The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (48 page)

Yes, it was all Wybert's doing. He was to blame for all of this.

But as Beobrand walked into the night, the rain running down his face stung like bitter tears of remorse.

CHAPTER 28

The crash of thunder made Wybert jump up from where he lay. He groped in the dark of the tent for his seax. In his dreams Beobrand had been coming for him. Leaping from the shadows like a night devil. His blade had dripped with the blood of all the men he had slain. Wybert had seen him fight before. Beobrand was a born killer. Wybert had learnt much, perhaps even had natural skill. But he was no match for Beobrand's deadly ability.

In the gloom of the tent his hand found the wooden handle of his seax. He cast his gaze around, but there was no sign of Beobrand. Rain thrummed heavily on the taut leather of the shelter. Near where he sat hunched in the darkness, a stream of water poured through a leak. A flash of lightning lit the world outside and briefly, from the light that had shone under the edge of the tent and through the partially closed door flap, he could make out the forms of the slumbering warriors. None of them seemed to have noticed the tumult of the storm that raged outside.

Wybert flinched again, as another roar of thunder shook the world. He had always hated thunder and lightning. Leofwine had made fun of him about it. Just the gods at play, he had said. Well they could keep their play. Their games had cost him his brother and father. His home. The gods must love to toy with him. He had found a lord in Bernicia. Athelstan had trained him in the way of the sword. Given him arms and a place at his benches. Then, as if they could not bear to see Wybert happy, the gods had thrown before him Sunniva, with her radiant beauty. How was it possible that he should lose everything he loved, yet Beobrand should gain riches and a woman of such beauty? The gods were capricious indeed.

How they must have enjoyed watching him telling Athelstan and his gesithas of his exploits. She was only a woman! What did they care? He had only swived her. It wasn't as if he had killed her.

At the far end of the tent, furthest from the draft of the door, lay Grimbold, sheltered under a huge bearskin. Wybert sniffed. Perhaps his luck was changing. Or the gods had grown bored of him. He had found Grimbold soon after entering Mercia. He seemed to be a good lord. And, having just lost three men to the red plague, was not one to ask many questions of a warrior who had his own horse and weapons. Wybert had kept himself out of mischief, being careful to befriend the strongest of the warriors. He trained with them and continued to pick up new techniques. His strength grew, as did his confidence.

Until he had seen Beobrand that afternoon.

He shivered in the dark and ran his hands through his hair. Grimbold had asked him about the confrontation with the thegn from Northumbria. Wybert had shrugged it off. It was a personal matter, but he would not break the truce over it. He would face his enemy at another time. Grimbold had raised an eyebrow.

"See that you do not break the truce," he had said. "Penda is furious that the peace may not hold. If you fight, he will have your guts as a belt and a saddle made out of your hide."

Lighting flickered outside again, followed by the hammer-smash of thunder. The rain fell in torrents, deafening within the tent.

Wybert had a sudden need to piss. The encounter with Beobrand had unnerved him. He had drunk too much ale afterwards in an attempt to rid himself of the gnawing sensation of impending doom that had descended upon him. He had hoped that fleeing to Mercia would be far enough not to see Beobrand again. He had thought that perhaps their paths would cross one day. If Mercia and Northumbria fought, they might face each other in the shieldwalls, but he had not thought to see him so soon. And the thought of facing Beobrand in combat nearly unmanned Wybert.

The rain continued. Little rivulets ran through the tent. One of the sleeping men rolled over out of the damp and cursed.

The urge to empty his bladder was overbearing now. There was nothing for it but to venture into the storm. He sheathed his seax and stood. Wrapping his cloak about him in an effort to protect himself from the downpour, he stepped over the thrall who lay at the entrance to the tent, and pulled the flap aside.

He was buffeted by the wind, but the rain seemed less virulent outside than it had sounded from within the tent.

He walked a few steps away from the shelter, enjoying the sensation of the cold water running over his face. Perhaps it would wash away the fear-sweat from his dreams.

