Beobrand felt his cheeks redden. The man was making a fool of them. "You could have tried, old man. But it would not have ended well for you." His ire was threatening to run free. He could feel it pulling at its bit. It was all he could do to rein it back. He took a long breath. He had not come here to fight. He swung from the saddle and indicated for Acennan to do the same.
"So, what brings you here?" Nathair asked, a smile still playing at his lips.
"I have come to speak with you. And to return something that I believe belongs to your son, Torran." Beobrand reached up to his saddle bag and pulled out the goose-feather fletched arrows.
Nathair eyed the arrows soberly, all humour gone.
"Come then, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You'd best come inside."
"I hear you, southerner," Nathair picked up the earthenware jug and refilled the wooden cup before Beobrand. Beobrand nodded his thanks. "And I have thought on your words," continued the old Pict, "since last we met." He scowled, and spat onto the rush-strewn floor.
Beobrand looked around the hall. It was dark and drear. A small fire crackled on the hearth. Smoke drifted and swirled around the pillars and rafters. Weapons and war gear adorned the walls. A great sword hung behind the lord's chair. It was sheathed, but gold glinted from its pommel. A couple of wiry hounds worried at a bone in the shadows. They growled softly, setting Beobrand on edge. The room reeked of stale food and sour ale. It smelt old. Decayed.
Here in the gloom it was easy to forget that outside was bright spring sunshine. From within these walls, it would not be difficult to believe the world was always winter. Beobrand took a draught of mead, watching the grey-haired lord over the rim of his cup.
The man looked wan. Tired. His skin had the jaundiced pallor of age. Both the hall and its lord were decrepit. Shades of their former glory.
"I still grieve for Aengus. But I have no quarrel with you. He was ever headstrong. Foolhardy." His hand shook as he lifted his drinking horn to his cracked lips. "I have spoken with the men who were there at his end. They say you warned him."
Beobrand glanced at Acennan. It was uncomfortable to listen to these words from the father of the boy he had slain. Acennan raised his eyebrows. He gave a slight shrug and concentrated on his own drink.
"He died well," said Beobrand. He did not know how to offer condolences to this man. He knew what it was to suffer loss, but he could feel no remorse at Aengus' death. "It was a warrior's death."
The old man fixed him with a dark stare. His eyes glinted in the shadows. It was the predatory glare of a wolf. He may be old, but he still had teeth. There was no softness in those eyes. Nathair had not become leader of his people with tenderness. Beobrand would do well to remember that.
Beobrand held the man's gaze. He would not back down. The challenge was there. It could not be ignored. Nathair knew that he could not hope to stand in combat against the young warrior thegn from Cantware, so he attempted an exertion of his will. For a moment, all was still in the hall. It was as if the very air itself held its breath. Then Nathair broke the stare. He seemed to crumple.
"Aengus never knew what it was to be a warrior. His mother spoilt him." He rubbed a hand over his face. "She was a wonderful woman, his mother."
For a time nobody spoke. Nathair's warriors sat sullenly at the far end of the table. They appeared embarrassed of their lord's show of weakness. Eventually, Nathair let out a trembling sigh. He scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands.
"I do not seek vengeance for my boy's death," he said, his voice once more strong.
Beobrand picked up one of the arrows that lay on the board before them. The white feathers stood out in the shadows like snow on a midnight mountainside.
"So what of this then? It was not my wyrd to die pierced by these arrows, but your sons wish to exact the price for their brother's death."
Nathair glowered, his brow furrowed.
"I will speak with them."
"Make sure you do. There need be no more bloodshed between us."
"I will speak with them," the old man repeated, his voice cracking with emotion. "I am yet lord here!"
His warriors shifted uncomfortably on the bench.
Beobrand drained his mead and stood. He had had his fill of this place. Wished no longer to remain here in the dark with this old wolf.
"If your sons attack me or my people, I will kill them. I will not allow another attack to go unanswered." His words were clear and sharp as ice. "If you would have peace between our people, you must keep them in check."
Nathair surged to his feet. He hammered a fist into the board, making cups clatter and jump. The dogs started and sprang up alert.
