Then he noticed the movement beside her face. The jackdaw, all black and grey like its mistress, sat upon her shoulder. It cocked its head and twitched. Its white eyes glared at Beobrand.
She reached up and stroked the head of the creature. It nuzzled her ear.
"Muninn told me you were coming, Beobrand Half-hand," she said. "Though why the mighty murderer of Hengist would seek me out, I cannot say."
Beobrand's skin grew cold. Damp with sudden sweat. The witch knew his name. What evil could she do with such knowledge. Everyone knew that names have power to those with the ear of the elder gods. How did she know him? And she knew of Hengist also. And his part in his death.
His knuckles whitened on Hrunting's hilt. Hengist's killing was as clear to him as the moment it had happened.
"I killed Hengist, it is true." He was pleased that his voice sounded strong and assured. "But it was no murder. He was a coward. He deserved death. I took the weregild for many with his killing. Nobody grieves for him."
She leapt up. Her stool clattered over. The jackdaw flapped into the air, its call ringing around the cave. Her rage was as sudden as lightning strikes from a cloud-dark sky.
"You speak with the voice of a man but the words of a boy! What do you know of grief?" Her anger filled the cavern.
Beobrand felt his own ire rise to meet hers. "I have lost many loved ones. You may know my name, witch, but you do not know me!"
The fire of her rage dissipated as quickly as a summer storm. She smoothed her skirts. Her hands white as doves against the dark cloth.
"I hear that you cursed Hengist before he died. Denied him his chance to be chosen for the hall of Woden." Beobrand realised with a start that she spoke the tongue of the Angelfolc with no accent. No lilt of the Waelisc. Where was she from, this dark woman of anger and magic?
"He deserved no less. He killed my kin. I saw him murder innocents. He was an animal."
Her face clouded. "And you are so different, are you, Beobrand?"
He shuddered again at the sound of his name on her lips.
"I did not come here to talk of Hengist. Or of me."
She glared at him for a moment, before righting the stool and sitting again.
"Indeed," she said. "And what is it, you came for, Beobrand?"
"We have come for the silver platter you stole from the Christ followers of Hii."
"Stole? Stole?" Her tone was incredulous. "Is that what they have told you?"
"They say you took the plate from them. It belongs to the sons of Æthelfrith. Oswald is now king in Bernicia. It must be returned to him."
"The Christ lovers speak in riddles and lies. They come to me. They pay me with silver. And then they send warriors to retrieve the evidence of their deeds."
A sliver of doubt needled its way into Beobrand's mind. "Why would they come to you?" he asked. "Why would they pay you?" He was not sure he wished to hear the answer she would give.
She laughed then, the sound like breaking ice.
"There are two things men seek from Nelda," she said. "And the Christ men do not look for magic of the old ways. They think their nailed man-god is a match for Woden."
"Why do they come to you, if not for your witch skills?" asked Beobrand.
"What else is it that all men seek from a warm woman?" Nelda looked directly at Coenred as she spoke. "There are no women on the isle of Hii. The Christ does not allow it. Yet some of the brethren do not only enjoy the flesh of other men and boys. Some need something more." She winked and licked her lips lasciviously.
"Lies!" shouted Coenred. "You are a devil."
"Perhaps I am a devil. But in this I speak the truth. They come here and lie with me. And like any man, they will do anything for a fuck."
Coenred made the sign of the rood before him and began speaking in the tongue of the priests. He raised his voice, perhaps hoping to drown out her words with his prayers. Beobrand placed his left hand on Coenred's shoulder.
"Perhaps you'd like a fuck too, boy?" She lifted her dark skirts, revealing a lithe ankle, a well-formed calf, pale and shapely in the darkness.
Coenred panted, breathless, almost sobbing.
"Stop this!" snapped Beobrand. "Enough of your games, witch. Give us what we have come for and be done."
"I see so much of him in you," Nelda said, ignoring him.
"Who?" asked Beobrand.
