The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  He pressed on. He passed the forge and it was silent and still, the house beside it dark. It looked as if the inhabitants were sleeping. Beobrand hoped that one was, and that the other had crept out to meet him.

  He was almost at the meeting place now. The river was ahead of him, reflecting the pale rays of moonlight.

  He slowed to a walk and thought he heard something. He stopped, listening. Wondering if perhaps Sunniva was on the road and had seen him. For a moment there was no sound beyond the distant murmur of the merry-makers in the great hall. An owl hooted somewhere in the night. Beobrand was about to move on when he heard it again. The crunch of a footfall on the small stones of the path.

  The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and a shiver ran down his spine. He turned his head in an effort to make out where the sound came from. There it was again. Off to his left. There was someone lurking behind the hawthorn that grew alongside the path.

  Beobrand walked stealthily around the bush, hands held in front of him, ready for action. He regretted not retrieving his sword.

  It was difficult to make out anything in the blackness of the moon shadow behind the hawthorn. There was a figure there, standing facing the bush. Then the tangy smell of piss reached him and he realised it was a man relieving himself.

  Embarrassed, he started to turn away and leave him in peace, but before he could, the man turned to him and said in a slurred voice, “What are you looking at, boy?”

  It was Acennan’s voice, distorted by drink, but recognisable.

  Beobrand sighed. This was not going to end well.

  “Where are you going? Scared, are you?”

  Beobrand moved back towards the road where there was better light. He could barely see here in the shadows and if he was going to have to fight, he wanted to be able to make out as much as possible of his enemy’s moves.

  “I am not scared of you, Acennan.” he said. “I do not want to fight you. You’re drunk.”

  Beobrand stepped into the relative brightness of the path. The moonlight made his features appear like stone. Chiselled and lifeless. His eyes black pits.

  “Drunk, am I?” roared Acennan, staggering onto the path. The light of the moon glinted off his arm rings.

  “Yes,” Beobrand answered, his voice level, “it would not be a fair fight. Killing you would be too easy.”

  Acennan’s round face, distorted by the shadows, cracked into a grin.

  “Kill me? You’re not even armed,” he said in a slurred voice.

  He reached down to his side and drew the sword that hung there. The moonlight played on its surface, giving it an ethereal quality, as if the blade was made of mist. Beobrand knew that blade. It was Hrunting.

  Beobrand went cold. He had hoped he could get away without a fight.

  “Don’t be a fool, Acennan. Someone will get killed.”

  “That’s the idea!” Acennan replied and took a massive swing at Beobrand’s neck.

  Beobrand stepped back, avoiding the blade by a finger’s breadth. Acennan was drunk and slow, but he knew how to wield a sword and Beobrand knew all too well how deadly that blade was.

  That sword was his by right. It had injured him once, but it would not taste his blood again. The cold fury of battle descended on him. All his senses were heightened. He could smell the mead on Acennan’s breath.

  Acennan lunged at his chest, hoping to embed the tip of the blade between his ribs. Beobrand saw the move coming and spun away to the side, light on his feet. Acennan followed through, using his own momentum to change the direction of the blade. He turned on the balls of his feet, again swinging at neck height in an effort to decapitate Beobrand.

  Remembering his fight with Hengist and how his slip has saved him, Beobrand dropped to one knee. The sword passed harmlessly over his head and Acennan lost his balance. Stumbling, the force of his attack carried him on until he was facing away from Beobrand, who surged up and pushed him hard on the back with both hands.

  Acennan took several running steps to stop himself from falling, giving Beobrand a chance to assess the situation. There was no way he could continue to avoid the sword. In the end one of the blows would connect and the fight would be over.

  “That is my sword. Passed down to me from my brother, Octa son of Grimgundi, thegn of King Edwin. You have no right to touch it. You are a craven and a thief.”

  Acennan sneered. “Craven, am I? Better than dead!”

  He leapt forward slicing the sword down in an overhead arc with enough force to split Beobrand in two.

