The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  “Tondberct? What are you doing here?” Beobrand replied, dropping his guard slightly, but still wary.

  Tondberct stepped from the trees ahead onto the path and smiled. “I could ask you the same thing.” He then spoke over his shoulder, “It’s alright, I know him.”

  Five others emerged from the shade of the trees, four large men, carrying the accoutrements of war, and one smaller figure. Beobrand’s heart leaped when he recognised Coenred. He seemed unharmed.

  “Let the boy go back to his people. Then we can talk.” Beobrand kept his voice easy now, hoping that Tondberct held enough sway in the group to allow Coenred to go free.

  Tondberct turned and talked quietly with the others, then said, “Fine. Have him back. But I hope you’ll give us some food and drink. We’re starving!”

  Beobrand was elated to see Coenred leave the group of warriors and walk quickly down the path to where he waited with Alric and Leofwine. Coenred gave them a weak smile as he passed and then broke into a run for the monastery and hamlet below.

  Once Coenred was at a safe distance, Beobrand turned his attention back to Tondberct and his companions.

  “I know you are hungry and cold, but the people here have little to offer and you have attacked one of their own.”

  “We did him no harm,” replied the tallest of the warriors. He stepped forward. He wore a leather jerkin reinforced with metal plates. He carried a large shield and had a sword in a plain scabbard at his side. His bearded face was angular and handsome. He was perhaps ten years Beobrand’s senior and carried himself with a warrior’s natural grace. Beobrand had a glimmer of recognition. Had he met the man before?

  “He sneaked up on us in the woods and we thought we could use him to get some food,” the warrior continued. Beobrand recognised the voice from the earlier exchange. “We never meant him any harm. It was just a bluff. We knew it would be hard to convince people here to give us provisions. So we improvised.” The man offered an engaging smile.

  Beobrand was not wholly convinced, but the man appeared genuine and Tondberct travelled with him, so perhaps things were as he said.

  “I will go and speak to the villagers and see what they have to offer you. Stay on the edge of the forest where we can see you and do not approach the monastery, or we’ll be forced to defend ourselves and you are truly outnumbered.” Beobrand looked from the group’s leader to Tondberct, searching the face of the younger man for any signs of duplicity. Tondberct’s open and friendly face was pinched with cold and hardship, but Beobrand saw no malice there. He nodded at Tondberct, then turned and walked back to the settlement. Alric and Leofwine fell into step beside him. As if by common agreement, they did not talk on the brief walk back.

  When they reached the group of villagers posing as warriors they were greeted by a hubbub of voices. Many of them were asking Coenred questions about his ordeal. Who were the men in the forest? What had they done to him? Why had they let him go? Coenred was doing his best to answer, but there were too many people speaking at once for any intelligible conversation. As Beobrand, Alric and Leofwine approached, the faces turned to them and slowly they quietened, waiting for Beobrand to speak.

  “There are five of them. They are warriors. Probably all survivors from the battle of Elmet. They want supplies. I’ve told them we don’t have much, but I think it would be best to give them some food and encourage them to move on from here.” Beobrand lowered his voice, “At the moment, they still believe you are a band of armed men, but that won’t last long if you continue to prattle like washerwomen!”

  He turned to Alric, “What say you?”

  Alric nodded. “I think Beobrand is right. And let us not forget that his quick thinking has returned Coenred to us unharmed. Wilda, organise the women to bring together enough provisions for five men for a few days.”

  Wybert looked furious as the women moved to do Alric’s bidding. “Who made Beobrand our leader all of a sudden? Why should we give up our food to these strangers? We have little enough left after those Waelisc stole most of our stores.” Wybert spat.

  Before Beobrand could reply, Alric spoke to Wybert in a firm, but sad tone. “It is decided, Wybert. Do not make a quarrel where there is none. Now go and help your mother collect the food.”

  Wybert’s face flushed. He looked at Beobrand with loathing, and then stalked off after the women.

