The gathering gasped as one.
Oswiu translated. Cormán slumped. His face pallid behind the bruises.
"Some years hence, when both Cormán and I resided on the island of Hii, a young novice came to me with a story so similar to Coenred's that it could have been told by the same mouth. But that is not possible. For that boy who came to me is dead." Gothfraidh took a shaky breath. The onlookers were silent now. Rapt and horrified at the tale Gothfraidh told.
"He came to me and spoke of how Cormán had touched him. Forced him to do terrible, sinful things. I was weak then. I did not wish to believe him. I spoke to Cormán of the accusations and he said the boy was deluded. There was no evidence and no witnesses, so I chose to believe Cormán. The boy died of the bloody flux the following winter. I have not thought of him in years." Gothfraidh's eyes were focused on a place far away in the past. "But when Coenred spoke to me last night. Told me what Cormán had done. What he had said. I heard the echoes of that boy's voice from beyond the tomb." He crossed himself. "I did not believe him then. But I will not allow Cormán to prey more on boys while I still draw breath." He drew himself up straight. Raised his head and squared his shoulders.
"I say that Coenred is innocent and Cormán is guilty of sins of the flesh."
Cormán blustered for a time on hearing the words from Gothfraidh. He raised his voice, exhorted the name of God. He screeched in Latin, hate and anger splashing from him the way blood flows from a mortally wounded beast. A speared boar will make much noise, and blood will gush forth readily, yet its end is already sealed.
Oswald, his face pale, his jaw set, held out his hands for the final time.
"Cormán, you are condemned by the words of those from your own brethren. I will not sentence you for your crimes and sins. That is for a higher authority than mine. Yet I will not allow you to reside within my realm. You will return from whence you came. I will send a letter to Segene of Hii asking for a new bishop. One who is more suited to the tasks in hand. There you will face whatever punishment he sees fit for you."
Oswald did not wait for Oswiu to translate his words this time. He stared at Cormán and spoke the words himself in the lilting sounds of the Hibernians. Cormán wilted in the face of that stare. His shoulders slumped. His downcast eyes glistened.
The king then addressed all those gathered.
"You all know that it is my will that Christ will be worshipped by all the people of Northumbria. For that, we need a leader who is holy. A man who is godly in all he does. Cormán is not such a man. Hii will send a new bishop, and we will pray that he is holy." He raked them all with his stare. "You are all oath-sworn to me. And I would have no word of what was spoken today leave this hall. The people need not know why the bishop returns to Hii." The king cast a contemptuous glance as Cormán, who now seemed on the verge of collapse. "Cormán will be a name forgotten. Hidden from history. Unsung and unremembered. Let none of you speak of him again or of what transpired here today."
Coenred looked at all the men who had stood in his defence. Coenred had thought he would be punished. He had not hoped that he would be able to remain at Lindisfarena. But Oswiu's thegns and Gothfraidh, even the king himself, had stood behind him. Vouched for him. It was almost like having a family.
Gothfraidh came to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Coenred could maintain his composure no longer. Tears welled up and streamed freely down his cheeks. He was not to be punished.
He had friends. Family.
And a home.
CHAPTER 22
The next weeks passed in a peaceful haze of warm sunshine. The days grew ever longer and each day the land soaked up the warmth of the sun. There were days of clouds and rain, but the showers fell softly with no vehemence. The roots of barley and peas drank thirstily of the moisture. The plants flourished, bursting with verdant life. As the plants welcomed the rain, so did the people of Ubbanford. It gave them respite from their work. Everybody was busy. Planting, lambing, repairing the damage to fences and houses caused by the winter storms. Beobrand and his gesithas spent every dry day working on the new hall. Its wooden bones were completed and work commenced on the walls. It was a great hall. A symbol of strength overlooking the village. None could approach Ubbanford without spying the hall on its hill.
