The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (37 page)

Many of the men nodded and muttered their support for his words.

Another of the men who had ridden with him stood.

"I also vouch for the boy."

"As do I." Another of Oswiu's thegns rose.

Soon, all of the men who had been sent into the lands of Dál Riata stood. Each pledged his oath that Coenred was honest and honourable.

"It is good to see this support for Coenred," said Oswald. "I too believe he is innocent in this. However, I would have more than the word of a boy in a matter of such gravity."

Gothfraidh took a step forward. "I was not present in Cormán's chamber last night, so I did not witness what occurred there. No man did, save for Cormán and Coenred. But I believe Coenred's story. It is not the first such story I have heard."

The gathering gasped as one.

Oswiu translated. Cormán slumped. His face pallid behind the bruises.

"Some years hence, when both Cormán and I resided on the island of Hii, a young novice came to me with a story so similar to Coenred's that it could have been told by the same mouth. But that is not possible. For that boy who came to me is dead." Gothfraidh took a shaky breath. The onlookers were silent now. Rapt and horrified at the tale Gothfraidh told.

"He came to me and spoke of how Cormán had touched him. Forced him to do terrible, sinful things. I was weak then. I did not wish to believe him. I spoke to Cormán of the accusations and he said the boy was deluded. There was no evidence and no witnesses, so I chose to believe Cormán. The boy died of the bloody flux the following winter. I have not thought of him in years." Gothfraidh's eyes were focused on a place far away in the past. "But when Coenred spoke to me last night. Told me what Cormán had done. What he had said. I heard the echoes of that boy's voice from beyond the tomb." He crossed himself. "I did not believe him then. But I will not allow Cormán to prey more on boys while I still draw breath." He drew himself up straight. Raised his head and squared his shoulders.

"I say that Coenred is innocent and Cormán is guilty of sins of the flesh."

Cormán blustered for a time on hearing the words from Gothfraidh. He raised his voice, exhorted the name of God. He screeched in Latin, hate and anger splashing from him the way blood flows from a mortally wounded beast. A speared boar will make much noise, and blood will gush forth readily, yet its end is already sealed.

Oswald, his face pale, his jaw set, held out his hands for the final time.

"Cormán, you are condemned by the words of those from your own brethren. I will not sentence you for your crimes and sins. That is for a higher authority than mine. Yet I will not allow you to reside within my realm. You will return from whence you came. I will send a letter to Segene of Hii asking for a new bishop. One who is more suited to the tasks in hand. There you will face whatever punishment he sees fit for you."

Oswald did not wait for Oswiu to translate his words this time. He stared at Cormán and spoke the words himself in the lilting sounds of the Hibernians. Cormán wilted in the face of that stare. His shoulders slumped. His downcast eyes glistened.

The king then addressed all those gathered.

"You all know that it is my will that Christ will be worshipped by all the people of Northumbria. For that, we need a leader who is holy. A man who is godly in all he does. Cormán is not such a man. Hii will send a new bishop, and we will pray that he is holy." He raked them all with his stare. "You are all oath-sworn to me. And I would have no word of what was spoken today leave this hall. The people need not know why the bishop returns to Hii." The king cast a contemptuous glance as Cormán, who now seemed on the verge of collapse. "Cormán will be a name forgotten. Hidden from history. Unsung and unremembered. Let none of you speak of him again or of what transpired here today."

Coenred looked at all the men who had stood in his defence. Coenred had thought he would be punished. He had not hoped that he would be able to remain at Lindisfarena. But Oswiu's thegns and Gothfraidh, even the king himself, had stood behind him. Vouched for him. It was almost like having a family.

Gothfraidh came to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

Coenred could maintain his composure no longer. Tears welled up and streamed freely down his cheeks. He was not to be punished.

He had friends. Family.

And a home.

CHAPTER 22

The next weeks passed in a peaceful haze of warm sunshine. The days grew ever longer and each day the land soaked up the warmth of the sun. There were days of clouds and rain, but the showers fell softly with no vehemence. The roots of barley and peas drank thirstily of the moisture. The plants flourished, bursting with verdant life. As the plants welcomed the rain, so did the people of Ubbanford. It gave them respite from their work. Everybody was busy. Planting, lambing, repairing the damage to fences and houses caused by the winter storms. Beobrand and his gesithas spent every dry day working on the new hall. Its wooden bones were completed and work commenced on the walls. It was a great hall. A symbol of strength overlooking the village. None could approach Ubbanford without spying the hall on its hill.

Beobrand wondered whether the hall would be finished by the time Nathair's sons decided to strike. They heard rumours of Nathair's health declining. But for the moment at least, his sons had not decided to test their strength against their neighbour on the south of the Tuidi.

Beobrand was glad of it. He did not seek more battles. More blood. He would be content to spend the summer building and farming. But Acennan convinced him that they should not allow their skills to wane. He reminded him how Scand would drive his men to train. And so, every few days, Beobrand would lead the men through the drills of battle-play he had learnt from the old lord. They strained, shield against shield, and practised the use of spear and blade. The training was exhausting after the work on the hall, but the men knew that to ignore their battle-skill would be as bad as allowing a sword to rust.

The days when they were not practising with their weapons were long and full of hard toil. Beobrand enjoyed the physical labour, pitching in with the men. Lifting, carrying, sawing, nailing. The dark memories from the last year retreated with the winter cold. Nelda's words, shrieked into the gloom of her dank fastness in the earth, sometimes played in his mind. Was it possible that she was really Hengist's mother? It seemed inconceivable, and yet, he recalled her face. The set of her jaw. Her eyes, dark and probing. And he knew it to be true. How she had found herself so far north and west, he could not tell. He shuddered despite the warmth when he thought of these things. What power had she exerted to draw him to her? Surely her curse must carry that same potency. He pushed these thoughts aside.

