The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (32 page)

"Truce and allegiance?"

"Both. Our bloodlines will be joined. I am to marry his daughter."

Mist curled over the winding course of the river Tuidi below Beobrand. He leant on one of the beams of the frame of his new hall. Despite it being early, the sun had already warmed the wood. He took in the valley below. The cluster of buildings of Ubbanford huddled under a thin veil of hearth smoke and mist. On the hill to the south were the shapes of sheep. He could make out the movement of a shepherd and his scraggy dog. The man's calls and whistles, thin with distance, reached Beobrand's ears.

He breathed deep of the clear morning air. Here, on the hill overlooking the settlement, the scent of wood smoke was almost imperceptible. Turning, he walked the length of the hall, counting the paces as he went. He tried to imagine it complete with walls of wood and roof of thatch.

"It is ambitious," he said to Sunniva. "I'd wager it is as large as the hall at Gefrin was. Perhaps even as big as the hall at Bebbanburg."

Sunniva flashed him a grin. The sun caught her hair. It was as fine as spun gold. Her cheeks were flushed with the bloom of happiness. She seemed to have fully recovered from the ailment of the previous day. Now that he knew of her condition, he could detect the slight bulge of her belly. Her breasts were perhaps a little larger.

By Woden and all the gods, she was a treasure to behold.

"Are we talking about the hall, or are you just going to disrobe me with your eyes?" she said, raising an eyebrow archly.

Beobrand blushed. "I had almost forgotten how lucky I am." It was true that his wyrd had brought him much misery. But here, with his beautiful wife before him, in the shadow of his own hall and his lands laid out below him, he felt blessed.

At the edge of his mind were thoughts of darkness. Caverns. A curse.

But the day was bright enough to burn away his worries and fears as easily as it would melt the mist from the valley.

Sunniva came to him. Placed her arm in his and kissed his cheek. "I had not forgotten you, my strong man."

"Did you miss me then?" he asked.

She frowned, serious all of a sudden. The levity of moments before gone.

"I missed you more than I can say." She gazed into the distance, lost in her own thoughts. After a time, she spoke again. "So, you are pleased with the hall?"

"I am. I had not imagined building on this hill."

Sunniva nodded. "Rowena warned against it. She said in winter it will be hard to get up and down from the rest of Ubbanford." She pursed her lips. "And she is right. It was difficult on the worst days, when it rained or snowed. But it commands the valley. From here you can see all of Ubbanford and also the ford itself."

Beobrand looked down at the river. The mist was thinning as he watched. The sky's reflection gave the water a light sheen.

"You chose well. It reminds me of Bebbanburg on its crag."

Sunniva beamed. "I thought the same. I am glad you approve."

"I do." He thought of Gefrin then. How easily it had been conquered and put to the torch. With height came strength. Ubbanford, with its new hall, would not so easily be taken. "It is a good defensive position. And with the neighbours we have, that may be important. What of Nathair and his sons? Any sign?"

"Garr saw the sons riding someway to the south when the snow was thickest. He followed them for a time, but they rode away when they saw him. He thought they were perhaps out hunting."

"Hunting? In mid-winter?"

"The winter was bitter and long. Wolves came down to Ubbanford from the hills. They took one of the ewes. The men went on a hunt. They were gone for three days. We were worried for them," she smoothed her dress over her belly and pulled her cloak about her, as if suddenly cold, "but they brought back some fine pelts. It could be that Nathair's folk were about the same business."

"Are you well?" Beobrand asked. Sunniva had grown pale. "Perhaps we should not have walked up here."

"It is nothing."

Beobrand looked at her sidelong, not fully convinced.

"It is good that Nathair has heeded your warning," she said.

Beobrand nodded.

"I hope the summer sun does not rekindle his sons' desire for vengeance." He remembered the hatred in their eyes, recalled his own anguish at the loss of his brother, Octa. "Their brother's life was mine to take, but I do not believe they will rest until they are paid for it with blood."

CHAPTER 18

Coenred wished Fearghas had never sent him on the mission to Hii. The journey had been tortuous, but had led to visiting that most holy of isles. He had met great men there; brothers in Christ who had known Fearghas. They had treated him well, almost as if he had been Fearghas' kin. He had enjoyed the serenity and beauty of the western isles, Hii in particular with its white sands and endless vistas of the vast ocean.

But travelling into Dál Riata had also brought him into contact with Nelda. He cursed himself for offering to join Beobrand and Acennan. It had been foolhardy.

Or perhaps brave.

One thing was for certain, the encounter in the dank cave had unsettled him terribly.

And then there was Cormán.

The man seemed to lack all of the qualities that the other monks had. He was impatient, and was always complaining. Travelling south had been taxing for many reasons. It had been cold and arduous. Even dangerous at times with the threat of bandits or Pictish warbands. But chief among the things that made the journey difficult to bear was that Cormán seemed to view Coenred as his personal servant. He treated him little better than a thrall.

He expected Coenred to see to his every need and was quick to find fault. Coenred did not understand the priest's native tongue, and Cormán seemed resolutely to refuse to attempt to converse in the language of the Angelfolc, so they communicated in Latin. Coenred was not one of Fearghas' best pupils, yet his Latin was passable. But the slightest mistake caused Cormán to fly into a rage, screaming at Coenred.

It was intolerable. It could not be that Nelda spoke true about the bishop, but Coenred could not bring himself to love the man as he should love a heavenly brother.

He watched him now as he basked in the attention of the amassed congregation of Oswald's hearth warriors.

Cormán sat with head bowed and hands clasped together. He gave the appearance of a man deep in thought. A spiritual man. A man to be trusted. A man to be listened to.

Oswald had called upon Cormán to address his thegns before the new bishop went to Lindisfarena. The king wished to show off his new Christian leader to his men.