He glanced over at the largest of the campfires. Several men huddled there - the wardens, he supposed.

The white light flicker of lightning shone on the world for less than a heartbeat, then all was dark once more. Images were burnt into his vision. The tents. The wardens standing by the fire. The distant woods. And the figure of a man, not ten paces from him.

With a start he realised he recognised the man.

The peal of thunder smothered the scream that left Wybert's lips. He fumbled for his seax. But his movements were sluggish. The shock of seeing the face in the lightning-glow had sapped him of his strength. How could he be here?

A moment later, the figure was upon him. Wybert felt a searing pain in his side. He felt the blade wrenched free from his flesh. The warmth of his own blood gushed over his stomach and groin, where it mingled with his piss as his bladder let go.

Wybert screamed again. His own voice seemed to break him from his momentary inaction. He grabbed the wrist that held the knife, stopping a second strike. He felt his adversary grip his own wrist, preventing him from stabbing with his seax. Without thinking, he drew his head back and snapped it forward with all his strength. His forehead connected with his enemy's nose, crushing it. Blood splattered in the rain. The grasp on Wybert's wrist loosened. He pulled his hand free and slashed at his opponent's midriff. The blade raked along the man's stomach and clattered over his ribs.

Wybert could feel his life blood pumping freely from the wound in his belly. His strength would be gone soon. He did not want to die like this. Killed in the dark.

How had his attacker come to this place? Wybert had recognised the face instantly. He should have killed the man when they had first crossed paths. He would not miss the opportunity again.

Wybert pulled back his hand for the mortal blow, when his enemy fell to his knees and flopped onto his back. Wybert laughed, the cackle of a madman in the storm. The man was pathetic. He had lost consciousness. Wybert gripped his seax tightly in his right hand and dropped to his knees beside the prostrate form. He raised the blade above the man's pale throat.

The rain lashed them both ferociously. Wybert could feel himself growing cold. The thin moonlight picked out the bleeding form before him. His vision blurred. He tried to focus, to will himself to draw his blade across the exposed flesh of the man's neck. But his fingers would not obey his commands. The seax fell harmlessly onto the drenched grass, where it lay like a beached fish, a-glimmer in the dark.

As he sank into darkness, Wybert sensed people around him. Was that Leofwine? His father? Why were they pulling at him so roughly?

And then, he knew no more.

"Get up," Beobrand hissed. He gripped Acennan's shoulders and pulled him into a sitting position. Rain still fell, but the lightning had passed. Thunor had grown bored with this small field on the frontier of Mercia and Deira. Or perhaps he had witnessed enough that night to amuse him and now moved on to watch other men.

Acennan was groggy still. He struggled to sit, was unable to focus. Beobrand shook him.

"Rouse yourself. We must return to the camp."

Slowly, Acennan regained his senses. As his strength returned, he pushed Beobrand's hands away.

"So, you have done the deed?" he asked, his voice as flat and cold as wet slate.

"No, my friend," answered Beobrand. "I do not know what has happened, but the Mercian camp is in uproar. We must get back to the tent before we are missed."

In the distance, the Mercian campfires were being stoked into life. Fresh logs were being thrown onto them, showers of sparks and smoke rising into the rain-swept sky. The flickering light from the fires showed men running from the tents. The metal of battle-gear glinted in the gloom. The sounds of shouts and cries reached them distantly on the wind.

"Friend, you call me?" said Acennan. He grunted as he rose to his knees. Beobrand reached out to help him. Acennan batted away his hand. "Friend?" Acennan repeated. "Is that what we are?" With a groan at his aching limbs, Acennan stood. Beobrand could feel the anger rolling off of him in waves. Or perhaps it was disappointment.

"You are my friend," he said. "I know that, for I see it in your actions. You are true. A better friend than I." He looked through the thinning rain to where the Mercian fires burnt high. The shade-like forms of warriors gathered there.

