Beobrand looked sceptically at the currach. "We will not sink that thing?"
"Heavens no," Biorach laughed. "She would take many more of us if needed. With just the few of us, she'll positively fly over the waves. Skimming like a stone."
Beobrand looked eastward at the beach across the stretch of water. Salt spray lifted from the waves. It felt like drizzle. He hoped it was not his wyrd to die this day.
"What do you think, Acennan?" Beobrand asked.
"I'm thinking we've been talking too long." Acennan pushed past Biorach and threw his byrnie into the currach.
"Careful," said Biorach. "If you rip the skin, you will be finding out just how cold that water is at this time of year."
Acennan looked abashed.
Before Beobrand could say any more, he saw a small group of people walking down towards them from the huddled monastery buildings. As they grew closer, he recognised Oswiu and Coenred. The rest wore the dark robes of the Christ follower brethren.
Oswiu raised a hand as they approached.
"I have brought the new bishop of Lindisfarena." He indicated the man to his right. He was tall and thin. His nose narrow and his chin weak. Like all the Christ monks, his forehead was shaved all the way to the top of his head. The hair that grew at the back of his head was tawny and luxuriant. It would better suit a woman, in Beobrand's opinion. The wind flicked his long locks about his face.
"This is Cormán," said Oswiu. "He is come to bless your short journey."
Beobrand looked at Cormán, then at the currach and the rough sea beyond it. He knew not whether this Christ god had power, but he supposed it could do no harm to have his blessing. He nodded at the bishop. "Thank you," he said. Coenred caught his eye. He was grinning behind Cormán. Perhaps at hearing Beobrand giving thanks for his god's blessing.
Cormán raised his hands to the sky and intoned in a sonorous voice that did not match his slim frame. He spoke words in the language all the Christ followers learnt. Beobrand did not understand any of it, but he kept a sombre expression until the priest had finished.
For a moment then they all stood still on the beach. Nobody seemed to want to move, so after a time, Beobrand said, "Well, we should leave before the weather gets any worse." He turned to help carry the fragile boat into the water, when Coenred stepped forward.
"I will go with you," he said. His voice shook. With cold or fear, Beobrand could not tell. "Fearghas sent me here for a reason. I feel God's presence here. He speaks to me." Coenred's voice grew stronger, the more he spoke. Cormán was wide-eyed, surprised perhaps that the young monk would speak out so. Oswiu seemed pleased.
"If you are to face evil," Coenred continued, "you should not face it alone. I will come, with my bishop's blessing. Evil magic should not be confronted with only force and iron. I will bring the word of our Lord to protect and guide us."
"You go with my blessing," Cormán said at last. "Go forth and bring back that which has been stolen from us." He made the sign of the cross over them with his hand outstretched. A ripple of fear trickled down Beobrand's spine. There was magic in the wind. In the words and the symbols. He could sense it.
He hoped it would be stronger magic than that of the witch they were to face.
He was suddenly thankful that he had remembered to leave some red cloths hanging from the lintel of the stable where they had left their horses. Sceadugenga was not close. All their steeds had been left under the protection of a lord on the mainland. But if there were witches abroad at night, the red cloths should keep them from riding his mount.
He would rather be riding Sceadugenga now. He had grown fond of the horse, used to its gait. But the stallion was far away. Beyond the sea and Muile. He prayed to Woden that he would see the horse again, and ride it safely back to Ubbanford.
They moved to the currach and helped lift it. It was heavier than it looked. They carried it swiftly down into the water and then climbed on board, whilst Biorach, standing up to his thighs in the surf, held it steady.
When they were aboard, Biorach climbed in with a practised movement and began to paddle.
Beobrand grasped Coenred's shoulder. "I am glad you are joining us. Perhaps we will have need of your God's power before the day is over."
"I told you I would need to rescue you on this journey," Coenred replied, though the smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. There was nothing but fear there.
"Rescue us?" snorted Acennan, who gripped the edge of the currach with white-knuckled strength, as they were bobbed and jostled by the waves. "If we run into trouble, the only way you'll rescue us if if we throw you to the hag so that we can flee while she is feasting on your skinny carcass."
