coenred could scarcely believe this young man could have done the things they said he did.

Could it be that he had raped Sunniva? Coenred remembered Tata then. Her last moments had been filled with pain and terror as she was violated by Waelisc warriors. How could Wybert have done such a thing?

Coenred hoped he was dead. He deserved to go to hell.

At that instant, as if awoken by Coenred's secret thoughts, Wybert's eyes flickered open. Coenred started, drew in breath sharply. His thoughts were not those of a monk. God could see inside his soul and would know what he had thought. Coenred swallowed the lump in his throat.

"Coenred," Wybert said, his voice blurry and dull, "I seem to be meeting many old friends." He forced a smile, but it turned to a grimace, as he coughed.

"I am not your friend," answered Coenred. His tone was as cold as the tile floor of the chapel in Engelmynster had been when they'd found Tata's corpse. Wybert winced.

Gothfraidh shot a glance at Coenred, then cleared his throat.

"You asked for priests of the Christ? My name is Gothfraidh. I believe you know Coenred. We are brethren of the Holy Church of Lindisfarena. Do you worship Christ? Do you wish to confess your sins?"

Wybert smiled thinly. "Why not? If I am to die, I would seek to soften the way as best I can. I have a knife here to hold when the time comes. They say Woden favours those who come to him with a weapon in their hand. But if the old gods do not welcome me, I hope you can smooth the way for me to your god's heaven."

"I see," said Gothfraidh, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I understand there are no monks or priests of Christ in Mercia."

"Penda does not believe in your Christ," said Wybert, groaning slightly as he moved on the furs.

"Hmmm," said Gothfraidh, frowning, "we shall do what we can, but I fear that if you call Him our Christ, and not yours, your penance may not be well received by Him. Now, Coenred, fetch us something to sit on."

Gothfraidh sat on a small well-worn wooden stool, Coenred pulled a travel chest close to Wybert's cot. He hoped it did not belong to the warrior who waited at the doorway. Coenred did not think the man would take kindly to having his things moved.

Fixing Wybert with an unflinching stare, Gothfraidh said, "What are the sins you would confess to almighty God?"

Wybert stared back, but he could not meet the monk's gaze for long.

"All of them," he mumbled.

"You will have to do better than that," Gothfraidh said. "You must show yourself to be truly penitent. Only by describing the deeds you have done and seeking forgiveness can you be granted absolution. Do you understand?"