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

eyes. But he was less fearful now of the twigs and branches that had torn at his face and clothes. He was certain something unspeakable lurked in the gloom. To see its face would mark his end.
    More burrs and brambles tugged at his armour as the horse walked on. But the atmosphere had changed. Birdsong rang out, warbling and joyful of the morning light. At last he looked around him and saw they had come though the copse. Before them lay open scrub and in the distance, with nothing but gorse, heather and long grass between them, was his quarry.
    Beobrand shivered and patted the horse's neck.
    "You are a brave one," he whispered. The stallion's ears twitched. "You brought us through the shadows." Beobrand did not look back for fear of what he might see in the murk beneath the trees. "Now you must run once more."
    With a kick of his heels they set off in pursuit of the king of Gwynedd.
     
    Beobrand followed the king's red cloak across the low, rolling hills for some time. The sun burst through the clouds to their left, its light dazzling from the finery of the Waelisc's war gear.
    Cadwallon threw a glance over his shoulder. Beobrand was lagging far behind and it must have been clear to the Waelisc king that he had little to fear from his pursuer.
    Beobrand was no horseman, but he was allowing himself to settle into his steed's rhythm once again. The horse had shaken off the terror of the wood and now seemed keen to place as much distance as possible between them and whatever dark entity lurked beneath the trees. Beobrand felt his muscles loosen. He still held tight to the black mane, but unclenched his fists slightly. The stumps on his left hand throbbed as the blood returned.
    Beobrand watched as Cadwallon lengthened the distance between them. He resigned himself to a long chase. Probably failure. He could not compete with the nobleman's skill on horseback. But he would strive to bring him to ground. Perhaps Cadwallon's horse would tire first. Even as he thought it, Beobrand knew it was not likely. His black stallion was a battle mount, muscled and hale. It was not built for the chase. It was already blowing hard. If he pushed it too hard, he would kill the horse.
    Beobrand gritted his teeth. It would be a sad end to such a fine beast, but he must continue. Seizing the Waelisc king would end the bloodshed that had washed the land with death. This northern kingdom was now his home and he would do all he could to bring peace to it. He gave the stallion its head and the great hooves thundered across the bush-strewn turf.
    In the end, Cadwallon's pride in his horsemanship was his undoing.
    Beobrand had fallen into a waking reverie. His exhaustion seeped into his bones as the horse's rolling gait rocked his body. Cadwallon drew ever further away. The taste of defeat was in Beobrand's mouth. To come so close, only to see the ruler of the Waelisc escape into the hills to the southwest of the Wall was galling.
    Then, as if swallowed by the earth, Cadwallon and his horse disappeared. For a moment Beobrand was unsure what he had witnessed. Cadwallon had been riding easily down a slight slope and then he had gone. Beobrand shook his head, bringing himself fully awake.
    He rode on, cautious of some treachery. Perhaps Cadwallon meant to ambush him.
    He cantered down the incline and the sound of screaming reached him. But these were not sounds made by man. The hairs on Beobrand's neck prickled. He slowed to a trot. Then the scene became clear.
    The slope ended in a burn. Its waters, swollen by the storm, were brown and churning. Cadwallon's horse floundered in the stream. It was on its side, thrashing and screaming. Cadwallon was waist-deep in the water. The scraped furrows in the nearest bank attested to where the horse had skidded. Apparently Cadwallon had thought to leap the burn, but his horse had baulked, slipped and thrown him. Both horse and rider had ended up in the burn. It seemed the horse must have broken a leg for it was moaning