  Beobrand, with the acute focus of battle, sidestepped the attack easily. The sword flashed past his face. He waited for just the right moment, when Acennan was committed and losing his balance again, then he reached out and grabbed his wrist with both hands. He pulled, adding to Acennan’s forward motion. At the same time he twisted his body and raised his knee. It connected with Acennan’s groin with terrible force.

  Acennan let out a guttural grunt.

  Still holding Acennan’s wrist with both hands, Beobrand brought the arm down sharply, again using his knee as a weapon. This time Acennan’s elbow was the target. Beobrand was not positioned ideally. He was too close to Acennan, who was trying to double himself up to ease the pain to his groin, so the knee only dealt a glancing blow to Acennan’s elbow. Nevertheless, it had the desired effect and the sword fell from his grasp.

  Beobrand ignored the sword now. He knew he had bested his opponent, but something inside him was driving him on. Acennan stood, bent over, nursing his arm and panting. There was no fight left in him.

  Beobrand took a step back and swung a vicious uppercut that caught Acennan soundly on his nose. Cartilage cracked, blood burst from his nostrils and he fell onto his back. He was dazed, but as Beobrand stepped closer again he curled himself into a ball.

  Beobrand couldn’t stop now. This man had threatened his life, with his own sword, by Woden! And he had baited him repeatedly. He had told Acennan he would regret it if he picked a fight with him. Now he would see that was no idle threat.

  He let himself fall onto Acennan’s chest, leading with his knees. Acennan vainly tried to ward him off by raising his hands to his face, but Beobrand simply punched through the piteous defences. He pummelled Acennan. His lips spilt against his teeth. Cuts opened on his brows. His face was soon slick with blood. Black in the moonlight.

  After some time, strong hands pulled him back. He turned quickly, jumping up and away from the grasp. Strang the smith stood there. A solid, sombre, yet somehow calming presence. “Enough boy, you’ll kill him, if you haven’t already,” he said.

  Sunniva stepped past her father and touched Beobrand gingerly on the arm. They must both have approached in the darkness, unnoticed by the combatants. Behind them, light spilt from the doors of the great hall illuminating more people gathered there.

  Beobrand picked up his sword from the path and began to shake.

  CHAPTER 15

  The great hall was crowded. All of Eanfrith’s thegns, companions and counsellors had come to see what would happen to the upstart from Cantware who had so savagely beaten Acennan, a trusted warrior in Scand’s gesithas. There were a good number of craftsmen and merchants from Gefrin present, and more slaves than had a real reason to be there. Everyone in the throng hoped to see something memorable.

  Many of Eanfrith’s warband knew Acennan well and saw his defeat as an affront to one of the king’s oldest and most trusted thegns and thus, by association, to the king himself. Something that could undermine his authority and threaten their own superiority over the ceorls. If a young man could stand up to one of their own and win, especially when unarmed, what would stop others from doing the same?

  In equal measure many of the villagers disliked the way Eanfrith’s thegns lorded it over them. Taking without payment. Preying on their daughters. And so far they had seen no benefit from them being here. Their enemies gathered in the south and the land was still lawless. From the rumours, the young warrior had had
no option but to fight Acennan, and surely if a warrior who served one of the king’s comitatus, his closest companions, starts a fight, he should be prepared to finish it, or accept his defeat bravely.

  The doors opened and Beobrand walked in, escorted by two armed guards. He had once again had to relinquish his sword, but at least he had not been bound. That was something.

  All eyes turned to stare at him, as he strode towards the end of the hall where the king sat.

  It was a damp day. Clouds had rolled in overnight and now a constant drizzle fell from a low sky. The grey, watery light filtered through the doors and windows of the hall, providing little more illumination than the moonlight of the night before. Rain worked its way through some loose shingles of the roof, and dripped here and there into the hall. People shifted to avoid the drops, causing the tightly-packed onlookers to jostle for drier positions.

  Beobrand surveyed the king and the amassed group of thegns. With a start he recognised the hawk-faced thegn, Galan, who he had encountered in Ecgric’s hall. Galan was standing close to the king, just behind Queen Finola. Their eyes met and he saw recognition there.

