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

to control his temper. He would get himself killed one day.
    "Beobrand, be still," Scand commanded, using the tone that served him so well in battle. All three men desisted in their arguing and turned to face him.
    "Now, what seems to be the matter?" Scand asked. "I hope it is important. The king is discussing plans for the battle tomorrow." There was an edge of ice in his tone. A caution.
    "It is about the battle that I wish to talk. I was telling these two fools that I needed to speak with the king, but they would not listen." The two men bridled. One of them dropped his hand to the hilt of the large seax that hung from his belt. They were all allies here, but men of pride and honour could not be insulted and let it pass unanswered.
    "Enough, Beobrand! You are my man and you bring dishonour to me with your insults. Now, apologise to these men."
    Beobrand burnt with the light of the ideas in his head. He had to tell the king. He was sure of it. But he looked at the stern face of Scand and saw the disapproval there. Scand had given his life meaning. He had believed in him when no other would. He was a good man. Wise and just. And he was his lord.
    Beobrand dropped his gaze. He swallowed.
    "I am sorry for my outburst. I meant nothing by it. I merely need to speak with the king. It is urgent."
    The tension eased and Scand stepped close to Beobrand. He placed a hand on his shoulder.
    "So, what is it that you so urgently need to speak with your king about?" said a voice from behind them.
    They turned quickly, and saw that Oswald, apparently intrigued, had walked down the hill to where they were talking.
    "I apologise, my king," said Scand. "It is one of my men. He never seems to know his place." Beobrand felt Scand squeeze his shoulder painfully. A clear warning.
    Oswald looked Beobrand up and down. "Ah, the mighty Beobrand." Was there a hint of sarcasm in his tone? "I have heard tell of your exploits. So tell me," Oswald glanced down, "what is so important that you approach your king uninvited and barefoot, like a thrall?"
    Beobrand was trapped in the calm gaze of the king. He could feel the cool grass on his bare feet. The rain, dripped from his eyebrows into his eyes, like tears. His mouth was suddenly dry.
    "I..." Why was it so hard to speak? He coughed and swallowed the lump in his throat.
    Oswald waited patiently.
    Beobrand was afraid that his thoughts would sound ridiculous to this man of power who stood resplendent in purple cloak. The bejewelled scabbard at his side glimmered. The golden brooch at his shoulder shone.
    Beobrand felt shabby. Dirty. He was acutely aware of his bare feet and dusty britches.
    He forced the words past his lips.
    "I think I know how we can defeat Cadwallon," he said at last.
     
    The rain still fell and the sun fought to show itself through the heavy clouds when Oswald addressed the men.
    He stood before a rough cross, made from the large tree he had ordered felled earlier in the afternoon. It was three times the height of a tall man. The crossbeam was fashioned from some of the thicker branches lashed to the vertical with braided leather ropes. A deep hole had been dug at the top of the hill and the king himself had held it in place, embracing the wood while it had been raised and secured. It had taken the strength and ingenuity of several men to pull it into place.
    Silhouetted against the crimson sky-glow of the setting sun, it reminded Beobrand of the yew tree where he had hanged Dreng, Artair and Tondberct. It was a dark memory. At that moment, the corpses twitching at the end of a creaking frayed rope, he had understood what it was to bring justice. Tondberct had been his friend, but in the end, Beobrand had given the order to kill him along with the others. His crimes were unforgivable. Such were the decisions a leader must make. Watching the king standing in the shadow of the wooden edifice, Beobrand wondered what hard choices he had made to bring him to this place. And what decisions he