The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (41 page)

The men gathered there looked upon Beobrand, lord of Ubbanford, thegn of Oswald of Bernicia and they saw the truth in his words. This was the slayer of Hengist. They saw the steel in his eyes and the flint in his heart.

They saw death. And they pitied Wybert.

CHAPTER 24

Athelstan left the morning after the revelations in the hall. Ubbanford was no place for him. The day was barely begun, the shadows long and the air still crisp when he gathered his men, bade a formal farewell to Rowena, for Beobrand had not yet risen, and headed south towards his own lands.

After Athelstan's departure, Beobrand rose and left the hall where he had lain in a mead-hazed stupor. He saddled Sceadugenga and mounted. Acennan hurried after him.

"Wait, Beobrand. I will fetch my mount and ride with you." Acennan's concern was clear.

"No. Stay here," Beobrand said. His eyes were distant and cold, like sea ice.

"You should not ride alone," said Acennan. "I will ready my horse."

"No, Acennan. Stay here and protect my son."

Acennan nodded slowly. He could not refuse such a request, but he feared for his friend. After the eruption of fury in the hall that saw Anhaga now confined to his bed, Beobrand had shown no more emotion. It was as if in death, Sunniva had taken something of him with her.

Beobrand moved as one in a daze. As someone who is in great need of sleep, or one who has slept for too long and too soundly, to awaken in the mid-afternoon after a feast, unsure of what day it is.

Acennan watched with worry etched on his face as Beobrand, sitting high on his black steed's back, galloped out of Ubbanford.

The day dragged on slowly. The men busied themselves as best they could, but they were acutely aware of their failure to their lord. There was no light-hearted banter that day.

Beobrand returned late in the afternoon, Sceadugenga lathered in sweat, and he stalked into Ubba's hall.

His people were gathered there, and they all looked to him as he entered. Rowena and Edlyn's eyes were red-rimmed. Maida rose with Octa in her arms, but Beobrand ignored them.

"Tobrytan," Beobrand said. The grizzled warrior looked up, his face set. Ready to face his punishment, be it death or exile.

"My lord."

"Organise the men tomorrow and fetch wood."

Tobrytan looked confused.

Beobrand continued, "You will build a pyre such as would be fit for a king of old. Build it atop the hill. We will send Sunniva's spirit to the gods tomorrow at the setting of the sun."

Tobrytan bowed his head. This was not what he had expected.

"Was Sunniva not a worshipper of Christ?" asked Rowena in a timid voice. The events of the last days had taken their toll on her too, and her face was pinched, her movements and tone cautious, as if she was afraid her actions might cause a disaster.

"She was not," replied Beobrand. "She sent her father on in the old way and she would have wanted the same."

Rowena did not reply, but dipped her gaze. None could meet that barren stare for long.

Beobrand turned back to his men. Maida looked up expectantly, but he paid her no heed. She frowned and looked to her husband, Elmer, but he did not notice. He was enthralled with his lord. Guilt lay heavily on him.

"See to it that there is enough wood," Beobrand said, taking in all his gesithas with his gaze. "I trust you will not fail me in this."

The men bowed their heads. None replied as Beobrand left the hall.

Sunniva was clothed in her favourite blue dress. He remembered she had worn it the first time they had lain together, on the sunny hillside above Gefrin. Her head had been bound in linen, over the top of her head and below her chin, leaving her face exposed, eyes closed and peaceful. It would almost be possible to think she slept.

There was little light in the chamber where she lay, but Beobrand could not pretend she was merely sleeping. Her pallor belied that. Her stillness was not that of one who is deep in rest. It was the absolute lack of movement of the dead.

Beobrand had seen many corpses before, but he had never seen one so beautiful. Her hair had been brushed until it shone, dully lambent in the taper's flame-glow. Her skin was as smooth and perfect as the finest polished stone.

And as cold.

His breath caught in his throat. A sob escaped him. He fell to his knees before the bed where his wife lay.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "So sorry. I should have been here. I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me? Oh, my love..."

He allowed the tears to flow then. He had been holding them in check all the day as he rode the hills. He had pushed Sceadugenga hard. The stallion seemed to understand his master's need. The horse galloped with a furious power. The wind whistled and his hooves thundered. Beobrand revelled in the raw energy of the beast. The speed and danger of falling. He rode with abandon, half hoping to be thrown. But Sceadugenga was a good steed and Beobrand was not unhorsed. He rode as if he could out-pace the grief that threatened to consume him.

But in the end, he had not been surprised to find that the horse had led them back to Ubbanford. The sun was low in the sky then and Rowena had met him at the door of the hall.

"Lord," she had said, "the pyre is ready. You should take some time to bid Sunniva farewell before we take her up the hill."

He had looked at her blankly then, but allowed her to lead him through the hall to the sleeping chamber where his dead wife awaited him. Rowena had left him alone with Sunniva in the gloom-laden room. Beobrand was glad of that now.

He had not faced Sunniva since her death, and the sight of her lying there had all but unmanned him. It would not do for his men to see him thus. He roughly wiped the tears from his face. He stood and kissed Sunniva's blue lips.

They were soft, yet cold. Unmoving. He closed his eyes for a moment. The touch of her mouth on his was familiar, and yet strangely cool and different. Like looking at a well-loved landscape that is disguised under a blanket of fresh snow.

He shuddered. Stood.

"Fare you well, my love," he whispered.

Nobody could recall a larger funeral fire.

It could be seen from far beyond the extent of Beobrand's hides of land. The sun dipped below the western horizon and Beobrand touched a torch into the dried tinder and twigs at the base of the wood pile. The wood was dry. His men had done well. The flames licked hungrily up the kindling, crackling and spitting sparks as a light breeze fanned the fire. Smoke spewed forth from some of the larger logs as the heat reached them.

