The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (42 page)

For Beobrand the days were long. He rode far on Sceadugenga. He traversed rivers, passed beneath the thick canopy of brooding forests and climbed the steep hills to the south, from where he could see a great distance all around. He avoided contact with others, preferring his own company. He had no desire to talk, but that left his mind free to wander. And the paths of his memory were treacherous, like an ice-locked marsh. Any misstep could plunge a traveller through a skin of ice into the dark morass of a frigid mere, never to return.

Sceadugenga's hooves picked a sure trail through the land of Bernicia. Beobrand's thoughts were not so sure-footed. When he stumbled into the darkest memories, he was glad of his solitude. What would his men have thought of their lord, a man they looked up to for his battle-skill and strength, with hot tears of shame and regret streaming down his young face?

On the day following the pyre, Beobrand took a clay pot and collected the ash. This he secured on Sceadugenga's saddle and rode south. He passed in the shadow of the standing stones that had been raised by some ancient race. Perhaps they had been erected by the same giants who built the Wall further south, though that seemed unlikely. The circles of stones that dotted the countryside were large and imposing, but more natural somehow than the Great Wall, or the straight roads such as Deira Stræt.

He saw few people. This land was wild and untamed. The windswept hills spoke to him. They cared nothing for the passing of life. Kings were as nothing to them. He touched the earthenware pot where it nestled behind him in a leather saddle bag. The land would not remember Sunniva. Or any of the others he had seen die. Where were the people who had raised the stone circles? Where were the giants who built the Wall? They had gone the way of all things. And yet, remnants of their existence were still to be seen. Perhaps that is all men can hope for. For some small part of their lives to remain visible to others after their death.

And then of course, there were children.

He could still not envisage Octa the wrinkled infant becoming a child. Or a man. It seemed impossible to Beobrand that he was truly a father. His own father's shadow loomed over his thoughts. Would he be a truer father to Octa, than Grimgundi had been to him? Would Octa hate and fear him, as he had loathed his own father?

As he rode, alone with his thoughts, with only the ghosts of family and loved ones for company he understood why he had fled from Ubbanford. Why he had scarcely acknowledged Octa's existence. He had told himself that babies were for women, and this was true. But there was more than that.

He had imagined that he somehow blamed the child for Sunniva's death. Those black thoughts had come to him, but there was a further reason that he ran from his son.

Beobrand was frightened. He was terrified that he would be the same man his father had been. That he would beat and threaten Octa, hammering the child into a weapon to be used against him, just as he had turned on Grimgundi.

He reined in Sceadugenga by a trickling stream, allowed the horse to drink. Along the banks of the stream grew rushes. Spear-straight they rustled in the breeze. Beobrand gazed at them. They brought back the images of the shieldwall. The thicket of waving spears. He had risen to prominence by dealing in death. Perhaps he owed something to his father after all. All those he hated had made him the man he now was.

A warrior.

A weapon.

A death-bringer.

First Grimgundi, with his beatings. Then Hengist, his brother's slayer, abuser and murderer of innocents, had trained him in the ways of battle.

And was Grimgundi even his father? His mother's dying words still plagued his memory. What had she meant by them?

He ran his deformed left hand over the stubble on his jaw. His beard was growing fuller now, as if by siring a son he had truly become a man. Or perhaps it was when he began to slay men.

There was one thing that he was sure of. As certain as the fact that a tree can be felled by a man with an axe. Whatever his past, and however he had come to this, he was a warrior now. A weapon-wielder who would bring death on his enemies and those of his lord.

Wybert was his enemy now, and Beobrand would go to whatever lengths were needed to find him. And to kill him. Vengeance did not bring peace with it. He knew this now. Yet it was all there was for him.

Revenge. And service to his lord.

With all of these thoughts vying for supremacy in his mind, Beobrand pushed on southward. He did not ride aimlessly. He knew where he was heading.

He crested the last hill and peered down into the valley. The sun was behind the western hills now, the valley in shadow. He could just make out the blackened beams of the great hall. The hollow shell like the jutting ribs of some giant's carcass. The other buildings were mostly burnt-out husks. Cadwallon's Waelisc host had destroyed the once proud township of Gefrin. The glow of the blaze had been visible in the sky all the way to the coast.

There were a few small buildings that seemed to have avoided the fires, or perhaps had been rebuilt since, as inhabitants of Gefrin returned to their homes. Trails of smoke drifted from the intact buildings. Beobrand spotted a man leading a donkey behind one of the dwellings.

Beobrand looked about him. The day had been warm. Ragged clouds streaked the sky. It would grow cold in the night, but he could not face talking to strangers now. He found the trail he was looking for and followed it some way down the slope of the hill.

The secluded meadow, surrounded by rowan and pine, was as he remembered it. The sweet scent of heather brought back the memory of that warm summer day. Sunniva had been so beautiful. He had been intoxicated by her. The touch of her small hands on his body. The warmth of her pliant flesh beneath him. The taste of her mouth.

Beobrand dismounted. Reaching for the saddle bag, he lifted the urn containing Sunniva's ashes. Placing it reverently on the ground, he prepared a meagre camp. He removed Sceadugenga's saddle and tethered him nearby. He had not come prepared for sleeping outside but he did not wish to light a fire. It would attract attention from Gefrin below. It would be a cold night. But he would not be alone. He clutched the unyielding earthenware pot to him, wrapped both himself and it in his cloak and stretched out on the lush grass.

This was where they had first lain together.

It seemed fitting that it was where they would spend their last night.

The stillness of the hill enveloped him. He had ridden long and hard. His body was tired. His mind tortured. Yet sleep came rapidly.

He did not recall his dreams when he awoke the next morning, but the dew that fell on his upturned face in the darkness mingled with the salty tears that were already on his cheeks.

