The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand did not stop to watch the flight of his spear. He was sure that enemy was dealt with. He turned his attention to the next man, drawing his borrowed langseax and rushing out of the trees to meet him. He let out a bellowing cry and chopped into the second man’s collar bone with a vicious downward blow. Blood fountained out of a severed artery, splattering Beobrand’s face and hands, as the man fell sideways.

  The two defenders of the campsite fell back, providing this crazed warrior from the woods with space. Beobrand’s savage onslaught had given the remaining two attackers pause. A moment ago, they had outnumbered their foe two to one. Suddenly their advantage had disappeared in a frenzy of violence that had come as quickly as it was unexpected.

  Before they could make up their minds to attack or retreat, Hafgan stepped from the trees and flung a javelin at the man furthest from Beobrand. The javelin struck the man in the hip, spinning him round. He stumbled and then fell onto his hands and knees.

  The last man looked at his fallen comrades and then back to the warrior who had burst from the forest. Beobrand looked like an apparition from the underworld. Blue eyes burning from a mask of blood, his langseax dripping and steaming with gore.

  The man turned to flee. Dreng walked out of the cover of the trees to block his path. The man made a desultory effort to raise his seax to fight the old warrior. Dreng swatted the blade away, stepped inside his reach and buried his blade deep into the man’s entrails. He held him upright for a moment, the man’s face as close to his as a lover’s, then plunged his blade several more times into the man’s stomach, before finally letting him slump forward onto the earth.

  For a moment the glade was still. Then the injured man tried to scrabble away on all fours. Beobrand made a move towards him but Hengist called out, “Wait, don’t kill him!”

  Hengist strode quickly to the injured man. He’d realised he could not escape and had rolled over onto his back so as not to have his attackers behind him. He was now frantically trying to free a knife from the scabbard on his belt. He got the blade out just as Hengist arrived. Hengist stamped on the man’s wrist, pinning the knife to the ground. He then fell onto the man’s chest, immobilising him.

  A broad grin shone from his bearded face. He looked truly happy. “Thanks for leaving one of them alive, Beobrand,” he said. “You’re much too efficient with your killing. Where’s the fun in that?”

  The man underneath Hengist, a young man with ratlike features, started to babble. Hengist looked down at him for a moment contemplatively while the man’s pleading whines grew in volume. And then, apparently not wishing to hear any more, he began to rain blows into the man’s face. Hengist put a lot of his weight behind the blows. It wasn’t long before the young man was silent, his face a battered, bruised and bloody mess.

  “He looks like you now, Beobrand,” laughed Hengist “I’ll save him for later.” He got up and turned to look at the survivors of the camp. “What have we got here?”

  The woman and man stood side by side. Their backs were as close as possible to the roots of the fallen tree.

  The man was middle-aged and heavy-set. He wore clothes of fine quality, a bear fur cloak over a woollen tunic. He had greying long hair and a fine moustache. He held his broad seax at his side. Wary, but not threatening.

  The woman was younger, only a little older than Beobrand. Despite the fear and shock that contorted her features, she was beautiful. She sported a blue thick wool cloak over a cream mantle and brown tunic. Her head was covered by a cap and her blond hair fell in a single long plait down her back.

  Her gaze flitted around the clearing, looking at each man in turn as they stepped from the cover of the forest. Her eyes settled on Beobrand last and there they lingered. He stood panting, his breath billowing with each ragged breath, sweat beading his blood-drenched face despite the cold. He was as suddenly spent of energy as he had been consumed with the cold lust for battle. He looked down absently at his hands and was surprised to see them shaking.

  “My name is Cynric,” said the man in the bearskin cloak. His voice was shaking as much as Beobrand’s hands. “This is my daughter, Cathryn.” He placed a protective hand on her arm. “Thank you … for rescuing us,” he tried to maintain his composure, but his voice caught in his throat. “Now, we must attend to our fallen.”

  Cynric fell to his knees next to the two bodies of his companions. He touched them, seeking signs of life. When he found none, with increasing urgency he shook the bodies. Cathryn knelt beside him, tears streaming down her face and darkening her mantle. She put her arm around her father. He shuddered convulsively and began to sob.