"Do not talk to me thus. I am yet lord here!"
Beobrand looked about them. The grimy hall. The dusty sword hanging forlornly from a beam. The redolence of age was sharp in his nostrils. Nathair, diminished and grey, quivered unsteadily, one hand resting on the board before him.
He may yet be the lord. But death had its hand upon him. And upon Nathair's death, his sons would vie for the right to lead. The pale fletchings of Torran's arrows caught his eye as he turned towards the door. Towards the welcome warmth of daylight beyond.
He did not seek more bloodshed. He did not wish to feud with the sons of Nathair. And yet those arrows and Nathair's frailty told him the truth of it.
He bid the old Pictish lord farewell. Outside, the warmth of the sun dispelled some of the gloom that had settled upon him. He swung up into Sceadugenga's saddle. Acennan mounted his own steed beside him.
They rode away in silence. The sun warmed them, but deep inside, Beobrand felt a chill.
Death stalked the old man, and once it had taken him, it would seek out more victims. Vengeance and blood awaited the sons of Nathair.
Beobrand's face was grim as they crossed the stream and entered the cool shade of the forest.
Nathair's sons would come for revenge. They would come and he would be waiting.
They would not find the vengeance they craved. Beobrand touched the hilt of Hrunting. They would find only death.
CHAPTER 21
Coenred mumbled the paternoster under his breath. Tears prickled behind his eyes. His throat was thick with pent up emotion. He did not know what his punishment would be, but he knew he would be found guilty. The word of an abbot and bishop against that of an orphan novice monk. There was only one outcome to the trial before the king. All eyes were upon him. He shivered, but it was not cold. A trickle of sweat caressed his back.
He had slept fitfully. Gothfraidh had agreed to watch over him, and the dour monk had sat awake most of the night. He must have been exhausted but his face gave away nothing of his feelings. His expression was sombre. Disapproving.
In the middle of the night, when the feasting had ended and the fortress was as silent as it ever was, Gothfraidh had seen that Coenred was awake. "Why did you do it, boy? What were you thinking?"
For a time, Coenred had lain on the hard floor and stared into the darkness silently. What good would it do to tell the tale of what had happened? Gothfraidh would not believe him. Perhaps it was his fault anyway. Was it possible that he had somehow encouraged Cormán? He had thought of the dreams in which he saw Sunniva. In them he touched her, and she would kiss him. Stroke his body. He would wake erect and throbbing. Sticky with his spilt seed. It was wrong to have such dreams. The devil must be in him. Perhaps the devil tempted Cormán through him.
"I know you are awake, Coenred," Gothfraidh had said, his quiet voice loud in the stillness. "Why did you do it?"
If it was the devil within him, perhaps Gothfraidh could cast it out. He hadn't held out much hope of that. Gothfraidh seemed weak and ineffectual. Yet in the darkness he had been so alone. It was very likely that telling of the events would not help him, but he could see no way in which it would harm his cause. He was sure to be flogged. Perhaps even killed.
Coenred had sniffed in the dark.
"I did not want him to touch me," he'd
said, his voice meek.
A long silence.
"Touch you? Touch you where?"
"I don't want to say."
"Are you saying the abbot tried to touch you... there... er... between your legs?" Gothfraidh's voice had taken on an edge. Coenred knew he should not have talked. Gothfraidh would beat him now. Nobody would believe him.
"I don't want to say."
"It is very important that you tell the truth. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes. I am not lying."
"Do you swear on the holy book and your immortal soul that bishop Cormán attempted to touch you?" In the darkness, Coenred had heard Gothfraidh draw in a ragged breath.
"He did not attempt it," said Coenred. He remembered the man's breath. The weight of him. His groping fingers. Coenred's self-pity had changed to anger in a flash, the way fat dripping onto a fire throws up vicious spitting flames. "He did it. He put his hands on me. There. And squeezed. He asked me to show him some kindness." He'd let out a sob. "There will be no kindness for me now."
Gothfraidh had not answered for a long while. Then he'd said, "Coenred, do you swear what you say is true on all that is holy?"
