Beobrand sensed in the instant before he moved, that Hengist would attack Galan. Hengist surged forwards with a roar and lunged towards the high table. All along the hall, men leapt to their feet.
Hengist brushed off the hands that tried to seize him and reached for the board that was between him and the object of his wrath. Grasping the board’s edge he heaved it over. Trenchers, plates, food, knives and drinking horns were cast to the ground with a clatter that was lost amongst the clamour of Ecgric’s gesithas as they sprang to their lord’s defence and that of their lord’s guest.
Hengist tried to kick his way through the debris. Galan took a step back, but seemed calm in the face of Hengist’s onslaught.
Before Hengist was able to push his way through the barricade of the fallen board and its contents, several of Ecgric’s men grabbed him roughly. He struggled and screamed, like a wounded animal.
“I will kill you,” he shouted.
A moment later, Beobrand felt a cold blade at his throat and a strong arm around his chest. A voice spoke in his ear, “Do not move, or I’ll bleed you like a pig at Blodmonath.” Beobrand did not struggle. The ferocity and suddenness of Hengist’s violence stunned him. What was Galan talking about? Could it be true that Hengist had been a guest at Cadwallon’s board after the battle of Elmet? It seemed impossible.
“Stop this! You are a guest in my hall!” Ecgric’s bellowing voice rang over the throng, silencing them all. He was shaking with fury, all semblance of affability gone.
“This man dishonours me!” screamed Hengist, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth.
“No,” said Ecgric, “it is you who brings dishonour to my hall and to yourself. You and your companions are no longer welcome here. You will leave my hall and my lands. As a mark of the respect Edwin had for you, I will allow you to leave unharmed and with your weapons. But if I see you again in my lands, I will not be so lenient a second time. Now, get him out of my sight.”
He turned his back on Hengist and spoke quietly to Galan, who laughed. Thralls moved out of the shadows and started setting the boards and fetching fresh food and mead.
The man holding Beobrand turned him towards the door of the hall and pushed him towards it, still holding the knife at his throat.
Outside dark had descended. Hengist, Beobrand and the others were all pushed out of the hall porch and into the cold darkness. The leader of the door wards picked up their weapons and threw them into the mud at their feet. He could see Hengist contemplating attacking.
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” he said. “Pick up your things and be gone. Unless you think you are quicker than an arrow.” He nodded to his left, where two men were standing in the shadows of the hall with hunting bows. Each had an arrow on the string and the bow pulled taut, ready to loose. At such close range they could not miss, and an arrow, though not often a weapon of war, would kill or maim a man, as soon as killing a hare.
For a long moment nobody moved. Beobrand looked at their adversaries and decided he would charge at one of the bowman if they started to fight. Perhaps he could put off his aim and close the gap close enough to tackle him with his hands. More of Ecgric’s gesithas stepped out of the hall, stacking the odds further.
In the end, it was Dreng who moved first. He stepped forward, not taking his eyes from the door ward, and reached down to retrieve his own gear and Hengist’s sword. He handed the sword to Hengist and Beobrand heard him whisper, “We should leave. It is not worth it. Wyrd placed Galan there, it cannot be helped now.”
Hengist was tight-lipped and quivering with pent up anger, but he offered Dreng a small nod and took his sword.
“Pick up your things, men. We are leaving.”
Beobrand and the others cautiously collected their belongings, wary of treachery from the door wards and warriors congregated at the entrance to the hall. But the men proved honourable for they allowed them to leave Ecgric’s lands safely. When they had walked some distance from the hall and were swallowed by the night, Beobrand heard sharp laughter behind them, then the doors to the hall slamming.
They walked on in silence into the gloom. Nobody talked, but Beobrand’s mind was full of questions. He wondered at Galan’s insistence that he had seen Hengist dining with Cadwallon. What had he to gain from lying? Was Hengist’s reaction proof that it was true, or merely a seemingly typical violent response to his honour being slighted?
After some time, Tondberct broke the silence, his breath misting in the cold night. “Oh well, I didn’t really like the smell of that stew, and a warm fire would just make us soft.”
