The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  “Wait! Don’t pull off the bandage! You will lose your sight for sure if you do!” the voice of Coenred spoke from the cold gloom. He spoke urgently, but in a whisper. “I will lead you. We must leave.”

  “What is happening?” Beobrand demanded. He felt Coenred place the blanket from his bed around his shoulders.

  “Waelisc are here. If they find you, they will kill you. Come on, there is no time.” Coenred tugged frantically at Beobrand’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

  Beobrand felt giddy. Disorientated. The searing pain in his chest was like fire and his head throbbed. His legs buckled as he stood upright, but Coenred held him steady and after a moment he rallied. Coenred’s urgency and fear were almost palpable. As if to accentuate the peril they were in, another scream rent the darkness. The dog’s barks grew louder and more frenetic, and then were cut short with a yelp. Coenred pulled Beobrand, urging him to move and together they stumbled out of the room.

  Beobrand knew nothing of the monastery’s layout, so he had no idea where Coenred was taking him. All he could do was to concentrate on his footing and try not to jar his aching chest. Coenred had obviously decided in advance where they should hide and he moved through the night with haste. From time to time he would warn Beobrand to duck his head or that there was a step down or up, but other than that they moved in silence. Listening to the sounds of the night. There was more shouting. Then some crashing. Wood splintering. Screams.

  Coenred faltered for a moment, but his resolve quickly returned and he pushed on. Beobrand felt the air grow colder on his skin. The atmosphere and acoustics changed. They had stepped outside.

  “Come on,” hissed Coenred and set off at a faster pace. Beobrand thought he would surely lose his balance or trip on a tree root, but for once wyrd smiled on him and he managed to keep up with Coenred without falling. After a short distance walking uphill, Coenred told Beobrand to stop and to sit down. The ground beneath then was soft and dry. There was a strong redolence of bark and sap in the air.

  “We are inside a hollow oak,” explained Coenred in a whisper. “If we are quiet, I hope they won’t discover this place. It is hard to see from the path and the entrance is hidden completely from Engelmynster.”

  They made themselves as comfortable as they could and spoke no more, both fearing discovery. Sounds of screams and coarse laughter drifted up from the buildings they had left. Coenred prayed the Waelisc would not find them in their hiding place.

  After a long while, the scent of smoke was borne on the wind and they feared that the monastery had been put to the torch. The smell of burning passed soon enough though and they were left wondering what fire they had noted.

  So it was that they spent the rest of that chill night, huddled together, not daring to speak. Each was glad of the other’s company, though they barely knew each other. Time passed and the sounds of destruction and torment from the monastery died down.

  By morning, Beobrand had decided that he would risk moving the bandage from his right eye. Coenred had said he may go blind, but he had probed with his fingers through the night and it didn’t hurt at all, whereas the left eye was a constant dull throb. He reasoned that if he had been able to see with the right eye when he left the battlefield, he should still be able to do so. And he certainly didn’t want to face a day of uncertainty and danger as a blind man being led by the young monk.

  In the dark of the bole of the huge hollow tree where they hid, Beobrand reached up and carefully pulled up the bandage where it covered his right eye. There was a brief flare of pain in his left eye as the bandage tightened against it, and then the dull ache returned. He opened his good eye. For a hideous moment, he thought he was truly blind, just as Coenred had warned. Then he noticed a slightly lighter area in the darkness that surrounded him. It was still night, but the moonlight that filtered into the forest made the opening in the tree’s trunk a grey swathe in the black wall. He let out a sigh of relief. He was unsure whether he could see perfectly, but his eye was definitely working. That knowledge lifted his spirits more than he would have thought possible.

  Later, as the grey patch grew paler, Beobrand risked a whisper.

  “I can see out of my right eye.”

  Coenred jolted fully alert. He had been dozing and the sound of speech startled him awake.

  “What?” he hissed.

  “I can see,” repeated Beobrand. “I’ve taken the bandage off of my right eye.”

  Coenred shook his head at the foolhardiness. He could have made himself blind for life. But it would be better to have a companion who could see for himself.

