The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  The mention of Scand made Beobrand scowl. "I am sorry he died," he said.

  "We all die, Beobrand. Even the great. Even mighty swordsmen like you."

  "Acennan blames me," said Beobrand. He took a long draught from the horn. The sweet mead moistened his throat. He had not realised how thirsty he was.

  "Acennan blames himself. But it is easier to cast the blame at you. His anger will not last long. His ire burns bright and hot, like a fir cone tossed onto a fire. And it is as quick to burn out. I have known him for a long time. His anger will be gone soon."

  Beobrand was heartened by Derian's words. He took a mouthful of meat skewered on his small eating knife. It was boar. His favourite. Sunniva was a woman to treasure right enough.

  "What will we do now?" asked Beobrand. "Now that our lord is gone?"

  Derian's face clouded. His brows jutted and he leant forward. He quaffed some mead and scuffed the back of his hand over his bearded mouth.

  "You think we should have died with him? Is that it?"

  Beobrand was dismayed. He knew many believed that a lord's gesithas should fall with their master, that anything less was a dishonour. But this seemed madness to him. How could throwing away the lives of warriors be a good thing?

  "No... I..." Beobrand stammered, "I meant no offence. I too am alive. Throwing lives away is senseless."

  Derian sat in silence for a long moment. He cuffed at his eyes.

  "I am sorry, young Beobrand. Scand was the best of lords. I sometimes wish I had fallen that night with him. I feel ashamed to yet live."

  Beobrand understood this. Death had often beckoned to him; a release from the woes of this world.

  "You knew Scand better than I," said Beobrand. "But I knew him well enough to know that he would not wish your death. He would be proud of the way you led the men after he fell. Your actions turned the tide of the battle. Had it not been for the horses' rout, I believe we may have lost."

  Derian nodded, but did not speak for a time. He took another swig of mead before turning to Beobrand.

  "My thanks to you. I have said those words to myself, but to hear them from another voice gives them more worth."

  Beobrand patted him on the shoulder. He felt clumsy. He was unsure how he had come to this. To be comforting a man old enough to be his father. It seemed wrong somehow, as if he was telling a lie. And yet he could see in Derian's eyes that he had needed to hear the words.

  "As to what we do now," said the older man, "I am sure there will be a home for all of us. Many fine men have fed the land with their battle-sweat. Lords will not wish to have empty places at their benches. It is never hard to find a home for a good sword-hand."

  They ate in companionable silence for some time.

  Beobrand noticed Athelstan, sitting at the board on the other side of the hall. The huge thegn was staring at him. His eyes glittered in the firelight, like torches flickering from dark caverns.

  Beobrand held his gaze. He hoped he would not need to fight the older thegn again. If Athelstan kept out of his path, he would not seek him out. He was not so sure that Athelstan would be as careful.

  Beobrand looked away. It seemed the numbers of men who loathed him grew by the day. Collecting enemies was a talent he was not proud of.

  The hall was rowdy. Loud ale-chatter and mead-laughter crashed off the walls like waves washing down a shingle beach. The living toasted the dead. Boasts and tales were proclaimed. The warriors beat the boards with their knives and fists in approbation.

  A slim scop stood at the high table and sang of the great battle. He plucked a lyre. His voice was strong and clear, at odds with his slight form. The audience fell still, listening to the rousing tale of how King Oswald was told by the spirit of Colm Cille to attack at night. The bard left nothing out. He had clearly spoken to the men who had fought. Perhaps he had even been there himself. Apart from the language he used — the flourishes and the kennings — he could well have stood in the shieldwall, though Beobrand did not recall him and he looked as if a strong wind would topple him. Beobrand doubted he would withstand the clash of shield and spear.

  Beobrand closed his eyes. Allowed the images conjured by the tale-teller's words to form in his mind. He was talented, of that there was no doubt. More nuanced in his delivery than Leofwine had been, but lacking in the raw power Leofwine was able to conjure.

