The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (45 page)

An awkward silence fell between them.

Beobrand signalled to a thrall to bring him more mead.

Coenred fidgeted. What could he say to this man? He had achieved so much, and yet lost what was most important to him.

He was relieved when Gothfraidh approached.

"Come along, boy," the old monk said, his tone acerbic. "You were supposed to be preparing the quills. Do you expect me to do everything? No, don't answer that! Come along."

Coenred raised an eyebrow at Beobrand.

"Let us talk more later. The king will address you all soon, I believe."

Beobrand nodded and took a swig from his cup.

Beobrand belched. His eyes stung from the smoke that drifted around the press of men in the great hall. New logs had been thrown onto the hearth and it spat and grumbled as the flames took.

Reaching for his cup, he found it empty. Blearily, he looked around for someone to fill it for him. He did not immediately spot anyone willing, so he heaved himself up from the bench where he sat and staggered towards a table that groaned under the weight of food and drink. It was early evening and the feast was just beginning. Men had arrived throughout the afternoon until the hall was crowded with warriors.

Beobrand had not stopped drinking mead since he had arrived. Meeting Coenred had reminded him of his failures. The people he had lost. The mistakes he had made. The mead went a long way towards dulling those memories. Acennan had approached him after some time and told him that it was perhaps not wise to drink so freely before the king had spoken. Beobrand had growled and waved him away.

He had come when Oswald had called, hadn't he? He would do his lord's bidding, but he did not have to be sober to do so.

He picked up a jug and weaved his way back to his place at the bench. Some of the men called his name in greeting. He did not acknowledge them. He did not wish to talk.

In the shadows at the edge of the hall, Beobrand noticed Anhaga. He stood with others who were not important enough to be given a place at the boards. He seemed uncomfortable, whether from having to stand or at being surrounded by so many hale warriors, Beobrand did not know.

With some effort, Beobrand managed to seat himself without losing his balance. He refilled his cup and took a sip. The drink was sour in his mouth now. He had drunk more than his fill. Tomorrow he would regret it. But for now, he was pleased of the mead's veil. Looking up, he saw the immense bulk and gnarly arms of Athelstan. The huge older warrior squeezed himself between two men and took the place opposite Beobrand.

Beobrand scowled. This was the last person he wanted to speak to or even see. He did not want to be reminded of Wybert or of what he had done. How he had failed Sunniva. It was too much.

"What do you want with me?" he slurred at Athelstan.

Athelstan reached over and took the jug from Beobrand. He filled a cup and raised it in toast.

"I would drink with you to the memory of fallen shield brothers and lost friends. I can think of nobody better to drink with than you, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. Though," he drained his cup and quickly refilled it, "it seems you have a head start on me, so I will need to drink quickly if I am to catch you up."

Beobrand stared at the man. His mind was fogged with the drink, but something in Athelstan's words touched him. Angrily, he felt tears pricking at his eyes.

"Very well," he said, cuffing at his face. "Let us drink together. As you know I am younger and stronger than you," he bared his teeth in a semblance of a grin, "so it is for the best that I am already drunk. It is just possible that I may fall before you."

Beobrand drank down the contents of his wooden cup and slammed it onto the board. The men around them laughed. They had been tense, fearful of offending the morose Cantware thegn whose anger was legendary. The arrival of Athelstan seemed to have lifted his spirits or at least given him a drinking companion. Someone to occupy him and to take the brunt of any violent outbursts. They knew of Beobrand's loss and it was understood by all that sometimes grief turned to anger. And when a man such as Beobrand was blinded by drink and grief-ire, it was best not to stand too near.

Beobrand spoke little. Athelstan seemed content to match him cup for cup and did not seek conversation. The hubbub of the feast rolled over them. Food was served. Anhaga, who knew his master's tastes well, brought Beobrand a large slice of roast pork. The meat was succulent, the skin crisp. Despite his dark mood, the rich flavour brought a smile to his lips.

When all had eaten their fill and men had set to boasting and riddling, the king rose from the high table and held out his arms for silence.

Calm fell slowly on the hall.

"Welcome to my hall," said Oswald. "Feast well, my friends, my comitatus. You are my most trusted men." He cast his gaze around the men seated at the boards, seeming to look each one in the eye. "Those most valiant in combat." Beobrand believed that the king nodded at him with those words, though later, he wondered whether it had been his drink-soaked mind playing tricks on him. "Most proud. Most faithful. You are truly well come to my hall and it brings me joy to see you enjoying my table. Feast and drink. Tell tales and speak riddles this night, for tomorrow we travel south."

It took Beobrand a moment to understand Oswald's words. The rest of the men seemed to understand more quickly. They sat more upright. Leaned forward, eyes bright. Beards bristling from jutting chins. They were utterly quiet now, waiting for their king to tell them what enemy they would face.

"We journey, my most loyal men and I, to meet with Penda, king of Mercia. But we do not march to fight." A murmur from the gathered men. "Do not fear. You will have time to win treasures soon. We are surrounded by many enemies, but even the strongest of warriors must know when it is wiser to avoid a battle. We have destroyed Cadwallon and now Deira and Bernicia are once more united under one king. But the land needs time to heal."

"Penda, who was allied with Cadwallon against Edwin not two years hence, is no friend of Northumbria. He eyes this land with covetous gaze, and yet, he is beset on other sides. The East Angelfolc, the Waelisc to the west, and the West Seaxons to the south. All are pressing him. It is for this reason he has sent word that he wishes to meet with me."

Athelstan called out, "How do you know he does not mean to kill you, as Cadwallon did to your brother under truce."

Oswald frowned and glared at Athelstan for a moment before replying.

