The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (16 page)

"A worthy name for a worthy mount. And there is more."

The crowd stilled.

"You are not from this land. I know what it is not to belong. For many long years I was exiled. But I have returned. And you have helped me reclaim that which has always been my right. When you brought Cadwallon to me, you brought me what was most precious. Vengeance and peace for my kingdom and my people."

A riot of noise. Oswald held out his hands for quiet.

"It seems to me that in Bernicia you have found your rightful home. From this day forth, you will be considered a thegn of Bernicia. I bestow upon you the estate of Ubbanford. Ubba and both his sons fell against Cadwallon. Ubbanford is fertile land. Good fishing. But it needs a strong man to govern it. It is yours, but you will see that Ubba's widow and daughter receive their fair share of the spoils of battle. They have lost their men for me, they will not want for comfort in this life."

The men hoomed in their throats and hammered on tables at these words. Oswald was truly a good king.

At last Beobrand looked at Oswald's face. The king smiled. He leant towards Beobrand and spoke close to him. No other would hear the words over the cacophony of the hall.

"You brought me victory, Beobrand. Victory and Cadwallon's head. You gave me both and I thank you. Now give me your oath and take your prize."

Beobrand recited the oath. He could barely hear the words over the raucous cheering from the throng.

Twice before he had said the oath. Both those lords were dead. Could he have done more to protect them? To keep them from harm? He knew not. But he knew that this new king of Bernicia, a servant of the Christ, had given him more than he could ever have hoped for.

For too long he had yearned to find his place. Now that place had a name.

Ubbanford. His mind swam with possibilities.

He stood and bowed to Oswald.

Turning, he saw Sunniva's wide-eyed look of amazement. He allowed himself to believe what he had heard.

He would wed the most beautiful woman in the land of Bernicia. His land.

And he would wed her at a place called Ubbanford. He had no idea where it was or what it was like, but he knew the most important thing about Ubbanford.

It was his.

And he would make it their home.

CHAPTER 8

The sand squelched under Coenred's bare feet. His weight made the water ooze out between his toes. Around his footprints the brine bubbled. He looked back and saw his dried-sand steps leading back to the beach. The mighty crag of Bebbanburg rose in the distance, its presence looming like a sentinel.

He turned to face the direction they were heading. The wind whipped across the wet sand. His eyes watered. All around them wader birds pecked and chirruped as they probed and prodded the ground for morsels of food.

Before them lay the island of Lindisfarena. It was a low, grassy expanse above pale sand. Beyond it lay the dark distances of the North Sea. The Whale Road.

Lindisfarena was windswept. Exposed to the crashing tides. It would be a cold haven in winter.

It was home to birds and seals. There was a small settlement there; ceorls who eked out a life from the sandy soil.

And now it would be home to Coenred.

"Watch where you walk, lad," said the man who led them. He was hunched and bent, like a tree that had grown under the strong winds of Lindisfarena. "Follow my steps. If you stray from the safe path, you can be swallowed up by the sands like a fish gobbles up a maggot." The man's voice was thick. His accent so heavy that Coenred could barely make out his meaning. The man looked at the confused expression on the monk's face and chortled to himself.

"You'll be safe with me," he said. He walked on.

"Wait," said Coenred. "The abbot cannot walk so fast." Fearghas was already some way behind them. Surrounded by the other monks, the elderly abbot shuffled along with the aid of a staff and a hand on the shoulder of Dalston, a pimply youth.

Since they had left Engelmynster to the Waelisc, the abbot had seemed to lose his grip on life. He was old, his hair wispy white, yet he had always seemed hale. The destruction of all he had built in Deira had weakened him. He had begun to look frail. The hard march northward had left him exhausted. Coenred had started to fear the worst.

How would he live without the old abbot? The man had taken him in. Taught him. Cared for him. Given his life purpose. Shown him the way of Christ.

Coenred had been gladdened to see the change in Fearghas when they had met King Oswald on the road and then later at Bebbanburg. The king had been exiled at Hii and Fearghas had known him as a youth.

"Christ is coming to Bernicia, Coenred," Fearghas had said, as Oswald had marched south to confront Cadwallon. "Oswald will be victorious by the grace of God and he will see that the one true faith is followed. He is a believer."

That Fearghas was liked by Oswald was clear. On his triumphant return the king had sought out the old abbot. They had prayed together. Then they had conversed for some time in hushed tones.

"He wishes us to build a monastery," Fearghas had said once Oswald had left. "Just like on Hii. A holy place of solitude from where we can pray and follow the Regula. He has given the island of Lindisfarena to God."

Coenred watched Fearghas now as he tottered across the sand. They could have been taken over by boat at high tide, or ridden over the sands. Oswald would have supplied horses. But Fearghas would not hear of it.

"I wish to walk across the sands that are washed clean every day by the waters of the sea, as the soul is washed in the blood of Christ. It is fitting that the island is baptised each day by the ocean. Lindisfarena is a marvel of the Lord."

Coenred looked at the sea in the distance and recalled the view from Bebbanburg earlier that morning. Then, the sea had covered the sand where now they walked. How could they know that the waves would not come rolling back around and fill the sand-flat between Lindisfarena and the mainland of Albion? They would surely perish. They were a long way from either the beach behind or the island before them.

"Are you sure it is safe?" he asked the islander, who acted as their guide.

The man laughed again. "As safe as safe can be," he said. "The waters won't return for a long while yet. Never you fear. You will come to know the ways of the sea and the sand, like a man knows his goodwife's rump." He cackled at his own wit.

