The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (22 page)

"Enough!" shouted Beobrand. Sceadugenga started and shook his mane. "Is this not the land of Bernicia? Then your king now is Oswald. He is returned from exile and he has defeated Cadwallon. Go to Bebbanburg and swear your oath to Oswald. He is your lord, or this is not your land." He let the threat hang in the air.

Nathair opened his mouth as if to speak and then thought better of it. He was pale. With fear or anger, Beobrand could not tell. His son did not meet Beobrand's gaze. His knuckles were white on the axe-haft. The dark eyes of the thin man on the other side of Nathair did not flinch. There was a cunning there. And a malice. But above all, there was hate. By Woden, he hoped that they would listen to his words.

"I have said that which I came to say," said Beobrand "Heed my words. Do not provoke me."

Beobrand pulled hard on his reins, swinging Sceadugenga's head to the left. Acennan followed him.

His gesithas parted to allow them to pass, then turned and followed Beobrand and Acennan out of the settlement.

When they had clumped across the boards over the stream, Acennan turned to Beobrand. "That went well," he said with a broad smile on his lips.

In Ubbanford the building of new homes continued. The weather remained dry, but a chill seeped into the valley, reminding them all that winter was on its way. Each day the people of Ubbanford, both newly-arrived and old inhabitants alike, set to the work needed to provide shelter and food over the coming months. Lumber was brought from the forest, while the children and women foraged for mushrooms and acorns. Fish and eels from the river were smoked over wooden frames. The high field was ploughed and winter barley sown. New friendships were forged with the sweat of hard labour as men and women pushed themselves to have all the preparations ready by the first frosts and snows they knew would come.

The mornings were dank and misty. The wide river that ran to the north of the settlement was often fog-cloaked. The weak winter sun struggled to burn away the mists, but by the afternoons, the sky was clear. They knew the still weather would not hold for long. Blotmonath approached, with the slaughter of livestock. And as sure as salmon swim up the Tuidi, winter storms would come.

The sound of hammer on anvil rang out. More piercing than the dull thuds of wooden mallets being used in the construction of buildings. Beobrand smiled at the sound. Sunniva had been overjoyed to find that there was a working forge in Ubbanford. But the realisation had been tainted when Rowena had told them that Ahebban, the man killed by Aengus, had been Ubbanford's smith. Rowena was shocked when Sunniva offered to work the forge.

"Surely you do not have the skill or the strength," she had blurted out. Then, seeing the look on Sunniva's face, she had quickly changed course. "I mean no offence, but I have never heard of a lady who can work metal."

Sunniva had smiled. "I do not have my father's skill, or strength, but I assure you I can wield the hammer and work iron as well as most smiths. It will be good to be useful."

To her credit, Rowena had recovered her poise quickly. Turning to her daughter, she asked, "Edlyn dearest, would you like Lady Sunniva to teach you?" Edlyn had remained shy and solemn since their arrival, but she was clearly entranced by Sunniva and was never far from her. Finding out that the beautiful lady she admired could also perform work traditionally carried out by men, only made her more admirable in Edlyn's eyes.

"Oh yes, please, mother," she had replied, her eyes aglow with the promise of spending time with Sunniva and learning something special.

And so it was that Beobrand found Sunniva and Edlyn at the forge. He stood for a while, watching their progress. Both had their hair tied back safely away from the sparks and fire. Sunniva lifted a piece of metal from the anvil and doused it in a bucket. The water hissed and steamed angrily. Edlyn said something that he couldn't make out. Sunniva laughed. It was the best of sounds. To see Sunniva happy brought him great joy.

Anxiety at his new responsibility gnawed at him. Had he been right to go to Nathair? He felt it was the right thing to do, but he was worried that perhaps he had stirred more air into the coals of the Pict's hatred for his son's slayer. Acennan had said he thought Beobrand could not have done differently. After all, Beobrand was a sworn thegn of Oswald now. And the Picts must also swear their oath to the new king.