Beobrand wondered whether the hall would be finished by the time Nathair's sons decided to strike. They heard rumours of Nathair's health declining. But for the moment at least, his sons had not decided to test their strength against their neighbour on the south of the Tuidi.
Beobrand was glad of it. He did not seek more battles. More blood. He would be content to spend the summer building and farming. But Acennan convinced him that they should not allow their skills to wane. He reminded him how Scand would drive his men to train. And so, every few days, Beobrand would lead the men through the drills of battle-play he had learnt from the old lord. They strained, shield against shield, and practised the use of spear and blade. The training was exhausting after the work on the hall, but the men knew that to ignore their battle-skill would be as bad as allowing a sword to rust.
The days when they were not practising with their weapons were long and full of hard toil. Beobrand enjoyed the physical labour, pitching in with the men. Lifting, carrying, sawing, nailing. The dark memories from the last year retreated with the winter cold. Nelda's words, shrieked into the gloom of her dank fastness in the earth, sometimes played in his mind. Was it possible that she was really Hengist's mother? It seemed inconceivable, and yet, he recalled her face. The set of her jaw. Her eyes, dark and probing. And he knew it to be true. How she had found herself so far north and west, he could not tell. He shuddered despite the warmth when he thought of these things. What power had she exerted to draw him to her? Surely her curse must carry that same potency. He pushed these thoughts aside.
It was easier to dispel these anxieties in the smiling sunshine of the day. At night, in the dark and stillness, Nelda's presence felt close. He recalled the scent of her breath. He had not confided in Sunniva about the meeting with the witch. The warmth and sunlight, coupled with Odelyna's skills as a healer seemed to have worked their own magic on her. She was less pale. The headaches less frequent, less severe. But she was still weak. She could no longer work the forge.
Her belly swelled as quickly as the fast-growing peas in the southern field. She was nearing her time and was restless. On days when she felt well, Beobrand had a comfortable chair carried up to the hill for her to oversee the construction of the hall. Their hall.
She liked to sit in the shade of a shelter the men had made for her and preside over the work. The men too, Beobrand noticed, worked harder when she was there. There was less banter and fewer rests. They looked upon her with loving eyes, working hard to impress her. That these warriors had taken to him as their hlaford still surprised Beobrand. When he looked at Sunniva, her golden hair glowing in the spring light, a rose petal blush on her cheeks, her demure smile, it was easy to see why the men admired her. She may not have been born of noble rank, but she carried herself with grace. Underlying all her beauty and elegance, lay an iron will that the gesithas recognised as necessary for any in a position of power.
Beobrand saw it in her too. Each day he discovered something new about her. Some hidden knowledge from her past. Some insight into her character. She was tired by the end of each day, and they would often retire early to their bed. They would lie close together in the darkness and talk. She would caress his chest absently, driving him mad with a desire he was unable to satisfy for fear of hurting their unborn child. He would listen to her, stroking her hair. The winter had been long and cold for both of them and they now filled the void that had grown between them with words.
On this day, Sunniva was not present on the hill in her usual spot. She had felt unwell that morning, complaining of pangs of pain. Beobrand had sent for Odelyna. He had loitered nervously beside the bed as the old woman had begun to examine Sunniva, but the
healer had promptly tired of him and shooed him from the room.
Beobrand and the men worked sullenly for a time. Little work of substance was completed. They were all concerned for Sunniva. Often they would stop and look down the hill to the settlement. At mid-morning there was a flurry of movement from the houses nestled in the valley.
All work ceased as the men saw their lord shading his eyes for a better view of the activity. A horseman was coming towards them. He was riding hard.
"That's Anhaga," Acennan said.
"Aye, and he is on Sceadugenga," Beobrand replied, his voice clipped and tight with nerves.
He began to stride down the hill to meet the mounted man.
Anhaga was not a good rider, but Sceadugenga liked him and carried him well. The stallion pulled to a halt a few paces before Beobrand. It snorted and pawed the earth. It longed to be given its head, to gallop far over the hills. But this was not the day for a long ride.