  “God be praised,” he whispered. Just what Abbot Fearghas would have said.

  They spent that day cowering in the tree. The day was cold and foggy and the two young men only had one blanket between them. Both wore only light sleeping tunics, so they squeezed as close together as they could and wrapped the blanket about them.

  The sun rose slowly in the sky, casting dim light into their hiding place. There were cobwebs strewn in the upper reaches of the hollow tree. Beobrand studied his rescuer as the gloom lifted. Coenred was three or four years younger than him with mousy brown, short-cropped hair. He was slender and Beobrand noticed that where he clutched the blanket, his fingers were long and thin and stained with some dark substance. Beobrand felt weak with relief at being able to see these details. Whatever happened to his other eye, he did not need to face the future as a blind man.

  There was no sound of anyone coming near to the tree, so Beobrand risked a whisper.

  “What is this place? Engelmynster you called it? What sort of name is that?”

  Coenred again started at the sound of Beobrand’s voice. “It is a monastery. Abbot Fearghas named it after the angel he found on the floor of the building he turned into the chapel.”

  This made little sense to Beobrand. “What is a monastery?” he asked.

  “It is where monks train. Holy men. I am studying to be a monk. I learn about the one true God and his son, Christ. I learn prayers and how to read and write.”

  Praying and letters sounded terribly boring. There had been a priest of the Christ in Hithe. A sour, sombre man, who always spoke of sacrifice, love and turning the other cheek. Whilst people attended the priest’s sermons by the newly-erected cross in the village, most still prayed to the old gods in private. They wore hammer amulets in honour of Thunor, gave mead and meat at feasts in offering to Woden and buried bread in the fields so that Frige would bring plenty.

  “How did you come to be learning about the gods?”

  “Not gods, the one true God. Abbot Fearghas says there are no other gods.” Coenred smiled. “I know it is hard to understand.”

  Beobrand didn’t think it was difficult at all. Just stupid. But he said nothing. He thought there were enough people on middle earth for all the gods to have their share.

  “I came here two years ago,” said Coenred. “Abbot Fearghas found us in Eoferwic.” In the shadows his face took on a strained look.

  “Found who?”

  “Me and my sister. We were all alone. He gave us a new life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “What about you? Do you have family?”

  “I did,” said Beobrand. “They are gone now. I’m all alone now too.” He bit his lip.

  “You’re not alone now,” said Coenred. His teeth flashed in the gloom.

  Beobrand forced a smile, but deep inside he felt empty and lost.

  Sometime towards midday they heard movement from the monastery. Laughter, talking and the sound of horses and waggons being readied for travel permeated the fog. When the Waelisc finally left, they moved up the hill in the direction of the hollow tree. Beobrand willed them not to detect their hiding place. Coenred closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. Beobrand was sure he was praying for his god to make them invisible to the heathens.

  The group of Waelisc walked within an arm’s length of the entrance to the tree trunk. They were so close that Beobrand and Coenred could
smell their sweat, but none of them turned to look in their direction and after some time, the pair dared to breathe again.

  They waited a while longer before venturing out of the oak. They were hungry and stiff. Beobrand found it hard to stand and needed to hold onto the trunk of the tree for support. His breath was ragged as he concentrated on staying on his feet. The pain in his chest flared up acutely and his throbbing head made him dizzy.

  Once he felt more confident, Beobrand put his arm around Coenred’s shoulders and allowed the young monk to lead him back towards Engelmynster. The fog had cleared, but the day was still cold and damp. The sound of their feet in the thick carpet of wet leaves seemed unnaturally loud in the still forest.

  Coming to the edge of the trees, Beobrand got his first look at the monastery. It was made up of a hall, circled by several smaller dwellings. The group of buildings nestled in the bend of a small river. On both sides of the river, the forest sloped upwards. All the structures save for one were made of wood and had thatched roofs. The exception to this was the largest building, which had walls partly made of stone. The finely hewn rocks were mortared and went to about the height of a man’s waist. At that point they were topped by walls of the more common wattle and daub. All this was crowned by golden thatch, one corner of which was charred and blackened.

