"I should have killed her," he'd said.
Beobrand had shaken his head.
"Killing women is not my wyrd."
Acennan had snorted.
"Well, you killed her bird alright. Only a bird, like I said. And she was just a woman. A grieving mother. Do not dwell on her words, Beobrand. They are as hollow as an empty horn."
Just a woman? With no power? Beobrand wished he could believe that. But how had she known so much? She had drawn him to her lair for vengeance. She had failed to slay him there, but would her curse follow him? Had she pronounced his doom?
His fears had lessened somewhat with the passing of time and distance. But she was always there. On the edge of his mind as they travelled south.
The journey had been long and arduous. The return had been less eventful, and with less rain and snow. But it was the same distance. The same mountains needed to be traversed. The same rivers crossed. The Tuidi was the last great river. To pass it meant they were once more in the heartland of Bernicia.
"It looks like your new hall is already built," Acennan pointed to the hill that dominated the settlement.
Beobrand looked and saw men working on the frame of a large building. It was not close to being complete, but the scale and shape of it were clear. It would be a great hall. Something to be proud of. A hall fit for a warlord and his lady.
"Sunniva seems to have got the men working," Beobrand said. He scanned the village, but there was no sign of her. He yearned to see her. It had been so long since he had held her in his arms.
He looked to the forge, half expecting her to be coming from the smith's hut. But there was no smoke coming from there. No sound of hammer on iron. A tendril of fear wormed its way into his mind. Nelda's curse hung over him the way a cloud of flies buzzes over a pool of blood. "You will never know happiness. You will die alone."
Where was Sunniva?
As he looked, he saw the men on the hill leave their work and head down towards them at a run. Beobrand spurred Sceadugenga up the pebbled beach onto dry ground. Suddenly fearful for his wife, he cantered towards Ubba's hall.
Before he reached the hall, two armed men stepped from the doorway. They carried shields and spears. Wore helms. They were prepared for attack.
He reined in before them. Sceadugenga snorted, his breath clouding the air before the door wards. Beobrand recognised the men. They were his men. His gesithas.
"Your lord has returned," said Acennan, pulling his own steed to a halt.
One of the men stepped forward and removed his helm. It was Tobrytan.
"You are well come home, my lord," he said.
"Is all well here?" asked Beobrand. "Does the lady Sunniva fare well?" Fear gripped his throat. His voice was strained.
Could Nelda's curse reach here? Had something happened to his love?
"Aye," said Tobrytan. "Never fear. We have protected her." He seemed affronted at Beobrand's obvious fear for Sunniva's safety. "She is safe enough inside the old hall."
Such a feeling of relief flooded through Beobrand, that he almost fell to his knees as he dropped from Sceadugenga's back. He threw the reins to Tobrytan.
"My thanks," he said, and without pause, ran past the bemused warrior and into the hall.
Sunniva sat by the hearth fire. The gloom of the hall was a blessing. Bright light and loud sounds were as painful as knives in her skull. She needed solitude. She had sent Edlyn away. The girl had not disguised her disappointment. Sunniva regretted speaking harshly to her, but her head was fit to burst. She could not listen to Edlyn's prattling. Not today.
Lady Rowena was her only company. She understood, and was content to sit in silence. After some time, Rowena had picked up a comb and started brushing Sunniva's long hair. Sunniva had flinched, thinking it would cause her aching head more anguish. Yet, after a few moments, the motion began to soothe her. Rowena was good to her. Sunniva did not know what she would have done without her in the last weeks. She confided in Rowena. Trusted her. Having Edlyn to keep her mind occupied and Rowena to offer a friendly ear, to listen and not judge, had made the winter bearable.
She feared what would have become of her without Rowena in the last days. Her mind had grown dark. Her torment ever more difficult to push away.
She closed her eyes, trying to forget. She focused on the strokes of the comb running through her long tresses. Recently, these headaches had become more frequent. Nothing seemed to keep them at bay. She had tried different wyrts and poultices that old Odelyna concocted for her, but to no avail. Only darkness and rest gave any respite.
