The temperature in the room seemed to drop as he stared into those unblinking eyes. Beobrand wondered if the king's Christ god enabled him to see through his eyes and spy his thoughts. Oswald had given him everything: trust, riches, land. Beobrand had sworn his oath to him and he shuddered now to remember how close he had come to forsaking his vow. Riches, land, even loved ones could all be taken by cruel men and even crueller gods. A man's word was all he truly owned. He would never break faith with his lord again.
"My lord king," said Beobrand. "You are a good king. You are just and generous. I gave you my oath and my word is iron. I will not break my oath to you. You are my lord and I am yours to command as you will."
Oswald held his gaze for a long while, and then nodded.
"I told you what breaking the truce would bring, did I not?"
Beobrand assented with an inclination of his head.
"The price to pay for violating the peace is death," Oswald said. "Wybert's lord, Grimbold, also demands retribution for the injury to his man. I have agreed the price. You will pay it, Beobrand. And pray that Wybert does not die, or the weregild doubles."
Beobrand stiffened his jaw and nodded. He did not speak. There was nothing to say. He would not pray for Wybert. If he survived the day, it meant little. Beobrand swore a silent oath on all the gods and on Sunniva's memory that he would see Wybert dead.
"You may go now," Oswald gestured towards the tent entrance with his hand. "And be ready at the midpoint of the day, when the sun is highest in the sky."
"Ready, lord?"
"Anhaga is to be slain at midday," said Oswald. "And to show good faith to Penda, you, as Anhaga's lord, will slay him."
CHAPTER 30
"He's in here." The large bearded Mercian, fearsome in his chain-knit byrnie, held aside the leathern flap.
Coenred waited patiently for Gothfraidh to shuffle past, then followed him into the murky interior of the tent. It stank of sweat and piss, the air heavy and acrid. Coenred wrinkled his nose at the noisome air, but he did not detect the sweet, sickly smell of the wound-rot that often came before the death of warriors.
Coenred allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom. The tent was a jumble of warriors' gear. There were furs of different kinds, bags, sacks, cloaks, a couple of wooden boxes, but there was only one inhabitant. It seemed the other warriors had no desire to be here with him.
The warrior pointed to the far corner. "Over there." The man hesitated for a moment as if unsure whether to remain or leave. Eventually he said, "Don't touch anything. Say your spells and then begone. I'll wait outside."
Coenred and Gothfraidh tentatively picked their way through the detritus on the ground, stooping beneath the low ceiling of the tent.
Wybert seemed to be asleep. Or perhaps death had claimed him already. His lips were pale and thin, his skin tinged with a grey pallor. Coenred stared down at the still form. He had known him for a long time, but they had never been close. Coenred had been a novice, studying under Fearghas and the other monks, Wybert was the son of one of the ceorls of Engelmynster. Coenred had never liked him. There had been a mean streak to him. Coenred did not understand why. Wybert's parents were loving and kind. His brother Leofwine was sensitive and charismatic. Yet Wybert had always seemed to be chasing something just beyond his reach. And his inability to grasp whatever it was he sought filled him with a deep-seated anger. That anger bubbled up and manifested itself in insults and petty vengeances for supposed slights. Coenred could scarcely believe this young man could have done the things they said he did.
Could it be that he had raped Sunniva? Coenred remembered Tata then. Her last moments had been filled with pain and terror as she was violated by Waelisc warriors. How could Wybert have done such a thing?
Coenred hoped he was dead. He deserved to go to hell.
At that instant, as if awoken by Coenred's secret thoughts, Wybert's eyes flickered open. Coenred started, drew in breath sharply. His thoughts were not those of a monk. God could see inside his soul and would know what he had thought. Coenred swallowed the lump in his throat.
"Coenred," Wybert said, his voice blurry and dull, "I seem to be meeting many old friends." He forced a smile, but it turned to a grimace, as he coughed.
"I am not your friend," answered Coenred. His tone was as cold as the tile floor of the chapel in Engelmynster had been when they'd found Tata's corpse. Wybert winced.
Gothfraidh shot a glance at Coenred, then cleared his throat.
