The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2)

by Matthew Harffy

  "We journey, my most loyal men and I, to meet with Penda, king of Mercia. But we do not march to fight." A murmur from the gathered men. "Do not fear. You will have time to win treasures soon. We are surrounded by many enemies, but even the strongest of warriors must know when it is wiser to avoid a battle. We have destroyed Cadwallon and now Deira and Bernicia are once more united under one king. But the land needs time to heal."

  "Penda, who was allied with Cadwallon against Edwin not two years hence, is no friend of Northumbria. He eyes this land with covetous gaze, and yet, he is beset on other sides. The East Angelfolc, the Waelisc to the west, and the West Seaxons to the south. All are pressing him. It is for this reason he has sent word that he wishes to meet with me."

  Athelstan called out, "How do you know he does not mean to kill you, as Cadwallon did to your brother under truce."

  Oswald frowned and glared at Athelstan for a moment before replying.

  "I am not Eanfrith. Many messages have been passed between Penda and I these last months before we have agreed to meet in person. We would both stare the other man in the eye and grasp his hand. Break bread and drink together. Only then can we be sure of the worth of the other's word.

  "We are to travel to a place named Dor on the border of our two countries and we will each travel with five score of our most trusted men, no more. The terms are agreed and it is of the utmost import that none of you breaks the oath I have pledged. There will be no bloodshed. You are my escort. You will travel with all the finery of battle. Wear your most polished helms. Paint your shields afresh. Burnish your spear points. But there will be no battle. Any man who draws the blood of a Mercian will have broken his oath to me and his life will be forfeit. We cannot risk battle with Mercia. Penda must be allowed to turn his attention to his other borders."

  Many of the men looked disappointed, but none spoke out against their king. Beobrand found it difficult to focus. Oswald's words washed over him and he felt his eyelids drooping. No fighting was good. He had had enough of killing. There was only one man he wished to kill, and he was not here.

  "So, my brave men. We will travel to the border of Mercia and there I will meet with Penda. And there will be no fighting. I will find you treasures and riches elsewhere. Is what I say clear?"

  A few men assented with a nod, or a word.

  "Is that the noise made by my strongest warriors? You who strike fear into the foes of Northumbria. Those who have heaped the bodies high for the crows and the wolves?"

  This time the amassed men let out a cheer.

  Oswald nodded and sat back down. Slowly the noise in the hall returned as the men began to debate the king's words and talk of the journey ahead.

  "Well," said Athelstan, raising his newly-filled cup, "if we are not to kill, which is the one thing you and I do well, there is one good thing."

  "What is that?" asked Beobrand, hardly caring, such was the amount of mead he had consumed.

  "There will be more time for drinking!"

  Beobrand watched as gobbets of vomit splashed into the churning wake of the ship. A white seabird shot from the hazy sky and speared into the water, evidently spotting something in the remains of his last meal worth diving for. The sight turned Beobrand's stomach again. The ship heaved and rolled on the swell. Beobrand leaned once more over the side and retched.

  With a creaking shudder the keel of the sleek warship lifted on a wave. Beobrand lost his footing and would have tumbled into the cold sea had not a strong hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him back.

  "I told you not to drink so much," said Acennan.

  Beobrand groaned and slid down with his back to the strakes.

  "When do I ever listen to you?" he asked. He remembered his first trip by ship from Cantware to Bernicia. He had not much liked it then. Now, with his head pounding and his stomach churning like the surf on the rocks of the Farena islands, he hated it. He wished he had heeded Acennan's advice the day before, but he would not admit as much.

  He looked up and saw the concern on his friend's features.

  "Do not worry about me. I've been drunk before." He forced a grin.

  "I know," said Acennan. "Lately you are drunk all the time. It clouds your mind. It is not good for a warrior."

  "The clouding of my mind is why I drink," Beobrand blurted out. Even he was surprised at the ferocity of his words. "Anyway, we do not go to fight," he said.