With a crash and a gust of cold air the door to the hall was flung open. The flames flared up with the draught. She opened her eyes and sighed. Surely Anhaga could not need her again? She had told him to leave her be. She thought he, of all people, would understand her need for peace.
But it was not Anhaga who loomed in the doorway. Dark against the brilliance of the afternoon sun, stood a huge figure. She squinted. The light shot shards of agony into her head. Was this Nathair? Or one of his sons? She had secretly thought that the day would come when they would attack. And, although the gesithas would defend them with their lives if necessary, she was under no illusions of the possibility they would not be saved.
Sunniva and Rowena both stood. Rowena took her hand. Squeezed. They would face whatever danger befell them together. But what of Edlyn, and the other women? And the children? Sunniva felt the weight of the lives of the folk of Ubbanford then.
"Who goes there?" she said, her voice shrill. "What do you mean by entering Ubba's Hall?"
"It is I, your lord and husband," said the figure. The sound of the voice brought tears to her eyes. She had longed to hear it so many times in the dark days.
Sunniva let out a sobbing cry.
Beobrand, hale, strong, reassuring, strode across the hall.
"My love," he said, his arms outstretched.
All strength left her. She collapsed into Beobrand's embrace. He crushed her to his chest.
Her head throbbed and the iron rings of the byrnie pinched her. But she did not care. She allowed the tears she had held in check for so long to flow now. Great sobs racked her. She cried tears of sorrow. Bitter and hot anguish at all that had befallen her. All she had lost.
Yet her weeping was not all of sadness.
Beobrand's large hands caressed her head gently. Smoothed her already shining hair.
"My love," he whispered over and again in her ear.
Elation made her smile through the pain and the crying.
For her man had returned to her.
"Well, what did you think of Cormán?" Beobrand asked. He cared little for Sunniva's opinion on the Christ priest from Hii, but she seemed reticent to come to bed. He was tired, having ridden all day, and then drinking vast quantities of ale and mead well into the night. He watched Sunniva with bleary eyes as she brushed her hair by the light of a rush light. The shape of her body beneath the shift she wore was obvious. The swell of her breast. The curve of her hips. He swallowed. Gods, he had missed her so. He could feel his body awakening at the sight of her and the promise of what lay beneath her undergarments.
Despite his growing passion, his tiredness tugged at his eyes. He would not allow sleep to consume him yet. He shifted in the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. He must keep awake.
Sunniva had not answered him. Perhaps she had not heard. Or maybe she listened to the sound of the others still carousing in the hall beyond the partition. They had retired early. Sunniva had looked pinched and tired all night. She had not complained, but she was not herself. After some time, when he thought it would not be seen as an insult to their guests, Beobrand had announced that he felt unwell and would go to his bed.
Acennan had caught his eye as he left with Sunniva. He had smiled and winked. It seemed he did not believe Beobrand's pretence of illness. Beobrand did not care. All he could think of was to be alone with Sunniva. Throughout the night he could scarcely pay attention to an
ything else.
"Well, what did you think?" he repeated.
Sunniva looked at him, her eyes dim, unfocused. "Hmmm? The priest?"
"Yes, Cormán."
Sunniva thought for a moment before replying. At last she said, "He seems arrogant. For one who comes to this land as a stranger, he would do well to learn the tongue of the Angelfolc."
"I have thought similar things," said Beobrand. The priest's face seemed permanently fixed in a scowl of disdain. He clearly believed himself above those whom he was sent to teach in the ways of the Christ god.
"Now, come to bed, my love," said Beobrand, lifting the furs and blankets enticingly.
Sunniva drew in a long, deep breath. She then put down her brush and slid beneath the covers.
Her thigh brushed against him. Their feet touched. A thrill ran though his body. He suppressed a shiver. They had barely touched, yet he could feel himself harden and grow. He burnt for her. So many weeks, so many dark nights alone. The other men had bedded thralls or servants in the halls where they had stayed. Beobrand had kept his desires in check. Sunniva had given herself to him absolutely. She was his anchor, keeping him steady in the tumultuous seas he had found himself in. War, blood, honour and oaths. The affairs of kings and athelings. He was afraid that should he allow himself to give in to his lust with another woman, he might lose Sunniva. And he needed her. Of that he was certain.