"I am not Eanfrith. Many messages have been passed between Penda and I these last months before we have agreed to meet in person. We would both stare the other man in the eye and grasp his hand. Break bread and drink together. Only then can we be sure of the worth of the other's word.

"We are to travel to a place named Dor on the border of our two countries and we will each travel with five score of our most trusted men, no more. The terms are agreed and it is of the utmost import that none of you breaks the oath I have pledged. There will be no bloodshed. You are my escort. You will travel with all the finery of battle. Wear your most polished helms. Paint your shields afresh. Burnish your spear points. But there will be no battle. Any man who draws the blood of a Mercian will have broken his oath to me and his life will be forfeit. We cannot risk battle with Mercia. Penda must be allowed to turn his attention to his other borders."

Many of the men looked disappointed, but none spoke out against their king. Beobrand found it difficult to focus. Oswald's words washed over him and he felt his eyelids drooping. No fighting was good. He had had enough of killing. There was only one man he wished to kill, and he was not here.

"So, my brave men. We will travel to the border of Mercia and there I will meet with Penda. And there will be no fighting. I will find you treasures and riches elsewhere. Is what I say clear?"

A few men assented with a nod, or a word.

"Is that the noise made by my strongest warriors? You who strike fear into the foes of Northumbria. Those who have heaped the bodies high for the crows and the wolves?"

This time the amassed men let out a cheer.

Oswald nodded and sat back down. Slowly the noise in the hall returned as the men began to debate the king's words and talk of the journey ahead.

"Well," said Athelstan, raising his newly-filled cup, "if we are not to kill, which is the one thing you and I do well, there is one good thing."

"What is that?" asked Beobrand, hardly caring, such was the amount of mead he had consumed.

"There will be more time for drinking!"

Beobrand watched as gobbets of vomit splashed into the churning wake of the ship. A white seabird shot from the hazy sky and speared into the water, evidently spotting something in the remains of his last meal worth diving for. The sight turned Beobrand's stomach again. The ship heaved and rolled on the swell. Beobrand leaned once more over the side and retched.

With a creaking shudder the keel of the sleek warship lifted on a wave. Beobrand lost his footing and would have tumbled into the cold sea had not a strong hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him back.

"I told you not to drink so much," said Acennan.

Beobrand groaned and slid down with his back to the strakes.

"When do I ever listen to you?" he asked. He remembered his first trip by ship from Cantware to Bernicia. He had not much liked it then. Now, with his head pounding and his stomach churning like the surf on the rocks of the Farena islands, he hated it. He wished he had heeded Acennan's advice the day before, but he would not admit as much.

He looked up and saw the concern on his friend's features.

"Do not worry about me. I've been drunk before." He forced a grin.

"I know," said Acennan. "Lately you are drunk all the time. It clouds your mind. It is not good for a warrior."

"The clouding of my mind is why I drink," Beobrand blurted out. Even he was surprised at the ferocity of his words. "Anyway, we do not go to fight," he said.

He pulled himself up and staggered towards the stern of the ship. All he wanted was some peace. The crowded ship was not a good place to find it. He clung to a stay that held the mast and looked back at the last ship in the small fleet of three vessels.

At the feast, he had thought they would be heading south by land. He would have been happy to ride. Sceadugenga was a good mount and Beobrand had looked forward to allowing the horse to carry him while he recovered from the mead.

But Sceadugenga had been left in the stables at Bebbanburg. The hostler remembered both horse and rider and promised to look after the stallion.

It turned out that Dor was on the river Scheth, tributary of the Dun. They would make better progress by water, but the constant motion of the Whale Road seemed sent to torment him. He closed his eyes. He prayed to the gods that they would not be long at sea. He did not wish to spend days emptying his guts over the side. He felt another spasm and retched again. Nothing came. He blinked away the dots of light that flickered in his vision. Were they elfs? Some magic of the sea? His vision cleared. There was nothing there.

"Here, drink a little water."

Beobrand turned. Coenred stood at his side, his woollen robe flapping about his slim form in the wind. Beobrand took the flask from the monk and sipped. He rinsed his mouth, spat, then drank a couple of mouthfuls. The cool liquid soothed his throat.

"Thank you." Beobrand handed back the flask. The sea breeze blew his blond hair into his face. The water, cool air and empty stomach all went some way to settling him. Perhaps he would be able to endure the voyage after all.

"So," he said, "Oswald means for you to write down what is agreed with Penda? To what end?"

"It is the way of great men. When words are written they become stronger than mere word sounds."

"A man's word should be enough. A king's oath is like steel."

Coenred nodded. He brushed his hair away from his face with his long fingers. "This is true. But spoken promises can be misremembered. Or ignored. The writing of them will always show the truth, no matter how many days or even years pass. Oaths can be forgotten. A written oath will live on forever."

Beobrand thought on this. It sounded like magic to him. He could see no use for the scratchings of the Christ priests on their parchments. But he did not have the energy to discuss it further.

"To live forever," he said and hawked into the sea. "The Christ god promises everlasting life. And his holy men scratch words that can live on forever. With such strong magic, it amazes me there is so much death on middle earth."

CHAPTER 27

Oswald looked up at the sky. There were grey clouds brooding in the west, but with God's providence it would not rain. He turned in the saddle and looked back to where men struggled with one of the two carts. They had already managed to get the other one up to the brow of the hill. There they had secured it, unhitching the mules and adding them to the team pulling the cart that was now wallowing in the shallow valley. Rainfall would hold them back even more.

He was glad he had listened to Oswiu's counsel and brought the ships. They had made good progress down the coast and then striking into the huge estuary of the Humber. They had navigated as far up the River Dun as they were able before it became necessary to disembark. They were near to their destination, but now they needs must rely on the few steeds they had brought in the ships. And of course, the brute strength of his warriors.