The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

Beobrand gritted his teeth. It would be a sad end to such a fine beast, but he must continue. Seizing the Waelisc king would end the bloodshed that had washed the land with death. This northern kingdom was now his home and he would do all he could to bring peace to it. He gave the stallion its head and the great hooves thundered across the bush-strewn turf.

In the end, Cadwallon's pride in his horsemanship was his undoing.

Beobrand had fallen into a waking reverie. His exhaustion seeped into his bones as the horse's rolling gait rocked his body. Cadwallon drew ever further away. The taste of defeat was in Beobrand's mouth. To come so close, only to see the ruler of the Waelisc escape into the hills to the southwest of the Wall was galling.

Then, as if swallowed by the earth, Cadwallon and his horse disappeared. For a moment Beobrand was unsure what he had witnessed. Cadwallon had been riding easily down a slight slope and then he had gone. Beobrand shook his head, bringing himself fully awake.

He rode on, cautious of some treachery. Perhaps Cadwallon meant to ambush him.

He cantered down the incline and the sound of screaming reached him. But these were not sounds made by man. The hairs on Beobrand's neck prickled. He slowed to a trot. Then the scene became clear.

The slope ended in a burn. Its waters, swollen by the storm, were brown and churning. Cadwallon's horse floundered in the stream. It was on its side, thrashing and screaming. Cadwallon was waist-deep in the water. The scraped furrows in the nearest bank attested to where the horse had skidded. Apparently Cadwallon had thought to leap the burn, but his horse had baulked, slipped and thrown him. Both horse and rider had ended up in the burn. It seemed the horse must have broken a leg for it was moaning pitifully and could not right itself. Its violent thrashing placed Cadwallon in danger of being crushed or kicked.

He waded dazedly out of the brook. He was not kingly now. Loam-smeared and bedraggled, his cloak a sopping rag, he dragged himself out of the mire.

Beobrand pulled his stallion to a halt and in one smooth motion leapt from its back. For a fleeting moment he worried that his horse would run off, leaving him stranded here. But it was on the edge of collapse. It drooped its head, snorting hard and trembling.

Cadwallon dragged his sword from a mud-drenched scabbard and faced Beobrand. His teeth flashed from the dirt-dripping face.

"Well, boy," said Cadwallon, in the tongue of the Angelfolc, "it seems you have finally caught up with me. Just as well for you that my horse was clumsy and had no heart for the jump. You ride like a sack of turnips!"

Pulling Hrunting free from its scabbard, Beobrand stepped forward. The blade was blood-encrusted and dim. He had not stopped to clean it after the battle.

"So, do you mean to kill me, boy?" said Cadwallon. "Do you think the likes of you could best me?"

Beobrand thought of all those who had died as a result of this man's ambition. So much blood. So much death. It would all end today.

"I have killed many men this night, and more before. I have stood before you three times now, though you have not seen me. I stood at Elmet. We broke you at Gefrin, but never have we met on equal terms. As men."

Despite Cadwallon's bluster, Beobrand could see the fear in his eyes. His hand darted up to touch the scar on his cheek where the shard of Scand's blade had scored a deep furrow.

"You are alone now, Cadwallon. You have no retinue. No hearth warriors to cower behind."

"Very well, Seaxon. We will end this here. I will kill you, take your horse and as you die know this: Cadwallon ap Cadfan will kill every last one of your goat-swiving race."

Cadwallon leapt forward. He was skilled with a blade, and the suddenness of the attack took Beobrand off guard. He took a step back, leaning away from the swing that would have taken his head from his shoulders.

Neither man carried a shield and Beobrand was mindful of Hrunting's fine blade. It was already nicked and chipped from the battle, and he would save it more damage if possible. Taking another couple of quick steps backwards, Beobrand drew Cadwallon in. He watched Cadwallon's feet. He was nimble and skilled. His footwork good. His sword point darted at Beobrand's face. Beobrand was forced to parry and sparks flew from the collision.