"Lord," Anhaga panted, "you must come." He dismounted clumsily onto his twisted leg. He stumbled and handed the reins to Beobrand, he said, "The lady Sunniva's time is here. You must hurry."
Beobrand grabbed the black mane of the stallion and swung himself into the saddle. Without a word he kicked his heels into Sceadugenga's flanks and they sped off down the hill.
Beobrand squeezed his eyes shut as another scream reverberated around the hall. He hammered his fist into the board before him in frustration. He knew there was nothing he could do to help. This was women's work. But the feeling of impotence filled him with rage.
He sensed movement and looked up. Anhaga had stepped from the shadows where he had been lurking. He righted the drinking horn that Beobrand had upset. The cripple did not look Beobrand in the eye. He merely picked up the pitcher and refilled the horn. Then, with a bow, he stepped back away from the benches. His face was pinched. His movements awkward. The tension in the room was palpable.
The hall was empty save for Beobrand, Acennan and Anhaga. Beobrand found some solace in the company of his friend. Anhaga had limped in some time ago and Beobrand could not bring himself to turn the man away. He had been a faithful servant to Sunniva throughout the long winter. The man doted on her, and she seemed to tolerate him now. Several times Beobrand had found them talking quietly together. Their hushed conversations never continued when he was present. Absently he wondered what they talked about. There was something they were not telling him, but Sunniva brushed away his concerns when he questioned her. He did not press the matter, but he would seek a better answer once the babe was born. He did not like secrets being kept from him.
As if in response to his thoughts of childbirth, another shrill anguished wail emanated from the sleeping quarters of the hall. The womenfolk were all there attending Sunniva. When he had arrived at a gallop earlier in the day, Odelyna had let him in briefly to see his wife. Sunniva's skin was blotchy, her colour high. A sheen of sweat covered her, her hair plastered to her forehead. To see her thus had unnerved him. His mother and sister Rheda had the same panicked glazed look when he had nursed them in their final moments. He had felt his knees grow weak at the sight of Sunniva. He'd fallen beside the cot where she lay and taken her hand in both of his. He'd kissed her brow. The heat from her skin was shocking. He could not let her see the fear in his face. It would do her no good. He must be strong for her.
"Sunniva, my love," he'd said, forcing a thin smile, "they say the time has come to bring our child into the world."
She'd returned his gaze. "I am scared," she'd said. "It hurts so."
He'd looked to Odelyna and Rowena.
Odelyna had stepped forward. "I've never known a woman who said she enjoyed childbirth. The pain is normal. It will pass soon enough."
"You hear that, Sunniva? The pain will be over soon," he'd smiled again, this time more broadly, "and we'll have our son. Remember?"
But Sunniva had closed her eyes and dug her nails into his hands. She had let out a groan deep in the back of her throat. The groan had built into a shriek that must have ripped her throat, such was the force of it.
"Now, lord," Odelyna had said, with a tenderness to her voice that Beobrand had not heard before, "you must leave us women to our work. There is nothing for you to do here but fret, and you can do that outside just as well, but without getting under our feet. We'll call for you when the child is born."
That had been long before, when the sun was still high in the sky. Now, the sun had set and the last light was fading on the western horizon. Anhaga busied himself lighting tapers and torches around the hall. He coaxed new flames from the embers on the hearth. But he did not ask if he should send for food to be served. He read his master's mood well enough. Beobrand would not eat while Sunniva suffered so.
"It is always the waiting that is the worst," said Acennan, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen upon them as they awaited the next scream of pain. "Be it before a battle, or before a birth, the waiting's the hardest to bear."
Sunniva let out another guttural groaning cry.
"Well," continued Acennan, "hardest to bear for us men, anyway. I am sure the womenfolk would have something to say about the waiting being tougher than the work of pushing out a baby." He smiled ruefully.
Beobrand did not smile. He drained the mead from his horn. Standing abruptly, he paced from one end of the hall to the other.