  He pulled himself up and staggered towards the stern of the ship. All he wanted was some peace. The crowded ship was not a good place to find it. He clung to a stay that held the mast and looked back at the last ship in the small fleet of three vessels.

  At the feast, he had thought they would be heading south by land. He would have been happy to ride. Sceadugenga was a good mount and Beobrand had looked forward to allowing the horse to carry him while he recovered from the mead.

  But Sceadugenga had been left in the stables at Bebbanburg. The hostler remembered both horse and rider and promised to look after the stallion.

  It turned out that Dor was on the river Scheth, tributary of the Dun. They would make better progress by water, but the constant motion of the Whale Road seemed sent to torment him. He closed his eyes. He prayed to the gods that they would not be long at sea. He did not wish to spend days emptying his guts over the side. He felt another spasm and retched again. Nothing came. He blinked away the dots of light that flickered in his vision. Were they elfs? Some magic of the sea? His vision cleared. There was nothing there.

  "Here, drink a little water."

  Beobrand turned. Coenred stood at his side, his woollen robe flapping about his slim form in the wind. Beobrand took the flask from the monk and sipped. He rinsed his mouth, spat, then drank a couple of mouthfuls. The cool liquid soothed his throat.

  "Thank you." Beobrand handed back the flask. The sea breeze blew his blond hair into his face. The water, cool air and empty stomach all went some way to settling him. Perhaps he would be able to endure the voyage after all.

  "So," he said, "Oswald means for you to write down what is agreed with Penda? To what end?"

  "It is the way of great men. When words are written they become stronger than mere word sounds."

  "A man's word should be enough. A king's oath is like steel."

  Coenred nodded. He brushed his hair away from his face with his long fingers. "This is true. But spoken promises can be misremembered. Or ignored. The writing of them will always show the truth, no matter how many days or even years pass. Oaths can be forgotten. A written oath will live on forever."

  Beobrand thought on this. It sounded like magic to him. He could see no use for the scratchings of the Christ priests on their parchments. But he did not have the energy to discuss it further.

  "To live forever," he said and hawked into the sea. "The Christ god promises everlasting life. And his holy men scratch words that can live on forever. With such strong magic, it amazes me there is so much death on middle earth."

  CHAPTER 27

  Oswald looked up at the sky. There were grey clouds brooding in the west, but with God's providence it would not rain. He turned in the saddle and looked back to where men struggled with one of the two carts. They had already managed to get the other one up to the brow of the hill. There they had secured it, unhitching the mules and adding them to the team pulling the cart that was now wallowing in the shallow valley. Rainfall would hold them back even more.

  He was glad he had listened to Oswiu's counsel and brought the ships. They had made good progress down the coast and then striking into the huge estuary of the Humber. They had navigated as far up the River Dun as they were able before it became necessary to disembark. They were near to their destination, but now they needs must rely on the few steeds they had brought in the ships. And of course, the brute strength of his warriors.

  Oswiu, grim-faced as usual, rode up the hill to where Oswald watched the beleaguered cart. Oswald's mount shied away, skittering nervously to the side. Oswald almost lost his
seating, only just preventing an unseemly fall by clutching the saddle. The horses were still unsettled after travelling over the water. Perhaps it felt to them as if the ground moved, as it did to him when he dismounted.

  He soothed the horse, patting its neck.

  "Well, brother," he said, "how do they fare?"

  Oswiu reined in and expertly turned his horse to stand beside Oswald's, facing the same way.

  "The men are tired and not happy, but the cart is undamaged. The scouts say we are close, this is the last major hill. After that, I suggest we ready ourselves. We should rest. Have the men clean and don their arms. We would have Penda see us in all our glory."

  Oswald nodded.

  "Thank you. I agree. We will rest and prepare to meet Penda. Even now," he scanned the horizon, searching for signs of movement or the glint of the sun on metal, "I expect he has men watching us. I feel exposed here. I can feel eyes on me."