"They will not want more bloodshed," he had said. "They'll leave us alone now. Like a beaten dog."

Beobrand hoped his friend had the truth of it. Some beaten dogs turn mean. And bite.

But so far they had seen no more of Nathair or his sons. Ubbanford was peaceful apart from the constant noise of activity.

Sunniva saw him standing lost in his thoughts.

"Well, my lord, to what do we owe the honour of your visit to our lowly smithy?" she said. She went to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Edlyn giggled.

Beobrand grinned. He could not be anxious in the face of such cheery beauty.

"The two of you shine brighter than the sparks that fly from the iron you work," he said. Edlyn blushed. Sunniva raised an eyebrow and stepped in close. She whispered in his ear, her breath hot against his cheek, "And do I stoke your fire too?"

Beobrand flushed. By all the gods, Sunniva was as alluring as Frige herself! He knew not how to respond with young Edlyn looking on.

"We shall see later," he answered at last. Sunniva winked at him impudently. He felt himself stirring. He forced himself to focus on the reason for coming to the forge. "I came with a message from Lady Rowena. We have decided that there will be a feast two days hence. We will make the Blotmonath sacrifice and then celebrate."

"A feast," said Edlyn, her voice flat. "To celebrate what?"

All the joy and humour was gone in an instant, like spit on the forge fire. The girl had just lost her father and brothers. He could understand why she felt little inclination to be festive. Beobrand frowned, angry at himself. What could he say?

Sunniva came to his rescue. She turned to Edlyn and placed a hand upon her shoulder.

"It has been a year of much sadness for us all, Edlyn. We have all lost loved ones." Sunniva's eyes brimmed with tears, a reflection of Edlyn's own tear-filled gaze. "But there is much to celebrate. We celebrate that we still live. Beobrand and I wish to celebrate our handfasting with all of you. And we also wish to give thanks that we have found such good friends as you. Will you not join us in the feast? We would not be able to find joy without you there."

Edlyn rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands.

"Of course I will join the feast, Sunniva," Edlyn said at last. She sniffed.

"Good. Your mother, you and I will spend this evening planning and preparing what we shall wear. It will be a welcome diversion." Sunniva met Beobrand's gaze again. He nodded his thanks.

She had such an easy way with Edlyn. And with the smaller children of Ubbanford.

In two days they would celebrate the harvest of the land, make sacrifice for Blotmonath and celebrate their handfasting.

Sunniva loved children. Perhaps Frige would bless them with a child soon. They certainly ploughed that furrow often enough. Would their wyrd bring them a child? A strong boy as Sunniva had promised him?

Now that would be something worthy of a feast.

CHAPTER 11

The smoke from the pile of wood billowed. The damp wood spat and guttered angrily. Sunniva blinked as the acrid clouds wafted into her eyes. She would have thought that she would no longer cry when standing near a fire, having worked at the forge all her life. Yet still the slightest hint of smoke and her eyes streamed. And this was not even a fire worth speaking of. There was wood aplenty, but it was wet and refused to take. She should have been asked to stack the woodpile. She would not have allowed this to happen. To allow the fire not to light. To do so would be to show that the gods had turned their faces from Ubbanford.

This was the Blotmonath sacrifice. There was always a fire, the flames taking the sacrifice to the gods. The sacrificial oxen's blood lifted to Woden's corpse hall as a smoke-gift.

The sun had set, an afterglow in the west showing where it had fallen beyond the horizon. The fire should have been ablaze by now.

Sunniva shivered. All around her stood the residents of Ubbanford. They awaited the sacrifice. And the fire. More smoke churned out of the wet fuel. A sudden downpour had soaked the wood shortly before they had gathered here. Everything else was ready for the feast. They all wore their finest clothes. The men had combed their moustaches, and polished their warrior rings, those that had them. The women wore such jewels as they possessed. Some had woven dried flowers into their hair.

Now here they all stood., unable to complete the ritual of Blotmonath.