"I do."
"Very well. Let us pray together for guidance and we shall see what tomorrow brings."
And so it was that Coenred now stood before the king and his thegns. Cormán, eyes blackened from his broken nose and dark with sullen fury was standing to one side. Gothfraidh, face stern, was positioned off to the left of the hall. Coenred cast about for a friendly face, but there was none. Gothfraidh hardly acknowledged him when he glanced his way. The old man had prayed earnestly with Coenred in the darkest marches of the night. It had comforted him and he would not forget the man's kindness. He had spoken no harsh words; offered no judgement on Coenred's actions. Instead, he had knelt beside the boy and led him in the prayers that were so familiar to them both. The mumbled words in the night had calmed Coenred.
Coenred's attention snapped back to the present as Oswald rose and addressed those assembled.
"Cormán, abbot of Lindisfarena, bishop of Bernicia by the grace of God and the will of the lord abbot Ségéne mac Fiachnaí of the holy island of Hii, you stand before us as accuser of Coenred, brother monk of the brethren of Lindisfarena." The king's brother, Oswiu, translated the words into the tongue of Hibernia. It seemed they meant for all those gathered to understand the proceedings.
The king continued. "Of what crime do you accuse the boy?" The king's face was impassive.
"Oswald King, I accuse Coenred of striking me." Oswiu held up his hand for Cormán to pause while he translated.
"The evidence of his crime is there for all to see," Cormán continued, gesturing at his bruised face. His nose was clearly canted at an angle where it had been straight before.
When Oswiu had translated, Oswald asked, "You have a witness of this crime?"
Cormán frowned when he heard the words translated. "I do not. We were in my chamber. There was nobody else present."
"So you have no witness?" The king's tone was imperious.
Cormán's poise slipped slightly. His voice took on a whining tone. He had expected this moot to be a formality. "God is my witness. I am a man of God, I would not deceive in this."
"Is Coenred not a follower of Christ?"
"He is a young fool. He sought to attack me when no-one could see. Long has he disliked me."
"Why do you believe that?" Oswald raised an eyebrow.
"I have seen how he looks at me. When I ask him to perform some task or other."
"And what task did you wish him to perform when you called him to your chamber?"
Coenred fidgeted. He had not expected the king to talk for so long to the bishop. And with Oswiu atheling interpreting, the exchange dragged on in a faltering fashion. Yet he was eager to hear how Cormán would answer.
Cormán shot an evil glance at Coenred. "I had misplaced something of value. I believed he may have taken it."
Once Oswiu had spoken the words, Coenred blurted out, "That's a lie. I took nothing. And he had lost nothing."
Oswald raised his hand for silence. "Hush, Coenred. You will have your chance to speak." He turned back to Cormán.
Coenred bit back the angry words that burnt in his throat. What good would they do? His fate was sealed.
Oswald spoke once more. "So, Cormán, you accuse Coenred of striking you without provocation. Does anyone here vouch for you?"
Oswiu translated. Everyone looked around the hall at all those who stood witness at this trial. Nobody stepped forward.
Cormán looked to Gothfraidh, who seemed to have found something of great interest among the rushes on the floor of the hall.
Cormán stuttered, "I am recently arrived here. I know nobody here."
"Nobody speaks on your behalf," the king said. "Nobody vouches for you." His tone was as final as death.
Colour rose in Cormán's cheeks. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. He looked around the room once more, desperate for aid. None came.
Resigned at last, he nodded. His shoulders slumped.
Oswald turned to Coenred.
"Now, Coenred, what have you to say in your defence?"
Coenred swallowed. His throat was as dry as if he had swallowed a spoonful of ground barley. He did not wish to speak of the events of the night before in front of all these men.
He looked at Gothfraidh, seeking guidance. The old monk was looking him in the eye. He nodded and then surprised Coenred by speaking. "Just tell them the truth, boy. You have done nothing wrong."
Coenred swallowed again. "I..." his voice cracked. It reminded him of the screech of Nelda's jackdaw. He shook his head, dispelling the memory of that foul creature. "I did strike Cormán."
