The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) by Matthew Harffy Page B
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles #2
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awaits us all."
Oswald seemed to sense that he was close to losing the audience. If the plan was to work, he would need all the men there to march into the night. To fight to the death before the rising of the sun.
This was the plan Beobrand had told to the king. Or was it an omen? A message from the gods? Or the Christ, as Oswald said? The idea for the night attack had come to Beobrand fully-formed. The snuffing of the rush light had not been an omen of doom. It had been a signal for triumph.
Beobrand cared not whether the tale of the king's dream was true. He believed that attacking in the dark would provide them with the best chance of success and he had told Oswald as much. Oswald had listened intently before dismissing him.
Now the king caught Beobrand's eye. He stared straight at him for a moment and then, in a loud ringing voice, he said, "Who will kneel with their king and pray under the cross? Who will take the fight to the heathen in the darkness? Who is with me this night?"
Silence fell over the camp. The crackle of damp wood burning on the fires could clearly be heard.
Oswald looked out over the men. Beobrand sensed the nervous anxiety in the air. The men were willing to stand and fight in the shieldwall, but this was more. Oswald asked them to trust in him and the Christ. To march into the darkness against far superior numbers.
Somewhere a man coughed. A horse snickered.
Beobrand took a step forward and spoke into the silence. "I am with you, Oswald King. I will kneel with you, and march into the night at your side." His voice rang out. He was surprised at the assurance there. But even as he spoke, he relaxed. He was not sure of the power of the Christ, but he believed in this plan.
And more importantly, he believed in Oswald.
CHAPTER 4
A warhost, bedecked with the trappings of battle, cannot move with stealth.
The chink of armour, the rattle of spear against shield, the whispers of nervous men, all seemed to be amplified by the silence of the night. Even the footfalls of hundreds of warriors in battle-harness created a slow, rhythmic thrum that reverberated in the darkness.
"Are you still pleased you stepped forward?" Acennan whispered. "The Waelisc will hear us long before we reach their camp. A herd of horses would make less noise than this rabble."
Beobrand couldn't help but agree with his friend. He knew he was largely responsible for this night raid. He had given the idea to Oswald and it was only after he had spoken up in support of the king that the others had followed. In his mind, the plan had been simple. They would march quietly to where the enemy slumbered and there they would cut them down like so much barley being harvested. Now, with the terrifying blackness of the night pushing around them, and the men traipsing along the old paved road, jostling and jingling like a train of merchants on their way to sell their wares, he was less assured of success.
"Well, they will hear our approach if you keep yammering on," he hissed. The unease gnawed at him. The tension of the men was palpable. They had waited until after midnight. Huddled around the fires that hissed and cracked in the rain. Weapons had been sharpened. Armour had been donned. The men grumbled at the rain. It would rust their blades. Those who wore metal-knit byrnies cursed. If they survived the night, they knew that much toil would be needed to rid the chain links of rust. First they would toss the armour in sacks filled with sand to rub the ochre-coloured patina from the iron. After that, when their arms burnt from the effort, they would rub in fat, coating the riveted links to fend off moisture. None of them welcomed the thought of this work, but the alternative — that someone would clean the armour after stripping it from your corpse — was less appealing, so they gritted their teeth and prayed for the night to be dry.
Shortly before they set out southward, the rain had stopped. The men's
Oswald seemed to sense that he was close to losing the audience. If the plan was to work, he would need all the men there to march into the night. To fight to the death before the rising of the sun.
This was the plan Beobrand had told to the king. Or was it an omen? A message from the gods? Or the Christ, as Oswald said? The idea for the night attack had come to Beobrand fully-formed. The snuffing of the rush light had not been an omen of doom. It had been a signal for triumph.
Beobrand cared not whether the tale of the king's dream was true. He believed that attacking in the dark would provide them with the best chance of success and he had told Oswald as much. Oswald had listened intently before dismissing him.
Now the king caught Beobrand's eye. He stared straight at him for a moment and then, in a loud ringing voice, he said, "Who will kneel with their king and pray under the cross? Who will take the fight to the heathen in the darkness? Who is with me this night?"
Silence fell over the camp. The crackle of damp wood burning on the fires could clearly be heard.
Oswald looked out over the men. Beobrand sensed the nervous anxiety in the air. The men were willing to stand and fight in the shieldwall, but this was more. Oswald asked them to trust in him and the Christ. To march into the darkness against far superior numbers.
Somewhere a man coughed. A horse snickered.
Beobrand took a step forward and spoke into the silence. "I am with you, Oswald King. I will kneel with you, and march into the night at your side." His voice rang out. He was surprised at the assurance there. But even as he spoke, he relaxed. He was not sure of the power of the Christ, but he believed in this plan.
And more importantly, he believed in Oswald.
CHAPTER 4
A warhost, bedecked with the trappings of battle, cannot move with stealth.
The chink of armour, the rattle of spear against shield, the whispers of nervous men, all seemed to be amplified by the silence of the night. Even the footfalls of hundreds of warriors in battle-harness created a slow, rhythmic thrum that reverberated in the darkness.
"Are you still pleased you stepped forward?" Acennan whispered. "The Waelisc will hear us long before we reach their camp. A herd of horses would make less noise than this rabble."
Beobrand couldn't help but agree with his friend. He knew he was largely responsible for this night raid. He had given the idea to Oswald and it was only after he had spoken up in support of the king that the others had followed. In his mind, the plan had been simple. They would march quietly to where the enemy slumbered and there they would cut them down like so much barley being harvested. Now, with the terrifying blackness of the night pushing around them, and the men traipsing along the old paved road, jostling and jingling like a train of merchants on their way to sell their wares, he was less assured of success.
"Well, they will hear our approach if you keep yammering on," he hissed. The unease gnawed at him. The tension of the men was palpable. They had waited until after midnight. Huddled around the fires that hissed and cracked in the rain. Weapons had been sharpened. Armour had been donned. The men grumbled at the rain. It would rust their blades. Those who wore metal-knit byrnies cursed. If they survived the night, they knew that much toil would be needed to rid the chain links of rust. First they would toss the armour in sacks filled with sand to rub the ochre-coloured patina from the iron. After that, when their arms burnt from the effort, they would rub in fat, coating the riveted links to fend off moisture. None of them welcomed the thought of this work, but the alternative — that someone would clean the armour after stripping it from your corpse — was less appealing, so they gritted their teeth and prayed for the night to be dry.
Shortly before they set out southward, the rain had stopped. The men's
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