All colour drained from Coenred's face. The skin of the boat flexed and writhed beneath them like a living thing. They were making good progress, as Biorach propelled them forward with an easy action of the paddle.
The currach swayed and sagged on the swell.
They reached the mid point of the crossing, for it was not far. The waves here were larger. They tossed the currach from side to side. Beobrand's stomach lurched. He had never been a good seaman. When travelling from Cantware to Bernicia, he had made up for his lack of seamanship, with his willingness to learn and his strength. But here, there was nothing for him to do except look to their destination and will the pottage he had eaten to stay in his guts.
They were nearly there when Coenred turned and vomited noisily over the edge of the boat.
Acennan laughed, but looked as if he might soon follow Coenred's example. "Don't worry boy," Acennan said, "I was only jesting of leaving you behind. I am sure you can run faster than either of us with your lanky legs." Beobrand forced a smile. Coenred let out a groan and retched again and again, until nothing more came out.
And then they had arrived. One of the monks leaped into the water and pulled the bark into the shallows. They helped Coenred out and up onto the beach. He walked on wobbly legs, like a newborn foal.
Wet and shivering, Beobrand waded up out of the sea. The sensation of the currach's motion clung to him like a half-forgotten dream, making the beach seem to move under his feet.
Coenred was pale. Sickly and shaken. He would be of little use to them as he was. Acennan was also pallid, but seemed to be recovering quickly from the crossing.
"Let us get our byrnies on," said Beobrand. Hopefully, this would give Coenred a little time to compose himself.
They helped each other to slide and wriggle into their iron shirts. The weight of the armour comforted Beobrand. It was solid and it had already saved his life. And yet it also unnerved him. It reminded him of shieldwalls. Fallen friends. The stench of bowels and blood in the mud.
The monks had pulled the currach up the beach, well beyond the high-tide line. Coenred sat with them. There seemed a little more colour in his cheeks.
"I am sorry," he said, eyes downcast as he ran his hands through his hair.
Beobrand reached out and pulled him to his feet. "Do not speak thus," said Beobrand. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have shown to me many times that you are brave. It took great courage to enter that boat and join us. Do you see any others here to help us?" He clapped Coenred on the shoulder.
"Now, how far is this witch's lair?"
"Not far," said Biorach. "I will lead you there."
And so they left the beach. The white sand made way to scrubby grass and stunted trees. Biorach searched for a moment and then found what he was looking for. A path of flattened earth led between the trees. They stepped onto the track between the denuded bones of gnarly, bent boles.
Above them, against the tumble of heavy clouds that broiled in the sky, gulls and other sea birds wheeled and cavorted. Their shrieks echoed in Beobrand's mind like the death-screams of warriors.
They followed the path inland in silence. They saw no living thing but birds. The track led a winding route through foliage that in summer must have been dense and heavy. Now the trees shook their gnarled bones at them as th
ey passed. The brown bracken quivered and rustled.
Biorach led the way with a purposeful stride. Beobrand followed close behind, his half-hand rested on Hrunting's hilt. His right frequently touched the amulet at his neck. Acennan brought up the rear, keeping an eye on Coenred, who looked as if he might puke again.
The further they travelled from the sea, the calmer the air grew. A stillness fell on the woods as they made their way down into a hollow. The land here looked as if a giant hand had scooped out the earth, leaving a massive bowl-like depression. The sun was hidden by clouds, but Beobrand judged it to be close to midday.
Before them ran a stream. It flowed across the floor of the bowl.
They slipped and slid down the path into the hollow. All sound of the sea vanished.
The brook was loud in the quietude of the glade.
Biorach held up his hand. "I will go no closer. The woman you seek lives in the cave from whence that stream flows. Follow the burn and you will come to the hag's lair." He seemed embarrassed not to accompany them further. "I will wait here for you. But I will not stay until darkness falls. If I am no longer here, make your way back to the beach."