  Coenred had been petrified while he was held by the warriors in the forest. They had not harmed him, but the threat of harm was ever present. He had been sure they would kill him. Would he meet Tata in the afterlife? Would she forgive him for leaving her to the men who had defiled her? Would she forgive his lack of faith?

  He had tried to pray. To block out the voices of the men as they discussed how best to convince the villagers to give up their winter stockpiles of food. He would begin to recite the Pater Noster in his head, but the words would tangle in his mind and he would find himself picking out strands of the hushed conversations.

  He shivered from the cold and the memory. They had discussed whether they should kill him and how best to do it. How long they should wait before making a show of strength by murdering him and what would have the most impact on the village. After some debate they had agreed that it would be most impressive to cut off his head and put it on the end of a spear. That way, all the villagers would be able to see.

  It was at that point that Beobrand had called out. A wave of relief had washed over Coenred. He could hardly believe it as the brief exchange progressed and he was allowed to return unscathed to the monastery.

  He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders against the wind and approached Beobrand.

  “Well,” he said, managing a smile, “looks like you’ve saved my life once. I think that leaves you still in my debt. By my reckoning, I’ve saved yours twice.”

  Beobrand returned the smile. “Never let it be said that the sons of Grimgundi do not honour their debts.” He clapped Coenred on the shoulder. “I am truly glad you’re safe,” he said earnestly. “Now you should get yourself inside by a fire. You look ready to drop with cold.”

  “Will you take the provisions to them?” Coenred asked. “You must be careful. They are killers, Beobrand.”

  “Don’t fret about me. I know Tondberct and I’m sure he will offer me no harm.”

  Coenred thought back to the discussion of how to murder him and mutilate him. He shivered again.

  “Just be careful and don’t go to them alone.”

  He walked back to the monastery with a feeling of doom in his heart. It was not that he was fearful for Beobrand’s safety; it was that he feared his friend resembled the rogue warriors waiting at the skirts of the forest.

  Beobrand spent the remainder of the day in the company of the warriors by the forest. He helped carry the provisions to them and they invited him to break his fast on their new provender. They lit a fire and he fell into easy conversation, first with Tondberct, and then with the band’s leader, the tall, bearded warrior, whose name was Hengist.

  “Have we met before?” asked Beobrand.

  Hengist gave him a long appraising look. “Aye, I travelled south from Bebbanburg. I was there in the hall when you swore allegiance to Edwin. I was one of his hearth-warriors.” He lowered his eyes, looking distraught at having survived his lord.

  The other men were taciturn and hardly spoke. Dreng was a wily old man, well over forty years of age, with thinning grey hair and only three teeth in his wizened mouth. He sat quietly by the fire, stirring the porridge. Beobrand could feel his hooded eyes on him all the time, like a hungry wolf watching a lamb.

  The remaining two were Waelisc. They were brothers. The older of the two, Artair, was about ten years older than Beobrand. He was stocky and the shortest in the group. The younger brother was called Hafgan. He was maybe a couple of years Beobrand’s senior and almost the exact opposite of Artair. He was as tall as Beobrand, but much slighter of build. The only thing that marked them out as siblings was their hair. They
both had long, startlingly black hair, tied back in pony tails. They wore no armour. Each was armed with javelins and long, vicious-looking knives. They sat close together and whispered in their own tongue. Both whittled sticks with their long blades.

  All of them had fought at the battle of Elmet.

  “What happened? I didn’t see the end of the battle,” Beobrand said.

  “It was chaos at the end,” said Tondberct. The others sat quietly around the fire, eyes hooded as they relived those last moments of the battle in their minds. “The shieldwall broke and then it was all death. King Edwin was slain, his son too. My father died then, in that final crush.” He cuffed tears away from his eyes before they could drop down his cheeks.

  “Men closed in on the king to defend him, but it was useless. My father pushed me away before the end. Told me to flee. I saw that the battle was lost, so I ran.” He was silent then for a moment, perhaps ashamed at having deserted his father.

  “I am sorry about your father,” said Beobrand.