It was a bad omen.

The gloaming grew closer in the valley. The ox that was tethered to a post, lowed pitifully, as if it knew its fate.

Yet still the wood smoked and spluttered. A mere splash of the ox's lifeblood would snuff out what sparks there were.

The people fidgeted nervously. They looked at Beobrand and his gesithas. Cast glances at Sunniva. These outsiders had brought ill fortune to their hamlet, those faces said.

The wind came as sudden as a bad dream. The trees on the other side of the Tuidi whispered in the distance and then small tongues of flame licked the logs, fanned by the breeze. For a few heartbeats they were all silent, raptly watching the fingers of fire. Then, with a sound partway between a sigh and a cough, the wood erupted into flame.

Sunniva breathed again. She had not been aware that she was holding her breath.

Beobrand turned to her. His face was drawn. He too must have been worried. He smiled briefly, with relief, it seemed to her, then stepped forward to address the small crowd.

The brilliance of the firelight threw the rest of the valley into darkness. It was as if they alone existed on middle earth. The land beyond the fire-glow was hidden in shadows. The sky was a smothering cloak. The flickering light from the flames lit Beobrand's face. His blond hair, reddened by the firelight, blew back from his face. To Sunniva's eyes, he seemed wreathed in fire.

All around, the eyes of the Ubbanford folk glimmered.

"Old and new friends alike, we are gathered here to shed blood. The cold of winter is breathing at our gate. Soon frost and snow will cover the land. As every year, it is custom to slaughter the cattle that will feed us through those long cold months. With this first slaying we pay tribute to the gods. The gods of the earth and of the sky, that they may watch over us in the long dark times until the new year is born."

Sunniva was pleased to see some of the villagers nodding in approbation of Beobrand's words. His youth worried him, she knew. He feared his elders would not respect him. But he spoke well. Men listened. He would be a good hlaford to them. Of that she had no doubt. The ceorls just needed to see it too. They had seen him wield his sword in their defence. Now they would see him in a different light. That of provider and leader of the feast.

Beobrand continued, raising his voice above the crackle of the fire and the rustling trees on the river bank. "I pray to Woden, father of the gods, to watch over us with his one eye and to bring me wisdom. I ask the goddess, Frige, to accept the offering we make here to enrich the soil so that our seeds will grow next year. And I ask Thunor to cast his hammer on others this winter and to leave us be."

One of the older men hoomed deep in his throat.

Beobrand pulled his seax from his belt sheath and stepped towards the ox. The beast rolled its eyes.

Acennan and Anhaga gripped the animal's horns, holding its head steady. As befitted her rank, Lady Rowena approached with a large earthenware bowl. The world beyond the firelight was black now. There was nothing else. Just the folk, the fire and the sacrifice.

"May the spirits of the valley also smile upon us and take their share of this blood offering," Beobrand said. He plunged his knife deep into the throat of the ox. The beast and the crowd moaned in unison. Hot blood gushed. It splashed and steamed into the bowl. Rowena's hands were soon slick with the stuff.

The bowl was quickly full and Rowena stepped back, allowing others to catch the precious liquid in their own pots and bowls. That blood would be used for puddings, or simply cooked and eaten. One bowl of life was enough for the gods. The people needed its sustenance more.

The ox bent its knees and lowered itself down onto the ground, while the villagers bustled around it. There was laughter and good-natured pushing from some of the children. The blood flow slowed and the beast's life poured from it into the people's vessels. The animal slumped, tongue lolling.

Beobrand and Rowena carried the blood-bowl carefully to the bonfire.

"From the people of Ubbanford to the gods and spirits of the land, water and sky. Accept our sacrifice," Beobrand said in a clear voice. With those words, they tossed the contents of the bowl onto the hottest flames of the fire. Steam and smoke hissed and raged. The stench of burnt meat surrounded them.

They were plunged into almost total darkness as the flames were partially doused. Some of the children screamed out in fear.