"That is a grievous sin, Coenred," Oswald said, his voice hard.
"But why did you strike him, Coenred?" asked Gothfraidh. "Speak up for all to hear."
Coenred looked at the staring faces. Hard faces. Bearded warriors. Many of them had been his companions on the journey to Hii. They were tough men. But honest. Fair. Honourable. They would expect the truth from him. It shamed him to speak of it. Yet he had done nothing wrong. He had merely defended himself. Any man would do the same.
"I..." again his voice broke in his throat. "Christ teaches that we should turn the other cheek when struck. I have failed in that."
"So you say that Cormán struck you first?" Oswald frowned. "You are a servant of the monastery. It is your lord's right to beat you, if you have done wrong."
Coenred fixed his eyes on Oswald's. "No, lord king. Cormán did not strike me... he..." His words dried up.
"Then why did you strike him?" Oswald's expression softened. "If you do not speak, I will be forced to find you guilty as accused."
Gothfraidh spoke once more. "Tell the truth, Coenred."
Oswald turned to the old monk and snapped, "Enough, man. You have spoken your piece when not bidden to do so. Now be silent. It is on Coenred to unburden himself." Then back to Coenred, "This is a serious matter, but know this. I am losing patience with you. Speak now or suffer the consequences for the actions you have already confessed to."
Coenred looked around the room once more. He saw no animosity on any face save for that of Cormán. Gothfraidh nodded encouragement, urging Coenred to speak.
"It shames me to speak before so many of what happened," Coenred said, his voice small, yet audible. The onlookers stilled all movements. Their breathing shallowed. They leaned forward to better hear the novice's words.
"Your words must be witnessed, Coenred," Oswald said. "It is the way of our people. Now, grasp the nettle and speak."
Coenred drew in a deep breath. He detected stale mead and ale in the air of the hall. Cold ash, sweat, the tangy bite of tanned leather.
"I struck the abbot," the word, meaning father, lodged in his throat. Cormán was no father to him. He coughed. "I struck him to defend myself. He was crazed with drink. He sought to... touch me."
A murmur of unease ran through the room.
As throughout the moot, Oswiu acted as interpreter. At hearing the words in his own tongue, Cormán exploded into a fit of rage.
Coenred could not comprehend the words, but the invective was clear. Cormán denounced Coenred for a liar.
"Silence!" Oswald's face was dark. He fixed Cormán with his stare. The bishop quietened.
"Touch you?" the king asked Coenred.
"As no man should touch another." Coenred cast his gaze to the ground. He sighed. He could still feel the touch on his thigh. On his groin. It was a shameful thing and now it was known to all.
There was a commotion in the hall as some of the thegns surged to their feet. A bench was overturned. One man, a broad bearded warrior who had travelled to Hii in the winter, cried out, "For shame! This bishop is no man! He should be gelded."
Other men hammered their fists into the board in approbation of the sentiment.
Oswald held out his hands for calm. Silence came after some time.
"There will be no gelding here. It is a boy's word against that of a respected priest of the island of Hii. There are no witnesses to this crime."
Oswiu translated. Cormán allowed himself a small, smug smile.
Oswald ignored him.
"Will any here vouch for Coenred?"
The bearded thegn said, "I, Godric, son of Godric, will vouch for the boy's good nature. He travelled the hard road to Hii with scant a complaint. He is brave and honest. Defence of one's person is not a crime. It is the priest who should be tried."
Many of the men nodded and muttered their support for his words.
Another of the men who had ridden with him stood.
"I also vouch for the boy."
"As do I." Another of Oswiu's thegns rose.
Soon, all of the men who had been sent into the lands of Dál Riata stood. Each pledged his oath that Coenred was honest and honourable.
"It is good to see this support for Coenred," said Oswald. "I too believe he is innocent in this. However, I would have more than the word of a boy in a matter of such gravity."
Gothfraidh took a step forward. "I was not present in Cormán's chamber last night, so I did not witness what occurred there. No man did, save for Cormán and Coenred. But I believe Coenred's story. It is not the first such story I have heard."
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 26