  Tondberct offered him a thin smile and a nod of thanks. “I went south for a couple of days. I didn’t really know where I could go. I had no food, so in the end I decided I needed to travel north. Back to kin and friends who would help me. That is when I met Hengist and the others.”

  The conversation moved on to what had happened to Beobrand after the battle. He told of his injury, being found by Coenred, the attack of the Waelisc and how the people of Engelmynster had nursed him back to health.

  “What are your plans?” Beobrand asked when he had finished his story.

  “Hengist says that we can find a new lord to serve in Bernicia or Deira,” said Tondberct excitedly. “We have heard that Osric, cousin of Edwin, has taken the kingdom of Deira as his own. And there is tell that Eanfrith has returned from exile to claim the throne of Bernicia.”

  Edwin’s father, Aella, had united the two kingdoms of Deira and Bernicia into the one realm of Northumbria. It was certain that both of these new kings would need warriors to help them maintain their tenuous holds on their dominions. It made sense for these men of war without a liege to head north in order to seek patronage.

  “Which lord will you seek out, Hengist?” Beobrand asked. He thought that Osric, as kin of Edwin, would be the honourable choice, but he knew nothing of the politics of these northern kingdoms.

  “Whichever gives his gesithas the best treasure,” answered Hengist. The others laughed. Beobrand joined in the laughter, but felt a sliver of doubt. He must not truly be a warrior yet, to worry about such things as kinship and honour. Those were the values his uncle had instilled in him. The traits of warriors in sagas and songs. It seemed that real warriors were not so concerned with these niceties. He would have to make an effort to be more like Hengist and the others.

  “What are your plans, young Beobrand?” asked Hengist, raising an eyebrow. “Would you join us in our quest to find a lord worthy of our might in battle?” The older warrior smiled at his own sardonic comment.

  Beobrand had been enjoying the company of Tondberct and Hengist, basking in the warmth of the fire and the camaraderie that comes from having fought the same enemies. He had not considered joining them and leaving Engelmynster. Now that the option was presented, it seemed the perfect solution. He had nothing to offer Wilda, Alric and the others. He was just another mouth to feed in what would surely be a difficult winter, especially having lost much of their stores to the Waelisc.

  And Leofwine was right. He was a warrior inside. He had stood in battle, and whilst it scared him to think of it, he wished to feel again that surge of energy and power he had experienced. If he was to be a warrior like Octa, he needed a lord. Hengist had been a gesith to a king and had a plan to find one.

  Once he had a lord, he could try to discover who had killed his brother. He had sworn vengeance for Octa’s murder. Yet to mete out justice, he would first need to find his brother’s slayer. Only then could he confront him.

  “Would you train me to fight?” Beobrand asked.

  Hengist grinned. “It’s all I can teach. Death is my mistress and she and I feed the ravens wherever we go. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind spreading her legs for you too, boy. There’s always someone who needs killing.”

  Beobrand blushed.

  “I would like to come with you, if you’ll have me,” he said, in a smaller voice than he had intended.

  Tondberct slapped him on the back and laughed. “I’m glad we came to this shit hole,” he said. “It will be good to have you with us, Beo.”

  Hengist nodded his agreement, offering only a wry smile as answer.

  Dreng’s eye’s narrowed and he licked his lips, pink tongue wetly smearing around his chapped lips, as if his appetite was soon to be sated. Hafgan and Artair continued whittling their sticks. Whether they had not understood, or didn’t care, they showed no response to the news that Beobrand would be joining them.

  A chill stroked the length of Beobrand’s back. He shivered.

  He hoped he had chosen wisely.

  Beobrand returned to the monastery in the afternoon, leading the donkey with its small cart back from the forest where Coenred had left it. He found the young monk waiting for him in the doorway of the chapel.

  “You’re leaving with them, aren’t you?” Coenred spoke the words like an accusation.

  “It is best for everyone. They can help me find a lord. Here I am a burden.”

  “They would have killed me just to get what they wanted. Does that mean nothing to you?”

