The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (24 page)

Sunniva handed him the trencher of meat. The smell of the oozing beef made his mouth fill with liquid.

But he had barely taken a single bite when a commotion at the end of the hall drew his attention. The doors swung open. The door wards entered with a third man between them. A hush fell on the gathering again, as everyone turned to see who had come.

Beobrand stood quickly. Upsetting his drinking horn and spilling its contents. Were Nathair and his sons seeking vengeance?

"Who comes to my hall in the dark of night?" Beobrand asked, his face and voice stern.

The man bowed and pushed back his cloak to show he was unarmed.

"I bring a message from Oswald King for Beobrand of Ubbanford."

"I am Beobrand."

"You are to come to Bebbanburg with all haste."

CHAPTER 12

Beobrand and Acennan rode into the courtyard of Bebbanburg through a driving rain. The sea below the fortress was a turmoil of white and grey. There were no ships abroad on the foam-flecked waves. The clouds were low above them. The gloom and the rain made the place seem somehow smaller. None of the islands were visible and the land to the west was veiled.

Bebbanburg was less crowded than when they had left, and those who still resided there would not venture out on such a day unless they had no choice. The messenger who rode with them announced Beobrand and Acennan at the lower gate. He was clearly well-known to the gate-wardens who waved the three bedraggled riders past with scarcely a glance.

Once inside they dismounted and led their mounts to the stables. There they found the hostler and stable boys playing tafl. They jumped up as Beobrand and the others clattered into the building.

"Hope we're not disturbing you," said Acennan.

"No, lord," replied the hostler. His eyes darted, his gaze never seeming to find what he was looking for.

"Do not fear. Anhaga is not here," said Beobrand. "But I will beat you myself, if you raise your hand to Sceadugenga."

The black stallion showed the hostler the whites of his eyes and snorted.

"Yes, lord. Sorry, lord." The man rushed to take the reins from Beobrand. "I'll have this fine steed rubbed down and fed soon enough. He'll be well-cared for."

"Make sure he is." Beobrand fixed him with an unflinching stare. The hostler averted his eyes quickly and turned to the stable hands.

"Look lively now, you lazy good for nothing whoresons," he screeched. The horses flinched.

"Charming man," Acennan said as they walked to the king's hall. "Reminds me of my father," he chuckled.

Beobrand gave Acennan a sour look. "Reminds me of mine too. If he is not careful, he will end up like him."

They gave up their weapons at the door of the hall. Their cloaks were sodden and dripping, so they removed those too and handed them to the door wards who seemed unsure of what to do with them.

Inside was the familiar scene of a lord's gesithas at their rest. Small groups of men talked and played games in different parts of the hall. They looked up as Beobrand and Acennan stepped into the smoky darkness. Little light oozed through the small windows. Embers glowed dimly on the hearthstone.

They made their way to the central hearth, eager to warm themselves after the cold wet journey from Ubbanford. Beobrand picked up a couple of sizable logs from the pile near the hearth. He tossed them onto the embers with a spray of sparks and a sudden flare of light.

"Always one to make a grand entrance," said a familiar voice behind him.

Beobrand spun around to see Wybert lounging on a bench. His legs were outstretched to the fire. A cup nestled in his hand. He was changed somehow from when Beobrand had seen him last. More confident, perhaps even more belligerent. Maybe ale made him bold.

"Well met, Wybert," Beobrand said. "I trust you are well."

Wybert frowned. "I would be better if I did not have to see your face again." Wybert stood unsteadily and lurched towards Beobrand.

Beobrand readied himself for an assault, but it did not come. Wybert tottered to a halt and hawked phlegm into the fire. Mead sloshed from the cup he still held.

"It is not by choice that I am here, Wybert. The king has called me hither."