"Hengist," she looked wistful at the name. "You are so like him. You deny it to yourself, but others can see it in you. I see him in you."
Beobrand shook his head. He was nothing like that monster. But he remembered the freezing forest. Cathryn lying on the ground. He had felt himself become aroused. And in battle. In the shieldwall, did he not revel in the killing?
He had killed Hengist for what he had done. Would he never be free of him?
"Hengist is a corpse," he said, his voice as savage as a sword thrust. "I am alive. And we are nothing alike." He took a step toward her. "Now give us the plate."
Nelda reached behind her and lifted an object from a sack where it had lain hidden. The light of the fire and the candles glinted from its burnished surface. It was a circular plate of solid silver. Around its rim was intricate scroll-work. It was an object of true beauty. And immense value.
"I asked Cormán for this plate especially. He refused at first, but I told you, men will do anything for a fuck."
Why this plate especially? Had she orchestrated this whole series of events? To bring them here? Beobrand could not tell her motives, but there was more to this woman than they had been led to believe. And there was something about her. Something familiar. Though he was certain he had never seen her before.
"Give it to me," said Beobrand. He took another step forward.
She stood. Held the plate high. It shone in the darkness like a full moon. "It is not yours to take."
"It is my king's and I will have it." He strode toward her. The jackdaw screeched from the shadows. Coenred whispered his prayers.
Nelda did not flinch as he got close. The scent of her was strong in his nostrils. Sweet and musky. She raised the plate high above her head and somewhat behind her. He would need to reach over her to get it. But he was taller and stronger. It would not be difficult. Then they could leave this place. And be free of this woman.
And her words.
"Take it then," she whispered. He reached over her with his left hand. Their bodies were close. Like lovers. But he did not wish to touch her. Who knew what spell she could weave if they touched?
He made a lunge for the platter, as she moved it further from his grasp.
He spied the movement at the same moment that Acennan cried out. "Beobrand, no!"
A flash of light on metal. There was a knife in her hand! Nelda's face distorted into a mask of utter evil. Lips pulled back from sharp teeth. She hissed like an animal. "Now you will die, murderer!" she screamed, as she stabbed at Beobrand's throat.
He flung his head back. Her blade raked sparks from his byrnie. Without thinking he punched forward with his right hand at the same time. In his fist he held Hrunting and its pommel crashed into Nelda's face. Her lip split, blood splattering black in the gloom. She fell to the cavern floor. The silver plate clattered and rang out in the hollow of the stone vault.
The knife had fallen from her hand and Beobrand kicked it away into the depths of the cave. With an almost human shriek, the jackdaw flew from the shadows, all wings, talons and sharp beak aimed at Beobrand's face. But the battle-lust was upon Beobrand now. The movements of others seemed slow and predictable. He effortlessly swung Hrunting in a backhanded arc. The bird fell twitching by its mistress's head. There its wings fluttered and its beak twitched. But it was broken. Dying.
Nelda let out a sobbing cry. She stared up at Beobrand, ire and blood making her features ugly. He stepped above her. Now she would pay. All they had wanted was the plate, but now she would die.
He lifted Hrunting, readying himself for the downward blow that would rid the world of thi
s witch.
She sneered. "And you still say you are nothing like Hengist?" She laughed, a gurgling sound through blood and broken teeth. "Do you also believe you are not your father's son, Beobrand Half-hand?"
He stopped his hand then. Heard the echo of his mother's last words to him in Nelda's voice. He remembered her fearful face when Grimgundi, his father, had taken his fists to her.
Beobrand stood over Nelda, sword in hand, shirt of metal heavy on his shoulders. Had he come to this? Was this the way of the warrior he had sought? To strike down women. And for what?
Acennan stood beside him. His sword was drawn. "Let me finish the whore," he said. His face was pale, but set hard as granite.
"No," Beobrand sheathed Hrunting.
"But she would have killed you," Acennan said.
