The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) (44 page)

"She was beautiful," said Anhaga. "Hengist would have destroyed her beauty. That is all he ever did - destroy."

"Did he hurt her?" asked Beobrand, images of Cathryn, bloodied and broken, flashed in his mind.

"He tried," Anhaga replied, his face grim at his own memories. "I found them in the woods near the village. Othili was screaming. I ran under the trees, fearing that some wild creature might have set upon her." A humourless smile played on his lips. "I suppose in a way, I was right. Hengist was on top of her. Had ripped her clothes. Well, I didn't stop to think, I attacked him with my fists. He was taken by surprise and I have told you I was hale and skilled in the ways of combat. I dragged him off and beat him until he seemed defeated. I paused for breath, not sure what to do. I had not believed before that I could best him. While I stood there panting, he ran off. I chased after him. I should have seen that it was too easy. He was as cunning as Woden's wolf."

Beobrand could picture the scene. Anhaga was a good storyteller. Perhaps this story had remained secret within him for a long time. The shame and ire he felt were plain to see on his face. Now the rest of it came pouring out in a torrent.

"I rushed after him, leaving Othili behind. I could think of nothing more than catching Hengist and making him pay for what he had done. I know now that he was leading me on. He shouted abuse back at me, in case I lost his trail in my haste. But I was a child and foolish. I had bested him once and believed now that I had the advantage. I realised he had stopped shouting or making any noise the instant before he was on me. He came out of the trees where he had hidden and I knew in a heartbeat that I could not win against him. Not on these terms. Not when he had the surprise and we faced each other with only our guile and strength." Anhaga shook his head, clearly still ashamed of his own foolishness. "In moments he had me on the ground. My face was bloody. I was stunned and unable to move. He held me down with all his weight. I begged him for my life then. What a craven fool I was. I had believed I was a man, but I was a boy and Hengist laughed at me."

"You were no coward, Anhaga. It was a thing of bravery you did. You stood up to him to defend the girl. You did the same for Sunniva. You are no craven." Beobrand meant the words. His respect for this man grew.

"He held me by the throat and punched me again and again. I was helpless... pathetic."

"No. Not weak or pathetic. He was a formidable warrior." Beobrand looked at Anhaga's mottled face and recalled pummelling it in just the way he described. Was he truly a man like Hengist? He would not allow it to be so.

"You beat him," Anhaga said.

"I wore a metal shirt. Carried a fine sword. A helm and shield. And I still lost half my hand. It was my wyrd to kill him, but you are no weakling."

"But I am a cripple," Anhaga said, closing his eyes and rubbing his hands across his face. "I was almost senseless when Hengist told me I would never be able to run after him or anyone else ever again. I watched, dazed and unable to defend myself as he took a large rock and smashed my foot. It still hurts you know. To this day."

Beobrand's toe throbbed as if in sympathy and his hand went unwittingly to his chest. His ribs still ached when the weather changed. He sometimes felt pain in the fingers he no longer had. At times, the ghost of them itched.

"He wanted to make sure," continued Anhaga. "So he took his seax and cut the sinews in my leg too. Then he left me there. Bleeding and weeping." Anhaga paused and let out a ragged breath. He seemed to have gained in confidence as he told his story. It must have weighed heavily upon him all these years. "The next time I saw him was years later. By then he was a thegn. I spoke with him once. He acted as if he could hardly recall what had happened. As if it was just a childish prank."

"What of Othili?"

"She married another. Her father would not allow her to wed a cripple."

They were silent for a long while, each lost in his own thoughts and memories.

At last, Beobrand spoke. "You are right, there is much alike between us. We value the same things. Stand up for what we believe, no matter the outcome."

Anhaga snorted in derision. "Except you kill your enemies. I get myself beaten."

"Do not talk so. You think killing makes me a better man than you? Happier?"

"You are richer." Anhaga cast his hand out encompassing the hall and all the buildings at the foot of the hill. "You have all this."

Beobrand nodded. "You speak true. The sword has brought me riches, but I would throw it all away to have Sunniva back."

Anhaga said in a small voice, "I am sorry. At least you had her for a time."

Beobrand looked at him. Perhaps Sunniva had been right about Anhaga. Perhaps he had desired her. Maybe even loved her. But Beobrand was sure he had never meant her harm.

Beobrand raised his face to the sky. The cool drizzle washed down his cheeks. His headache had abated somewhat. Soon they would need to leave for Bebbanburg to find what Oswald had in store for them. But first, there was an urgent matter to attend to. He turned to Anhaga.

"It would please me if you would help me bury Sunniva and her parents. I think she would have wanted that. You proved a trusted friend to her. And to me."

Anhaga's eyes brimmed with tears. He swiped them away with the back of his hands.

"Thank you, lord. I would be honoured."

CHAPTER 26

The drizzle had stopped by the early afternoon. A watery light filtered through clouds that promised more rain. Beobrand looked over his shoulder at his men. Aethelwulf, Ceawlin, Attor and Garr trudged along in the wake of the mounted men who led the way. All of the warriors carried their shields slung over their backs. They were bedecked for war. Spears, shirts of iron, polished helms. They were strong men. Good men, but they still suffered under the pall of their failure to defend Sunniva.

Beobrand knew that they had not been to blame for the attack she had suffered, nor for her death, and yet he could not bring himself to forgive them. Perhaps that would come, but it was too soon.

He had left Tobrytan and Elmer in Ubbanford. They were solid and dependable. They would watch over the settlement. He had gone to Elmer's hut before he had left. There, as the children played and fought and Maida worked the loom, he had said farewell to his son.