He reached for her, his whole right hand pulling her towards him. He could already imagine the taste of her mouth. The softness of her lips.
She tensed beneath his hand. Resisted moving.
"What is it, Sunniva?" he asked in an urgent whisper. He strove, but failed to keep the frustration from his voice. The warmth of her body engulfed him beneath the furs. His hand rested on her arm with his wrist brushing her breast. His whole body thrummed like a lyre string.
"I... I am sorry, my husband." Sunniva's voice was brittle and small.
A coolness entered Beobrand then. The wings of jealousy and doubt began to flap at his mind. Had he been wrong to hold himself faithful to her all these months?
"Sorry for what, Sunniva?"
She tensed once more under his hand. Perhaps at the harshness of his voice.
"I would give you that which you seek. I want it too, believe me," she said. "My bed has been cold these many weeks. But I am not well."
All at once his anger snuffed out, before the spark of jealousy had fully kindled.
"Are you sick?" he asked. He thought of her pallor throughout the evening. He cursed his stupidity and selfishness.
"It is nothing," she answered. "I just need to sleep. Tomorrow, I will feel restored, I am sure." She offered him a thin smile. "I think I will need all my strength to cope with your passion. I fear my head would split in two should we lay together tonight. I am sorry."
"Do not be sorry, my love." He leaned over her and placed a gentle kiss on her lips. "I have waited through the snows of winter to feel your fire again. I can wait one more night."
Her small hand caressed his chest, and she murmured something in the dark that he could not make out.
"Sleep now, Sunniva," he whispered. Her hand ceased moving, and her breathing deepened.
He lay there, his body still inflamed at her touch and proximity and listened to the revellers in the hall.
For a time his mind battled against sleep. Questions and fears assailed him. What ailed Sunniva? Could it be that Nelda's curse was working its evil on her?
But soon the warmth of Sunniva's body next to his, the talk and laughter of the folk in the hall, and the drink he had consumed, all served to lull him to sleep. His last thought before he succumbed was that he was sure to dream again of the cave. Of Nelda and the curse. And yet, perhaps the presence of Sunniva kept the night hag at bay, for he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep and did not awake until late the next morning.
Whispers awoke him.
Beobrand thought at first they were words spoken in a dream. He strained to make out what was being said, but he could not. The hall was not silent. There was talking and the sound of furniture being scraped on the floor. The whispers, whilst nearby, were as unfathomable as the sibilant wave-wash of shingle on a beach.
Eyes still closed, he reached out a hand to touch Sunniva. It was warm under the furs, but his nose was cold. Perhaps Sunniva felt better this morning. But his left hand did not come into contact with the pliant flesh he had been anticipating. Sunniva had left their bed. The covers were still warm where she had lain until recently.
He opened his eyes. Pale daylight filtered into the hall through small windows. It seemed he had slept late. He felt refreshed, his head clear, in spite of the mead from the night before.
The sounds in the main hall grew louder, presumably as more of the guests roused themselves. The whispers also rose in volume. He recognised Sunniva's voice in those hushed tones now, yet the words still eluded him. There was an urgency in her tone.
Who was she talking to? Perhaps Rowena or Edlyn.
Then the other whispered voice was raised loud enough for him to make out the words. "You should tell him." With surprise, Beobrand realised the voice was that of Anhaga. What could the cripple and his wife be talking about with such vehemence? He recalled Sunniva's concerns about Anhaga. How he had dismissed her fears. His heart clenched. Had she been right? He had left her with this man against her judgement. The previous night he had been shocked to see Anhaga's face. It was a mass of old bruises. He had told the story of a fall on the ice several days before. What if he had lied? Could there be another reason for his injuries?
Beobrand rose from the bed quickly. He pulled on his kirtle, all the while listening for more clues in the whispered conversation.