"You asked for priests of the Christ? My name is Gothfraidh. I believe you know Coenred. We are brethren of the Holy Church of Lindisfarena. Do you worship Christ? Do you wish to confess your sins?"
Wybert smiled thinly. "Why not? If I am to die, I would seek to soften the way as best I can. I have a knife here to hold when the time comes. They say Woden favours those who come to him with a weapon in their hand. But if the old gods do not welcome me, I hope you can smooth the way for me to your god's heaven."
"I see," said Gothfraidh, shifting his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably. "I understand there are no monks or priests of Christ in Mercia."
"Penda does not believe in your Christ," said Wybert, groaning slightly as he moved on the furs.
"Hmmm," said Gothfraidh, frowning, "we shall do what we can, but I fear that if you call Him our Christ, and not yours, your penance may not be well received by Him. Now, Coenred, fetch us something to sit on."
Gothfraidh sat on a small well-worn wooden stool, Coenred pulled a travel chest close to Wybert's cot. He hoped it did not belong to the warrior who waited at the doorway. Coenred did not think the man would take kindly to having his things moved.
Fixing Wybert with an unflinching stare, Gothfraidh said, "What are the sins you would confess to almighty God?"
Wybert stared back, but he could not meet the monk's gaze for long.
"All of them," he mumbled.
"You will have to do better than that," Gothfraidh said. "You must show yourself to be truly penitent. Only by describing the deeds you have done and seeking forgiveness can you be granted absolution. Do you understand?"
"Not really. I thought Christ offered life eternal."
"That he does, but you must truly believe in him and accept him as the one true God. And you must repent of your sins."
"Repent?" Wybert looked blankly from Gothfraidh to Coenred.
"Yes," blurted out Coenred, "ask for God's pardon for your sins. You must remember some of what you were taught at Engelmynster."
Gothfraidh held up a hand.
"Hush, Coenred." Then, to Wybert, "Let us begin by having you renounce all other gods. Renounce Woden, Thunor, Frige and the other old gods. Renounce them and give me the seax you clutch in fear. The old gods have no power over death. The blade will gain you nothing. Renounce them."
Gothfraidh held out his hand to Wybert.
Wybert looked down at his own hand, his knuckles whiter than his pallid skin as he gripped the hilt of his knife as a man floundering in a stormy sea would grip a rope thrown to him from a ship. He lifted the blade. His hand trembled. Coenred was suddenly fearful for the old monk. Wybert could cause him great harm despite the smallness of the blade. Coenred stood abruptly, ready to leap forward should the seeds of his fears bear fruit.
For some time, Wybert struggled, fighting a battle only he understood. Gothfraidh's eyes glimmered expectantly in the darkness.
Then Wybert's hand fell back to the furs of his bed, seax still firmly held.
"You refuse to renounce the old gods?" Gothfraidh asked, his voice not much more than a whisper.
"I cannot." Wybert shuddered and closed his eyes. "What if you are wrong and your god does not exist?"
"You are a coward," spat Coenred. He could not be in this place with this man any longer. He was surrounded by men who preyed on others. The world was a dark and evil place. He wished to be gone from this cloying murk, out into the sunshine where he could try to forget about Wybert, Tata, Sunniva and Cormán. "Y
ou attack women. You are nothing. God would not welcome you. You are damned!" He balled his hands into fists.
Gothfraidh stood and pushed himself between Coenred and the prostrate man.
"You forget yourself, Coenred!" he said, his tone stern. "We are men of God. We do not sit in judgement. Now go and wait outside, you are no use to me here."
Coenred gazed down at Wybert's pale face. So help him God, but he hoped he died.
"Go," Gothfraidh said.
Coenred turned and walked back towards the tent flaps. Light streamed in as they were thrown open before he reached them. The bulk of the warrior filled the doorway. Coenred blinked against the sudden brightness.
"What is happening here?" the warrior asked. He took in the scene with the practised eye of one used to making decisions quickly in battle.
"You have been here long enough. Leave now."
Gothfraidh said, "But I need more time to talk with Wybert. He has not yet carried out penance."