Beobrand feinted at Cadwallon's neck, then sent a blow arcing down towards his adversary's leading foot. Cadwallon read the move easily and stepped back lithely.

The king grinned. "You will not beat me. You are a clumsier swordsman than you are a horseman."

It was true that Cadwallon was skillful and strong. It was his hubris that was his greatest weakness.

Beobrand kept his face impassive. A mask of concentration.

Cadwallon sent a flurry of attacks at him. He parried them all, but allowed himself to be forced back, on the defensive.

Another thrust swatted away as Beobrand took a further pace backwards.

Then, seeing his opportunity to strike the killing blow, Cadwallon sprang forward, sure that his sword would find the Seaxon's throat.

But Beobrand was no longer there. He deflected the probing blade and stepped inside Cadwallon's reach. With all his weight and height behind the blow, Beobrand hammered Hrunting's pommel into the Waelisc king's face.

Teeth shattered. Lips ripped and blood burst forth in a crimson bloom. Cadwallon's knees buckled. He staggered, and fell to the earth.

Beobrand kicked the sword from Cadwallon's limp fingers.

"I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, and you would do well to fear me and my race."

"Go on then, kill me, you Seaxon scum," spat Cadwallon. Blood dribbled down his chin.

"No."

Confusion in Cadwallon's eyes. A glimmer of hope?

"Never fear. You will die. But your death belongs to another."

With that Beobrand stepped close to Cadwallon's kneeling form and thundered another blow with Hrunting's pommel into the blood-streaked face of the King of Gwynedd.

CHAPTER 6

The sun was high in the sky and past its zenith when Beobrand rode wearily into the remnants of the Waelisc camp. The clouds had scattered on a brisk wind and the day was bright. The black stallion plodded under the weight of two men. It was as tired as Beobrand, but still held its head proudly. Beobrand patted its neck and whispered soft words of encouragement to the horse. It was a fine beast.

Cadwallon sprawled over the horse's broad back.

It had been a struggle to get the unconscious king up onto the horse, but Beobrand had stripped him of his armour and then manhandled him up. Like a sack of turnips. The irony was not lost on him and he'd smiled grimly to himself despite the exertion. He'd used strips of the red cloak to bind him hand and foot. Cadwallon had begun to moan, just as Beobrand was passing a strip of cloth under the horse's belly tying his wrists and ankles together. The steed had grown skittish then. Nervous of the noisy, restless burden. It was already spooked by the crying of the fallen horse in the burn. The injured horse had finally managed to right itself, but could not climb up the bank out of the water. Its right foreleg was broken. It hung limp and pathetic. The once noble mount limped and staggered away down the course of the stream. Beobrand let it go.

He stroked the stallion's flank. Its trembling subsided.

"This is no way for a king to ride," said Cadwallon. His words were slurred from the broken teeth. He spat blood onto the turf.

"You are no longer a king. You have been defeated. But you will keep your mouth closed or I will bind it shut." He had contemplated letting Cadwallon ride seated before him, but the chance for the king to cause mischief and escape was too great.

Cadwallon glared at him. His eyes were sharp and bright with hatred. They glowered from the mask of mud and blood that caked his face. But he kept silent.

They had ridden back at a slower pace. They saw groups of men, but none threatened them. They all seemed content to slink away. They wanted nothing to do with the mounted warrior, clad in fine metal-knit shirt and polished helm. The armour, weapons and mount were all of great value, but to confront such a strong opponent would require organisation and bravery. The ragged men they saw were clearly broken. Death had come in the night for them and they had survived. Their eyes were hollow. They had seen the end of the glory days of their people. They had been broken by iron and steel. And all the while lightning had flashed and the gods themselves laughed in the heavens. They had been abandoned by their king at the end, as well as the gods. The signs were there for all to see.

This new king of Bernicia had divine favour. Now was his time.

And so the survivors from Cadwallon's invincible warhost fled south and west. They never stopped and posed no threat to Beobrand.

