The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Whether he had in mind to find a different lord, Beobrand didn’t know. Hengist’s nature craved blood and violence and there were few lords who would allow their thegns to mistreat their ceorls so badly. If any of them asked Hengist where they were heading, he would give a noncommittal shrug, saying they’d know when they got there.

  As they moved further south, from the hills of Bernicia back into the forest they’d left behind in Deira, Beobrand began to get an uneasy feeling. By his reckoning they were heading back towards the campsite at the fallen oak. Hengist and Dreng rode the horses they’d taken. Beobrand and the others trailed someway behind them on foot.

  For the first time since Beobrand had joined the band at the beginning of the winter, Hengist seemed to have a clear destination in mind. They travelled hard, leaving little energy for talk, but Tondberct tried to start a conversation with Beobrand.

  “Where do you think we’re going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but I hope there will be some good food and a bed there!” answered Beobrand, quickening his pace in an effort to dissuade Tondberct from further chatting.

  Tondberct frowned after him, but Beobrand didn’t care. He wanted to get where they were going as soon as possible so that he could find out whether his fears were correct. He had noticed Hengist smiling to himself as he rode and Beobrand couldn’t shake the feeling that they were getting ever closer to something evil. They passed the fallen oak without stopping.

  Hengist waited for Beobrand to catch up and said, “You remember this place, Beobrand? You were the only one who didn’t have fun that night.” He laughed and Dreng chortled.

  Beobrand gritted his teeth. He swallowed the angry words he wanted to shout at Hengist. The time would come for more than words.

  They travelled on through the forest, the late winter sun not managing to warm the undergrowth. As night began to fall, Hengist ordered them to set up camp and they fell into their now well-practised routines. In a short time they had a fire lit, water collected from the stream they were following, and a thin stew beginning to simmer.

  They talked into the night, but Beobrand kept himself apart from the others. Dreng watched him from the other side of the fire with humour in his eyes. It was as if the old warrior knew some funny anecdote about Beobrand, or that they shared a private joke. The old man’s leer only made him more uncomfortable. More on edge.

  Beobrand chose to take the first watch that night. After rousing Artair to relieve him, he fell into a fitful sleep, rolled up in his cloak near the fire.

  He dreamt of Cathryn. She was lying on the ground on warm, lush grass. Bathed in the golden glow of a summer’s afternoon. She wore a flimsy, white robe that clung to her breasts and thighs. He could make out the shape of her nipples pushing the fabric taut as she reached towards him, beckoning him to join her. Her lips parted in a half smile, her mouth inviting him to kiss her.

  As he bent to embrace her, his lips seeking hers, he saw a splash of red blossom under her robe. Blood gushed from some hidden wound, drenching her dress, leaving it plastered to her body. He looked back at her face and saw that it was no longer beautiful and inviting. Great strips of skin had been flayed from her cheeks. Her nose had been carved crudely off, leaving a gaping hole, which bubbled with fresh blood. Blood flowed down her face and into her mouth, which was moving erratically. Gurgling sounds came.

  She was laughing.

  He awoke with a start, choking back the scream building in his throat.

  The others were already up and about, moving around the campsite. Hafgan was prodding the fire with a long stick, adding tinder to get it burning again. Dreng was sitting with his back to a tree trunk. He was staring at Beobrand, his gimlet eyes lidded. As Beobrand caught his eye, Dreng licked his lips and smiled. Beobrand’s shudder was only partly caused by the cold.

  Shortly after they’d broken their fast with a few scraps of dried venison and some hazelnuts, it began to rain. At first, the rain was light enough that little of it filtered through the branches of the trees to the men below. But soon it was falling steadily, filling the forest with noise and soaking the travellers.