Nobody laughed.
Beobrand focused on the shape of Hengist’s set shoulders and trudged along in his wake. He would get no answers to his questions tonight.
As the days grew shorter, and the weather ever harsher, the small band set up a semi-permanent camp beside a stream.
The site was protected from the wind by a steep, wooded bank. There was an overhang of earth and tree roots that provided them with shelter from the elements. To this natural barrier, they added some wattle fences and built up a makeshift roof of branches and leaves. On the coldest and wettest days, their constructions did little to protect them. They would miserably hunch under their meagre shelter and wait for more clement times. But on clear days, when the wind did not rush along the stream bed and rattle the bones of the denuded trees, the camp was as comfortable as any hall.
A few days after the encounter at Ecgric’s hall, when it had become clear that they had settled into this new camp, with no intention of travelling on, Beobrand broached the subject of the incident with Hengist. The day was cold, but dry and they were sitting by the fire as night approached. It had been a pleasant day of activity, preparing firewood and constructing the fences for the shelter. Now they all sat, tired but content in the warmth of the crackling flames. It was easy to almost forget how Hengist’s anger and violence had erupted like fire from dry tinder.
“Hengist?” Beobrand said, stretching his legs out to loosen the muscles and also to warm his feet closer to the flames.
“Aye?”
“Why did you get so angry with Galan? Surely it was a mistake and you were not with Cadwallon.”
Everyone turned to look at Beobrand. Artair stopped whittling the piece of wood he held. Dreng licked his lips nervously. Tondberct fidgeted, as if preparing to flee. Beobrand was suddenly afraid.
Hengist stared at him for a long moment and then said, “Do you think to question me, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi? Do you also believe me dishonourable? Treacherous?” Hengist’s eyes bore into him, unwavering and unflinching.
Beobrand looked away. He searched the faces of the others. All averted their gaze; none would stand at his side in this. He was all alone. He felt small and weak then. As he had so many times when his father had taken his fists to him.
“No, I just…”
“Just what?” asked Hengist. “Think carefully before you speak again, young Beobrand.” The air was heavy with unspoken threats.
As so many times before when facing his father, all Beobrand wanted was to make the situation go away. “I’m sorry, Hengist. I meant no harm.”
The tension ebbed from the camp and Hengist leaned forward and threw another log onto the fire in a shower of sparks.
Beobrand was ashamed at his own weakness. The taste of it was in his throat as he stood and walked away from the others and he hated it.
It was while they were at the camp that Hengist began to train Beobrand in the art of combat. Beobrand was horrified at Hengist’s sudden explosive violence, but was equally eager to learn to fight like him. If he could fight well, surely he would not feel so impotent.
Hengist seemed to enjoy training the young warrior, and it was clear to the others lounging by the fire, that Beobrand was a natural. He picked up stances and moves quickly and began to look at ease with a shield on his left arm and a spear in his right hand. His injuries still hurt, but he was able to push the pain out of his mind. He co
ntinued practising until his body ran with sweat and his muscles steamed in the cold air. By the end of each day, he collapsed by the fire and fell asleep listening to the others telling stories of battles, drinking and women they had known.
For much of the time Hengist commanded Beobrand to run through patterns of lunges, parries, crouches and defensive blocks. Sometimes he would call on one of the other warriors to spar with Beobrand. At first, he was outclassed by all of the others, receiving many knocks, scrapes and bruises to add to the injuries he’d sustained in Elmet. But by the end of the second day’s training, he bested Tondberct.
Tondberct was over confident. He had seen the experienced Dreng beat Beobrand resoundingly in a few heartbeats. He readied himself in a defensive stance, shield high, spear held higher. Beobrand suddenly bellowed and thrust his own spear into Tondberct’s shield, pulling it down, as Bassus had shown him. Tondberct, caught off guard had tried to retreat, but this only resulted in his shield being pulled further from his body, leaving him more exposed. He panicked and decided to go on the offensive, aiming a vicious spear thrust at Beobrand’s face.