  They paused before continuing down to the monastery buildings. There was no movement down there. No sound or smoke from a fire. Neither Beobrand nor Coenred spoke. Both feared what they would find when they gathered enough courage to enter the compound. Coenred shuddered. Beobrand gripped his shoulders more tightly, both comforting and gaining comfort from his grasp.

  They went first to the largest building. Near the entrance, there was what at first glance appeared to be a fur cape, crumpled in a heap where it had been dropped. When they got closer, Beobrand saw it was a small dog. It had been hacked almost in two. Coenred mumbled something under his breath. Beobrand couldn’t make it out, but he thought it was the name of the animal. He cast a glimpse at Coenred. Tears had begun to roll down his smooth cheeks, leaving salty furrows in the grime. Beobrand looked away and back to the building they had now reached. The corner of the thatch had been set alight, and part of the lintel of the doorway was black and cracked. The damp weather had saved the structure, and the Waelisc had apparently lost interest when they had failed to get a blaze going easily.

  Hesitantly, Beobrand and Coenred entered the building. They strained to see in the gloom. The interior was as silent as a burial mound. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they made out a shape on the altar at the end of the hall. They moved slowly forward, drawn towards the shape. Beobrand did not wish to believe what it was, yet he was already certain. He walked past the broken pottery and ripped sacks that were strewn on the ground, hardly noticing them. Beobrand did not heed the fabulously intricate design of a man’s face in small tiles on the floor. His eyes were held in the inexorable grasp of the unthinkable form on the altar.

  When they were close enough he saw the true horror. The pale skin of the blood-stained thighs. The teeth-shaped bruises on the breasts. The tongue, lolling from the blue-lipped mouth. And those sightless eyes. Staring, staring, in imploring silence.

  He wished he had trusted his instincts and turned away. This was a sight he would never forget. It would haunt his dreams. Its gory vividness seared into his mind.

  Beobrand did not know the young woman who lay like an animal carcass ready for butchering, but he shuddered to think of how she must have suffered. Coenred let out a cry on seeing the girl and fell to the ground. He buried his head in his arms and wailed. Beobrand, now without support, staggered. He stumbled to the side of the hall, and leaned against the wall.

  He wanted to avert his eyes from the body of the girl, but some perverse fascination drew his gaze back. He shouldn’t look, he knew, but he was powerless to stop. He felt sordid, shameful.

  Coenred’s sobs filled the chapel. “Tata! Tata!” he cried. Beobrand didn’t know how to console him. His own recent losses seemed to have inured him to the sorrows of others. He just wanted fresh air. To be away from the milky white flesh of the slaughtered girl. Using the wall for support he made his way out of the building and left Coenred alone with the corpse and his grief.

  He stepped out into the watery light of the afternoon and pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. It was cold, and they would need a fire soon, and food. He looked in the direction of some of the living quarters. Did the houses contain similar gory secrets to the chapel? He wasn’t strong enough to enter any dwelling yet, not alone. When Coenred had calmed himself they could go in search of clothes and food. Maybe get a fire going. But for now he would just sit and wait.

  He had been sitting with his back propped against the door frame for a short while when he sensed a presence nearby. He looked up, afraid that the Waelisc had returned. Perhaps they had feigned leaving in order to lure people from hiding. The man standing over him leaned down and said in a soft, unusually accented voice, “Do not fear, my child.” Beobrand had been avoiding looking in the direction of the dog and the sound of Coenred crying must have covered any noise the man made when he approached, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. The man was old, with thinning grey hair and intelligent, sad eyes. Beobrand tried to stand, but pain coursed through his chest and his vision blurred. The old man put a gentle hand on his head, bidding him to stay seated.

  “Jesu be praised that you have been spared,” the old man said. “Is it Coenred who weeps inside the chapel?”

  Beobrand nodded, but found no words worth uttering.

  “Does he weep for Tata?” the old man asked, but went on without waiting for a reply. “Her faith in the Lord was stronger than mine. She said he would deliver us from evil, but we fled. God have mercy on our souls.” He drew in a ragged, deep breath and walked slowly into the gloomy chapel. Towards the sounds of Coenred’s grief.