Sunniva said something, but her words were masked by a sudden guffaw of laughter from the hall.
Anhaga's reply was clear: "You must tell him. He is your husband. Your hlaford."
Beobrand stepped from his sleeping area. He stood tall. His chin jutted in defiance. He bristled with concern. Anger was not far behind.
Anhaga and Sunniva both turned toward him, their mouths open in surprise. Sunniva was wan. Anhaga could not hold Beobrand's gaze.
"Tell me what?" Beobrand's voice was as sharp as Hrunting's blade.
Anhaga looked at his feet.
"Tell me what?" Beobrand repeated. "You seemed sure of yourself a moment ago, Anhaga. Why not tell me yourself?"
Anhaga shook his head. "I am sorry. It is not my place."
"Sorry for what, man?" Beobrand's brow furrowed. He clenched his fists at this side. He would crush this cripple if he had laid a hand on Sunniva.
Sunniva stepped between them; placed her palm on Beobrand's chest.
"Do not be angered with Anhaga." She looked up at Beobrand. Her eyes glowed, brimming with tears.
"Why are you upset?" he asked.
She ignored the question and turned to Anhaga. "Go now, Anhaga. Leave my husband and I to talk."
Anhaga needed no encouragement. He limped away as quickly as his deformity would permit.
Taking Beobrand's hand Sunniva led him back into their sleeping quarters.
"Sit, my husband, and I will tell you my tidings."
Intrigued and still unnerved, Beobrand sat on a small stool. "What tidings, Sunniva?"
Sunniva smoothed her dress over her stomach then stepped close to Beobrand.
"Do you remember the oath you made? Before you went to Hefenfelth?"
Beobrand nodded, unable to speak now. For he well remembered the words he had spoken. He remembered the makeshift bed. The cramped sleeping area. The rush light blowing out. He was suddenly certain of what she would say next.
"You promised to return. To marry me. Both of these things you have done." She took his hands in hers, knelt before him. "But you vowed one more thing. I do not know if I will bear you a son, but I am with child. You are to be a father."
The world seemed to swim before Beobrand for a heartbeat. He felt lightheade
d. Weak. He was glad he was seated. Otherwise he feared he would have fallen to the ground.
"When?" he managed after some time.
"I do not know exactly, but when we were in Bebbanburg, of that I am certain. Our baby will be born some time around Eostremonath."
"You are sure..?" Doubt prickled like a fish bone scratches a throat. He had been away for months.
"Of course I am sure." Her voice turned brittle as winter twigs. "Your seed was planted before you left for the north. I just did not know it then." The tears fell then. Her lip quivered. "Do not doubt me, Beobrand. I could not bear it. The babe is yours. You are to be a father."
A father! He swallowed. He did not wish to doubt her, but questions assailed him. There were at once too many thoughts in his head to latch on to any single one. Then he settled on a dark thought. A question that must be answered. He could make no sense of it.
"Why were you speaking to Anhaga of this? How is it that he knows of my child before me?"
"Hush, my love. Remember that you have been far away." Beobrand frowned at the reproach he imagined in her words. "I did not feel well last night. I wished to wait till the right moment." He felt a pang of guilt at his clumsy advances of the night before. Yet even now, the sight of her intoxicated him.
"You were right about Anhaga," she continued. "He has been a true friend. I was... taken ill some days back. Anhaga helped me then. I had to tell him what ailed me. He frets over me now like a woman. He is worse than Rowena and Edlyn."
"They know also? Am I the last to know of my own child?" Beobrand made an attempt at outrage, but he could not keep the smile from his voice. He was to be a father!
"I have told nobody else, my husband. I am so very pleased you have returned to me. I have missed you more than you will ever know."
"And I you. Eostremonath you say?"
Sunniva nodded, wiping away her tears.
A spring birth. He counted back the months. They had been at Bebbanburg, as Sunniva said. How could he have doubted her?
He stood and raised her up from her knees. He kissed her, his lips firm and hot on hers. He laughed to himself as he felt his body respond to her touch.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 22
