The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (27 page)

"In a cave on the coast of Muile. It is not far. The monks will take you tomorrow."

Beobrand stood. Acennan pushed himself up, keeping his eyes fixed on Oswiu all the while.

Beobrand touched his shoulder.

"Well, if we are to face a woman who has the ear of the elder gods tomorrow, we should get some sleep."

Together they walked away leaving Oswiu staring after them, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Acennan.

Beobrand opened his eyes from where he lay near to his friend. The embers on the hearthstone cast a dim red glow into the room. Beobrand could just make out Acennan's shape. They were both wrapped in their cloaks against the night chill that seeped into the hall. Acennan's eyes glinted like distant torches on a dark hillside. Beobrand had hoped for some sleep. They had already talked long into the night and he'd thought they were done with this conversation, but clearly Acennan had other ideas.

"We will get the plate and then we can all go home. There is nothing to fear." An edge of frustration crept into his voice. He was tired, and the mention of home brought images of Sunniva to his mind. He wanted to sleep, for in his slumber he sometimes dreamt of her. Though in his experience the more he yearned to see her in his dreams, the less likely Sunniva was to come to him at night. The gods toyed with him, he supposed.

"But why send us?" Acennan continued. "And how could this cunning woman have taken the platter in the first place? There are no women on the island. Did she swim here and back?"

"We have talked of this already. We do not know the answers, nor will we."

Acennan snorted in the gloom. "Well, Oswiu won't tell us, that's for certain. He knows more than he was telling us, mark my words."

"Perchance so," said Beobrand, sighing wearily, "but if he chooses not to tell us, we will never know what he has, or hasn't hidden from us. We both agree that this is unusual, but unless you have devised some way to change the situation, I say we should sleep."

One of the other warriors, closer to the fire, farted loudly, breaking the stillness of the hall.

"I say you should sleep too," said a gruff voice from the darkness. "Stop blathering like goodwives and sleep. Tomorrow you can talk to this woman all you like. You can even ask her how she got her hands on the plate."

Another voice joined the discussion: "Aye, and who knows. She may be a beauty. Here we are, cramped up on an island of Christ monks with not a single cunny between us and you are bleating about having to see a woman. I wonder about you two, I really do."

Laughter rippled through the warriors who were still awake and sober enough to understand.

"He's got a point," said Acennan, a smile in his voice, "we'd better get our rest then. We may need our strength."

And in that way it seemed Acennan had set his mind at ease, for in a matter of moments his snores reverberated around the darkened hall.

Beobrand, who had been so close to slumber a few moments before, now lay in silence. He listened to the sound of the hall. An ember popped. One of the men coughed. Several were snoring. Outside, wind beat against the frame of the building, making it creak and groan, like an old man who complains of his joints when bending. Beyond the wind, he could hear the distant murmur of waves breaking on the beach.

Tomorrow they would cross those waves and seek this mysterious woman. Only a woman, nothing more. But Acennan was right, there was something wrong about this whole thing.

They were to face a woman. Two grown men with swords and shirts of metal. They had no need to be afraid.

But as he lay there, unable to bring Sunniva's face to his mind or to find the sleep that had so recently promised its sanctuary, Beobrand trembled.

He would never admit it to Acennan, but he was frightened.

CHAPTER 15

The dawn brought with it a foul wind which blew down the straight between Hii and Muile. Seeing the white tops of the waves, Beobrand and Acennan decided not to don their armour. To be thrown into the sea weighed down with ring shirt would see them pulled to the depths with no chance of rescue. They cinched their belts tightly, drew their cloaks about them, and slung their byrnies over their shoulders.

At the water's edge, on the beach of white sand, waited three monks. On the sand rested a currach, a boat made of little more than skin stretched over twigs. Beobrand, used to the more substantial overlapping planks of the ships that plied the oceans to the east and south of Albion, could not see how this leather contraption could carry them safely over the wind-blown water. He touched the hammer amulet at his neck and spat. Gods protect them. They would drown before having to confront this witch.

The oldest of the monks stepped forward with a smile. In his hand he held a long wooden paddle. "Do not fear. This little breeze is nothing. We'll get you over to Muile in no time." The monk's name was Biorach. He spoke the tongue of the Angelfolc with a lilting accent, but his words were easily understood. They had met him before when they first arrived on the island and Beobrand liked him instinctively. He was as broad-shouldered as any warrior, with great shovel-like hands. His face was open, a smirk never far from his lips.

Beobrand looked sceptically at the currach. "We will not sink that thing?"

"Heavens no," Biorach laughed. "She would take many more of us if needed. With just the few of us, she'll positively fly over the waves. Skimming like a stone."

Beobrand looked eastward at the beach across the stretch of water. Salt spray lifted from the waves. It felt like drizzle. He hoped it was not his wyrd to die this day.

"What do you think, Acennan?" Beobrand asked.

"I'm thinking we've been talking too long." Acennan pushed past Biorach and threw his byrnie into the currach.

"Careful," said Biorach. "If you rip the skin, you will be finding out just how cold that water is at this time of year."

Acennan looked abashed.

Before Beobrand could say any more, he saw a small group of people walking down towards them from the huddled monastery buildings. As they grew closer, he recognised Oswiu and Coenred. The rest wore the dark robes of the Christ follower brethren.

Oswiu raised a hand as they approached.

"I have brought the new bishop of Lindisfarena." He indicated the man to his right. He was tall and thin. His nose narrow and his chin weak. Like all the Christ monks, his forehead was shaved all the way to the top of his head. The hair that grew at the back of his head was tawny and luxuriant. It would better suit a woman, in Beobrand's opinion. The wind flicked his long locks about his face.