  Beobrand squared his shoulders. He was defiant. He’d done nothing wrong. He’d only defended himself and retrieved what was rightfully his, but he was not so naive as to believe that he would get away with beating one of the royal warband without consequences.

  Eanfrith stood. The crowd hushed.

  “Speak your name for all to hear,” Eanfrith said.

  “I am Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, your majesty.” Beobrand’s voice had the hard edge of defiance, but he was mindful to address Eanfrith with the politeness due to his station.

  “Is it true that last night you attacked Acennan, a warrior loyal to my trusted companion, Scand, son of Scaend?”

  “It is not true, your majesty.” A murmur ran through the gathered watchers. Beobrand raised his voice to be heard over the noise. “I did not attack Acennan. He attacked me. I merely defended myself.”

  “Yet you are unharmed, and he is unable to rise from his bed. He has been beaten about the face in a terribly savage way. It appears you attacked him when he did not expect an attack, thus gaining the advantage of a coward who attacks from the shadows.”

  Beobrand’s anger rose. He struggled to keep it in check. He’d spoken to Leofwine briefly that morning, and the scop’s advice had been to not lose his temper. “If you get angry, it will become a fight between the king and you, and that is a fight you cannot win.” Beobrand knew this was sound advice and he swallowed hard, biting back the words that threatened to burst forth in a torrent of ire and outrage.

  “That is not the truth of it, sire. He attacked me. I was unarmed, whereas he carried a sword. And not any sword, but my own sword, which I had left in this very hall at the behest of your guards. I know nobody here will speak up for me. I am a stranger here, but I am no coward.”

  A ripple of conversation ran through the hall. Then, at the back, a huge figure pushed his way through the crowd. Beobrand turned to see Strang stepping forward.

  “I will speak for Beobrand,” said the smith in a loud voice. He had not wanted to come here and confront the king on behalf of this boy. But Sunniva had been weeping since the night before. When she heard that he was to be taken before Eanfrith she had begged her father to intercede for him. He disliked the idea of his daughter with a warrior, but he realised sometime in the darkest part of the night that if he stood against her, he would lose her. He had seen the way she had led the young man back to their home, soothing him with her voice. How she had brought him drink and sat with him in the dark, talking quietly until he had stopped trembling. She cared for the boy and if he was hurt, she would suffer terribly, so he had agreed to speak for him. Besides, he told himself, he hated injustice and was only going to speak the truth.

  “I witnessed what happened and he speaks true. Acennan attacked him with his sword. Beobrand disarmed him and then beat him fairly. Let any man who says otherwise accuse me of lying.”

  Again the murmur of conversation ran through the hall.

  Eanfrith turned to consult with Scand. They spoke quietly for a moment, and then beckoned to a thin, birdlike man to join them in their deliberations. The man took several sheets of calf-skin vellum from a table and approached the king. He spread the sheets on a table and pointed at certain points in the closely-scribed scratched out writings.

  The conversation in the hall got noisier, the onlookers restless to know the outcome of the discussion.

  Beobrand could not tell from their faces whether the judgement would fall in his favour or not. He caught Leofwine’s eye. Leofwine offered him a small, bleak smile, and he nodded in return.

  Turning slightly, he looked to Strang, hoping to acknowledge his help, but the smith stood resolutely looking forward and refused to meet his gaze.

  The crowd quietened down as Eanfrith stepped forward and raised his hand.

  “I have consulted with the Dooms as laid out for the kingdom of Bernicia and find you guilty of mutilating the nose of a warrior of the king. For this you must pay the weregild of twelve scyllings.”

  The audience erupted. Friends of Acennan were pleased with this result. Those who disliked this new king’s warriors were disgusted. The young man had done nothing more than defend himself and reclaim what was rightfully his. This had been corroborated by Strang, who they knew as an honourable member of the community and one who would not lie about such things.