  "I sense it too. Let us hope all our plans and messages have not been for naught. I have sent one of Beobrand's men, Attor, out to scout while we wait here. But we do not have enough horses to properly survey the area."

  Oswald bit his lower lip. He would not show his fears to the men, but a nagging worry gnawed at his insides. They were vulnerable here. Had he made a terrible mistake? He had prayed long on this; sought the counsel of his most trusted ealdormen. And his brother. And the priest, Gothfraidh.

  Yet in the end, it was his decision alone. He led these people. He had chosen to come here. To make this pact with Penda.

  Once more, he prayed that he was right to do so.

  The sun broke through the clouds and a ray of light washed the site of the meeting in a golden glow. The Mercians had arrived some time in advance of the Northumbrians. Tents, some leather, some of cloth, were arrayed in an orderly fashion. The wolf banner of Penda stood erect and imposing before a large fire that was surrounded by men.

  It was a wide, flat expanse of land. There were trees in the distance, but not dense enough to hide a sizable force. It was as they had agreed. A good place to talk. On the border of their two lands.

  Oswald crossed himself and offered up a prayer of thanks that they had not been ambushed on the journey here. Perhaps his plans would bear fruit. He composed himself, setting his features into a grin.

  He turned and waited until all of his men were in formation behind him. They were fine in their battle gear. Individual banners fluttered from spears. Polished helms shone. Burnished iron-knit byrnies gleamed. Arm rings and swords spoke of their prowess. And their wealth. These were the finest warriors in all of Albion. Despite his nerves, Oswald's chest swelled with pride.

  "See how the Lord himself has brought the sun to shine upon us, that the Mercians may see us in all our glory?" Some of the men smiled. A couple laughed. But they too were nervous; uneasy at meeting a group of men in this field who were also bedecked with trappings of war. They all knew that this day could quickly turn from talk to sword-song.

  "Remember, my friends," said Oswald. "We come here to talk. Penda and I have shared oaths. No blood will be spilled here. To break oath with me on this, will spell your death." He looked along the line of men. None of them spoke.

  From the Mercian encampment, two men mounted and rode to a point between the two groups.

  Oswald looked to Oswiu, who nodded.

  "Oswiu and I will meet with Penda," said Oswald. "Await for my signal before setting up camp."

  Oswald and Oswiu spurred their steeds towards the two Mercians.

  Beobrand watched as Anhaga helped to pull one of the tents into shape over its wooden frame. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Beobrand left him to it. He had no interest in tents.

  He removed his helm and held it under his left arm. His shield rested on the grass. He stared intently over the short distance to where the Mercians were camped. There, with the smoke of the cooking fires drifting around it like wraiths, was Penda's standard, hung with wolf tails and crowned with a wolf's head. The sight of it made him catch his breath. His ribs had begun to ache. He rubbed with his mutilated left hand at the scar under his left eye.

  Acennan stood beside him.

  "You faced Penda at Elmet, did you not?"

  "I did," replied Beobrand. "To see that standard again... I remember that day. The days that followed."

  "Dark times," said Acennan.

  "Are there any other kind?"

  "Maybe not." Acennan sighed. He scratched at his beard, frowning.

  "What ails you?" asked Beobrand, noticing his friend's discomfort.

  Acennan sighed. "I have heard some troubling news. You are not going to like it."

  "What?"

  Acennan pursed his lips.

  "What, Acennan? If you did not wish to tell me, you should have kept quiet."

  Acennan sighed again. "Very well, but you are right, I should not have said anything, for it is of no consequence to us now."

  Beobrand looked at him quizzically.

  Acennan said, "One of the men told me that Nathair is dead."

  "And his sons?"

  "Not here."

  Beobrand spat. He thought of the arrows over the Tuidi. The hatred in the eyes of Broden and Torran. He cursed.

  "Tobrytan and Elmer are good men," said Acennan. "They will protect Ubbanford."

  "They are only two men. And we both know that Tobrytan is as slow as a donkey. Thunor help me, if Nathair's sons raise arms against Ubbanford, I swear it will be the last thing they will do in this life."