"Yes, she would." He took a deep breath, stepped over the prostrate form of Nelda. He lifted the plate from the ground. It was heavy and cold in his grasp. Perhaps she was right. Was he really so like Hengist? Did his blood rule him?
"But she did not," he said. "And now we will leave this place. We have what we came for."
Acennan looked doubtful, but Beobrand led him away. Back to the tunnel and the stream. Back towards the light.
Acennan took one of the rush lights from a ledge near the exit of the cavern to guide their way. They left the cave and made their way rapidly back towards the daylight.
They still had some way to go when they heard a scream of animal rage echo in the tunnel. The hair on the back of Beobrand's neck bristled. Words they could not comprehend reverberated in the darkness. Then a screech, as of someone in terrible pain.
"I curse you, Beobrand Half-hand," Nelda's words dripped venom. "I curse you, as you cursed my son! You will never know happiness. You will die alone. You will not be chosen for the hall of Woden. I curse you!"
They burst forth into the grey light of the winter afternoon. Despite the shade in the valley and the dimness of the cloud-veiled sun, they blinked at the brightness.
They did not speak as they hurried back along the stream. They were all keen to be as far away from that dark place as possible. As they moved closer to the glade where Biorach awaited them, the memory of Nelda seemed to fade. Like a nightmare fades on waking.
Yet, for Beobrand, like the worst nightmares, her words did not fade. They rang in his mind.
Nelda was Hengist's mother! And she had cursed him. A curse for her slain kin. He knew the power of oaths made for vengeance. He could only imagine the strength of a curse made by the mother of a killed son.
As if he knew what Beobrand was thinking, Acennan said, "You should have let me kill her."
Beobrand did not answer. He could not. It was too late for recriminations or regrets. He had spared her life to avoid becoming like the men he despised. But in saving her, he had brought down her curse on him.
It was too late now, but deep down, he feared that Acennan was right.
CHAPTER 16
Sunniva hit the glowing metal hard. Sparks flew. She turned it using the tongs in her left hand and beat it again. It was a simple piece. A large nail for the new hall. She had made several over the last few days. It was an extravagance, but she wanted the door of the new hall to be iron-studded and grand. She gave it one final tap to straighten the point then, judging it to be complete, plunged it into the bucket of water. It hissed briefly, like an angry cat. She set the finished nail alongside the others.
She wiped sweat from her forehead. The heat from the forge and the exertion from the ceaseless effort kept her warm despite the bitter chill of the day. She looked up the hill. The frame of the new hall stood there, stark and bare against the drear sky. She could see movement there. Progress was good. Beobrand would be pleased. Proud of her.
She bit her lower lip. Felt the tears threaten.
"What is it, Sunniva?" Edlyn asked. The girl spent most of each day with her. She worked the bellows for her, and Sunniva was showing her the art of the smith. She was a hard worker. Sunniva enjoyed her chatter. It helped her to keep her mind away from the dark places it threatened to travel. Now, Edlyn's eyes were full of compassion. The girl worried for her. Sunniva knew it. Edlyn had sensed the change in her mood in the last few days, and sought to buoy her spirits whenever she could.
"It is nothing, dear one," Sunniva said. But she knew the girl would not rest without an explanation, so she added, "I was thinking of Beobrand."
"He has been gone a long time." Edlyn paused, then seemed to hear the words she had spoken and how they would sound to Sunniva. "But the snows have been very bad this winter," she continued in a hurry. "Mother says they would be even worse further north in Dál Riata."
Sunniva forced a smile. She missed Beobrand terribly. Every day without him was a trial. She found herself constantly looking to the ford. Hoping to see him returning on the huge steed, Sceadugenga. But Geola passed and snow had covered the land. Rowena had told her not to worry. The men would return. But the winter nights were long and cold. And Sunniva was lonely. Edlyn and Rowena were good company in their way, and she felt welcome in Ubba's hall. The wives of Beobrand's gesithas were friendly enough. But they did not invite her to dine with them. Or cook with them. Or weave with them. She was their lord's wife now, and not for the likes of them.