Maida had given him a glowing smile when he'd asked to hold Octa. He supposed she disapproved of his lack of affection. But he knew not how to love this tiny babe. He would learn. And he would not become such a man as his father. He clutched to the words his mother had spoken in death. He was not his father's son. He would love the boy and teach him. But for now, he needed to heed his king's bidding.

"I thank you for caring for Octa. I will not forget your kindness."

"You do us a great honour, lord," Maida had beamed. He would need to give Elmer and Maida suitable gifts when he returned.

Beobrand glanced to his right. Acennan rode there, astride his dappled mare. Some way behind, Anhaga swayed on the back of the donkey he had borrowed from the stables at Bebbanburg several months before.

"Why does he ride with us?" asked Acennan in a lowered voice, though not so quietly that Anhaga would not hear.

"He always wished to be a warrior. I know what that is like."

"But he is a cripple. He'll be of no use in battle," scoffed Acennan.

"Do not speak thus. He has proven his mettle and his worth. I do not say he can stand in the shieldwall should it come to that. But he has earned my respect and gratitude. I have said he can carry my shield. With this damn hand I need help."

Beobrand looked down at his hands. There was thick dirt under his nails. It was the dirt from Sunniva's burial. Anhaga and he had dug grave holes for the three urns. They had placed the pots and the items that each might wish for in the next life gently in the ground. Beobrand put a fine antler-toothed comb for Sunniva. Her hair was one of the things that remained clearest in his mind when he conjured up her image.

They had bowed their heads when the graves were covered and Beobrand had said in a voice little more than a whisper, "Rest well, my love."

It was as they walked down the hill to prepare for the journey to Bebbanburg that Beobrand had asked Anhaga to join them as his shield-bearer. Beobrand looked back at where he rode on the sway-backed donkey. He hoped he would not regret the decision. It seemed right. He owed the man something for his service and the harsh treatment he had received. To think that he had known Hengist. Was made a cripple at his hand.

They rode on.

"What did you speak of for so long on the hill?" asked Acennan.

Beobrand recounted the story of how Anhaga was crippled.

"By the gods," said Acennan, "Hengist has been dead these many months and yet still we hear his name spoken at every turn. He cast a long shadow that one."

Beobrand rubbed his left hand. "That he did. But we do him too much honour to remember him. Let us talk no more of him. He is dead and gone, a shade now."

"Indeed," Acennan smiled, "we have talked of the dead long enough. What I want to know is what the living have in store for us in Bebbanburg."

The great hall of Bebbanburg thronged with men. Warriors from across Bernicia and Deira gathered to hear their king speak. They had been summoned and they had answered the call of their lord. The hall was hot and noisy. The hearth fire burnt, but the day had warmed. The door wards had thrown open the doors in an effort to lessen the cloying heat, yet it was still overly hot; the air acrid with sweat and smoke.

Coenred carried the bundle of velum, ink and quills carefully. Beads of sweat prickled his forehead as he threaded his way through the hall. A laughing thegn slapped another huge fellow on the back who staggered into Coenred's path. The young monk took a darting step and avoided the collision. The ink pot, balanced precariously on top of the parcel of velum, tottered and almost fell. Perhaps he should have left the ink for a second trip. If he dropped it, Gothfraidh would be furious.

"Coenred?" said a familiar voice.

He turned and looked up into the face of his friend, Beobrand.

"I had not expected to see you here," Beobrand said. "I thought you would be with your brethren on the holy island."

"Until yesterday, I was there, but I was summoned, along with another of the monks. We are to write what is decided and agreed."

Beobrand looked blank.

"Agreed about what?"

Embarrassed, Coenred realised that the king had yet to speak to the gathered thegns.

"Err... I'm sure that is best coming from the king." He changed the subject. "I have heard dark tidings from Ubbanford. Are they true?"

Beobrand's face clouded. Coenred could see that despite his youth, Beobrand's eyes had a haunted quality about them. Pinched and sad. His mouth seemed pulled into a permanent scowl.

"You have heard the truth. Sunniva died."

"Oh, Beobrand," Coenred wanted to reach his hand out to his friend, but his arms were full of the writing utensils. "I am so sorry." He recalled the lovely fair-haired girl who had left with Beobrand. How could it be that so many young people died. How did God allow it?

"Let me take these things to Gothfraidh. Then I will come back and we can talk. I would hear all of your news, for I believe there are some good tidings too."

And so it was that a little while later Coenred was seated in a relatively quiet corner of the hall with Beobrand. He noted that, despite the day being young, Beobrand had already begun to drink mead.

"It is good to see you, Coenred," said Beobrand. "You look well. Life on Lindisfarena suits you, it seems."

"It is bleak. Sometime the wind howls and the sea threatens to engulf the island. But I do like it. I enjoy walking on the beach. Watching the birds. There are so many. And the seals. So many wonders of God's creation."

"And what of the bishop? What of Cormán? I have not seen him here. Does he still make your life miserable?"

Coenred stammered for a moment, unsure of what to say. Oswald had forbidden them to speak of what had transpired. Coenred looked at Beobrand's grim features. His broad shoulders. The scar below his left eye. He recalled the burning anger that had coursed through him at the bishop's touch. Beobrand would feel that same anger if he were to tell him what had occurred. But he would be as likely to follow the bishop back to Hii and murder him there. Beobrand's fury burnt long and was deadly.

"Cormán did not stay. Oswald sent to Hii for a different bishop."

"Oh," Beobrand looked surprised, "that is another reason to trust Oswald. He is a good judge of character."

Coenred smiled, glad to be able to move away from the subject of Cormán. "Well, he gave you position and land, so he must be," said Coenred. "And I hear you have a son?"

"Yes. He is called Octa."

"I give you joy, Beobrand. It is a great blessing."

For a moment, Beobrand looked as though he might strike Coenred.

"I do not feel blessed," he said, at last, and drained his cup.