  They clung to each other for some time, lost in a grief that Beobrand understood all too well.

  Later, after the dead had been tended to and were lying covered by their cloaks, they all sat around the fire and Cynric told their story. They were travelling from Pocel’s Hall, about two days travel to the south, and heading for Gefrin, in Bernicia. They had family there and had heard that Eanfrith’s court was Christian. Pocel’s Hall had been sacked by Cadwallon’s forces. Cynric and his three children had fled with as much as they could carry. They had been travelling more slowly than they’d have liked, having only managed to take two horses with them.

  Both of his sons had been struck down as the ambush began. They’d had no chance to resist.

  Hengist appeared uninterested in the personal woes of Cynric and his family. “How many were in Cadwallon’s warband?” he asked. “Which way were they headed?”

  Cynric looked bemused, but answered as best he could. “I don’t really know. It seemed to me that the Waelisc were fleeing westward. I imagine Osric of Deira had taken to the field and was in pursuit of them.”

  Throughout all of the conversations, Cathryn sat silently at her father’s side. Her eyes shone from her tear-streaked face. Beobrand was in a kind of stupor. All energy had fled and he sat morosely listening to Cynric’s words, not really taking in what was said. He frequently looked at Cathryn, and he often found her looking back at him.

  Hengist was alert and interested in the news of troop movements and the shifting of power within the northern kingdoms. The recent fighting seemed to have settled him temporarily, but there was an undercurrent of tension in him. From time to time, his gaze flickered over to the unconscious brigand who still lay where he had left him.

  Dreng, Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair were all content to sit and stare at Cathryn. They were all openly admiring of her looks and her shapely figure. Whenever she got up from the fireside, their eyes tracked her movements. If it made her uncomfortable, she did not show it. Cynric was not oblivious to the attention his daughter was attracting, but didn’t know how to stop it. Six heavily armed killers sat by his fire. They’d rescued them from certain death, or worse in Cathryn’s case. Letting them ogle his daughter was not such a bad price to pay for their protection.

  As the sun fell in the sky, the forest rapidly became dark. Hengist agreed with Cynric that they would all travel together to Gefrin. Perhaps Hengist and his companion warriors could find favour with King Eanfrith there. Beobrand was surprised to hear this. He was sure they had set off south that day and he could not imagine how they would be received after Hengist’s confrontation with Galan, one of Eanfrith’s men. But it was good to hear Hengist openly speak of their destination.

  They readied the camp for the night. Stocking up on firewood, agreeing the watches, and preparing a sparse meal from their supplies and what little game they had left from Hafgan and Artair’s most recent hunt.

  Beobrand roused himself and went down to the stream to wash off the dried blood that covered his face and hands. The bitterly cold water snapped him out of the languor he’d fallen into after the fight at the camp. The blood was congealed and dried, difficult to remove. His skin soon ached from his frenzied rubbing and the freezing water.

  It took longer to scrub away the blood and stench of death than it had to kill the men in the clearing. Beobrand splash
ed more icy water on his face. It was hard to believe the ease with which he had taken the lives of the men.

  He had not been away from the camp for long, when he heard a gurgling scream pierce the still night air. It came from the clearing of the fallen oak. He jumped up and ran back to the camp. He stumbled over roots and fallen branches in the gathering gloom.

  The flickering light from the fire lit a nightmare scene. Hengist and Dreng were straddled over the form of the injured brigand. He was now conscious and Hengist and Dreng were working on his body with their knives. The flames lighting from below made their faces distorted, monstrous. As Beobrand watched in dismay, Hengist slit the man’s left eye with the tip of his blade. Liquid oozed down his already blood-slick cheek. Dreng sawed at the side of the man’s head, then held up his severed ear in triumph, a look of rapturous glee on his face. The man was screaming, but the sounds he made were muffled and guttural. Beobrand saw then that the man’s tongue had been cut out.