  They struck camp and moved off, continuing southward with Hengist in the lead. They trudged along behind Hengist and Dreng, walking to the edge of the trail of hoof prints in an attempt to avoid the worst of the cloying mud. Very soon their cloaks were sodden, doing nothing to protect them from the chill or the wet. Beobrand was dejected. A dull ache throbbed in his chest, yet he was accustomed to it and paid it no heed. But his dream had unnerved him. He walked with his head bowed as if under a heavy weight.

  It was sometime around midday when Beobrand and the others caught up with Hengist and Dreng, who had stopped at the edge of a clearing. Looking through the grey sheets of rain Beobrand recognised the small group of buildings huddled below them. They had returned to Engelmynster. They had returned to Coenred, Alric, Wilda and the others who had given him succour in his time of need. He had protected them from these men once before when he didn’t know how dangerous they were. Now he knew their true nature and, seeing the smile that twisted Dreng’s toothless mouth, and the glint in Hengist’s eye, he understood why he had been brought back here.

  They wanted to complete their unfinished business.

  CHAPTER 11

  The winter had passed slowly for Coenred. He couldn’t quite believe that Beobrand had left with the men who had threatened to kill him. He had fallen in with them so naturally, it made Coenred wonder if he was wrong about the young man from Cantware. Coenred had always made up his mind about people quickly, and once he’d decided to be someone’s friend, he was unswervingly loyal. He had been sure that Beobrand was a good person and even after his sudden departure, Coenred still liked to think that he wasn’t the same as the other warriors.

  The month of Blodmonath, with the slaughter of the cattle, made way into Geola. The monastery began to prepare for the feast of Modraniht, the mothers’ night, when they celebrated the birth of the Lord Jesu. As the preparations progressed, Abbot Fearghas talked increasingly about the story of the birth of the Christ. Doubt began to gnaw at Coenred. Why had Beobrand decided to join the warriors despite his protestations about their intentions? What was it that drove him? He had said he sought vengeance for his brother’s death, but from whom? He had as much idea of who had killed his brother as Coenred did of who had murdered Tata. And what good would revenge do? Neither Octa nor Tata were going to come back from the afterlife. For a moment, Coenred thought bitterly that if Beobrand found his brother’s killer, he might be able to exact the weregild from his slayer’s kindred. Octa had been a thegn after all. But nobody would pay the blood price for a young orphan girl. He had immediately felt ashamed. He didn’t want money or goods for his sister’s life. Nothing could replace her and the thought of revenge just saddened him.

  The winter had been harsh, and travellers had been few after Beobrand left. But the villagers and monks remembered what had happened to Coenred and how Beobrand had organised them. So Alric had taken on the task of setting up regular patrols at night. Nobody ever left the encampment alone. On a few occasions, other remnants of Edwin’s scattered army had arrived seeking food. Or mischief. Each time, Alric and the organised villagers sent them on their way. Coenred reflected how the Christian ideals of charity to others seemed to wane in direct proportion to how little food was left in the stores for the rest of the winter.

  They all agreed that if another large warband descended on the village, they would flee again into the forest. Some of the villagers began to question the wisdom of the location of the monastery. It was on a well-used route through the forest, but was isolated and not easy to defend. Fearghas spoke eloquently in defence of the site. He said it was especially holy. The old ones who had built the first buildings there had been blessed. As proof he had pointed to the picture that was on the floor of the small chapel. It had been there when he had first come to the place and was surrounded by low stone walls. He and the m
onks had built up those walls with wooden lath, covered them in daub, then roofed them with thatch.

  The floor was made of small coloured stones or tiles. It was of immense beauty. The swirling patterns around the edge framed the face of a bearded man, who Fearghas said was an angel. He had travelled to this place on his way from Hii, the island in the north west, to Eoferwic. He hoped to start a Christian church there, converting the heathens to the one true faith, as Columba had done for tribes far north of the Wall. As a young man he had known the great Columba. He was the most inspiring of men and Fearghas had always secretly longed to have as much impact on people as the great man had. Perhaps he had not converted kings like Columba had, but he could not help feeling pleased with his achievements. He knew it was the sin of pride, but he told himself that he was doing God’s will, setting aside all earthly pleasures.

