The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (38 page)

That had been long before, when the sun was still high in the sky. Now, the sun had set and the last light was fading on the western horizon. Anhaga busied himself lighting tapers and torches around the hall. He coaxed new flames from the embers on the hearth. But he did not ask if he should send for food to be served. He read his master's mood well enough. Beobrand would not eat while Sunniva suffered so.

"It is always the waiting that is the worst," said Acennan, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen upon them as they awaited the next scream of pain. "Be it before a battle, or before a birth, the waiting's the hardest to bear."

Sunniva let out another guttural groaning cry.

"Well," continued Acennan, "hardest to bear for us men, anyway. I am sure the womenfolk would have something to say about the waiting being tougher than the work of pushing out a baby." He smiled ruefully.

Beobrand did not smile. He drained the mead from his horn. Standing abruptly, he paced from one end of the hall to the other.

"Is it normal?" he asked.

"Is what normal?" said Acennan.

"The screams? The pain? And does it always take this long?"

"I am no expert, but I believe a first child is often the worst."

"Perhaps it is so," said Beobrand. "I remember my mother when birthing Edita. It was all over before we knew she had started the pains. Edita was her sixth child. Two babes had died the same days they were born. Or were already dead. I never knew which. Father and Mother would not speak of them." Beobrand ran his hands through his hair. The uneven sensation of the missing fingers on his left hand was now natural to him. "I was only a boy. I asked so many questions. I just wanted to know what had happened. All I got was a beating in the end. And they never spoke of them."

Why did his mind insist on thinking of these things? Unbidden, his every thought came back to death. They were all gone now. All of them. He had often wondered whether he was cursed. But those were just the thoughts of a child. A man makes his own wyrd. His wyrd was interlocked with that of Sunniva. He was strong, and they would have strong offspring. Theirs would be a family to be reckoned with in years to come.

Without warning, he remembered the words of Nelda. They echoed in his thought-cave as if she was speaking them still: "I curse you, as you cursed my son! You will never know happiness. You will die alone."

He shuddered. He wished to be free of these thoughts. But he could no more control them than a man could hold back the tides.

A scream, ululating and full of exhaustion and woe, came from the living quarters.

Then a new sound, smaller, though no less urgent. The thin wailing of a newborn child pierced the partition at the rear of the hall.

In the silence that followed, Beobrand caught Acennan's eye. The squat warrior nodded.

The babe's crying grew louder, more demanding. A rush of relief washed over Beobrand. He felt he would fall, such was the strength of emotion that coursed though him. He placed a hand on the board to steady himself.

A moment later, the door at the rear of the hall opened. Lady Rowena stepped into the dim flame-light. Her face was a pallid smear in the darkened doorway.

"Lord Beobrand," she said, her voice thick, hoarse, "you have a son."

The room was dark and warm. Rush tapers gave off a fretful light. The tang of sweat hung in the air, mingled with other scents.

Blood.

And shit.

Beobrand had smelled the like before. It was the stench of the battlefield. Visions of the shieldwalls' clash, the screams of the wounded and dying tumbled into his tired mind.

Was it like battle, this women's work of childbirth? There had been screams here too. Terrible wails of anguish and agony. He looked about the noisome room. A baby even now was squealing with a noise it was hard to believe could come from one so small.

Rowena took the swaddled parcel from Odelyna and lifted it up to Beobrand. The baby did not cease its crying.

"Your son," Rowena said.

Beobrand made no attempt to touch the child. He looked at it with incredulity that it had come into this world from within Sunniva's belly. It was so tiny. Its features were screwed up into a wrinkled mask of utter fury. Its lips quivered as it screamed lustily.

"What is wrong with it?" he asked.

"Nothing is wrong with him," Rowena said, shaking her head. "He is hungry and angry at being pulled from the dark warmth into the world. With your leave, I will take him to Maida. She will feed him. The lady Sunniva is too tired at present."

Beobrand nodded. Elmer's wife was good with her own children; she would care for the baby well. He was as one who has drunk too much mead. Slow. Clumsy. Odelyna was fussing over Sunniva and now turned to Beobrand.

"Lord," she said, with that same tenderness in her voice he had noticed earlier, "your lady has had a difficult time of it. Speak briefly with her, for she must rest."

Beobrand nodded and dropped to his knees beside the cot.

Sunniva looked asleep. Her face was still, her eyes closed. He took her hand and kissed it.

"My love, we have our fine son," he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Beobrand," a smile touched her lips, then her brow furrowed. Her hand clasped his with a sudden ferocity. "Is he well? Where is he? I do not hear him."

"Hush, my dearest. Our son is well. Rowena has taken him to Maida. She will feed him while you rest. All is well."

She relaxed, allowed her head to fall back onto her pillow. Odelyna moved about the room efficiently tidying things away.

Beobrand was still shocked at the strain and suffering etched on Sunniva's face. He stroked her hand. "You have done well, my love. You need to rest, and then you can see our son again."

She made a satisfied noise at the back of her throat. Seemed to drift into sleep again.

"We need to think of a name for him," she said quietly, eyes still closed. "Would you like to name him after your brother perhaps? In his memory and honour?"

Beobrand had given no thought to a name. The idea of having a child had seemed so distant. But now he played with the idea in his mind. Octa. It was a strong name. His brother had been a warrior of renown. It would do his son proud to bear the name.

"Yes," he kissed her hand again, "Octa would be a good name for our fine boy."

"Octa," she whispered. She opened her eyes. They were dazed with exhaustion. And something more. Glazed with pain. Her hand gripped his tightly. Grimacing, she let out a groan.

"Sunniva?"

