The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Alric stopped by the two young men. “Good to see you are feeling so much better, Beobrand,” he said. “Come inside with me.”

  Beobrand wondered what Alric could want, but followed him inside, leaving Wybert looking sullenly after them. The relative darkness of the interior left Beobrand blind for a few heartbeats before his eye grew accustomed to the gloom.

  “I thought it would be better not to have your injured eye looking straight at the bright sun.” Alric said as he sat by the fire, bidding Beobrand to join him.

  “You mean to remove the bandage now?” Beobrand felt a sudden ripple of anxiety down his spine. “Will my eye be all right?”

  “I don't know. I thought you were going to lose sight in both eyes, but you can see from your right well enough. Sit, and soon we will see...or not.” Alric smiled wryly, but Beobrand failed to appreciate the humour.

  Alric unsheathed the sharp seax he carried on his belt and bent towards Beobrand.

  “In truth,” he said, “one of the reasons I had you wear this bandage so long was so that you would understand that if the worst comes to pass and you cannot see from the other eye, you are quite capable of living with only one.”

  Before Beobrand had a chance to contemplate this, Alric placed one hand on the bandage and gently cut it away with the knife.

  “Don't try to open it yet,” he warned. “I'll give it a good clean first.”

  He reached down and picked up a small wooden bowl filled with hot water. He dipped a cloth into the bowl and began to softly mop Beobrand’s left eye socket and cheek. The skin tingled at the touch of the cloth. Even the air made it throb, it had been covered for so long.

  Alric worked methodically, cleaning away the dried blood and the residue of the ragwort poultice from the gash under the eye.

  “Now you can try to open it. Gently.”

  Beobrand tried to open his left eye, but found that the lids were sealed, the lashes still scabbed with blood. He reached up with his fingers and very carefully prised the eyelids apart. The dim light from the fireplace was enough to make him gasp. Once again he felt blinded, but now because the light was too bright. As he shut his left eye from the glare, a smile appeared on his face. He could see!

  “You will have to rest it for a while before going out into the daylight,” Alric said.

  Beobrand opened his eye just a crack and once again light streamed in. But this time, he could make out the movement of the flames and Alric’s form moving away from him. His vision was blurred, but he was confident it would get better, just as his ribs had.

  “Thank you, Alric,” Beobrand called out to the older man.

  Alric tossed the dirty water from the bowl out of the door of the house.

  “Look after my handiwork. That’s all I ask!”

  CHAPTER 7

  The following day saw the end of the warm spell. A bank of dark clouds rolled in from the north. Coenred shivered as the wind cut through his black robes. Once again he had been punished with the task of fetching firewood. That morning it had been because he was talking during the Vigils. Abbot Fearghas had caught his eye with a frosty glare and Coenred knew at once that his reprieve from punishments was over.

  After the prayers the old monk had approached Coenred. “Do you still wish to be a monk?” he asked Coenred quietly.

  Coenred was surprised at the question. Perhaps he was not going to be punished after all. “Yes, father. You know I love Christ and wish to serve him. You are my family now.” As he said it, he knew this was the truth. Beobrand was his friend and they shared a bond that was unusually strong considering the short time they had known each other, but Beobrand's path would lead him away. To war and killing. Of that he was quite sure. And that was a path Coenred wanted no part of.

  Fearghas looked at the boy long and hard. He would be a fine monk one day, if he would stop day dreaming. His heart was good and there was a strength of character that was disguised by his light-hearted nature.

  “Well, if you are to be a monk, you must start behaving like one,” Fearghas said at last. “Forty faggots of wood before you eat. I seem to remember that the last time I asked you for firewood you came back with something different entirely.” With this last comment he had raised an eyebrow sardonically, leaving Coenred to organise himself for the task he had been given.

  So here he was, shivering in the bitter wind that was whipping through the trees. He needed to continuously goad the donkey with a stick to get it to pull the small cart up the incline into the forest. It was black under the trees and Coenred’s mind began to wander, as it always did when entering the wood on his own. Were there elves hiding behind the boles of the beeches and oaks? Bows at the ready with sickness-bearing darts.

  He shuddered and caught himself hitting the donkey harder than was necessary. He was frightened. Still, that was no reason to hurt the dumb beast. He patted its neck and it looked at him with a dolorous eye. Coenred tugged on its rope and eventually it set off without having to resort to the stick again.

  The sun still hadn’t risen when he reached the glade just off of the main path where he would collect the wood. The walk had warmed him up somewhat, but the darkness and the moaning of the wind through the trees did nothing to calm his fears. He set about gathering branches and twigs, not wishing to dawdle in the forest.

  He had just tied some twine around the twentieth bundle of firewood and was mopping sweat from his brow when he heard a sound from the path behind him. He crouched down and stopped breathing. He listened. All his senses were trained on the small bracken-verged track that led back to the path to Engelmynster. To safety. For a moment he could hear nothing save for the wind and the creaking of the branches above his head. Then he heard the unmistakable jingle of metal on metal followed by a stealthy footfall. This was followed by what sounded like a voice, muffled and indistinct, further to his right. Someone was moving along the path. Whether people or some denizens of the forest he did not know. Neither prospect was good. If these were the Waelisc returned to finish what they had started a few weeks earlier, he had to warn the monks. If they were elves or other creatures from the spirit world, it would be best to leave them well alone.