  On his journey he had rested here for the night and when he had awoken the next morning, a shaft of light had illuminated the angel on the floor. It had been a sign from God Himself and Fearghas had not doubted that he should begin his mission there. Soon, others had joined him. Within a few years, the monastery housed several monks, took on young novices and catered to the spiritual needs of the dozens of villagers who inhabited the clearing.

  Abbot Fearghas was happy that he’d not reached Eoferwic as he’d originally planned. He had since travelled to the capital of Deira and he did not like the crowded streets, the noisy traders, with their constant shouting or the smell. He enjoyed the quieter life of contemplation and teaching that he had created at Engelmynster. One of his greatest joys was seeing the boys he taught gain enough knowledge of the scriptures and the teachings of the Christ to leave the monastery. To make their way into the world to carry the good word to others.

  Coenred was still young, but he was quick witted, thoughtful and sensitive, if a little headstrong and impulsive. Fearghas thought it would not be long before he would be ready to leave the confines of the monastery. It was clear to Fearghas that the boy yearned for greater challenges than learning lines from the hagiographies every morning and reciting prayers with the other monks. Coenred had shown an aptitude at reading and writing, and his Latin was passable. Perhaps he would be a scribe, thought Fearghas. If he didn’t run off and do something stupid.

  The old monk thought of the grief that had consumed Coenred only a few months before. The resilience of youth never ceased to amaze him. Coenred still had dark moments. He had matured since his sister’s death and his capture at the hands of the warriors in the forest, but his irrepressible character was not much changed. Fearghas had prayed for him and Jesu had answered his prayers.

  Coenred had applied himself to his studies with a new enthusiasm over the winter. The short days had often not been long enough for the young novice, who always wanted more information. Frequently, at the end of the day, Coenred would ask Fearghas to explain to him one of the finer points of the scriptures. Or he would ask Fearghas to repeat the life story of the saint of the day. Fearghas welcomed the quest for knowledge and understanding. Coenred clearly had a yearning for answers to the imponderable questions of his existence.

  But Fearghas was getting old. He was sometimes so tired that these constant requests for more teaching left him short-tempered. Or even more short-tempered than usual. He smiled ruefully. He was well-aware of how the young novices, and most of the older monks for that matter, thought of him. Old, irascible, hard to please and quick to anger. All of this was true, but he loved his brethren unconditionally and always sought to bring out the best in them.

  Abbot Fearghas was feeling particularly annoyed at that moment. The weather was horrendous. A constant, cold rain fell in waves from a featureless, iron-grey sky. Little light filtered into the room where he sat with Coenred and four other novices. The damp and cold made his back ache.

  “No, no, no,” Fearghas snapped. “For the hundredth time, you must add the iron salt after the encaustum is thickened. Otherwise the colour will not hold fast.”

  He took the powder away from Coenred, spilling a little of the expensive ingredient onto the rough workbench where they were working.

  “Now look what you’ve made me do. We have little enough of this stuff as it is.”

  One of the other four novices, a pimply boy called Dalston, sniggered, attracting one of Abbot Fearghas’ infamous looks.

  The old monk turned his attention back to Coenred. “Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  But Coenred did not answer, he had turned and was looking beyond Fearghas, where someone was framed in the doorway.

  Coenred’s face was pallid. His mouth had dropped open. The other novices’ gaze followed Coenred’s. Fearghas turned slowly to see who had intruded into his class on ink mixing.

  The moment he realised they were at Engelmynster, Beobrand knew he was in trouble. He was sure that Hengist meant to harm those who had harboured him.

  That was something he would not allow. His mind raced. What could he do to stop them? He had been waiting for the right moment to seek vengeance for Cathryn but the time for waiting had passed. Now was the time to act.

  Yet there was only one of him, and five of them. He rubbed his left side, remembering all too well what had happened the last time he had attempted to fight them without any plan or advantage.