It was easier to dispel these anxieties in the smiling sunshine of the day. At night, in the dark and stillness, Nelda's presence felt close. He recalled the scent of her breath. He had not confided in Sunniva about the meeting with the witch. The warmth and sunlight, coupled with Odelyna's skills as a healer seemed to have worked their own magic on her. She was less pale. The headaches less frequent, less severe. But she was still weak. She could no longer work the forge.

Her belly swelled as quickly as the fast-growing peas in the southern field. She was nearing her time and was restless. On days when she felt well, Beobrand had a comfortable chair carried up to the hill for her to oversee the construction of the hall. Their hall.

She liked to sit in the shade of a shelter the men had made for her and preside over the work. The men too, Beobrand noticed, worked harder when she was there. There was less banter and fewer rests. They looked upon her with loving eyes, working hard to impress her. That these warriors had taken to him as their hlaford still surprised Beobrand. When he looked at Sunniva, her golden hair glowing in the spring light, a rose petal blush on her cheeks, her demure smile, it was easy to see why the men admired her. She may not have been born of noble rank, but she carried herself with grace. Underlying all her beauty and elegance, lay an iron will that the gesithas recognised as necessary for any in a position of power.

Beobrand saw it in her too. Each day he discovered something new about her. Some hidden knowledge from her past. Some insight into her character. She was tired by the end of each day, and they would often retire early to their bed. They would lie close together in the darkness and talk. She would caress his chest absently, driving him mad with a desire he was unable to satisfy for fear of hurting their unborn child. He would listen to her, stroking her hair. The winter had been long and cold for both of them and they now filled the void that had grown between them with words.

On this day, Sunniva was not present on the hill in her usual spot. She had felt unwell that morning, complaining of pangs of pain. Beobrand had sent for Odelyna. He had loitered nervously beside the bed as the old woman had begun to examine Sunniva, but the healer had promptly tired of him and shooed him from the room.

Beobrand and the men worked sullenly for a time. Little work of substance was completed. They were all concerned for Sunniva. Often they would stop and look down the hill to the settlement. At mid-morning there was a flurry of movement from the houses nestled in the valley.

All work ceased as the men saw their lord shading his eyes for a better view of the activity. A horseman was coming towards them. He was riding hard.

"That's Anhaga," Acennan said.

"Aye, and he is on Sceadugenga," Beobrand replied, his voice clipped and tight with nerves.

He began to stride down the hill to meet the mounted man.

Anhaga was not a good rider, but Sceadugenga liked him and carried him well. The stallion pulled to a halt a few paces before Beobrand. It snorted and pawed the earth. It longed to be given its head, to gallop far over the hills. But this was not the day for a long ride.

"Lord," Anhaga panted, "you must come." He dismounted clumsily onto his twisted leg. He stumbled and handed the reins to Beobrand, he said, "The lady Sunniva's time is here. You must hurry."

Beobrand grabbed the black mane of the stallion and swung himself into the saddle. Without a word he kicked his heels into Sceadugenga's flanks and they sped off down the hill.

Beobrand squeezed his eyes shut as another scream reverberated around the hall. He hammered his fist into the board before him in frustration. He knew there was nothing he could do to help. This was women's work. But the feeling of impotence filled him with rage.

He sensed movement and looked up. Anhaga had stepped from the shadows where he had been lurking. He righted the drinking horn that Beobrand had upset. The cripple did not look Beobrand in the eye. He merely picked up the pitcher and refilled the horn. Then, with a bow, he stepped back away from the benches. His face was pinched. His movements awkward. The tension in the room was palpable.

The hall was empty save for Beobrand, Acennan and Anhaga. Beobrand found some solace in the company of his friend. Anhaga had limped in some time ago and Beobrand could not bring himself to turn the man away. He had been a faithful servant to Sunniva throughout the long winter. The man doted on her, and she seemed to tolerate him now. Several times Beobrand had found them talking quietly together. Their hushed conversations never continued when he was present. Absently he wondered what they talked about. There was something they were not telling him, but Sunniva brushed away his concerns when he questioned her. He did not press the matter, but he would seek a better answer once the babe was born. He did not like secrets being kept from him.

As if in response to his thoughts of childbirth, another shrill anguished wail emanated from the sleeping quarters of the hall. The womenfolk were all there attending Sunniva. When he had arrived at a gallop earlier in the day, Odelyna had let him in briefly to see his wife. Sunniva's skin was blotchy, her colour high. A sheen of sweat covered her, her hair plastered to her forehead. To see her thus had unnerved him. His mother and sister Rheda had the same panicked glazed look when he had nursed them in their final moments. He had felt his knees grow weak at the sight of Sunniva. He'd fallen beside the cot where she lay and taken her hand in both of his. He'd kissed her brow. The heat from her skin was shocking. He could not let her see the fear in his face. It would do her no good. He must be strong for her.

"Sunniva, my love," he'd said, forcing a thin smile, "they say the time has come to bring our child into the world."

She'd returned his gaze. "I am scared," she'd said. "It hurts so."

He'd looked to Odelyna and Rowena.

Odelyna had stepped forward. "I've never known a woman who said she enjoyed childbirth. The pain is normal. It will pass soon enough."

"You hear that, Sunniva? The pain will be over soon," he'd smiled again, this time more broadly, "and we'll have our son. Remember?"

But Sunniva had closed her eyes and dug her nails into his hands. She had let out a groan deep in the back of her throat. The groan had built into a shriek that must have ripped her throat, such was the force of it.

"Now, lord," Odelyna had said, with a tenderness to her voice that Beobrand had not heard before, "you must leave us women to our work. There is nothing for you to do here but fret, and you can do that outside just as well, but without getting under our feet. We'll call for you when the child is born."