CHAPTER 25

The sun cast long, stark shadows into the Tuidi valley when Beobrand returned. His body ached from the saddle. He was tired, but his head was clearer than when he had set out. Thoughts threatened to pull him into an abyss of despair. He could feel them tugging at his memories, striving to drag him into a darkness that lurked at his core. He would not despair. Wyrd had set him on this path and he would see it through.

He focused on what he had. A hall. Land. A warband of loyal gesithas. A son. But what good were all these things, if he could not find happiness? He could not prevent himself asking the silent question. The darkness scratched and gnawed at his mind. How could he continue? He had lost all those he loved. At every turn he was surrounded by death. He truly was cursed. Forsaken by the gods.

Beobrand saw a rider off in the distance. He was glad of the distraction from the slavering maw of his black thoughts. He reached to his side and loosened Hrunting in its scabbard. The hilt of the sword at once settled his nerves. Calmed his mind. There was a certainty in the sword's presence. Its purpose was clear. It would not fail him. Beobrand bared his teeth and dug his heels into his steed's flanks. Should the lone rider prove to be a brigand, he would rue the day he chose Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, as a victim. The stallion leapt forward into a gallop, clearly with power in reserve despite the long ride back from Gefrin.

They closed the distance quickly, the other rider also spurring his horse into a run. Sceadugenga whinnied a greeting to the other horse. At the same instant Beobrand recognised the rider. They drew close and Beobrand pulled Sceadugenga to a halt. The horse tossed its head, blowing and snorting. The dappled horse of the other rider moved in close, rubbed its nose on Sceadugenga's flank.

"Well met," said Acennan, struggling to control his mount as it nuzzled the black stallion. "I should not have allowed you to travel alone. You cannot be trusted to look after yourself." He spoke the words with a smile. But Beobrand recognised the strain on his friend's face. He had been worried.

Beobrand shook his head. "I gave you no choice. I needed time to think."

"Still, I will not allow it again. Do not ask me to breach my oath to you. I swore to protect you. I cannot do that when I am not at your side."

Beobrand yanked Sceadugenga's reins. "If these horses have any say in it, we shall always be together. I believe they are smitten with each other."

Acennan grinned, but Beobrand's face clouded at his own mention of affection.

"Come," said Acennan, "let us ride for Ubbanford before darkness falls," steering his horse and the conversation away.

They rode in silence for a short while, then Beobrand asked, "What news?"

"We've begun work on the roof of the hall. The thatch will be laid soon. Anhaga is no longer abed, but limps about with a face like soured milk."

Beobrand frowned. "I believe I owe the man an apology."

"I think you do." Acennan looked at Beobrand's saddle bags. "I... I didn't think you would return with... that pot."

Beobrand reached behind him and touched the earthenware reassuringly.

"I had planned to bury it..." he hesitated, stumbling over the words. "I had planned to bury her alongside her father and mother. At Gefrin."

"What changed your mind?"

"The men I met there were a dark and twisted sort. I was sure they would dig the urn up as soon as I'd left. Take whatever they could find of value. In the end I chased them away."

"Chased them?"

"Well, I showed them Hrunting's blade and they fled like hares. One fell full on his face in his fear." A grim smile played on his lips as he remembered drawing Hrunting and releasing some of his pent up ire. The dam that held his anger in check had been close to breaking, and it had felt good to scream abuse at the ceorls, threatening death and worse.

Acennan guffawed. "I'd have liked to see that." His face grew serious. "So you brought her back with you?"

"Yes. And I brought Strang and Sunniva's mother too." He patted the other side of his saddle. "I did not like to touch them. They deserve rest. But I decided that they should be together. I will bury them all on the hill in Ubbanford." He touched the amulet at his neck, then brushed his fingers on Hrunting's hilt for luck. "I trust that Strang's shade will know I meant no harm by disturbing his rest."

Acennan suppressed a shudder. "He was a good man."

"He was."

They rode on in silence, each lost in his thoughts. The sun touched the western horizon and golden light kissed the tops of the buildings of Ubbanford as the two riders reached the brow of the hill to the south.

Below, before the old hall, three horsemen were reining in. The glint of the falling sun on metal reached them. Beobrand glanced at Acennan questioningly.

"I do not know who they are," Acennan said, in answer to the look.

"Then let us see who comes to Ubba's hall," said Beobrand, kicking Sceadugenga once more into a gallop.

Acennan shook his head and followed his lord down the hill.

"I cannot go now." Beobrand eyed the man who stood as straight as a spear before him. He was lean, with a full moustache. Beobrand recollected seeing him before at Bebbanburg, but had not known his name. Anhaga clearly knew him well. By the time Beobrand and Acennan had ridden into Ubbanford, the crippled steward had been ushering the man and his two companions into Ubba's hall.

On seeing Beobrand, Anhaga had flushed, the bruises on his face standing out like storm clouds in the darkening early evening light. He had bowed low, flinching as Beobrand jumped from his mount, as if expecting blows to rain down on him.

Beobrand, ashamed at his treatment of the man, took him gently by the arm and raised him up.

He spoke to Anhaga in a soft voice meant only for his ears. "Do not fear me, Anhaga. Forgive me. I would speak with you at length later." He looked Anhaga in the eye. The steward was wary still, but he gave a slight nod. Beobrand squeezed his arm briefly.

"Now, who have we here?" he asked in a louder tone.

"This is Erconberht, son of Erconberht. He is sent here by the king himself."

Now, standing in the hall, surrounded by Beobrand's gesithas, with women, thrall and ceorl alike, bustling around with food, Erconberht looked amazed at Beobrand's answer to his request.

He must have decided that the young thegn had not understood him for after a moment, he repeated his message.