  Without realising it he had begun to shuffle slowly towards the track and the sounds. It seemed his body had decided for him. He would see who was passing the glade. Once again his curiosity had got the better of him.

  The next sound he heard put a stop to all questions of the identity of the strangers in the forest. The rasp of a metal blade being drawn from a sheath split the stillness directly behind him. Before he could turn to see who had crept up on him, he felt the cold edge of iron against his throat.

  A sonorous voice whispered in his ear, “Well, well, little monk. Spying on us, were you?”

  Coenred’s legs buckled with terror.

  Beobrand had been up for only a short while when Alric ran into the house. He usually left before first light to see to the cows and to feed the pigs, but he didn't normally return so early, and certainly never at such a pace.

  “A band of warriors is on the path,” Alric said. He was out of breath but didn't pause for rest. He hastened to a chest at the back of the house and began rapidly pulling out items. “Arm yourself.”

  Beobrand did not need to be prompted a second time. He quickly retrieved his spear and shield, wincing despite himself as the linden board’s weight put pressure on his ribs.

  Leofwine and Wybert came bursting through the doorway after their father. Wybert was carrying the large wood axe. Leofwine went to his sleeping quarters and quickly returned with a seax. Alric had armed himself with a short throwing spear and a small shield.

  “Are you not going to hide, as you did when they came before?” asked Beobrand.

  “We cannot,” answered Alric. “They have a hostage. They have caught Coenred in the forest.”

  For a heartbeat Beobrand did not comprehend what Alric had said, but then something inside his chest lurched.

  How could t
his be happening? Beobrand felt cold inside. Were all his friends and loved ones destined to suffer and die? Could he truly be cursed? He had lost so much already and now Coenred was in the hands of some unknown enemy. Coenred, who had saved his life when he was blind and defenceless, leaving his own sister to a fate of rape and terror.

  For an instant, Beobrand felt weak with the fear that Coenred was already dead. That he had been powerless to help him. Then all of his sorrow and loss coalesced inside him. The deaths of Edita, Rheda, his mother and Octa. The anguish at losing his new friends in the battle of Elmet.

  A new resolve formed within him. He would not allow harm to come to Coenred. He would save him, or die in the attempt.

  He felt no fear now. The part of him that knew fear and emotion would be of no use, so he hid it deep within himself. Strength and decision were what would save Coenred.

  Wybert had a look of flushed excitement on his face. Leofwine looked serious and pensive. Alric started to speak, addressing the three young men. “Listen, we don't know how many --”

  Beobrand pushed past the three of them and strode from the house. There was no time for chatter now. Coenred was in danger. He walked into the blustery grey daylight and immediately saw some of the men from the thorpe gathered at the edge of the clearing. Others were joining them. Beobrand sensed Alric, Leofwine and Wybert leaving their house behind him. They struggled to keep up with him when he broke into a run.

  The men turned towards him when he ran up. Fear was etched in their faces in the early morning gloom.

  “What do they want and how many of them are there?” Beobrand asked, cutting through the conversations of the men.

  “We don't know how many there are,” one slight man, with thinning hair and a grey beard said. “They say they want food.”

  Beobrand looked around him at the men. They were scared and looked pathetic. Not a force worth reckoning with. Beobrand closed his eyes for a moment, thinking hard. When he opened them again, Alric and his sons had arrived and all of the men were looking at Beobrand. His head ached, and his left eye squinted involuntarily in the dim light of the morning. For a moment his vision swam. Was his sight permanently damaged? But there was no time to worry about that now. The more time that elapsed, the more likely it would that the brigands would get tired of waiting and kill Coenred.

  “We must make them fear us,” Beobrand addressed the men in a quiet voice. He did not wish the men on the forest path to overhear him. The villagers were silent, content for someone to take control of the difficult situation. All except Wybert.

  “How do you think we can do that?” Wybert asked, sarcasm in his tone.

  “We must make them think we have more armed men than we have.”

  The men looked baffled.

  “When I give the order to fetch the rest of the men, get all the women and monks, and even children who are tall enough to pass for men and have them arm themselves with anything to hand. Hoes, brooms, hunting bows, anything. Tell the women to put on men's clothes, or to wear men's cloaks over their dresses. The men in the forest,” Beobrand paused, making sure all of them were listening to him, “the men who have Coenred must believe we have too many warriors for them to fight us easily. Now, when I give the order, go, and make it quick!”

  Wybert looked unimpressed with Beobrand's plan. The others looked frightened, unconvinced it would work. Beobrand turned to Alric. The old warrior had a thin smile of determination on his face. This gave Beobrand the confidence he needed. This might actually work.