The encampment was not a place of celebration, despite the victory. Ravens and crows circled already. The carrion birds helped guide Beobrand back to the place of battle. The corpses of the Waelisc had been systematically stripped of all valuables. Clothes, shoes, belts, hats, pouches, as well as weapons and armour, were all taken, unless damaged beyond any chance of repair. The fish-pallid bodies were heaped together at the south of the encampment, downwind of the Bernician host. The whole area stank like a midden pit. The charnel miasma of spilt bowels, congealed blood and vomit, hung like doom over the battlefield.

All of Oswald's force wished to leave this place of death. The night had been filled with terrors that were too recent to be forgotten. In the bodies of their enemies and their own dead they saw themselves. No man knew why the spear thrust found his friend's neck but spared him. Why one shield breaks, allowing a killing blow through, while another board remains whole. Why does a metal shirt choose that moment to fail, allowing the bite of a sword between the ribs? It is madness to think of these things, yet every warrior who survives a conflict ponders the imponderable. Why should it be that he lives while so many died?

Later they would drink and feast. The horrors of the shieldwall in that thunder-rent, scream-laden night would fade, the way dreams fracture and disappear on waking, like gossamer webs brushed aside from a forest path. In the light and warmth of the fire glow, with the heat of mead in their bellies, they would tell tales of the battle. They would sing of their dead. Praise their valour and talk of their own prowess and exploits.

But now was not the time for song. Now men wished to be gone from this place that reminded them of how they had killed. How they had lived to see the light of day because that was their wyrd. They lived when all around them was death and for that they were glad.

But they could not be happy for it yet.

They waited, for that was what their king ordered. They waited to see whether the young warrior from Cantware would return. Would he bring back the king of the Waelisc; the man whose name struck terror into all the inhabitants of Deira and Bernicia?

They waited to discover whether the head of the serpent had been severed.

Upward-turned faces stared as Beobrand and Cadwallon rode slowly through the camp. Some men seemed not to notice the identity of Beobrand's prisoner. Perhaps they were too exhausted to understand. Or care.

But others roused themselves from where they sat or lay and followed the stallion on its plodding path. By the time Beobrand reached the leather tent at the centre of the camp, there was quite a procession in his wake.

Someone called out from the crowd, "Is that Cadwallon?" Beobrand ignored the voice and continued until he was in front of Oswald's wooden cross standard. It was much smaller than the tree structure that stood at Hefenfelth, but it was clearly the same symbol of the Christ god.

Oswald stood beneath the standard. He looked every part the noble warlord. His hair was sleek and brushed. His clothes had been cleaned and his purple cloak hung elegantly over his left shoulder. His byrnie gleamed and his silver-crowned helm shone in the afternoon light.

Beobrand blinked the sleep from his eyes. He looked around and saw that all eyes were on him. The faces were expectant. Eager. He spied the rounded features of his friend, Acennan, and his spirits lifted to see him well. Yet a needle of uncertainty pricked him. Acennan did not return his smile, but glowered from beneath sullen eyebrows. Surely he must be as tired as Beobrand. No wonder he was not happy. They had all been awake for two days with a march and a battle in that time.

Beobrand looked back to Oswald. The king was scowling. It would be wise to break the silence. The watchers knew not of what had befallen him and the king of the Waelisc.

He dismounted. Careful not to lose his balance. His legs quivered but he kept upright with an effort. Moving swiftly Beobrand drew his seax and sliced the bonds that held Cadwallon to the horse. He pulled him down, giving him a push as his feet touched the ground, sending the king sprawling to the mud.

A smattering of laughter from the onlookers. A stern look from Oswald. He clearly was not a man accustomed to being kept waiting.

Beobrand cleared his throat. "Oswald King, I bring you your enemy and the slayer of your brother, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith." He looked down and saw that Cadwallon, his ankles and wrists still tied, could not easily rise from a kneeling position. He was muddy, bedraggled, bloody and beaten. "Kneeling before you is Cadwallon ap Cadfan, King of Gwynedd."