Coenred blushed. The mention of a woman's body reminded him of the devil-sent dream. He had awoken that morning with his rod swollen and throbbing with desire. He had dreamt of the fair-haired beauty from the hall. She was Beobrand's woman. In the dream she had been kissing him. Caressing him. Coaxing his body to a feverish state of arousal. Now, though the dream was long gone, he could not get her face, or the curves of her body, out of his mind. He was certain the other monks could guess what he was thinking.

It was wrong to think of her. He had vowed to abstain from temptations of the flesh. How that would be possible with the dreams the devil sent him, he knew not. Much of the time, his body seemed to rule him. He would see a girl, or brush past a woman, only to find himself becoming aroused. The image of Sunniva, with her cascade of golden hair and lithesome body, had lodged in his thoughts like a tick burrows into soft flesh.

He pushed Sunniva from his thoughts with difficulty. Fearghas and the others had almost caught up. He pressed on, not wishing to talk with them.

He cast his mind back to the previous evening.

It had been good to see Beobrand. He truly was blessed. Or lucky. He was successful in battle. Had the love of the fairest woman and had found favour with the king.

It had come as a surprise when Fearghas had asked Coenred to read the gift-list. Gothfraidh, who had scribed the list, had been taken ill with a fever, and Oswald had asked Fearghas to step in. The elderly abbot had decided he would not be strong enough to stand for so long. So Coenred was appointed to the task.

"It is an opportunity to see a great king at work," Fearghas had said. "Do your job well and heed what is said in the hall. Many great men will be there."

Coenred had been nervous. It was a daunting prospect to stand by the gift-stool. The focus of every eye in the great hall had been on him and the king.

Oswald, sensing his nerves, had spoken to him before the gift-giving began. "You have nothing to fear, young Coenred. Wise old Fearghas has faith in your abilities. I trust in his judgement. And so should you."

Coenred had nodded, flushed with pride. But was unable to reply, so dry was his mouth.

Oswald had passed him a decorated horn filled with mead.

"Wet your lips, boy. You will be talking for some time."

He'd taken a sip, feeling the sweet drink soften his throat. And blunt his nerves.

"Come on, boy," croaked the islander, bringing him back to the present. "When the sea decides to come back and drown these sands, it comes as fast as a galloping horse, so it does."

Coenred ran towards the man with a start. He darted a look over his shoulder to where Fearghas and the others still walked at a sedate pace.

The guide guffawed and slapped him on the back. "It is true that the sea rolls in quick. But not yet." He turned back and walked the last stretch of sand up onto the dry beach of Lindisfarena. He giggled to himself all the way.

Coenred frowned. He looked forward to the day that he knew the safe path himself. He did not relish the idea of walking this way again with the crooked islander man. Despite knowing that the man was jesting at his expense, he quickly followed him onto the island. You could never be too safe.

He breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't realised how tense he had been to be walking on the seafloor.

The wind whipped the hair that hung round the back of his head, as he watched the other monks approach. The wide open space was very different from the monastery in the forest that had been his home for the last few years.

Abbot Feaghas and the others joined them on the shore. Fearghas held out his hands.

"My brothers in Christ. We have all suffered trials in the last weeks. God has tested us. But with His grace we have prevailed over adversities. King Oswald is a good king. A Christ-loving king. And he has gifted Lindisfarena to God and to His work. Engelmynster is no more. We must pray each day for the souls of those who fell protecting us."

Coenred thought of Alric and the other men who had stood in a puny shieldwall against the Waelisc warriors.

Fearghas continued: "But God has provided us with a new sanctuary. We are no strangers to hard work. Saint Benedict taught that 'idleness is the enemy of the soul'. Now we must work harder than ever. Let us go forth and build a monastery before the winter is upon us. Let us turn this island of Lindisfarena into a Holy Island. Now, we shall recite the Pater Noster to bless this place."

The holy men lowered their heads to pray. As they chanted the familiar words of the prayer, Coenred looked about him.

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis:sanctificetur Nomen Tuum"

The scrub and grassland stretched over a low rise. Gulls cavorted in the strong winds above the monks' bowed heads.

"Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie; et dimitte nobis debita nostra"

The islander looked perplexed. Scared of the dark-robed, chanting clerics.

He would come to understand that the Christ is a god of love. As would the other islanders.

"sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris;"

Coenred did not welcome the idea of hard work. But standing there, surrounded by men and boys who were his only family now, he was suddenly struck by a strange feeling.

"et ne nos inducas in tentationem; sed libera nos a Malo."

With the last familiar words of the Lord's prayer still warm on his lips, Coenred realised how this island made him feel.

He had never been to this place before. And yet he felt like he belonged.

Like he was coming home.

Beobrand roused himself from the blankets and cloaks where he lay with Sunniva. His head was tender. His mouth dry. It had been the best of feasts. Woden's hall, crowded with mighty fallen warriors and gods, could be little better.

He rose and pulled on his kirtle and britches, careful not to waken Sunniva. Pale light filtered from small windows. A dim dusty ray illuminated the curve of her breast.

His mind returned to the events of the previous day. Reunited with Sunniva, they had coupled ferociously. His mouth curled in a private smile as he recalled the feel of her. The scent of her hair. The weight of her body pressing on his. Being held firmly inside her. He could imagine no greater feeling.

And then the feast and the gift-giving. He had never believed he would receive such honours from King Oswald. Land. A horse. Riches. It was the stuff of dreams.

He pulled aside the partition and made his way stealthily out of the building. He was not the only one awake, but many still slept. It had been a long night. And the mead had flowed.