Beads of sweat sprung up on her brow. Her eyes roved around. It was as if she did not see him.

"Sunniva, my love. Rest now." Her grip tightened. She began to pant, thrashing her head against the pillow in torment.

Terror scratched its talons down Beobrand's neck. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought he could hear the echo of a witch's curse.

"Father...? Why are you angry?" Sunniva's voice was that of a child. Tentative and tearful.

"I am not angry," answered Beobrand. Father? What did she mean? Panicking now, he looked to Odelyna.

"What ails her?"

"Step aside. Let me look at her." Odelyna's tone was curt. Was there an edge of fear in her voice?

Beobrand looked down helplessly as the old woman touched Sunniva's head. She recoiled as if stung by a bee.

"Step back, man," she said. She flustered around the bed while Sunniva began to cry. Long wailing sobs racked her frame.

"Father, please don't shout so. I'm sorry," Sunniva wept.

Beobrand took a hesitant step back, allowing Odelyna room to work whatever magic she had at her disposal.

He did not ask why Sunniva spoke thus. He had seen it before when his sister's spirit was close to flight, she had begun to speak of things that were not there. Did they see the spirits of those who had gone before them? Despite the warmth in the room, Beobrand's skin prickled with a sudden chill. The hairs on his arms rose.

Sunniva would not die. Odelyna was here. He had let Rheda and his mother slip away, but he had no magic. No knowledge to save them. No wyrts or potions. Odelyna was old and wise. She may be a cantankerous old crone, but she would save his wife from the clutches of death.

Sunniva could not die.

The old woman had taken some leaves from a pouch. She touched them to the taper flame. Pungent smoke wafted into the room. Odelyna murmured words under her breath. Words of power. Words of the old gods.

All the while, Sunniva raved.

"You can save her, can't you?" Beobrand asked.

Odelyna continued with her chanting.

"You can, can't you?" Beobrand could hear the fear in his own voice. This was not the fear of battle, when you believe that an enemy may strike you down. There, your strength and guile could save you from the sword blow. Your skill at sword-play could turn death to your will.

Here, in this fear-filled, smoky womb of a chamber, Beobrand faced that most terrifying of things: the fear of losing a loved one with no way to fend off the inevitable. He had faced this before. Seen it too often for one of his years. But never had he believed Sunniva was so fragile.

He must be mistaken. This was not as bad as it looked to him. One look as Odelyna's drawn features told him otherwise. Her chanting was frantic now.

Sunniva let out a shriek and then fell still.

Beobrand rushed to her side, barging past Odelyna, who let out a cry and stumbled out of his way. Wraiths of smoke eddied around him. His throat was thick with the sickly scent.

Sunniva lay still, her eyes closed. Oh no! Woden, All Father, do not take her from me. Do not take her. Do not take her.

He clutched her hand. It was as hot as the edge of the forge where she could so often be found. There was some evil fire in her. Had she been elf shot? Was this Nelda's curse at work?

She was unmoving. Was she gone? Beobrand choked back a sob. It could not be so.

Sunniva's eyes flickered open then. Beobrand released a ragged breath. She lived! Everything would be well again. He felt foolish to have allowed himself to become so upset.

"Sunniva, I was afeared. Thought I'd lost you."

"I am here, my love," she said. "I will always be here." She offered him a small smile. Her voice was tired, her eyelids drooped. Her eyes closed. Her hand felt hot enough to burn.

"You need to rest now," said Beobrand.

Her eyes opened once more. There was an urgency in them now. Sunniva fixed him with a piercing stare. "Wait! Do not leave me. Send for my son. I must see him."

"You can see him later, when you have rested."

"No. Send for him now. I will have time to rest soon."

A chill ran over Beobrand. Sunniva's voice had changed. When he made no move, Sunniva turned to Odelyna.

"Please, Odelyna," she implored. Something in her tone, or perhaps some secret communication between the women made Odelyna nod, turn and leave the chamber.

Alone together for the first time in days, Sunniva and Beobrand gazed into each other's eyes for a long while.

In that moment, Beobrand knew that which he had most feared would come to pass. Sunniva said nothing, but he knew.

"But you are well now..." his voice faltered.

She shook her head on the pillow. Tears welled in her eyes, trickled down her flushed cheeks.

"I am sorry, my love," she said.

Beobrand felt tears burn his own eyes. His sight blurred.

"Don't speak so... you are well." His tears scored wet trails down his cheeks. This could not be happening. Yet he knew the truth of it. The light in Sunniva's eyes was dimming.

"Don't leave me!" he said, sudden anger flashing. "Don't leave me alone, Sunniva."

She squeezed his hand tightly.

"You will never be alone," she said, a ferocity in her tone. "I will always be with you and our son."

Her hand relaxed its grip on his.

"Our son, Octa," she said, her voice almost too hushed to make out the words. A smile played on her lips for the briefest of moments. Then her life-breath left her with a whisper. Sunniva's head slumped to one side on the pillow as if she had fallen into a deep sleep.

That night, the people of Ubbanford heard many screams coming from the old hall. First the pained cries of childbirth had punctuated the villagers' conversations. Womenfolk had looked at each other knowingly. They shared the pain Sunniva suffered. It was the common bond of all mothers. The men did their best to ignore the screams, drinking more deeply than usual from their cups and horns.

There had followed the welcome wailing of a hale child breathing its first breaths. The women looked at their own sleeping children with a remembered fondness that was often forgotten in the daily strife and struggle of life. They felt blessed to have healthy children. Those who had lost children were moved at the sounds of new life. It was a warming sound and many silent prayers were offered up to the gods for the child's health and long life.