Beobrand caught the spear shaft on the rim of his shield, lifting it harmlessly over his head. At the same moment, he let go of his own spear and drew in a smooth motion the bone-handled knife that Immin had given him. He rolled inside Tonderct’s reach, almost embracing him, his knife’s keen edge against his friend’s throat.
There was a moment while Beobrand and Tondberct stood close together, unmoving. Then Hengist started laughing. Dreng and the two Waelisc brothers joined in. It was an audacious and risky move. If he had mistimed it, he would have been left with a small knife against the much longer spear. But he had executed the manoeuvre with precision and grace. If it had been a real fight, Tondberct would have been dead.
“That is what I like to see,” said Hengist. “I teach you moves for two whole days. Then you go and do something like that. Nobody can teach you that. You have a warrior’s instincts and you’re not scared of anything, are you?”
Beobrand felt scared of a lot of things. Particularly Hengist. But while he was fighting, he did not think of his fear. For those moments there was only him and his adversaries, and the inescapable desire to overcome them at any cost.
Beobrand’s gaze met Tondberct’s and there was something there he hadn’t expected. He wasn’t smiling ruefully at having been beaten by his friend, and he wasn’t angry at having lost so easily, either of which reactions Beobrand would have understood.
The look he saw on Tondberct’s face was fear.
With each passing day Beobrand got stronger, faster and much more deadly. Tondberct would no longer spar with him, after having lost seven or eight times in a row. They still joked together and were seemingly friendly, but there was a tinge of resentment in Tondberct over Beobrand’s rise to prominence in the group. This, coupled with Tondberct being threatened by Beobrand’s skill, meant that their conversations were often stilted.
Artair posed little problem for Beobrand after a few days. The stocky Waelisc was strong and skilled, but lacked Beobrand’s speed and instinctive feeling of how to beat an opponent. He was too predictable. His brother Hafgan, was a different matter. He was tall, like Beobrand, and as fast as a cat. He wasn’t as experienced or skilled as his older brother, but he made up for this by being much less predictable and extremely quick. After a fortnight of practice, Hafgan was still able to beat Beobrand on almost every other encounter.
When Beobrand asked Hengist if he could face him, the older warrior laughed. “You wouldn’t prove more than a mouthful for me if you can’t best the others.”
But Dreng proved impossible for Beobrand to vanquish for several weeks.
The old man had so much experience, was so accomplished in the art of parrying with both shield and his long-bladed langseax, that Beobrand would wear himself out trying to find a gap in Dreng’s defences. In the end, Dreng would effortlessly flick out the tip of his langseax and touch Beobrand wherever he chose. Sometimes he would draw blood. He always pretended it had been an accident and apologised to the younger man. But there was a glimmer in his eye, and he would lick his lips with his fleshy tongue and smile for a time afterwards.
The balance shifted when Hengist told Beobrand he had learnt the basics with the spear and he should now pick up a blade to train with.
“A sword is a true warrior’s weapon,” said Hengist, fingering the fur-lined hilt of his broadsword. “If you can’t get a sword, a langseax is the next best thing. Here, you can use mine.” He tossed him his long-bladed langseax. Longer than a dagger or knife, it was a more formidable version of the seax, the single edged knife that gave their people the name the Waelisc used to describe them: Seaxon.
The instant Beobrand held the blade, it felt right. It wasn’t the sword he had always dreamt of, but its balance was good and all of those days he’d spent with Selwyn gave him a seemingly instant prowess.
He began training with renewed vigour and the others realised that where he had been a natural with the spear, with a long bladed weapon, he would soon be unstoppable against all but the most highly accomplished opponent. He had an affinity for the langseax that the others had not seen before in any warrior, except in Hengist, who was the best swordsman any of them had witnessed.
“You have used a blade before,” Hengist said, intrigued. “Who taught you?”
Beobrand swung the langseax through the air in a flourish, flashing a grin at Hengist. “My uncle, Selwyn. He was a great warrior and trained Octa and I to use a sword.”
Hengist rubbed his beard, watching Beobrand’s stances. “Well, he taught you well,” he said.