  Hengist turned in his saddle with a sardonic grin. “Time for some fun,” he said. Dreng licked rain water off his lips and chuckled deep in the back of his throat.

  “Don’t take too long joining us,” Hengist said. He spurred his horse forward into a canter, shouting over his shoulder, “I’m sure you won’t want to miss this, Beobrand.”

  A heartbeat later, Dreng’s steed also surged forward. Mud thrown up by the horses’ hoofs splattered Beobrand and the others. Both riders moved off quickly and were soon almost hidden from sight by the torrential rain.

  Beobrand didn’t like the situation. Hengist and Dreng would reach the village long before he could. He broke into a clumsy run, slipping and sliding through the quagmire left by the horses. He ran down the slope as fast as he could, sensing the others chasing behind him. Now he had two enemies in front and three behind.

  He ran awkwardly, his shield slapping against his back. He had a head start on Tondberct, Hafgan and Artair and while he ran he scanned the buildings before him for something that could tip the odds in his favour. The place looked empty. The storm was too violent to allow any hearth smoke to be seen and the weather was evidently keeping people inside. He watched as Hengist and Dreng turned towards the small group of buildings that made up the monastery. Coenred would probably be there. Beobrand was certain now that the main objective of Hengist bringing them back here was to kill Coenred. Hengist knew that Beobrand and the young monk were friends. Beobrand was sure that making him witness Coenred’s death would appeal to Hengist. Beobrand had stood against him and denied him the pleasure of the kill the last time they were here. Then, the night of Cathryn’s death, Beobrand had confronted them again. Hengist had been toying with him ever since, leading him back here for the perfect punishment for his defiance.

  Hengist and Dreng reined their horses to a halt outside the monastery and dismounted. Seeing this, Beobrand began to make his way towards them, desperate to prevent them from fulfilling their brutal goal. But what would he achieve when he got there? Hengist and Dreng together would be more than a match for him and the others were on his heels, calling after him. Surely Hengist would want to have him present before hurting Coenred, that must be the whole reason for bringing him here. Inflicting pain gave them pleasure. To be able to inflict pain on Coenred and cause Beobrand anguish as a result, was the ultimate prize.

  Beobrand gambled this was the case.

  Please, Woden, Father of the gods, let me be right.

  He changed direction all of a sudden, his mud-clogged feet skidding. He lost his balance and started to fall, only righting himself by pushing off the ground with his hand. He cast a glance behind him and saw
his three pursuers stop, momentarily unsure of which direction to go. He offered up thanks to Woden and pressed on with renewed speed.

  He shouted as he ran. “Arm yourselves! Enemies are amongst you! To arms, to arms!” The thunder of the rain partially drowned out the sound of his voice, but his words must have reached the houses. He saw a few faces peer out from doorways, but he kept going, screaming at the top of his voice all the while.

  His breath ragged, he saw his destination approaching. The thatched cottage had been home to him for weeks back in the autumn. He was about to rush inside when the stocky figure of Wybert stepped out, blocking his path.

  “Come back have you? What do you want?” Wybert sneered.

  Beobrand stole a quick look over his shoulder. Hafgan was almost upon him, with the other two following only a few paces behind. There was no time to be wasted. This was not the time for talk.

  He stepped in close to Wybert, putting all of his weight and considerable strength behind a straight punch to his jaw. Wybert’s head snapped back and he fell backwards into the hut.

  Beobrand leapt in after him, jumping over his supine form. The hut’s single room was smoky and dark. Before his eyes could adjust, the light from the guttering fire glinted off of a spearhead that was hurtling towards his chest. With instinctive lightning reactions, Beobrand spun to one side and the spear narrowly missed his body, instead snagging his sodden cloak.

  “Wait! It is I, Beobrand,” he said before Leofwine could make a second lunge. “You are under attack, but not from me. There are others right behind me.”