Coenred stood to one side of Cormán. He looked out at the men as they made their way into the hall.

Many of them were followers of Christ, having been baptised in Hibernia or Dál Riata, though to watch them in the mead hall at night, one would find it hard to believe. Others who had more recently joined Oswald's retinue were reluctant to be here. They were wary of the magic of the Christ god, but they could not deny his power, having granted them victory at Hefenfelth. Still, they were unsure. Most of these shuffled to the rear of the hall, near the doors, which had been left open to let in the light and fresh air of the clear spring morning.

The shutters had been flung open and the floor swept clean. There was no fire on the hearth.

Oswald sat at the high table next to Cormán. He smiled to see his men gathered to hear the words of Christ. He had given orders for a church building to be constructed within the confines of the walls of Bebbanburg. It was not yet complete, so for now, the great hall would serve.

Oswald stood and held out his hands as if in welcome. He stood thus until the talk and fidgeting abated.

"My comitatus. My most trusted thegns. I present to you, Cormán, Abbot of Lindisfarena and Bishop of Bernicia. As you know, he has come from the most holy isle of Hii. We are blessed to have his presence amongst us and I am sure we will learn much from him." Coenred bent close to Cormán's ear and whispered a translation of the king's words. Cormán beamed at the praise.

"I have asked him to lead us in the Eucharist and to give us Christ's blessing before he retires to Lindisfarena to do God's work with the brethren there." He swept the hall with his gaze. "I pray that those of you who have yet to be washed in the spirit of the Lord, will soon learn to love the one true God."

Oswald beckoned to Cormán to rise.

"As Cormán has yet to learn the words of the Angelfolc, I will act as interpreter."

Cormán stood, swallowed deeply and began to speak. His words came quickly, with no pause for Oswald to translate. After a time, Oswald touched him on the shoulder and whispered something to him. Cormán flushed. In the silence, Oswald spoke.

"Cormán says he is pleased to have been sent to bring the people of Bernicia the truth of the Lord Jesu Christ."

The king turned to Cormán and raised an eyebrow. The bishop took the hint and continued speaking. However, his nerves seemed to have made his voice even less audible, his words more garbled and with even less pause for Oswald to convey their meaning.

Again, Oswald was forced to place his hand on the priest's shoulder. From his vantage point, Coenred could see the king frowning slightly.

Some of the men in the hall, those who had travelled to Hii to bring back the cleric, smirked.

Oswald took a deep breath before continuing. "The bishop will now perform the rite of the holy Eucharist, where those who are baptised partake of the body and the blood of Christ."

A voice from the far end of the hall: "Blood you say?" A murmur of unease ran through the gathered men. It seemed the king had misjudged some of his audience. Coenred bit his lip. It must have been difficult for Oswald to put himself in the minds of those who had not lived for years with the brethren on Hii.

Oswald, clearly flustered now, but still in control, said, "It is bread and wine. It is to remember the sacrifice of our Lord on the rood. It is not meat and blood. Christ was sacrificed so that we would no longer need to spill blood in sacrifices to satisfy the hungry old gods." He spoke briefly to Cormán. The abbot nodded.

"I will show you that this thing holds no evil." Oswald fixed the speaker by the door with his stare. "I will be the first to partake of the Eucharist."

He turned his attention to Cormán. The bishop drew himself up straight, aware that this moment was his. All eyes were upon him.

Before him on the table lay a loaf, resting on the silver platter retrieved from Nelda's cave. Coenred was aghast. His skin prickled at the wrongness of what he saw. To have the holiest of sacraments touching an object made unclean by witchcraft! This was a thing of evil.

Or stupidity.

He was certain that Oswald could not know of the plate's history. The king was a pious man. Coenred's doubts over Cormán resurged.

The bishop flicked his luxuriant hair with his left hand. The unconscious gesture both nervous and somehow effeminate.

He cleared his throat, lifted the platter before him. He raised it up high. Its polished surface gleamed in the ray of light from one of the windows. Speaking words which he must have heard hundreds of times before, his voice was much more firm. Sonorous, it carried over all those gathered. For some, the words were familiar. For the non-Christians, they were the secret sounds of magic. The tongue of a god from a distant land.

"Suscipe sancte Pater omnipotens aeterne Deus, hanc immaculatam hostiam, quam ego indignus famulus tuus offero tibi Deo meo vivo et vero, pro innumerabilibus peccatis et offensionibus et negligentiis meis..."

The onlookers were silent. A stillness had fallen on them as the priest spoke. Coenred understood the words of the offering of the host. As did Gothfraidh, who stood at the other side of the hall. But he doubted any of the warriors there comprehended the liturgy. Perhaps they had heard it before, but for many, Cormán could have been pronouncing their doom just as easily as offering the bread to the Lord with entreaties of salvation.

Many were the wide eyes of the thegns. The unknown was a thing to be feared. The talk of blood and the otherworldly nature of the prayer made the colour drain from several faces. Yet their king had told them there was no evil in this. That it was a good thing.

And he was a good king. So they watched and waited, their curiosity outweighing their disquiet.

"...et illis proficiat ad salutem in vitam aeternam. Amen." Cormán finished and, pleased at the attentive listeners, permitted himself a self-congratulatory smile.

With a flourish, he proffered the platter to Oswald.

Perhaps he was still not in control of his nerves, or his newfound confidence made him careless, but in turning to the king he caught the edge of the wine-filled chalice that stood on the table. With a gasp, Cormán made a lunging grab at the cup, but merely succeeded in splashing its contents over Oswald's tunic. At the same moment, he lost his grip on the platter. The loaf slipped from the burnished surface and fell to the floor. There it caught the last drops of wine as they dripped from the table.