  Beobrand’s heart sank. He had no livestock or coin, and the only thing he had of real worth was Hrunting, which he could not bear the thought of losing.

  Eanfrith lifted his hand again until the hall was silent.

  “Furthermore, we find Acennan, warrior of Bernicia, guilty of using a weapon where there was strife, but no evil had been done. For this, he must pay a reparation of six scyllings.” He raised his hand to quell any interruptions. “For the use of the sword owned by Beobrand son of Grimgundi, Acennan must pay a further six scyllings, thus paying twelve scyllings in total.”

  The noise from the watching crowd reached a new height. This time, Eanfrith did not seek to quieten them. He let them chatter excitedly about the clever decision he had reached. By fining them both the same amount, their penalties negated each other. He smiled at Fugol, his scribe, clearly pleased that the complicated situation could be diffused while still upholding the law.

  Eanfrith looked around the room, as if weighing up options and then, mind apparently made up, he turned to one of his men and said, “Bring Beobrand’s sword to me.”

  Silence fell over the hall. The king was going to speak again. He held the sheathed sword in his two hands, outstretched before him.

  “Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, approach and take what is rightfully yours.”

  The guards either side of Beobrand stiffened, and the thegns around the king shifted, dropping hands to hilts of blades, readying themselves for action. This young warrior from Cantware was dangerous and they did not like the thought of him being armed with a good sword so close to their liege.

  Others watching, were moved by the bravery inherent in the gesture. Beobrand himself was moved by the king’s trust in him. He was reminded of a time only a few months ago, but it seemed a lifetime away, when he had approached another king of Northumbria in front of dozens of onlookers. His stomach squirmed, but he forced himself to move forward.

  Everyone was silent as he stepped towards the king. He reached out and took the sword from Eanfrith’s hands. He took a deep breath, sweat running down his cheek, despite the cool in the hall. He sensed the men beside him tensing as he held the hilt of the sword. He knew he had to act now.

  With a flourish, he drew the blade from the scabbard and then proffered it hilt-first towards Eanfrith. There were gasps in the hall behind him and Beobrand heard the guards springing forward, fearing he meant to attack their lord. Beobrand ignored them all, focused his gaze on Eanfrith’s wide eyes and dropped to one knee.

&nbs
p; Hands clutched at his shoulders, trying to pull him away. The room was in an uproar. To draw a blade in the presence of the king was amongst the worst of crimes, punishable by death. Beobrand continued to stare into the king’s eyes and raised his voice to say, “I offer you my sword, King Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, lord of Bernicia.” Beobrand remembered the oath he had spoken to another lord, in a different hall. He continued, recalling the words he had used. “I will to you be true and faithful. I will love what you love and shun what you shun and never displease you through deed or word.” It was close enough to the warrior’s oath. Some of the thegns nodded in appreciation.

  Beobrand paused. The room was silent once more. The throng hung on his every word. Eanfrith stared at him, quite taken aback that this young stranger would take the moment that he, the king had created, and use it to his own ends.

  “Will you accept me, lord,” asked Beobrand, his voice small now.

  The silence stretched out for what seemed a long time to Beobrand.

  “You ask much of me, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You come here accused and now seek my patronage.”

  The king paused. There was total silence in the hall now. The sound of rain dropping into a puddle on the floor could be heard over the collectively held breaths.

  “I cannot accept you as my man. That is too much honour for one such as you.” Gasps from the onlookers. Beobrand’s shoulders slumped. He had terribly misjudged his moment.

  The king continued. “But as you submit yourself to my will, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, I will accept you as one of my gesithas, if you swear your oath to Scand, the thegn whose man you wronged. What say you? Will you swear your oath to him?”

  Beobrand felt a rush of relief. He turned to the grey-haired Scand. He looked severe and distant, but there was a glint in his eye, as if he was secretly amused by what he saw before him.

  “I will swear the oath to Scand, my lord king. Willingly.”

  Scand stepped forward. “Then stand and sheathe your blade. You are now one of my men.” The crowd, released from silence, broke out into cheers. This young warrior was brave indeed.