  He turned away in disgust, and looked straight into the eyes of Cathryn. She was lying on her back on the frozen earth. The milky skin of her thighs, where her dress had been pulled up, was a stark contrast with the dark of the forest floor. Hafgan was holding her wrists, pinning her arms to the ground with his weight. Artair was on top of her. His bare buttocks, white in the darkness, moved up and down as he thrust himself into her with a furious passion. Tondberct was standing by, watching with rapt enjoyment on his face.

  Grey-haired Cynric lay sprawled and inert near the fire.

  Cathryn’s eyes pleaded with Beobrand. Tears streaked her face, glistening in the firelight. The brigand’s tortured cries filled Beobrand’s ears. Artair reached out and ripped Cathryn’s mantle aside, exposing a breast. He squeezed it viciously, pinching the nipple hard between thumb and forefinger. Cathryn let out a cry and closed her eyes tight against the pain, blocking out the night.

  Beobrand felt himself becoming aroused. He’d only been with a girl once before, back in Hithe. But Udela had been no beauty like Cathryn, and he hadn’t really known what he was doing. That encounter had ended quickly and had become an exciting but embarrassing secret memory, to be dwelt on in the deep of night. Is this what it was to be a warrior? To hear the screams of your enemies in your ears while taking beautiful women with impunity. His arousal grew more intense, his gaze roaming over Cathryn’s flesh.

  Artair’s pace quickened. He leaned forward and gave Cathryn’s breast a savage bite. She moaned, clenching her eyes even tighter in an attempt to shut out what was happening.

  Beobrand’s memory filled with the image of Tata’s lifeless body on the altar in the small chapel. The teeth marks on her breast, her eyes staring, unseeing, as if in accusation. Coenred’s terrible grief. Had he really changed so much in a matter of weeks that murder and rape now meant nothing to him? His mother’s dying words came to him then: “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…” He shook his head, trying to focus. No, his father had used his strength to beat those weaker than him, never to protect them. He had thrived on violence against the helpless.

  Beobrand could not allow this to carry on. He would never be able to face Coenred again if he stood by and did nothing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. Edwin had seen something in him. A determination, a strength that he predicted would make him a great warrior. If he was to be a great warrior, worthy of his brother’s memory and Edwin’s praise, he must act now.

  He was not his father’s son.

  Without pausing to consider the consequences, he stepped quickly into the firelight. Artair was reaching his climax, arching his back, his face a rictus of pain and pleasure. Beobrand stooped to pick up a log from the pile of firewood and swung it into Artair’s head. Artair collapsed immediately, falling to the side of Cathryn. Whether unconscious or dead, Beobrand did not know nor care. He spun towards Hafgan, who let go of Cathryn’s wrists and leapt to his feet. He moved away from Beobrand and drew his hunting knife. Beobrand had left his langseax by the fire, so he drew his small knife and stepped forward to meet Hafgan.

  Before they could close in combat Beobrand felt a crashing blow to the back of his head. His ears rang and his vision blurred. He fell to his knees. He struggled to regain his feet. Hafgan sprang forward and kicked him full in the face. He landed on his back, legs folded awkwardly beneath him.

  Cathryn’s eyes met his. His sight began to cloud and he knew he had failed her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Beobrand was surprised to awaken the next morning.

  He ached all over, head throbbing from the blow he’d received. His left eye was again swollen shut. His ribs felt broken once more, or at least badly bruised. His legs were numb from having lain on them in an unnatural position for a long period of the night.

  He got slowly onto all fours. Then, after catching his breath and working the blood back into his limbs, he got to his feet. There was a thick frost on the ground. Mist hung under the trees.

  A few paces from the smouldering embers of the fire he found Cathryn.

  She was dead. Her mutilated corpse unrecognisable save for her long braided hair and clothes.

  His head spun. His stomach twisted convulsively. He fell forwards, onto his hands and knees, and vomited.

  He stared groggily at the outpouring of evil, purged from his body in a steaming puddle. Would that the memories of the night could be expelled so easily.

