Read The Cross and the Curse (Bernicia Chronicles Book 2) for Free Online Page A

of how Alric, her husband and head man of the village, had told the women, monks and children to flee.
    "Alric turned quickly to his brave son, Wybert," Wilda placed a hand lightly on her son's arm. " 'Wybert, you must take your mother, the other women and the monks and head north. To Bernicia. To King Oswald.' "
    The men, entranced at the tale, leaned forward. There was strong magic in the honour of sacrifice for loved ones. They did not know Alric, but they felt proud of his actions.
    "Wybert protested. He wished to stand and fight along with his father, but he saw the finality in Alric's eyes. Heard the stony resolve in his voice. He must do his duty and protect those entrusted to his care." Wilda looked at Beobrand, her eyes full of sorrow.
    The listeners nodded their approval. A son should do his duty and obey his father. Beobrand squirmed inwardly.
    "Father and son shared a brief embrace. Each certain they would never meet again in this world. There was no time for long farewells or speeches. Wybert led us from our home, while Alric stood with the other men, holding back the Waelisc to allow us time to escape."
    There was silence at the ending of Wilda's tale. Not a few of the men had tears in their eyes or on their cheeks. Many more had gathered around during the telling and now Wilda sat at the centre of a throng of avid listeners.
    "Goodwife, your story is the same as that heard throughout the land," a voice spoke out into the silence, clear and assured.
    All eyes turned to look upon Oswald. He stood, serious and sad, yet emanating strength.
    "I am Oswald, king of this land of Bernicia, and I offer you and the others who come with you succour in my kingdom." Wybert, Wilda and the other refugees bowed their heads.
    Oswald continued: "I have heard tell of how Cadwallon's host has continued north, harrying the land of Deira to the south and is now close to the borders of our lands. We will hurry south, to the Great Wall and there we will defeat this Cadwallon and bring slaughter to his host. This we will do in the glorious name of our Father in heaven."
    For a moment, Beobrand imagined his own father in the heaven of the Christ. You had to lead a good life to go to heaven, so surely Grimgundi would not be there. Alric had been more of a father to him in the weeks he had known him. He would surely be in his Christ's heaven.
    Oswald continued to talk to the crowd. He raised his voice to reach the members of the fyrd who had joined his host in the last days, his retinue and the gesithas of his closest thegns and the newly-arrived, displaced inhabitants of Deira and Bernicia.
    "We will head off Cadwallon's host before they can cause further harm to our land or our people. We will crush them against the Wall and Christ will bring us a victory to be sung of for generations to come."
    A voice spoke close to Beobrand's ear. "Well, it is good to see you following a good Christian king, Beo."
    Beobrand spun round. Next to him was the smiling face of Coenred, the young monk he had befriended at Engelmynster. Coenred had grown in the months since they had last met. His face was more angular, his shoulders wider. He would never be broad and strong like Beobrand, but he was no longer a boy. He had grown into a young man.
    Despite the painful memories of Leofwine's death and hearing of Alric's sacrifice, Beobrand could not help but grin. Coenred had saved his life after finding him in the forest, wounded and feverish. Like him, Coenred was alone in the world, an orphan. His sister had died while Coenred had been protecting Beobrand. Coenred had never blamed him for her death, but Beobrand was acutely aware of what the novice monk's aid had cost him.
    "Oswald looks to be the perfect king for us," said Beobrand. "A Christ follower to keep you happy, but one who wishes to wage war and destroy his enemies in battle. What more could we ask for?"
    Coenred looked into his eyes for a long while before eventually smiling a sorrow-filled smile.