Wybert spat again. "Of course. The great Beobrand has been called by the king. What makes you of such import? Why do the gods smile upon you when they piss on the rest of us?" Wybert staggered towards Beobrand. "You should have died back in Engelmynster. Then none of this would have come to pass." Beobrand held out his hands to stop Wybert from falling into the fire. "Don't you touch me!" screamed Wybert. "I will kill you!"

All talk and play in the hall had stopped. Men stood. Some moved closer.

Beobrand shoved Wybert away. "Do not make such threats, Wybert. I did not kill Leofwine. I loved him and I loved your father too. I do not wish to have your blood on my hands. Do not force my hand. You are no warrior to stand against me."

"No warrior? My arms are strong. My spear sharp. I can kill you as easily as any man." Spittle flew from Wybert's lips.

"Wybert, sit down!" Another voice. Beobrand looked into the gloom of the hall and saw the formidable bulk of Athelstan striding between the benches and watching men. "Be seated, Wybert. You are not yourself."

Wybert seemed to shrink. He glanced at Athelstan and mumbled something. He turned from Beobrand and found a bench.

"I would thank you not to pay heed to Wybert," Athelstan picked up a drinking horn and tossed out the contents onto the hearth. A hissing cloud of mead made Acennan cough. "He can fight well enough," Athelstan continued, filling the horn with fresh mead and offering it to Beobrand, "in fact, he shows some skill in training. But he cannot hold his mead and keep his mouth shut."

Beobrand accepted the horn and took a swig. The sweet liquid warmed his throat.

"Not holding his drink, eh?" said Beobrand, with a twisted mirthless smile. "Seems to be a common complaint."

Athelstan frowned, but chose not to react to the jibe.

"So, you have seen Wybert train?" Beobrand continued.

"Aye, he is one of my gesithas now. He will make a fine spear-man."

"Yes, he has seen me practise with shield, spear and seax," Wybert slurred. "Athelstan knows my worth."

Athelstan rounded on the young man. "Speak no more, Wybert! If you say one more word, I will beat you into stillness myself. Leave us now."

Wybert rose abruptly to his feet. For a moment, Beobrand thought he would attack Athelstan. But then Wybert said, "Sorry, my lord," and turned to leave.

"What have we here? The good thegns of Bernicia bickering and squabbling like puppies fighting over scraps." All eyes turned to the new speaker. Beobrand recognised the soft voice that carried so well even before he saw Oswald stepping down from the raised platform at the end of the hall.

"I would not have you fight each other," Oswald said. "We have enemies enough as it is."

Beobrand thought it best not to speak, so he merely bowed his head. Athelstan did the same.

"Now, both of you, join me at the high table. I would speak with you of things that are afoot. Errands you must perform."

"Of course, Oswald King," Beobrand managed. Ignoring Wybert, he walked with Athelstan to the king's table.

Beobrand recognised all those seated at the table. The bearded Derian flashed his teeth at him. "Good to see you, boy," he said.

Next to Derian sat the king's brother, Oswiu. He was grave and sombre. Unsmiling. He did not acknowledge Beobrand, but gave Athelstan a slight nod. On the other side of the board sat the person Beobrand least expected to see. Coenred looked out of place surrounded by such strong, powerful men. His forehead had been recently shaved, and his hair at the back had grown. The style was that worn by the other Christ monks. The result was that he looked older, somehow more serious. Coenred gave Beobrand a small, nervous smile.

At Coenred's side sat an older monk, Gothfraidh, who Beobrand remembered from Cadwallon's execution.

Oswald sat at the head of the table. Beobrand and Athelstan seated themselves opposite each other. Athelstan next to Oswiu, Beobrand squeezed on the bench next to Coenred. Beobrand's clothes steamed gently in the warmth of the hall.

"I see the elements did not treat you well on the journey, Beobrand. Soon you can dry your clothes and fill your belly. First I would talk to you. I am glad you are both here," Oswald said. He fixed them both with a withering look. "I have missions for you."

Beobrand wondered what mission the king could have for him. But he said nothing.