"If not for you, I would surely be dead now. And probably with nothing to show for it. Now come, I would not have your blood on my hands, and we will surely be killed should the Mercians find us here."

Acennan did not answer, but after a brief pause, he began walking slowly back towards the Northumbrian camp.

Beobrand trudged behind. The last vestiges of the drink-haze were melting from his mind like fog in the dawn. And he could see clearly despite the darkness. He had been a fool. Acennan was right to despise him. He would have his revenge on Wybert, but how had he thought it was worth breaking his oath for that worm? Did he wish to face Woden as an oath-breaker? A man who puts his own desires for blood before that of his lord and king? A nithing who cares not for his own gesithas and would be prepared to sacrifice them for his own ends?

Oswald's words came back to him then. A leader must look beyond his own desires. That is what makes a great man.

The words taunted him. Judged him.

And found him lacking.

CHAPTER 29

The clouds had torn into rags as the sun crested the hills in the east.

Dawn would usually be a still, quiet time. Men would slowly emerge from their furs and blankets, disturbed by the light and the movement of others in the camp. They would warm themselves by the fires that had been newly-coaxed into life after the long night. Smoke would drift like wraiths around the hunched forms of men pissing into steaming puddles.

This was not such a daybreak.

The night had exploded into a chaos of lightning and thunder.

And treachery.

Now, as the sun shyly peeked over the eastern horizon, stroking the scattering clouds with golden fingers, both warhosts were aligned as for battle. They faced each other over the field, unsure of what the day would bring, but ready for the battle-play, if that was where their wyrd took them.

The shelter that had been erected between the two forces still stood, despite the ferocity of the storm. One corner of the awning had come adrift and now flapped forlornly in the morning breeze. The movement drew Beobrand's gaze.

Athelstan, beard bristling and brow furrowed, turned to Beobrand, who stood to his left in the line.

"What in God's name has happened? Last night we went to sleep all set for a quiet talk today, and now we wake up to find the Mercians as angry as a man who has bedded a beauty and woken with a sow."

Beobrand shook his head. He had no idea what had occurred. He shifted guiltily, feeling that somehow he was responsible for the change in the mood of the camp. And yet, Acennan and he had managed to get back to their tent without notice. It was not till morning that the others commented on Acennan's face. When pressed on how he had got the swollen-shut and bruised eye, he had refused to speak of it, but Garr had sharp eyes and noticed the split skin on their lord's knuckles.

"It would seem that Acennan has once again angered our lord Beobrand," he had said, laughter in his voice.

"Shut that gaping hole you call a mouth," Beobrand had snapped. "Unless you wish to know what it feels like to anger me."

After that, nobody else had mentioned Acennan's eye or Beobrand's hand.

Until now.

Athelstan shifted his position and looked to Acennan, noticing the angry bruising and swelling of his eye for the first time.

"By the bones of Christ, lad," he said loud enough for all to hear, "did you use your face to hammer in the pegs for the tent?"

Oswald, resplendent in his purple cloak, sunlight glinting from his burnished helm, turned to Athelstan with a frown. He was wound as tight as a bow string at full draw.

"Stop your chatter," the king said. "Someone approaches. Hold still and calm, my countrymen. I feel that one move out of place now and we will face battle where we only sought to exchange words and oaths. Come brother, let us see what they would say to us."

Oswiu and Oswald walked towards the awning.

From the Mercian encampment came a group of three men. Two were garbed in the finery of great warriors. The dawn sun glistened from polished metal. Buckles, brooches and belt-tips gleamed. They walked with an assured air, square-shouldered and confident. Behind them, stumbling and limping, came a bedraggled creature. His hands were tied before him and a rope was fastened around his neck. One of the warriors, his black cloak swirling behind him like crow wings, held the rope. The tied man was slow. His right leg was horribly twisted, and his halting gait must have infuriated the black-cloaked warrior, for he gave the rope a savage tug, sending the captive sprawling to the wet ground.