"And he will not, unless he can do whatever that is alone. You will leave now." The huge man placed his hand on the finely-worked pommel of his sword to press home his point. With the other, he held open the tent.
Gothfraidh hesitated, then nodded.
"We will pray for your soul, Wybert. May God have mercy on you."
Coenred did not look back, but pushed past the warrior, who looked surprised and a little amused as the young monk shouldered him aside.
He did not slow his pace as he walked back towards the Northumbrian camp. He could hear Gothfraidh puffing behind him as he tried to catch up. Coenred did not wish to speak to him. The old monk would ask him what he had been thinking and he did not wish to lie to him. To lie was a sin and he had surely sinned enough for one day. Abbot Fearghas would have been so disappointed in him.
He sensed Gothraidh drawing near, so he sped up, almost trotting towards where the Nothrumbrian warriors looked on, anxious for the safe return of their holy men.
Coenred had a sudden urge to laugh. One thing that Gothfraidh had said was true. They would pray for Wybert's soul. Yet Coenred did not think God would be too pleased with his prayers. For a monk should not pray for the death and damnation of one of His flock.
Beobrand closed his eyes. The sun was warm on his eyelids. A light breeze pushed his hair back from his forehead. He could feel the eyes of two hundred men on him.
But only the eyes of one man mattered at that moment.
Beobrand looked down and stared into the face of Anhaga. His servant knelt before him. His face was swollen. Bitter bruises mottled his eyes and cheeks. His nose was twisted to one side and a gash had scabbed across it. His clothes were ripped and stained brown with dried blood and mud. His hands were tied. The noose that had been used to lead him still hung from his neck.
Their eyes met and Anhaga lowered his head in acknowledgement of his lord.
Beobrand said nothing. His mouth was dry.
So it had come to this. He was to kill the only man who had tried to protect his wife from attack and avenge her death.
A jackdaw hopped across the grass someway behind Anhaga. It looked at them, head jerking, eye prying, before spreading its wings and flapping away to the north. Its call was harsh in the hush of the midday sun.
A chill ran down his neck, despite the warm sun. Nelda had said he would die alone. Her curse was upon him.
"Oswald, is this whelp truly a thegn of yours?"
The harsh voice from behind broke into his thoughts. Beobrand turned to where his king stood with Penda. The king of the Mercians was broad-chested and fierce. His beard was combed to a fork. Around his shoulders hung a wolf pelt. His forearms were bare and displayed the criss-cross patterns of scars received in combat. He sneered at Beobrand.
Oswald replied in a cool tone, "He is young, but he is no whelp. Beobrand of Ubbanford slew the mighty Hengist and captured Cadwallon of Gwynedd."
Penda arched an eyebrow, but did not look impressed.
"He looks like he was sucking on his mother's tits yesteryear. Boy," he said to Beobrand, "you will have to learn to keep your men under control, if you are to be a leader of warriors."
Beobrand's face grew hot.
"And you, Penda," he said, his words dripping bile, "will have to stop housing curs amongst your pack of wolves, if you do not wish to see them killed like vermin."
Penda's eyes narrowed, his brow creased.
"Be careful how you address me, boy." He spat, and scratched his chin under his beard. "Remember it was your man who broke the truce, not I." He stared at Beobrand for a moment, and then, seeming to decide not to push the matter further, he turned back to Oswald. "Well, are we to settle this once and for all as agreed? I am growing hot and would rather we sat under the awning with some ale for our talks."
"Do not fear, you will have your blood, Penda," said Beobrand, who could barely contain his anger. It was bad enough that a good man would die, but for the warlord of Mercia to make light of it was more than he could bear.
Oswald stepped forward and held up a hand.
"It is time, Beobrand." His face was expressionless, but his eyes burnt with fury.
It would not do well to anger both kings more than he already had. Beobrand stifled a reply and walked to Anhaga.
He glanced over at the amassed Northumbrians. He recognised the faces. They were good strong men. His shield-brothers. Shame weighed on him like a physical thing as he recalled how close he had come to plunging them into battle. It should be him kneeling here preparing to die.
