The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy Read Free Book Online

Pallid and muck-spattered. Could it be that he sought battle, whatever the cost?
    Wybert certainly blamed Beobrand for his brother's death. Wybert had always disliked him, but now, without Alric's calming influence, his hatred bubbled freely. Beobrand had approached him as the warriors prepared to march on.
    "I am sorry for Leofwine's death," he said. It was the simple truth. "He died bravely."
    "Bravely?" Wybert spat. "He was no warrior. He would not have been at Gefrin if not for you. Your dreams of glory spoke to the poet in Leofwine. He went north because of you. You might as well have struck him down with that fine blade of yours."
    Beobrand reeled under the heat of Wybert's fury. He could offer no defence. Leofwine was dead and he had failed to protect him. Nothing could change that now.
    "I am sorry," Beobrand swallowed the lump in his throat and took his place among Scand's gesithas, next to Acennan.
    The warriors allowed Beobrand to join their ranks without the usual jesting and jostling. If he had just received a beating at the hands of another warrior, they would have teased him without mercy. But they had seen the encounters with Coenred and Wybert. They had heard Wilda's tale too. They were subdued and sombre.
    Beobrand's pain was no matter for laughter.
    Some wounds were more easily dealt with than others.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 3
     
     
    Scand ached. He placed his hands in the small of his back and stretched. The throbbing pain subsided slightly but was replaced by a tingling, numb sensation in his right leg. Gods, he was old. His body had barely recovered from the gruelling battle at Gefrin and the punishing march to Bebbanburg. His torso still bore the marks. The bruises from blows he'd received had faded, but were still visible. At the time, in the heat of the action, he had not felt anything. It had always been so in combat. He would lay about him with his sword and shield, allowing his metal shirt to soak up any strikes he could not deflect.
    His frame was not what it had once been. Years ago, before his hair had turned the colour of hoar frost, the bruises and aches would disappear within a couple of days of a fight. Now, weeks passed and he still suffered. He was no longer young, it was true. He wondered how many battles he had left in him. Well, he could not sit by the fireside telling tales of his exploits just yet. He had sworn his oath to Oswald, and his oath was iron.
    He looked over at the young king. Oswald looked like his father, Æthelfrith. He had the same intensity in his gaze. The same clarity of vision. Æthelfrith had been a brilliant leader of men. Oswald had inherited his father's charisma. Scand had known Oswald since he was a mere youth, fleeing in exile into the west, with his brothers and their mother. Scand had been sworn then to Oswald's older half-brother, Eanfrith. Eanfrith had also had charm and a keen mind. Men had flocked to serve him like carrion crows clouding the corpses after battle. But despite Eanfrith's ability to have men follow where he led and his undoubted prowess in battle, his blind ambition was tinged with a recklessness that saw his demise only months after his triumphant return from exile.
    During the long years in exile, Scand had often wondered whether it would be Oswald who would succeed in reclaiming Bernicia. Even as a child he had always carried himself with a calm assurance. There was a cunning behind his cool eyes. And a ruthlessness too.
    He would be a good king. If he could secure his place with a defeat over Cadwallon here, at the Great Wall.
    The massive structure, built by long-dead rulers of this land from grey slabs of stone, stretched to the horizon to the east and west. One of the fortified gates, that stood at intervals along its length, loomed near. The rocks that formed the edifice had been cunningly fashioned and placed together. None living knew how to build such things. Whenever he saw the Wall, or any of the tile-roofed