  Leofwine. The thought of him brought anew feelings of guilt. How many deaths could be laid at Beobrand's feet? He had failed to protect Leofwine and now Scand was also dead.

  Think of the present. And the future. Do not dwell on the past.

  He heard the scop mention his name. He had reached the part of the story where he rode back into the camp with Cadwallon tied to his steed. The men around him cheered at his name. They brought thunder to the hall with their fists on the board. Beobrand was embarrassed, but smiled. The approval of his shield-brothers was balm to his sorrows.

  His heart lurched in his chest when he saw that Acennan joined in the cheering.

  After the scop had finished his tale and the applause and board-thunder had subsided, King Oswald stood. He held out his arms for silence. The great hall quietened. Talk was hushed. Somewhere at the rear of the hall a man laughed uproariously. His friends, less drunk than him, urged him to keep his voice down.

  Oswald stood with his arms outstretched in the now familiar pose until he had the attention of all those gathered. The fire still crackled, the smoke wafting around the rafters like murky seas around the wooden ribs of sunken ships. Dogs gnawed at bones. Benches scraped against the rushes as men shifted to gain a better view. The women ceased their incessant refilling of horns and platters.

  Silence was impossible in the great hall during a victory feast, but everyone there wished to hear the words of their king. Now was the time they had all been waiting for and yet could not mention for fear they would curse their own chances. Now was the time of gift-giving, when the king would reward those who had served in the battle. Men's lives would change now. Some would be singled out for great riches. Others would feel slighted by a poor gift.

  Oswald was a new king to them. He had proven himself in combat. Now was his time to prove that he was a generous lord. That he was gōd cyning, a good king.

  They all listened intently as Oswald began to speak. He spoke in his low tone that forced those listening to quieten even more. As he announced the different gifts, assisted by a scribe at his side who held several sheets of vellum, there were frequent whispers throughout the hall when people misheard and needed to ask others for the words he had spoken.

  Beobrand noticed with a start that the scribe who stood by the king was his friend, Coenred. The young monk was sombre and pale. The enormity of his role clearly daunted him. Beobrand tried to catch his eye, but Coenred was too focused to notice. Coenred would read from the vellum quietly to Oswald, who would then speak to the gathering with the names of those he was favouring.

  The king was a good speaker. He knew he had the room entranced. The listeners snatched his words away and devoured them like starving gulls catching fish guts thrown into the sea. Each man there was eager to hear his name spoken. Anyone not mentioned by name would receive an agreed share of the spoils of war, but a named gift could bring fame and fortune. With each name, Oswald had the knack of finding the face in the crowd and talking directly to the man.

  Many names were called and the night wore on. As each warrior was called, he would stand to riotous acclaim from the hall. He would then approach the high table and the gift-stool, and Oswald would hand him the gift, if it was something that could be proffered directly — a sword, a ring, armour. The warrior would then kneel and renew his oath to the king.

  The mead horns were long empty. The fire had burnt down to rippling embers. Many were the smiling faces of those who had received recognition for their efforts. But there were still several men, as yet with no gift, who were finding it increasingly difficult to celebrate their comrades' success.


  None of the survivors of Scand's gesithas had been recognised. They fidgeted and grumbled. Beobrand sat silent, brooding. He cared little for the gift-giving. He was nobody. A ceorl who had learnt to wield a sword. An outsider from Cantware. He looked over at Sunniva, who stood in the shadows with the other women. She smiled and he grinned back. He was already rich. All he hoped was that he would be able to find a lord to serve and somewhere where he could settle with Sunniva. He should have no difficulty. His prowess was known and there would be many empty benches as Derian had said.

  Hearing the name of the bearded warrior snapped Beobrand back to the present. Oswald had called Derian.

  The men around Beobrand erupted in cheers as their temporary leader stood. He walked stiffly through the hall until he stood before Oswald.

  The king paused for quiet and then spoke.

  "Derian, son of Isen, you served your lord, Scand, son of Scaend, with honour and valour until the end. Even at the sad moment of his passing you did not allow your grief to overcome you. It was you who released the Waelisc horses. That action set in motion the end of the battle and the eventual death of Cadwallon, enemy of God and enemy of Bernicia. We are all in your debt."