He took a deep breath. He knew what he must do and yet he hesitated.
Anhaga looked up at him. His body was beaten and broken, but his eyes shone brightly. His spirit was still strong.
Beobrand drew his seax from its sheath and offered the bone handle to Anhaga.
"Take it, so that Woden might see and take you to his hall," whispered Beobrand.
"No," answered Anhaga. "I am no warrior." He lifted his bound hands and brushed sweat away from his brow. His fingers came away smeared red. "I wonder whether there are truly gods watching over us anyway."
Beobrand looked up at the tatters of clouds scudding across the dome of the sky. A red-feathered kite circled above them, its great wings outstretched to catch the zephyrs of the warm day.
Could the bird be one of the gods looking down?
"I do not know the ways of the gods any more than the next man," said Beobrand. "But you should take the seax. Woden would surely wish to take one as brave as you into his hall. You have a warrior's spirit, Anhaga."
Anhaga reached out his hands for the blade and then hesitated. He dropped his hands back.
"The lady Sunniva did not have a sword in her hand." Anhaga sighed. "I would go where she is. It must be a more beautiful place than Woden's corpse hall, if Sunniva is there."
Beobrand blinked back the tears that threatened to fall.
"I am sorry, Anhaga. I have failed you."
Anhaga shook his head.
"You have not. You killed Hengist when I could not." Suddenly, he gripped Beobrand's hand in both of his. Beobrand could feel the coarse twine that bound Anhaga's wrists.
"Promise me you will avenge us both. Avenge Sunniva and me, Beobrand. Kill Wybert, my lord."
Beobrand stared at him for a long while. He gripped Anhaga's hands tightly and nodded.
"You have my word. I will slay Wybert."
Anhaga nodded. The resolve was clear in his lord's features.
Beobrand's word was steel-hard, but when oath is piled on oath, the gods laugh.
Penda's gruff voice cut through once more.
"Come now. You have said your farewells. Be done with this. I am thirsty."
Beobrand squared his shoulders. His hand fell to Hrunting's pommel. For a terrible instant he pictured himself turning, leaping towards the king of the Mercian's. Hrunting would find its mark, drinking deeply of Penda's blood.
Anhaga shook his head, almost imperceptibly.
Oswald's calm t
one spoke from behind Beobrand.
"It is time, Beobrand. You must do as was agreed. Speak the words for all to hear."
Beobrand did not turn back to his king.
"Very well, Oswald King," he said, his words clipped like knappings of flint.
Beobrand took a deep breath and spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by all present. Mercians and Northumbrians quietened in their ranks to listen to the words this huge thegn spoke from the centre of the meadow.
"This man, Anhaga, son of Agiefan, broke his oath to me and to our king." The words tasted like ash in his mouth. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was drought-dry. "He raised arms against a man while under oath-truce. All..." he looked to both sides of the field and hesitated. Acennan stared back at him; his bruised features an accusation. The stocky warrior made no indication of recognition.
Beobrand swallowed again against the dust in his mouth. He had done so much that was wrong. Made so many mistakes.
"All," his voice carried to each of the two hundred watching men, "knew the punishment for breaking this peace. The punishment is death. Let all behold justice."
Beobrand looked back to Anhaga. The man's face was pallid as bone beneath the blood, bruises and dirt.
"Make it quick," said Anhaga.
"You should not face death kneeling. Let me help you up."
"I do not think I can stand."
"I will support you."
Beobrand pulled on the wrist restraints and Anhaga staggered up. For a moment, he swayed there, like barley in a breeze. Then Beobrand clutched Anhaga's right arm firmly with his half hand. For a heartbeat, their eyes met one last time. Lord and servant. Ring-giver and steward.
Death-bringer and victim.
Pulling hard on Anhaga's arm, Beobrand pushed the seax forward with the speed of a striking serpent. The blade was well-placed and true. It plunged through clothing, flesh and sinews, ploughing deep into Anhaga's chest. Beobrand felt a judder as the iron nicked a rib, before surging on, between the bones to reach the heart.
Anhaga shuddered. His eyes flared wide, but he did not cry out.
The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) Page 36
