The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (46 page)

Oswiu, grim-faced as usual, rode up the hill to where Oswald watched the beleaguered cart. Oswald's mount shied away, skittering nervously to the side. Oswald almost lost his seating, only just preventing an unseemly fall by clutching the saddle. The horses were still unsettled after travelling over the water. Perhaps it felt to them as if the ground moved, as it did to him when he dismounted.

He soothed the horse, patting its neck.

"Well, brother," he said, "how do they fare?"

Oswiu reined in and expertly turned his horse to stand beside Oswald's, facing the same way.

"The men are tired and not happy, but the cart is undamaged. The scouts say we are close, this is the last major hill. After that, I suggest we ready ourselves. We should rest. Have the men clean and don their arms. We would have Penda see us in all our glory."

Oswald nodded.

"Thank you. I agree. We will rest and prepare to meet Penda. Even now," he scanned the horizon, searching for signs of movement or the glint of the sun on metal, "I expect he has men watching us. I feel exposed here. I can feel eyes on me."

"I sense it too. Let us hope all our plans and messages have not been for naught. I have sent one of Beobrand's men, Attor, out to scout while we wait here. But we do not have enough horses to properly survey the area."

Oswald bit his lower lip. He would not show his fears to the men, but a nagging worry gnawed at his insides. They were vulnerable here. Had he made a terrible mistake? He had prayed long on this; sought the counsel of his most trusted ealdormen. And his brother. And the priest, Gothfraidh.

Yet in the end, it was his decision alone. He led these people. He had chosen to come here. To make this pact with Penda.

Once more, he prayed that he was right to do so.

The sun broke through the clouds and a ray of light washed the site of the meeting in a golden glow. The Mercians had arrived some time in advance of the Northumbrians. Tents, some leather, some of cloth, were arrayed in an orderly fashion. The wolf banner of Penda stood erect and imposing before a large fire that was surrounded by men.

It was a wide, flat expanse of land. There were trees in the distance, but not dense enough to hide a sizable force. It was as they had agreed. A good place to talk. On the border of their two lands.

Oswald crossed himself and offered up a prayer of thanks that they had not been ambushed on the journey here. Perhaps his plans would bear fruit. He composed himself, setting his features into a grin.

He turned and waited until all of his men were in formation behind him. They were fine in their battle gear. Individual banners fluttered from spears. Polished helms shone. Burnished iron-knit byrnies gleamed. Arm rings and swords spoke of their prowess. And their wealth. These were the finest warriors in all of Albion. Despite his nerves, Oswald's chest swelled with pride.

"See how the Lord himself has brought the sun to shine upon us, that the Mercians may see us in all our glory?" Some of the men smiled. A couple laughed. But they too were nervous; uneasy at meeting a group of men in this field who were also bedecked with trappings of war. They all knew that this day could quickly turn from talk to sword-song.

"Remember, my friends," said Oswald. "We come here to talk. Penda and I have shared oaths. No blood will be spilled here. To break oath with me on this, will spell your death." He looked along the line of men. None of them spoke.

From the Mercian encampment, two men mounted and rode to a point between the two groups.

Oswald looked to Oswiu, who nodded.

"Oswiu and I will meet with Penda," said Oswald. "Await for my signal before setting up camp."

Oswald and Oswiu spurred their steeds towards the two Mercians.

Beobrand watched as Anhaga helped to pull one of the tents into shape over its wooden frame. He seemed to know what he was doing, so Beobrand left him to it. He had no interest in tents.

He removed his helm and held it under his left arm. His shield rested on the grass. He stared intently over the short distance to where the Mercians were camped. There, with the smoke of the cooking fires drifting around it like wraiths, was Penda's standard, hung with wolf tails and crowned with a wolf's head. The sight of it made him catch his breath. His ribs had begun to ache. He rubbed with his mutilated left hand at the scar under his left eye.

Acennan stood beside him.

"You faced Penda at Elmet, did you not?"

"I did," replied Beobrand. "To see that standard again... I remember that day. The days that followed."

"Dark times," said Acennan.

"Are there any other kind?"

"Maybe not." Acennan sighed. He scratched at his beard, frowning.

"What ails you?" asked Beobrand, noticing his friend's discomfort.

Acennan sighed. "I have heard some troubling news. You are not going to like it."

"What?"

Acennan pursed his lips.

"What, Acennan? If you did not wish to tell me, you should have kept quiet."

Acennan sighed again. "Very well, but you are right, I should not have said anything, for it is of no consequence to us now."

Beobrand looked at him quizzically.

Acennan said, "One of the men told me that Nathair is dead."

"And his sons?"

"Not here."

Beobrand spat. He thought of the arrows over the Tuidi. The hatred in the eyes of Broden and Torran. He cursed.

"Tobrytan and Elmer are good men," said Acennan. "They will protect Ubbanford."

"They are only two men. And we both know that Tobrytan is as slow as a donkey. Thunor help me, if Nathair's sons raise arms against Ubbanford, I swear it will be the last thing they will do in this life."

"They will not dare."

"They will regret it, if you are wrong," Beobrand said. The events of the last days had all but driven thoughts of Nathair and his sons from his mind. Now uncertainty began to gnaw at him.

He looked once more to the tents and fires of the Mercians. There were many of them. Five score he supposed. The same as their own number. Two warhosts. Each capable of dealing death and destruction.

But they came not for war.

"I hope that Oswald and Penda can agree their terms quickly," said Beobrand. "I would be gone from this place. There is only so long that this many warriors can camp in sight of each other without bloodshed. Whatever their lords have commanded." He clenched his right fist, digging the nails into his palm. "And I would return to Ubbanford. Would that you had not told me of Nathair's death."