  “It means they are men of action. They said what they needed to say. They are ruthless, but that is the way of the warrior.” He thought of the warriors in tales. Of honour and loyalty. “I am a warrior now, and I stopped them from hurting you.”

  Coenred’s eyes brimmed with tears. Beobrand didn’t understand what these men were. What he might become if he travelled with them. Coenred was only young. A boy. But he had already learnt that you cannot make someone see something if they choose to be blind.

  “I’ll pray for your soul,” Coenred said, and turned and walked inside the chapel.

  Beobrand stood for a moment in the dank, grey afternoon and wondered at his friend’s reaction. It hurt him that they were to part on these terms.

  Once he had found a lord, he would return and visit Coenred.

  CHAPTER 8

  Beobrand stared down into the mist-filled valley. He loved these moments of peace just after the sun had risen. The air was chill. He wrapped his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. The cold made his ribs ache, but the dull throb was not difficult to endure. In some ways, it was comforting, reminding him of who he now was.

  He drew air deep into his lungs, wincing slightly as his recently healed wounds stretched. Behind him, the others were packing up their meagre belongings. They had been travelling steadily northward since leaving Engelmynster. Towards Bernicia and King Eanfrith he presumed, but Hengist refused to be drawn out on the subject.

  “Just follow me and you’ll find a ring-giving lord, young Beobrand. Don’t fret,” he had said the day before when Beobrand had once again asked where they were heading.

  The uncertainty was unnerving. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made the right choice in joining these men. Could Coenred have been right about them? He had a nagging feeling of foreboding, but they had done nothing to cause alarm. Tondberct was talkative and convivial as ever. When they sat around the fire at night, Hengist was content to tell of his previous exploits in Edwin’s warband. Beobrand and Tondberct would listen raptly, drinking in the tales of heroism and valour.

  During one such tale, Beobrand asked, “Did you know my brother, Octa?”

  Hengist’s features clouded for a moment and he cast him a sidelong look. “Aye. I knew him. He was a great warrior. It is easy to see you are his kin.” He paused and stared into the flames, his eyes gazing into the past. “It was a sad thing that happened to him.”

  Beobrand had many questions, but Hengist wra
pped himself in his cloak, lay down by the fire and spoke no more.

  Dreng said little, but was friendly enough. Beobrand was wary of the Waelisc brothers. Hafgan and Artair kept themselves apart from the group, but Hengist and the others trusted them.

  Beobrand hoped that Hengist spoke true about finding a lord. All he wanted was to find somewhere to call home. He asked for nothing more than somewhere to sleep and simple fare on the board. Somewhere he could leave his past behind and start a new, better future. For that, he would give up anything he had. He smiled to himself, but there was no humour in it. It was the smile of a man who knew he was fooling himself. He owned nothing, save for an old spear, a shield and the clothes he wore.

  Looking over the country below him, he thought how beautiful this land of Northumbria was. More mountainous than his native Cantware, and the winter was harsher than he was used to. Yet gazing out from the hilltop, seeing the mist following the course of the river, the sun rising out of the pink-tinged clouds, he knew that he wanted this to be his land. His home.

  But Northumbria had become as deadly as she was beautiful. The land was lawless. Neither Osric in the southern kingdom of Deira, nor Eanfrith in the more northerly Bernicia held enough sway over the populace to bring peace. Without a king’s protection the land was becoming more dangerous by the day. Bands of warriors and ruffians travelled the tracks and paths preying on the innocent. They took what they could, using whatever means necessary.

  So far when they had met with such groups their weapons and number had kept them safe. They had avoided confrontation and travelled on their way.

  They finished packing and set off once more, down the hill toward the misty valley below. They were all hungry. The provisions they had taken from Engelmynster had run out the day before.

  Beobrand was wondering where their next meal would come from when they spotted a homestead. Just a small hut nestled in the bend of a stream. A man was chopping wood outside the dwelling, wielding a formidable looking axe. They were still distant. The sound of his axe reached them a moment after they saw his swings impact into the logs.