  Beobrand and those around him thumped the board, making horns, cups, knives and trenchers clatter.

  When the noise had died down, Oswald continued.

  "For your service I give you this fine blade, which was Scand's. It is a great sword, worthy of a lord, and it will serve you well. Take also these silver warrior rings and wear them with pride."

  The sword was in its fine scabbard, but all there knew the quality of the weapon that Oswald had previously given to Scand. The warrior rings glinted in the firelight as Derian pulled them onto his left arm, his chest swelling with pride at the kingly gifts and the recognition of his battle-play.

  Oswald again waited for the noise to abate before continuing.

  "And I would ask something of you, Derian."

  "Anything, my king," said Derian, his voice cracking in his throat.

  "I would ask that you join my own comitatus. My closest retinue of warriors must be made up of the most loyal and strongest warriors. You are such a man and I would have you join them. What say you?"

  "I am honoured, lord king." Derian knelt and held out the sword Oswald had given him, hilt first. "I offer you my thanks, and my sword. I am your man now and forever."

  Cheers from the benches. Beobrand shouted as loudly as the others. Derian was a good man. He deserved his reward.

  Derian's eyes glistened with emotion when he returned to the bench. He walked as one in a daze. The men clapped him on the back. They wished to see the treasures he had been given. He smiled sheepishly. He was sure of his own position, but what of the rest of them?

  "Beobrand, son of Grimgundi," said the voice of the king.

  Beobrand had thought he cared naught for the gifts, yet his stomach lurched at the sound of his name on Oswald's lips. He stood. His hands shook. His legs were weak. He felt as if he was approaching an enemy shieldwall. His heart thundered. He could hear the thump of it.

  He walked forward, past the cheering men of Scand's retinue. He flicked a glance at Sunniva. By Frige, she was beautiful! He saw the shadowed features of Athelstan, jaw set and brow furrowed.

  Oswald stood patiently waiting before his gift-stool. Behind the king, Coenred was staring straight at Beobrand. The monk gave a small nod. A hint of a smile. So he still had some friends.

  Beobrand halted before the king and knelt.

  "Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, you were a stranger to me. You are come to us from Cantware. Your past is dark and I have heard tell many tales of your deeds. Many great deeds, worthy of song. Yet others of which I can read the truth behind the tales. You stood with my enemy, Edwin, and they say you travelled with the worst kind of man for a time."

  There were murmurs throughout the hall. Much of this was known to many of them. Some could be guessed. Had the king heard all of this from someone? Beobrand felt his bowels clench. It was true. He was an outsider. He had done terrible things. For a moment his mind was clouded with black memories. The bitter, tree-crack winter cold of the forest. Cathryn's pleading eyes. Her blood, frozen into the hoar frost. The smoke billowing from his house in Hithe, his father's weak screams reaching him, as he walked away forever. The thole-creak of a rope swinging from an old yew, as Tondberct's tongue swelled and blackened.

  Beobrand looked up at the king. Oswald seemed to glow with an inner light. He was proud and certain when he spoke. Perhaps he was truly blessed by the Christ god. Beobrand lowered his gaze. He was not worthy to look at this fine king.

  "Do you deny that which I say, Beobrand?" asked Oswald.

  Beobrand could not bring himself to look Oswald in the eye. "I do not." The evil thoughts from his past beat at him like the wings of a great raven. "I have done things of which I am not proud."

  Oswald looked wistful.

  "We have all sinned, Beobrand. The good Lord died to wash away our sins."

  Coenred had told Beobrand of the stories of the Christ and his ultimate sacrifice. Beobrand didn't understand it. He kept his head bowed. Unsure what to say.

  "To you, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, I give you the black stallion you rode and on which you brought Cadwallon to me."

  There were cheers from the benches. The stallion was a fine creature, worth many scyllings.

  Beobrand sighed in relief. He had begun to expect he would receive no gift. Even that he might be punished in some way for some past crime. The gift of the horse showed that Oswald valued him.