Beobrand cast his gaze along the Mercian camp. Most men sat or stood in groups around the cooking fires. The evening meal was being prepared. The scent of cooking wafted to him on the breeze.

Wardens were posted at intervals along the Mercian line. Each stood resolutely staring at the Northumbrian host as it readied its own camp. When Oswald and his brother, Oswiu the atheling, had returned from speaking with Penda, the king had informed them that in the morning the two leaders would meet in the centre of the field. Until then, the camps would remain separate. He had repeated once more his warning that no offence was to be given to the Mercians.

Beobrand and Acennan watched as men laboured in the centre of the swathe of meadow. An awning slowly came into being. Stout wooden beams were brought from the Mercian camp. Ropes were expertly tied to secure the wood in place. Strong cloth was lifted onto the frame and pulled taut.

The sun had dipped low in the sky now. The smell of woodsmoke and cooking grew strong, as the Northumbrian encampment settled in for the evening. The warriors were still on edge, but the tension had eased. Perhaps they would get through this meeting with a rival host without leaving corpses in their wake. Those with the sense of age, or the experience of battles past, hoped that the carrion birds would go hungry.

Beobrand willed himself to relax. He tried not to dwell on the events of the last weeks. Attempted to put from his mind the worry that Nathair's sons might still seek vengeance for their brother's death. He was far from home. There was nothing to be gained from fretting. He smiled absently, almost hearing the deep voice of Bassus saying those very words. Bassus. Hearth warrior of Edwin. And Beobrand's friend. He had not seen the huge warrior since Bassus had returned to Cantware, where Edwin's widow and remaining children had fled following the battle of Elmet. Beobrand wondered whether tales of his exploits serving Oswald had reached Cantware. Should he consider Bassus an enemy now? Edwin's queen must surely be an enemy of Oswald. But he could not imagine Bassus as a foe.

In an effort to follow the advice Bassus had often given, and not worry about the past or that which could not be changed, he focused on the building of the awning where the kings of Mercia and Northumbria would talk and agree the terms of peace. At first he found the construction conjured up memories of the new hall at Ubbanford. He shook his head. Memories clamoured for his attention. He looked into the setting sun, hoping that the burning light would sear the thoughts from his mind.

He returned his gaze back to the awning. Something caught his attention. The men were silhouetted now against the ruddy glow of the sunset. But there was something about one of the men that tugged at his memory. The man's gait was familiar. Beobrand watched as the figure stooped to help secure a rope.

Beobrand gasped, his mouth hanging open. No, it could not be.

Acennan turned to his friend.

"What is it?"

Beobrand seemed incapable of speech. He pointed at the awning. Acennan followed his gaze, but merely saw men constructing the shelter.

"What?" asked Acennan, puzzled.

Beobrand realised that Acennan would not recognise the man. He did not know him as he did.

How was it possible that he was here, one of the host that served Penda? Beobrand's head swam. He blinked. Perhaps the afterglow of the sun in his eyes was playing tricks with him. He looked back. Squinted into the bright light. There was no question. It was him. The gods were laughing at him again. Had Nelda's curse brought them together here?

"What?" repeated Acennan, concern in his tone.

At last Beobrand found his voice. It came rushing up from the depths of his being. Riding on a wave of anger and hate like flotsam thrown against a cliff in a storm.

He screamed the name of the man. The last person he had expected to find here. The man he hated more than any other who yet lived. And this man would not live for much longer. For Beobrand had sworn to kill him. And Beobrand's oath was as unyielding as granite.

"Wybert!" he shouted, and the force of his own fury ripped his throat.

All eyes across the field turned to find the source of the bellowing voice. Mercian and Northumbrian alike ceased their activities and stared. Cups were set aside. Whetstones faltered. Conversations died out.

The object of the ire-filled scream stopped fastening the line of cord to one of the wooden supports of the awning, stood straight and looked directly at Beobrand. The sun was at Wybert's back, making it easy for him to recognise the Cantware man, who squinted and shielded his eyes. Wybert stood there, as if pondering something for a moment, and then took a step toward the Northumbrian camp.

"Well met, Beobrand," he called out. "Are you hale? You look unwell."

"I will kill you, Wybert," Beobrand spat. He had no more words. Perhaps those were enough.

Wybert held out his empty hands.

"You would attack an unarmed man? Under truce-oath? I think not," Wybert sneered. "Perhaps one day we will fight, but not today."

Beobrand quivered with rage. His vision began to mottle, whether from anger or staring into the sun, he did not know. He made to step forward, hand on Hrunting's hilt. Forgotten were the words of Oswald. He cared not for the consequences. All he could see was the man who had raped Sunniva. He had not protected her, just as he had not saved Cathryn. All that was left for him was to exact payment for the crime in blood. He bared his teeth and pulled Hrunting silently from its scabbard. The sun caught the shimmering blade. It glimmered red as if with fresh slaughter-sweat.

Dozens of paces separated Wybert from Beobrand, yet he paled at the sight of the Cantware warrior and took a step backwards.

A strong hand gripped Beobrand's shoulder. Angrily, he tried to shake it off. It held firm, pulled him back. He turned to see who impeded his revenge. It was Athelstan.

"No, boy," the older warrior said. "Not here. Not now."

Athelstan turned to Wybert and said in a voice for all to hear, "Your sins are known to all, Wybert, son of Alric. I went to Ubbanford and offered weregild for your crimes. But Beobrand would only have your blood. I told him of what you had done and your life is his. But not like this. In this place kings must speak, not pus-filled maggots like you. Begone. Death will find you. If not from Beobrand, then from my own hand."

There was utter silence now. The sun continued to glide beyond the far horizon, gilding the land in gold and red.

"So you told him, did you?" asked Wybert, his voice quiet, but carrying to all who listened.