  He raised his voice so that it carried far into the forest. “Go fetch the rest of the fighting men. Bring all of them, and bring them quickly. We must defend our own. Now go!”

  The man with the grey beard turned to go, then hesitated when the others didn't move. Beobrand was sure that their enemies were watching from the trees. Any mistake now could spell the death of Coenred. Maybe even give the warriors the courage to attack the settlement openly.

  Just when he thought that his plan would fail before it had even begun, Alric shouted in a loud voice, “You heard the man! Get the rest of the warriors. Now!”

  With Beobrand’s order thus supported by one of their own number, the men rushed back to the houses to get the rest of the ‘warriors’ to swell their ranks.

  Beobrand smiled his thanks at Alric, who nodded his approval in return.

  Both wondered secretly whether the plan would work.

  It took some time to assemble all the villagers who could pass for warriors. As time passed Beobrand’s anxiety for his friend’s safety increased.

  Finally, as the last of the monks joined their ranks, Beobrand surveyed the group. There were some twenty ‘warriors’. Some only carried long sticks or brooms, and several were obviously children, too small to pass for grown men. He quickly arranged them so that the largest and strongest men, armed with spears, axes and seaxes, were positioned in the front rank. The others were placed behind with strict orders to hold their ‘weapons’ high. He hoped that any watchers did not notice the quick repositioning of the gathered villagers.

  He was surprised at how quickly these people had let him take command. He had never led a group before, except as a child. In Hithe he had usually been the leader and instigator of the village children’s games and mischief. He tried not to think about how those childish adventures often ended with him being beaten by his father.

  He turned to face this group, pushing his memories away. All but Wybert, who was in the front row, looked back with the hopeful expectation of those happy to be led. Wybert was trouble. Beobrand’s could not afford to have him question his authority. The illusion of an organised force would be shattered.

  Beobrand thought quickly. He did not want Wybert near him, but he needed to get him to accept the situation and his authority.

  Beobrand addressed them all. “I will go into the forest and parley with the men who have Coenred. Alric and Leofwine will come with me.” He saw Wybert scowl, but before he could speak, he continued, “Wybert will stay here and lead you should anything befall us.” Wybert frowned and opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, looking uncertain. After a moment’s pause, he nodded his assent. Beobrand let out a breath. He had no time for Wybert’s petty dislike of him and was glad he’d accepted the semblance of power over his fellow villagers.

  “Now, stand tall and make a good show of strength,” he said quietly to the group. Then, in a louder voice, “Alric, Leofwine, come with me. We will approach the men in the forest.”

  With that, he turned on his heel, raised his shield with a grunt as it strained his still tender ribs, and, not waiting to see if the others joined him, strode up the path towards the darkness of the forest.

  Once they were out of earshot of the villagers, Alric whispered, “I hope you know what you’re doing, boy. This is like betting your life on a single toss of the knuckle bones!”

  Beobrand didn’t answer. He gritted his teeth and carried on walking. He was well aware of the gamble he was taking, but he’d made up his mind to rescue Coenred or die trying. What he hadn’t bargained on was leading others with him. Too late to worry about that now. He’d done what seemed right and to his amazement the villagers had accepted the leadership of a young, inexperienced warrior quickly and easily. He just hoped that their faith in him being able to protect them wasn’t as misplaced as Tata’s had been in the Christ god.

  They were breathing hard by the time they reached the first trees of the forest. Their breath billowed in front of them briefly before being swept away by the chill wind. They stepped into the murk and slowed their pace. All their senses were heightened. After a few steps, Beobrand stopped. Alric and Leofwine flanked him, holding their weapons menacingly. They looked further into the shadows under the trees. They cast glances to either side, expecting an ambush. But they saw no-one.

  Beobrand stood his ground and leant on his spear, planting the haft in the earth. His pose displayed a confidence he did not feel.

 
“Come out and release our friend!” he shouted in a strong voice that showed no sign of nervousness.

  For a few heartbeats there was no reply, and then a deep voice replied from the gloom, “Why should we give him to you? We’re hungry. Give us provisions and we’ll give you back your little monk. Otherwise we’ll cut his throat and then take what we want!”

  Beobrand’s anger settled into a cold fire in his chest. The calm he’d felt in the battle of Elmet descended upon him.

  He took a step toward the voice and replied, “No. You will give us the boy back now, or the warriors in the village will come to my call and we will kill you all. Do you think we are not prepared for brigands? Look at them, they await my command. We have come here without them to avoid bloodshed, but this is your last warning. Release the boy now, or die!”

  There was no reply for a long time. It seemed as if the whole forest was holding its breath. The wind stopped its bluster and Beobrand could feel his pulse in the scar under his left eye. This was the moment when the bluff was tested. As time passed he feared the worst. He began to prepare for battle, seeing no other outcome from this impasse, when a different voice replied.

  “Beobrand? Is that you?” The voice was younger and less self-assured.

  Beobrand was startled. At first he couldn’t place the owner of the voice. Then he realised it was that of Tondberct, the young warrior he had befriended in Edwin’s warband.