Oswald spoke in a soft voice that would not be heard by the other men lounging in the hall. Beobrand glanced over his shoulder and saw that Acennan had sat at a bench and appeared to have joined in a game of knucklebones. Beobrand had seen him play before and knew his large hands and cat-like speed made him a formidable opponent.

"Cadwallon's death has brought us peace, but other wolves are drawing closer. They know we are weakened. We cannot field a fyrd strong enough to defend the land from the likes of Penda of Mercia. We must strengthen our position.

"I plan to ride south, into Deira. There I will make clear my claim to the throne of that land by virtue of my mother's blood. Freeing Deira from the yoke of Cadwallon will give my claim added weight. A unified Northumbria brings power. Strength together."

Beobrand had never been party to the schemes of kings before. He was filled with awe. The man's self-belief and vision were inspiring.

Oswald continued, his eyes ablaze with the plans he was laying out before them.

"But that will not be enough. Not if I am to be Bretwalda. High King of Albion. I will be the Christian king that Edwin never was. But for that, I will need more allies. Athelstan, you will ride south, taking messages first to Penda, and then to Cynegils of Wessex."

"The roads will be difficult. The rivers swollen," Athelstan said. "Snow will be on us soon. Such a trip would be best undertaken after the winter snows have thawed."

"You are right. The journey will be difficult and spring would make for easier travelling, but I cannot wait for spring. Penda will not sit idle. You can be sure of that. No, I must move now and both you and Beobrand will travel in winter, difficult as that may be."

Beobrand took a sip of mead from the drinking horn to wet his lips and spoke for the first time. "Am I not to travel with Athelstan, lord king?"

"No, young Beobrand. Athelstan rides south. Your journey will be into the north. Through the lands of the Picts and into Dál Riata."

Beobrand's mouth went dry. He had heard tell of the northern lands beyond Bernicia. Wild expanses of mountains and lakes, filled with native savages who painted themselves with woad and fought naked. What could Oswald want from that northern wilderness?

"You," Oswald said, with a smile, "will follow my brother, Oswiu, into the north, to the sacred isle of Hii. And you will bring me back a bishop."

CHAPTER 13

As if to remind them of the folly of their decision to travel as the year grew old, the rain continued to beat down following the meeting with the king in Bebbanburg. Preparations for the trip were made quickly and after only a day of warmth and dry they were ready to set off north.

Beobrand avoided Wybert. The man had never liked him and no good would come of their meeting. Instead, while thralls packed food and clothes for Oswiu and his retinue, Beobrand and Acennan spent most of their time playing knucklebones with the men they would soon travel with. Acennan knew all of Oswiu's gesithas. They had spent time together in exile with the sons of Æthelfrith. He had fought alongside most of them in Hibernia. He was well-liked amongst them. Beobrand was known to them. His battle-fame was already the thing of tales. They accepted him as one of them. A killer, despite his youth.

At first Beobrand had been unclear why he, of all the thegns who served Oswald, had been chosen to accompany those travelling to Hii. That was until he found a moment to talk to Coenred. They shared a loaf and some cheese in a secluded corner of the hall.

"It is good to see you, Coenred," Beobrand said, wiping ale from his lips with the back of his hand. "I swear on Thunor's hammer you have grown since last we met. But I do not comprehend why Oswald King sends me north in search of a bishop, whatever that is."

Coenred look into his ale cup for a time. When he looked up, his eyes glimmered, wet with tears.

"Abbot Fearghas died," he said.

"Oh. I am sorry. He was a good man." Fearghas had been there for Beobrand when he most needed help. He had allowed Beobrand time to recover in his monastery, despite his presence there putting his brethren at risk. Beobrand sighed. Another good man dead. "But I still do not understand. Why send me north? And what is a bishop?"

"It is a leader of the Christ church," answered Coenred. "A kind of priest."

Beobrand shook his head. "You followers of the Christ have too many names for priests."