Sunniva had no family here. Edlyn was but a girl. A girl who had recently lost her father and brothers. Sunniva could not burden her with her worries.
Her secrets.
Absently, her fingers brushed the leather apron she wore, flattening it over her stomach.
She watched as in the distance, two of Beobrand's warband lifted a plank. They moved it into place and held it firm while a third man hammered in pegs to secure it. The hall was taking shape. Bored and lonely she had decided to start work on the new home they had agreed on. Winter was not the best time for the work. They often needed to put away their tools, sometimes for days on end when the rain beat down as if it would never stop. But they cut wood. Shaped planks. Made nails.
And the hall grew.
The men seemed to enjoy the work too, despite their moaning. It gave them purpose. Kept them busy. And tired.
One of the women had said to her just the day before, "You're keeping my man so busy, he is too tired to trouble me at night. Thank you for the rest, lady." She had winked at her. Sunniva had blushed.
"You only miss what you no longer have," Sunniva's mother had always said. Sunniva wondered now whether the woman would be as pleased of the rest if her man had been away in the north for months.
"Lady Sunniva," a voice brought her from her reverie with a start. Sunniva tensed.
Anhaga.
She took a deep breath.
She turned and there stood the crippled man. How could he move so quietly with that twisted foot? He seemed always to be creeping up on her. She shuddered, remembering the last time he had come upon her unannounced and unbidden. His face was still not healed. His lip had returned to its normal size, but the scab remained. His eyes were no longer swollen, but they were mottled with the storm-cloud shades of old bruises. Dark circles underlined his eyes. His nose had been broken and was now as crooked as his leg.
"Anhaga," her voice was flat, "what do you want?"
He sighed, perhaps at the coldness of her tone. "I have come for nails."
Edlyn, eager to please and wishing to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere that always fell when Sunniva and Anhaga conversed, fetched a small basket filled with nails. She handed it to Anhaga.
"Your face looks like it is getting better," she said, colour coming to her cheeks.
"Thank you," Anhaga replied. "It was stupid of me to fall on the ice." He flicked a glance back at Sunniva. Their eyes met and she turned away.
"Still, I suppose I am lucky," he said.
"Lucky?"
"I could have hurt my other leg in the fall," he said with a grin made hideous by the bruises.
With a last lingering look at Sunniva, he turned and limped towards the wa
iting men on the hill.
They had been away for so long that Beobrand had almost forgotten what Ubbanford looked like. Yet now, after all the months of travel, cold and battered by the elements, he had returned home.
Home.
It seemed strange to think of the place in that way. Strange, but right.
Sunlight finally forced its way through the heavy clouds that had threatened rain all day, to shine on the buildings that nestled by the river Tuidi. It was cold, but the sun warmed their spirits as much as their bodies.
They rode through the ford. The high water, swollen with rain and snow-melt, nearly reached the feet of the riders. The horses slowed, picking their way across the slippery rocks beneath the surface.
Sceadugenga tossed his mane, as if he too was pleased to return to familiar territory. Beobrand had been surprised by the depth of his own emotions when he was reunited with the stallion after the weeks on Hii and Muille. The horses had been well treated, and the red rags seemed to have worked their magic. No night hag had come to ride Sceadugenga into a lather of sweat. His steed was safe from any night terrors. It was Beobrand who found his nights tormented by a witch.
He often awoke to half-remembered dreams of darkness and evil. With Nelda's words echoing in his mind. Her scent still in his nostrils, as if she had been lying close to him while he slept.
He talked little of his nightmares. Of his fears. Of Nelda's curse.
Coenred had tried to console him. "The witch has no power," he'd said. "Only Christ has power over life and death." This was ridiculous, of course. Beobrand knew Coenred meant well, but when he looked at the boy's face he wondered if he even believed the words himself. He had been pallid and shaken when they had left Nelda's cave. If the Christ alone had power over death, why fear a witch? Or a sword?
Acennan had only talked of the encounter once.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 21