"Is it normal?" he asked.
"Is what normal?" said Acennan.
"The screams? The pain? And does it always take this long?"
"I am no expert, but I believe a first child is often the worst."
"Perhaps it is so," said Beobrand. "I remember my mother when birthing Edita. It was all over before we knew she had started the pains. Edita was her sixth child. Two babes had died the same days they were born. Or were already dead. I never knew which. Father and Mother would not speak of them." Beobrand ran his hands through his hair. The uneven sensation of the missing fingers on his left hand was now natural to him. "I was only a boy. I asked so many questions. I just wanted to know what had happened. All I got was a beating in the end. And they never spoke of them."
Why did his mind insist on thinking of these things? Unbidden, his every thought came back to death. They were all gone now. All of them. He had often wondered whether he was cursed. But those were just the thoughts of a child. A man makes his own wyrd. His wyrd was interlocked with that of Sunniva. He was strong, and they would have strong offspring. Theirs would be a family to be reckoned with in years to come.
Without warning, he remembered the words of Nelda. They echoed in his thought-cave as if she was speaking them still: "I curse you, as you cursed my son! You will never know happiness. You will die alone."
He shuddered. He wished to be free of these thoughts. But he could no more control them than a man could hold back the tides.
A scream, ululating and full of exhaustion and woe, came from the living quarters.
Then a new sound, smaller, though no less urgent. The thin wailing of a newborn child pierced the partition at the rear of the hall.
In the silence that followed, Beobrand caught Acennan's eye. The squat warrior nodded.
The babe's crying grew louder, more demanding. A rush of relief washed over Beobrand. He felt he would fall, such was the strength of emotion that coursed though him. He placed a hand on the board to steady himself.
A moment later, the door at the rear of the hall opened. Lady Rowena stepped into the dim flame-light. Her face was a pallid smear in the darkened doorway.
"Lord Beobrand," she said, her voice thick, hoarse, "you have a son."
The room was dark and warm. Rush tapers gave off a fretful light. The tang of sweat hung in the air, mingled with other scents.
Blood.
And shit.
Beobrand had smelled the like before. It was the stench of the battlefield. Visions of the shieldwalls' clash, the screams of the wounded and dying tumbled into his tired mind.
Was it like battle, this women's work
of childbirth? There had been screams here too. Terrible wails of anguish and agony. He looked about the noisome room. A baby even now was squealing with a noise it was hard to believe could come from one so small.
Rowena took the swaddled parcel from Odelyna and lifted it up to Beobrand. The baby did not cease its crying.
"Your son," Rowena said.
Beobrand made no attempt to touch the child. He looked at it with incredulity that it had come into this world from within Sunniva's belly. It was so tiny. Its features were screwed up into a wrinkled mask of utter fury. Its lips quivered as it screamed lustily.
"What is wrong with it?" he asked.
"Nothing is wrong with him," Rowena said, shaking her head. "He is hungry and angry at being pulled from the dark warmth into the world. With your leave, I will take him to Maida. She will feed him. The lady Sunniva is too tired at present."
Beobrand nodded. Elmer's wife was good with her own children; she would care for the baby well. He was as one who has drunk too much mead. Slow. Clumsy. Odelyna was fussing over Sunniva and now turned to Beobrand.
"Lord," she said, with that same tenderness in her voice he had noticed earlier, "your lady has had a difficult time of it. Speak briefly with her, for she must rest."
Beobrand nodded and dropped to his knees beside the cot.
Sunniva looked asleep. Her face was still, her eyes closed. He took her hand and kissed it.
"My love, we have our fine son," he whispered.
Her eyes fluttered open.
"Beobrand," a smile touched her lips, then her brow furrowed. Her hand clasped his with a sudden ferocity. "Is he well? Where is he? I do not hear him."
"Hush, my dearest. Our son is well. Rowena has taken him to Maida. She will feed him while you rest. All is well."
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 27