  "They will not dare."

  "They will regret it, if you are wrong," Beobrand said. The events of the last days had all but driven thoughts of Nathair and his sons from his mind. Now uncertainty began to gnaw at him.

  He looked once more to the tents and fires of the Mercians. There were many of them. Five score he supposed. The same as their own number. Two warhosts. Each capable of dealing death and destruction.

  But they came not for war.

  "I hope that Oswald and Penda can agree their terms quickly," said Beobrand. "I would be gone from this place. There is only so long that this many warriors can camp in sight of each other without bloodshed. Whatever their lords have commanded." He clenched his right fist, digging the nails into his palm. "And I would return to Ubbanford. Would that you had not told me of Nathair's death."

  Beobrand cast his gaze along the Mercian camp. Most men sat or stood in groups around the cooking fires. The evening meal was being prepared. The scent of cooking wafted to him on the breeze.

  Wardens were posted at intervals along the Mercian line. Each stood resolutely staring at the Northumbrian host as it readied its own camp. When Oswald and his brother, Oswiu the atheling, had returned from speaking with Penda, the king had informed them that in the morning the two leaders would meet in the centre of the field. Until then, the camps would remain separate. He had repeated once more his warning that no offence was to be given to the Mercians.

  Beobrand and Acennan watched as men laboured in the centre of the swathe of meadow. An awning slowly came into being. Stout wooden beams were brought from the Mercian camp. Ropes were expertly tied to secure the wood in place. Strong cloth was lifted onto the frame and pulled taut.

  The sun had dipped low in the sky now. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking grew strong, as the Northumbrian encampment settled in for the evening. The warriors were still on edge, but the tension had eased. Perhaps they would get through this meeting with a rival host without leaving corpses in their wake. Those with the sense of age, or the experience of battles past, hoped that the carrion birds would go hungry.

  Beobrand willed himself to relax. He tried not to dwell on the events of the last weeks. Attempted to put from his mind the worry that Nathair's sons might still seek vengeance for their brother's death. He was far from home. There was nothing to be gained from fretting. He smiled absently, almost hearing the deep voice of Bassus saying those very words. Bassus. Hearth warrior of Edwin. And Beobrand's friend. He had not se
en the huge warrior since Bassus had returned to Cantware, where Edwin's widow and remaining children had fled following the battle of Elmet. Beobrand wondered whether tales of his exploits serving Oswald had reached Cantware. Should he consider Bassus an enemy now? Edwin's queen must surely be an enemy of Oswald. But he could not imagine Bassus as a foe.

  In an effort to follow the advice Bassus had often given, and not worry about the past or that which could not be changed, he focused on the building of the awning where the kings of Mercia and Northumbria would talk and agree the terms of peace. At first he found the construction conjured up memories of the new hall at Ubbanford. He shook his head. Memories clamoured for his attention. He looked into the setting sun, hoping that the burning light would sear the thoughts from his mind.

  He returned his gaze back to the awning. Something caught his attention. The men were silhouetted now against the ruddy glow of the sunset. But there was something about one of the men that tugged at his memory. The man's gait was familiar. Beobrand watched as the figure stooped to help secure a rope.

  Beobrand gasped, his mouth hanging open. No, it could not be.

  Acennan turned to his friend.

  "What is it?"

  Beobrand seemed incapable of speech. He pointed at the awning. Acennan followed his gaze, but merely saw men constructing the shelter.

  "What?" asked Acennan, puzzled.

  Beobrand realised that Acennan would not recognise the man. He did not know him as he did.

  How was it possible that he was here, one of the host that served Penda? Beobrand's head swam. He blinked. Perhaps the afterglow of the sun in his eyes was playing tricks with him. He looked back. Squinted into the bright light. There was no question. It was him. The gods were laughing at him again. Had Nelda's curse brought them together here?

  "What?" repeated Acennan, concern in his tone.