Sunniva lay peacefully on top of the pyre. Smoke began to billow around her. Wisps of her golden hair rose and wafted around her face, lifted by the wind and heat.

The onlookers were silent. Awestruck, they watched as their lady's form was consumed. Her spirit would fly free in the smoke. The gods would surely take her into their hall.

Beobrand had not spoken since coming to this place. He was aware of the presence of his people around him. Every one of the inhabitants of Ubbanford was atop the hill that night. He had nodded to Acennan as, together, they had undertaken the grim task of lifting Sunniva onto the heap of wood. Acennan's eyes were dark and full of sorrow.

Sunniva's father, Strang, had been much heavier when they had lifted his body less than a year before. When they had found Strang, neither would have imagined they would be lifting his daughter's body mere months later. She was so light. Beobrand's mind brought back to him unbidden the image of Rheda. She too had been light, fragile. One moment so full of life and energy, the next no more than meat.

His vision blurred. He bit his lip. He would not cry. Tears would do no good. They never had.

Gently they had lain Sunniva down and descended the ladders they had used to raise her to the height of the top of the funeral pyre.

She was so lovely. He swallowed against the harsh lump in his throat. He watched as the smoke began to engulf her. He would never see her again. He blinked back tears. She was leaving middle earth. Leaving him alone.

Without warning Beobrand spun towards Maida, who stood a few paces back from the pyre. She held Octa in her arms. He was swaddled in a blanket. Elmer stood beside her, one broad hand placed protectively on her shoulder.

Reminding all the warriors present of why he was such a fearsome opponent in battle, Beobrand took a bounding leap towards Maida, instantly closing the gap between them. Instinctively she recoiled, holding Octa away from him, towards her husband.

"Give me my son," Beobrand said.

"Lord," Elmer answered for her in a hesitant voice.

Beobrand cast a glance back to the fire. The flames were moving higher. There was no time to explain or to argue.

"Give him to me," he shouted and snatched Octa from the woman's clutches.

She shrieked. Others screamed out too.

Beobrand ignored them and stepped back towards the fire.

Acennan blocked his path. Their eyes met.

"Step aside, I mean him no harm," Beobrand said.

Acennan hesitated for a heartbeat, then allowed him to pass.

Heat was rolling off of the fire now, making it difficult to get close. Sunniva was all but hidden by the conflagration of smoke and flames. But her form was still visible. The shape of her face darkly silhouetted within the blaze.

Octa began to wail. It was the first time that Beobrand had held his son.

Their son.

He held him aloft, high above his head.

More screams from the women. Did they believe he would toss his child onto the fire? Did they truly believe he was capable of such a thing? Perhaps.

He supported Octa's tiny head in his half hand, the babe's feeble body in his right. He shifted him so that he would be able to see into the high part of the bone fire.

"That is your mother, Sunniva, daughter of Strang," he said. "You will not see her again in this world, so look upon her now and do not forget, my son. Octa."

He held him thus for a long while until his arms began to tremble. Octa stopped his weeping. He seemed entranced by the flames. Or perhaps by the vision of his mother.

The people of Ubbanford fell quiet too. They were silent as their lord said farewell to his wife, and welcomed his son into this world. They watched as Beobrand stood beside the raging fire. He was still and solid. The flames cavorted and danced.

After a long while he lowered the small bundle that was his infant son. He held him close to his chest, his muscular arms wrapped around Octa to protect the baby from the heat.

He took a step backwards, and the women smiled. He meant no harm to the child.

When he was a distance that was safe for the babe, Beobrand, planted his feet and stood, as immobile as rock, gazing into the fiery heart of the pyre.

His gesithas saw a warrior, broad of shoulder, and hale of frame. The womenfolk saw the way he protected his child and they saw the new father. A young man, unsure, and alone, and their hearts melted for him.

Acennan looked sidelong at Beobrand and saw a friend. The firelight moved on his face. The glistening trails of tears were quickly burnt away in the glare of the pyre. It was impossible to take away Beobrand's jagged hurt, but it would soften in time, the way a rough stone will be smoothed by the constant tides of the sea.

His people looked upon Beobrand as he stood vigil over his wife's bone fire and they each saw something different. Yet there was one thing that all of them agreed on.

He was their lord.

The next days were dark in Ubbanford. The sun's orb rose high in the sky each day. There were mere threads of clouds in the warm afternoons and those who worked on the new hall's construction, or in the fields, sweated and squinted against the brightness of the light.

Yet a pall of darkness hung over the village as surely as if a storm cloud had settled above it.

Beobrand's men felt keenly their failure. They awaited their lord's punishment, but none came, which only served to make them feel worse. They knew they had done wrong and wished to feel the brunt of Beobrand's wrath to expiate their guilt in some measure. The lack of ire directed at them made for an excruciating blend of self-loathing and self-pity. Fights broke out. Words of blame were uttered. Friendships soured.

In an effort to keep busy, the warriors resumed work on the hall on the hill. Where before they had accompanied their work with good-natured banter and jests, now they toiled with scarcely a word being spoken. The work did not progress as quickly as it should have with the fine weather. Their hearts were not in it. They would look at where Sunniva used to sit in the last days before her confinement and then their eyes would be drawn to the grey-black stain on the hill. The place of her pyre. More than one of the men needed to wipe tears from their cheeks. There seemed to be more stray dust blowing into eyes than before Sunniva's death. Perhaps it was ash from the remnants of the blaze that had consumed her flesh.