Beobrand nodded. "Coenred," he said, "you should stay here with Biorach. We do not know what we are to face."
Coenred, his face pallid in the gloom of the glade, raised himself up to his full height. Set his jaw. "I will not stay here. I will go with you. After all, you may need rescuing," he said. His attempt to smile merely served to make him look sick.
Beobrand fixed him with a long stare. The boy had been a true friend since the first time they had met. And he was as brave as any warrior. Braver than many. Beobrand nodded.
"Very well," he said.
An explosion of sound made them all start. Coenred let out a cry of alarm.
It was a jackdaw, black and grey feathers a blur as it launched itself from a branch. With a high-pitched call, it flew overhead, following the course of the brook upstream.
Beobrand spat. He forced his fingers to unclench from his Thunor's hammer amulet.
"Come. It is just a bird." He touched Hrunting's pommel for luck. "Let us retrieve what we have come for and be gone from this place."
The jackdaw had flown beyond their line of sight, but they could still hear its squealing call. Tchack, tchack, tchack.
They walked toward the sound. Could it be beckoning to them? Beobrand looked to Acennan, but there was no comfort for him there. Acennan was as pale as Coenred. His eyes were wide and wild.
Cold fingers of dread ran down Beobrand's spine.
They followed the stream out of the glade.
"It is just a bird," repeated Beobrand. But the words rang hollow to his own ears.
That was no forest creature. It was a malignant spirit.
It had been watching them. And now it was calling them to their doom.
The brook led them along the floor of a valley. On either side the trees loomed and leered. Overhanging, moss-covered limbs reached for them as they walked. No breeze reached this place. The only sounds were the echoes of their own movements and the trickling of the water. The quiet was unsettling. Beobrand glanced at his companions. Each had fear etched into his features, but they were close behind him.
"Biorach said it was not far," Beobrand whispered. It seemed wrong to disturb the silence. "We should be there soon."
They continued on. Their feet slipped on the slick stones of the path that followed the stream. Everywhere was moss and lichen. The very air seemed to be green. Its earthy redolence was cloying. Behind Beobrand, Coenred gagged.
They rounded a bend, passing a huge alder that extended over the path and brook, forming a branch archway. They ducked their heads and stepped beneath it.
The jackdaw, which had been sitting on a branch of the tree, let out its cry again. With a flurry of wings it blasted from its perch. Startled, Beobrand gasped and stepped back abruptly, knocking into Coenred, who in turn lost his footing on the moss-clad rocks and tumbled over into the stream. Acennan reached out and hauled the monk from the water.
"Are you hurt?" Beobrand asked.
Coenred shook his head, but did not speak. He was looking beyond Beobrand's shoulder. Turning, Beobrand peered into the gloom of the overgrown stream bed. The stream ran from a cleft in the hillside before them. The cave entrance was a gash in the rock. It was around the height of a man, though Beobrand could see he would need to stoop to enter. From the cave there issued a thin trail of smoke. It was as if a mighty wyrm lay within the darkness, exhaling its sulfurous breath.
Before the cave mouth there stood a stout pole, upon which rested the massive skull of a horse. The skull was stained brown. On twigs and branches all around the totem were small ribbons. Strips of cloth of all colours dangled from the trees. Some of the branches sported other items, which had been tied with twine. Beobrand saw small figures carved in wood or bone. Offerings. Gifts for the gods. Presents for the inhabitant of the cave.
The jackdaw sat on the brow of the skull. It eyed them with an uncanny intelligence. Its eyes were almost white in the gloaming of the vale. It cocked its head, twitching erratically.
Beobrand could not break its gaze. It held him in its thrall. This evil spirit would devour them all. His stomach churned. They should leave now, while they yet lived. This place would be their undoing.
A sudden movement behind him broke the spell. Acennan stepped forward and threw a pebble at the bird. It missed, but the jackdaw leapt from the skull, circled in the air and flapped into the black mouth of the cave.
Could it be that the bird was in fact the witch in animal form? He had heard of such things.
Coenred mumbled words of the Christ tongue under his breath.