"This is Cormán," said Oswiu. "He is come to bless your short journey."

Beobrand looked at Cormán, then at the currach and the rough sea beyond it. He knew not whether this Christ god had power, but he supposed it could do no harm to have his blessing. He nodded at the bishop. "Thank you," he said. Coenred caught his eye. He was grinning behind Cormán. Perhaps at hearing Beobrand giving thanks for his god's blessing.

Cormán raised his hands to the sky and intoned in a sonorous voice that did not match his slim frame. He spoke words in the language all the Christ followers learnt. Beobrand did not understand any of it, but he kept a sombre expression until the priest had finished.

For a moment then they all stood still on the beach. Nobody seemed to want to move, so after a time, Beobrand said, "Well, we should leave before the weather gets any worse." He turned to help carry the fragile boat into the water, when Coenred stepped forward.

"I will go with you," he said. His voice shook. With cold or fear, Beobrand could not tell. "Fearghas sent me here for a reason. I feel God's presence here. He speaks to me." Coenred's voice grew stronger, the more he spoke. Cormán was wide-eyed, surprised perhaps that the young monk would speak out so. Oswiu seemed pleased.

"If you are to face evil," Coenred continued, "you should not face it alone. I will come, with my bishop's blessing. Evil magic should not be confronted with only force and iron. I will bring the word of our Lord to protect and guide us."

"You go with my blessing," Cormán said at last. "Go forth and bring back that which has been stolen from us." He made the sign of the cross over them with his hand outstretched. A ripple of fear trickled down Beobrand's spine. There was magic in the wind. In the words and the symbols. He could sense it.

He hoped it would be stronger magic than that of the witch they were to face.

He was suddenly thankful that he had remembered to leave some red cloths hanging from the lintel of the stable where they had left their horses. Sceadugenga was not close. All their steeds had been left under the protection of a lord on the mainland. But if there were witches abroad at night, the red cloths should keep them from riding his mount.

He would rather be riding Sceadugenga now. He had grown fond of the horse, used to its gait. But the stallion was far away. Beyond the sea and Muile. He prayed to Woden that he would see the horse again, and ride it safely back to Ubbanford.

They moved to the currach and helped lift it. It was heavier than it looked. They carried it swiftly down into the water and then climbed on board, whilst Biorach, standing up to his thighs in the surf, held it steady.

When they were aboard, Biorach climbed in with a practised movement and began to paddle.

Beobrand grasped Coenred's shoulder. "I am glad you are joining us. Perhaps we will have need of your God's power before the day is over."

"I told you I would need to rescue you on this journey," Coenred replied, though the smile on his lips did not reach his eyes. There was nothing but fear there.

"Rescue us?" snorted Acennan, who gripped the edge of the currach with white-knuckled strength, as they were bobbed and jostled by the waves. "If we run into trouble, the only way you'll rescue us if if we throw you to the hag so that we can flee while she is feasting on your skinny carcass."

All colour drained from Coenred's face. The skin of the boat flexed and writhed beneath them like a living thing. They were making good progress, as Biorach propelled them forward with an easy action of the paddle.

The currach swayed and sagged on the swell.

They reached the mid point of the crossing, for it was not far. The waves here were larger. They tossed the currach from side to side. Beobrand's stomach lurched. He had never been a good seaman. When travelling from Cantware to Bernicia, he had made up for his lack of seamanship, with his willingness to learn and his strength. But here, there was nothing for him to do except look to their destination and will the pottage he had eaten to stay in his guts.

They were nearly there when Coenred turned and vomited noisily over the edge of the boat.

Acennan laughed, but looked as if he might soon follow Coenred's example. "Don't worry boy," Acennan said, "I was only jesting of leaving you behind. I am sure you can run faster than either of us with your lanky legs." Beobrand forced a smile. Coenred let out a groan and retched again and again, until nothing more came out.

And then they had arrived. One of the monks leaped into the water and pulled the bark into the shallows. They helped Coenred out and up onto the beach. He walked on wobbly legs, like a newborn foal.

Wet and shivering, Beobrand waded up out of the sea. The sensation of the currach's motion clung to him like a half-forgotten dream, making the beach seem to move under his feet.

Coenred was pale. Sickly and shaken. He would be of little use to them as he was. Acennan was also pallid, but seemed to be recovering quickly from the crossing.

"Let us get our byrnies on," said Beobrand. Hopefully, this would give Coenred a little time to compose himself.

They helped each other to slide and wriggle into their iron shirts. The weight of the armour comforted Beobrand. It was solid and it had already saved his life. And yet it also unnerved him. It reminded him of shieldwalls. Fallen friends. The stench of bowels and blood in the mud.

The monks had pulled the currach up the beach, well beyond the high-tide line. Coenred sat with them. There seemed a little more colour in his cheeks.

"I am sorry," he said, eyes downcast as he ran his hands through his hair.

Beobrand reached out and pulled him to his feet. "Do not speak thus," said Beobrand. "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have shown to me many times that you are brave. It took great courage to enter that boat and join us. Do you see any others here to help us?" He clapped Coenred on the shoulder.

"Now, how far is this witch's lair?"

"Not far," said Biorach. "I will lead you there."

And so they left the beach. The white sand made way to scrubby grass and stunted trees. Biorach searched for a moment and then found what he was looking for. A path of flattened earth led between the trees. They stepped onto the track between the denuded bones of gnarly, bent boles.

Above them, against the tumble of heavy clouds that broiled in the sky, gulls and other sea birds wheeled and cavorted. Their shrieks echoed in Beobrand's mind like the death-screams of warriors.