  If this was how the Christ god protected his faithful from evil, allowing their enemies to rape and murder them, Beobrand preferred the old gods. They smiled on the brave and laughed at the weak. They didn’t offer false hope.

  Others were now moving into the clearing. Having watched the old man enter the chapel safely, thirty or forty people came out of the trees at the foot of the slope and walked sheepishly into the settlement. Beobrand estimated that there were some ten monks, wearing the same dark robes as the old man, a handful of other men, wearing the normal breeches and tunics of ceorls, and the rest of the number was made up of women and children. They all had the pale faces and nervous eyes of those who expected the worst at any moment. It would appear that they also lacked faith that their god would protect them if the Waelisc came back.

  Inside the chapel, Coenred’s sobs had ceased and Beobrand could make out the lowered voice of the old abbot consoling him. The other monks and men came towards the place where Beobrand was sitting. The women hung back with the children. When he was surrounded by the men, Beobrand struggled to pull himself upright. His chest was stabbed through with pain, but he was vulnerable at the feet of so many strangers and so suffered the agony in order to meet them face to face.

  Once he was standing, a gruff looking man, with a black beard stepped forward. “You are still weak,” he said. “Come in to my house, we could all do with some food.”

  Beobrand allowed himself to be led to one of the buildings on the edge of the clearing. The bearded man gave orders to four of the men to keep watch for the Waelisc and for the women to get fires lit and food cooking. Beobrand was staggering slowly towards the dwelling when tiredness washed over him and he almost fell. The man caught him by the arm and guided him into the dark interior of the thatched house. He righted an overturned stool and indicated that Beobrand be seated. Two young men and three of the women had gone into the building first and were in the process of putting things in order.

  The Waelisc had clearly stayed in the house. There was food and rubbish strewn about the floo
r. Two of the women found brooms and began sweeping the detritus out of the house, while the third started laying a fire. The monks fetched firewood from outside and soon the house was in a semblance of normality.

  Once the place was tidy, one of the women, a middle-aged woman with sallow cheeks and dark eyes came to Beobrand. “You must rest,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice for one so thin. “I have made a bed for you by the fire.” She helped Beobrand to stand and he murmured his thanks. The bed was a mattress stuffed with rushes and Beobrand needed no coaxing to make him lie down. His body had yet to recover from its wounds and the fear from the night before had taken a heavy toll on him. He eased himself down onto the mattress with the aid of the woman. His chest hurt terribly, as did his head, but he barely noticed.

  “You are safe here,” the woman said.

  Even through the fog of approaching sleep Beobrand couldn't help but wonder what made the woman so sure of that. Perhaps faith in her god or an optimistic nature prompted her assurance of safety. Or maybe she was just saying what they both wanted to hear.

  CHAPTER 6

  On waking Beobrand felt refreshed. His body still ached but he had slept through the afternoon, all through the night and long into the morning, and the rest had done him good. He lay for a while and listened to the movements of the people around him. He could hear the crackle of the fire on the hearthstone and feel its warmth against his cheek. There was the sound of someone stirring something in a bowl, and the cloying scent of malt and honey. Underneath the smell of ale being prepared, Beobrand detected the subtler aroma of baking bread. He could hear a woman's melodious voice intoning a ditty quietly, absently, under her breath. Life was going on normally, despite the tragedy of the last days. The woman had been right about their safety. The Waelisc had not returned.

  He sat up. His ribs hurt, but the constant headache had subsided somewhat. The woman from the afternoon before noticed his movement and motioned for him to stay where he was. She promptly picked up a trencher containing some bread and cheese and made her way to him. She then brought him some ale. He gulped it down quickly, his parched throat welcoming the cool liquid. The brew was delicious, despite the bitter taste that indicated it was nearing three days old and would soon only be fit for the pigs. He thanked her and slowly began to eat. It was the first food he had tasted in days and his stomach started to grumble the moment he began chewing on the first piece of cheese.