Acennan shrugged. "It is only a bird," he said.
Beobrand nodded his thanks to Acennan. Despite the chill he felt a trickle of sweat down his back.
The cave mouth, all angles of cracked and mould-green rock, loomed before them. Beobrand looked at the others. They were on edge, but their faces were set now. Determined. There was no other way but forward. They must face their wyrd. He suddenly felt foolish for not bringing any means of making light. They would need to enter the tomb-like darkness with no torch light to guide them.
"If we journey too far into the cavern to see, we will return here to make a torch." His voice cracked. His throat was dry. He sounded fearful to his own ears. Acennan and Coenred did not seem to notice. They merely nodded. They were ready to follow him.
Taking a deep breath of the stagnant air, Beobrand stepped into the rocky maw.
He crouched slightly, so as not to dent his helm. The smoke that wafted over his head carried the scent of cooking meat. He sensed the others crowding in behind him. Their bodies smothered much of the weak, watery light that came in through the cave's entrance.
The way was narrow. A damp stone path led alongside the stream. The water gurgled words in the darkness that only the rocks could comprehend.
Beobrand drew Hrunting from its scabbard, the weight of it a comfort. He shuffled forward. One foot before the other. His shoes slid on the stone. His breath was loud in the confined space.
He moved further into the blackness. Acennan and Coenred's steps echoed in the dark. He could see nothing ahead. It was madness to go onward. Death could be lurking ready to strike and he would not see its coming. He remembered when his eyes had been bandaged after the battle of Elmet. The fear he had of being blind for the rest of his life. As good as blind now, his head began to ache, perhaps with the memory of the blow to his eye all those months ago.
He was on the verge of halting to return to the light outside when he noticed something ahead of them. A small glimmer, as of moon light reflecting on a pool at night. He peered into the darkness. Yes, there was light ahead. He moved slowly forward. One step. Two. The light grew stronger, as did the smell of food.
Beobrand's eyes now made sense of what they saw. The cramped pathway into the hillside turned to the right. There was
light coming from that turning. It shone on the wall before them, which was slick with running water.
"Well, do you plan to stand there all day?" spoke a female voice. "Or are you going to join me and Muninn for something to eat?"
The sudden sound of the voice, loud and echoing in the stillness and gloom, made Beobrand start. He stood upright, banging his helmeted head into the rock roof of the tunnel. He heard Acennan curse.
There was nothing for it now. Their wyrd had led them to this place. Now they must face this witch, and pray to all the gods that she would not weave her foul magics upon them.
Raising Hrunting before him, he touched Thunor's hammer with his left hand. He stepped over the stream and walked around the bend in the tunnel.
The sudden brightness of rush lights and flame-glow made him blink. He was in a large cavern, many times the height of a man. It was dry and as warm as any hall. A fire burnt. A pot hung over it. The roof of the cavern was jagged. Huge teeth of rock hung down like the giant fangs of a dragon. The shadows from the fire made the teeth rove and shift. As if the great dragon was breathing.
All around the edges of the cavern, in the darkened recesses, where the light barely reached, hung clumps of twigs and leaves. Wyrts for spells. Pots and jars were stacked in every nook. From the far side of the cave, the sightless dark eye sockets of a human skull stared. This was the domain of a witch, of that there was no doubt. The very air reeked of magic. And power.
Beobrand took a step into the cavern, to allow the others to enter. He might need their assistance against the crone.
But the woman who sat beside the fire was no crone. She was no hag such as people said rode horses into a fever at night, or caused a mother's milk to dry up. On a stool in the middle of the cavern, sat a comely woman. She was older than Beobrand, but slim of waist and shapely. She was looking straight at him and he felt his face flush. Her eyes flashed. She was as beautiful as a thunderstorm. All darkness, with flickers of brilliance. If Sunniva, with her golden locks and radiance was day, this woman was night. Her hair was black, yet streaked with the grey of moonlight filtered through clouds. Her colouring was just like that of a jackdaw. For an instant Beobrand's heart thundered. The bird had been the witch!
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 20