  For the first few days following Cathryn’s murder, Beobrand wished they had killed him that night. He could not understand why he yet lived.

  He was a mass of bruises. His head pained him if he moved too quickly, and breathing deeply caused him to wince.

  Slowly, his body recovered. But worse than his physical wounds were those of his soul. He had been unable to stop them. Perhaps confronting them had inflamed their savagery enough to kill Cathryn. Had he caused her death by intervening?

  He could not bring himself to talk with any of his companions, but Tondberct was persistent. He sat close to Beobrand in the evenings and chattered inanely. He was desperate for Beobrand’s attention. As though he thought if he could get Beobrand to consent to talk with him, he would somehow be exonerated from the atrocities of that night.

  Eventually, Beobrand relented. “Why did they not kill me?” he asked, keeping his voice low so only Tondberct could hear.

  “It was Hengist,” answered Tondberct, pleased that Beobrand was talking to him at last. “He calmed Hafgan down. Told him it was the battle lust. Said you wanted your part of the spoils. That you were impatient for your turn. Hafgan stopped arguing once he got on top…” His voice trailed off. Beobrand’s bruised face had taken on a thunderous aspect.

  “And Artair?” asked Beobrand, his words clipped.

  “He cared little about it. Said it was normal. You are young. Jealous.”

  “And the others?”

  Tondberct looked blank.

  “Did they each have a turn?”

  Tondberct nodded.

  “And you?”

  Tondberct was unable to meet his gaze. That was answer enough.

  “Who killed her?” Beobrand whispered.

  “Dreng and Hengist.” Tondberct was keen to shift the focus to someone else. Beobrand’s piercing eyes were like ice. “They woke her up, so they could…enjoy her.”

  Beobrand could listen no more. He stood abruptly, making Tondberct flinch.

  He spat and stalked from the camp. Impotent rage burning inside him with a savage heat.

  Beobrand was wretched with self-doubt. Could he have saved Cathryn if he’d acted sooner? He recalled the feeling of arousal at seeing her naked flesh and shuddered in revulsion. How was it possible that he’d been aroused at the sight of her being raped? He tried not to think of his own lust for Cathryn, but his mind, like a tongue probing a rotten tooth, always turned back to the moment when he had stood and watched. And enjoyed it.

  He dreamt of Cathryn’s eyes, pleading with him, asking for him to save her. In his dreams
he would leap into the fray and attack her rapists, killing them all with savage fury. But then he would wake up and know the truth. He had watched for a time before acting and thus had failed to protect her.

  She became the focus of his every waking thought. Unlike the men who had killed Octa or Tata, he knew exactly who Cathryn’s assailants had been. All of his rage at the loss of his brother and the self-loathing he felt at having failed to protect Cathryn seethed within him. It formed into a crystal-hard resolve. By all the gods, he would avenge her, or die trying.

  However, there were five men responsible for her death, and he was but one. Despite his prowess and natural ability with a blade, Beobrand knew that he was no match for the group all together. He would have to bide his time, and until such time as he was able to mete out justice, he would have to act as one of them.

  He had become withdrawn after that night in the forest. Now he forced himself to settle back into the life of the group. After the conversation with Tondberct, he slowly rejoined the group. He sat closer by the campfire and resumed conversing with them. Their words often stung. His own words tasted like bile in his throat. But he let none of his anguish show on his face.

  Following Cathryn’s death they had travelled someway further north, into the hills of Bernicia. But they were now headed south again.

  Hengist was leading them on a circuitous route and Beobrand was unsure where their final goal was. It clearly wasn’t Eanfrith’s hall at Gefrin. Beobrand became increasingly certain that the encounter with Galan at Ecgric’s hall had disrupted Hengist’s plans. He thought of Breca’s words warning of Hengist’s treachery, then he pictured the scene of torture and murder in the clearing and it was not hard to believe that Hengist had been involved in some betrayal of his king, as Galan had implied. Why else would he have been with Cadwallon and Penda? Perhaps he’d intended to seek patronage from Eanfrith in the beginning, but Galan recognising him made that impossible now.