  "I thank you, Oswald King," Beobrand said. "It is a noble horse. Black as night and brave as Tiw. I will call it Sceadugenga, for it came to me in the night and brought me through shadows and danger."

  "A worthy name for a worthy mount. And there is more."

  The crowd stilled.

  "You are not from this land. I know what it is not to belong. For many long years I was exiled. But I have returned. And you have helped me reclaim that which has always been my right. When you brought Cadwallon to me, you brought me what was most precious. Vengeance and peace for my kingdom and my people."

  A riot of noise. Oswald held out his hands for quiet.

  "It seems to me that in Bernicia you have found your rightful home. From this day forth, you will be considered a thegn of Bernicia. I bestow upon you the estate of Ubbanford. Ubba and both his sons fell against Cadwallon. Ubbanford is fertile land. Good fishing. But it needs a strong man to govern it. It is yours, but you will see that Ubba's widow and daughter receive their fair share of the spoils of battle. They have lost their men for me, they will not want for comfort in this life."

  The men hoomed in their throats and hammered on tables at these words. Oswald was truly a good king.

  At last Beobrand looked at Oswald's face. The king smiled. He leant towards Beobrand and spoke close to him. No other would hear the words over the cacophony of the hall.

  "You brought me victory, Beobrand. Victory and Cadwallon's head. You gave me both and I thank you. Now give me your oath and take your prize."

  Beobrand recited the oath. He could barely hear the words over the raucous cheering from the throng.

  Twice before he had said the oath. Both those lords were dead. Could he have done more to protect them? To keep them from harm? He knew not. But he knew that this new king of Bernicia, a servant of the Christ, had given him more than he could ever have hoped for.

  For too long he had yearned to find his place. Now that place had a name.

  Ubbanford. His mind swam with possibilities.

  He stood and bowed to Oswald.

  Turning, he saw Sunniva's wide-eyed look of amazement. He allowed himself to believe what he had heard.

  He would wed the most beautiful woman in the land of Bernicia. His land.

  And he would wed her at a place called Ubbanford. He had no idea where it was or what it was like, but he knew the most important thing about Ubbanford.r />
  It was his.

  And he would make it their home.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sand squelched under Coenred's bare feet. His weight made the water ooze out between his toes. Around his footprints the brine bubbled. He looked back and saw his dried-sand steps leading back to the beach. The mighty crag of Bebbanburg rose in the distance, its presence looming like a sentinel.

  He turned to face the direction they were heading. The wind whipped across the wet sand. His eyes watered. All around them wader birds pecked and chirruped as they probed and prodded the ground for morsels of food.

  Before them lay the island of Lindisfarena. It was a low, grassy expanse above pale sand. Beyond it lay the dark distances of the North Sea. The Whale Road.

  Lindisfarena was windswept. Exposed to the crashing tides. It would be a cold haven in winter.

  It was home to birds and seals. There was a small settlement there; ceorls who eked out a life from the sandy soil.

  And now it would be home to Coenred.

  "Watch where you walk, lad," said the man who led them. He was hunched and bent, like a tree that had grown under the strong winds of Lindisfarena. "Follow my steps. If you stray from the safe path, you can be swallowed up by the sands like a fish gobbles up a maggot." The man's voice was thick. His accent so heavy that Coenred could barely make out his meaning. The man looked at the confused expression on the monk's face and chortled to himself.

  "You'll be safe with me," he said. He walked on.

  "Wait," said Coenred. "The abbot cannot walk so fast." Fearghas was already some way behind them. Surrounded by the other monks, the elderly abbot shuffled along with the aid of a staff and a hand on the shoulder of Dalston, a pimply youth.

  Since they had left Engelmynster to the Waelisc, the abbot had seemed to lose his grip on life. He was old, his hair wispy white, yet he had always seemed hale. The destruction of all he had built in Deira had weakened him. He had begun to look frail. The hard march northward had left him exhausted. Coenred had started to fear the worst.