After only a couple of days with the langseax, Beobrand was able to vanquish Hafgan three times out of four. And a few days after that, he beat Dreng for the first time.
The older warrior made the mistake of letting his guard down in an attempt to draw Beobrand in, but he had underestimated the young Cantware warrior. Beobrand made a feint towards the exposed area, as Dreng expected. Then, at the moment Dreng committed himself to hit Beobrand’s extended right arm, Beobrand spun fully around, landing a brutal blow to Dreng’s rump with the flat of his langseax’s blade.
Dreng fell sprawling to the ground while the others burst into peals of laughter. Dreng pulled himself up and rubbed his backside and smiled sheepishly, but the look he flashed at Beobrand was dark and murderous.
“That was a risk to turn your back on an enemy, boy,” Dreng rasped. “I wouldn’t do that again if I were you.”
The laughter died down and Beobrand thought that Dreng’s comment was more a veiled threat than a tip on his fighting technique. He swallowed hard and vowed not to let Dreng out of his sight.
CHAPTER 9
After Geola, the longest night of winter, Hengist started to withdraw into himself. He talked less and was no longer interested in training Beobrand. The others were wary around him. Only Dreng seemed at ease in his company. After Hengist had one of his increasingly frequent outbursts, screaming at Artair for burning the tiny squirrel he’d been roasting over the fire, Dreng smiled and said, “Getting bloody again, he is. We should move on tomorrow.”
The next morning it was bitterly cold. The trees creaked and cracked around them, settling themselves for the harsh weather to come. Dreng silently started to pack up the camp and the others joined him, rolling up their blankets and squeezing their few provisions into bags. Hengist sat some way off, cloak wrapped about him, his back to them.
They set off, following the stream southward, which surprised Beobrand. Perhaps Hengist had changed his mind over their destination. He wondered if this change of direction had anything to do with the chance encounter with Galan.
They had not been travelling long when they smelt wood smoke. They stopped, each sniffing the breeze, listening intently for any sound that would indicate where the smoke was coming from. After a few moments, they heard a horse whinny off to their right, someway in the distance.
They stealthily unslung their weapons and placed their bags on the frozen earth underneath a huge beech tree. With no words spoken amongst them, they silently moved forward, like wolves on the scent of a newly-birthed lamb. Beobrand was not sure what they planned to do, but he felt his blood rise at the anticipation of action. He’d trained these last few months, now perhaps he could put what he’d learnt to good use. He carried his spear and shield, and still had Hengist’s langseax hanging from a loop of leather on his belt.
Hengist’s face was a picture of concentration. His eyes sparkled, his mouth was slightly open and his breath plumed around his face as he signalled to them all to move forwards. They crept towards the sound of the horse, using the boles of the trees for cover, spreading out into a skirmish line. They had only taken a few steps when the still of the forest was rent by a shrill scream. This was followed by the sounds of battle: metal against metal and shouts of anger and pain.
Beobrand, Hengist and the others paused for a heartbeat and then made their way forward more quickly.
They came to a clearing. A large oak had fallen in some past storm and its roots now stuck out in an earthy, tangled web. Where the tree had fallen it had cleared a sizable piece of ground, taking a few smaller trees with it. With the shelter provided by its upturned roots, it was a perfect campsite, and there was a small campfire built there.
Two horses were tied to the fallen oak and there were eight people in the clearing. Six of them were engaged in combat and two more were prostrate on the ground. It appeared that two of the people, a young woman armed with a short spear and a man wielding a broad-bladed seax were defending the camp. It looked like their four assailants, men armed with seaxes and spears, had ambushed them. The two figures on the ground seemed also to be from the camp, probably killed quickly as the four brigands attacked with the element of surprise.
Beobrand didn’t pause to think. The cold of battle descended upon him. His instant reaction was to help those who were outnumbered. He didn’t question this, he simply took a step into the clearing and threw his spear overarm with such force that it took one man in the chest and lifted him from his feet. The spear’s metal tip disappeared between the man’s ribs, and he was dead before he had hit the frigid forest loam.
The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) Page 12