The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand slid his sword into its scabbard. Scand stepped close. “Do not make me regret this day, young Beobrand,” he said quietly, so that no-one else could hear. Then he turned and left the hall behind Eanfrith.

  Against all the odds, Beobrand had a lord again.

  CHAPTER 16

  The next weeks were a time Beobrand always remembered fondly. Scand was a good lord. There was food in the great hall, and mead. He was accepted by the other warriors in Scand’s retinue and by those in the king’s warband. He had been worried that after the beating he’d given Acennan he would have enemies within the group, but apart from the usual ribald humour of any group of men, no real enmity was apparent. Acennan recovered and acknowledged Beobrand with a nod when their paths crossed, but both of them were reticent to talk after the fight. The rest of the warriors displayed a reluctant admiration for him.

  The people of Gefrin were anything but reluctant to show their appreciation of how he had stood up to one of the warriors in the king’s service and then managed to get accepted into the coveted position of warrior companion of a thegn in the king’s inner circle. Everyone in Gefrin knew his name and talked to him whenever he walked through the town. Although he was from Cantware, his connection to Edwin through Bassus and his brother Octa made many of the townsfolk consider him somehow one of their own. Beobrand was embarrassed by the attention, but flattered too. On a few occasions people would talk about the king derisively in front of Beobrand, questioning why Eanfrith did not send out more patrols or prepare the town for attack. When this happened, Beobrand was quick to remind them to whom he had sworn allegiance, but he also made sure to mention the concerns to Scand later. The old man valued the newcomer’s honesty and his ability to hear from the people of Bernicia what was really happening.

  He spent much of each day engaged with the other warriors in arms practice. He was perhaps not the best swordsman of them all, but he was certainly better than most, despite many of them having a decade or even two decades more experience. His skill raised a few eyebrows and comments. He was naturally gifted with the sword and they all remembered what he had done to Acennan with his bare hands. Beobrand enjoyed the chance to test himself against new opponents and to hone the skills he had picked up from Uncle Selwyn and later Hengist. It was also good to feel his muscles strengthen and the aches from his various wounds subside. A roof over his head, wholesome food and regular training healed him better than any poultice or potion could have. The colour returned to his cheeks and Leofwine noted that the haunted look in his eyes was increasingly less frequent.

  During this time he often sat in the shade of the afternoon talking to Leofwine. The storyteller was a wonderful listener and Beobrand found it easy to open up to him. As the conversations moved onto painful subjects, such as the death of his brother, Beobrand would sometimes come to an abrupt halt, like a man walking in a marsh who realises he’s strayed from the path. At these times, it was as if a spell had been broken and the thread of the conversation could not be picked up again. In their conversations Beobrand touched on many difficult subjects, but never spoke of the events of the forest in the winter. He didn’t even mention Cathryn’s existence. He was scared to say her name. Wyrd had brought him out of the darkness and cold and he was frightened that it could plunge him back in without warning. Above all, he was ashamed when he thought of her. Of how he’d let her die. To think that Hengist was present at both her death and Octa’s kindled a fire deep within him that he stoked with his shame.

  For Beobrand, chief among the good things of his life in Gefrin was Sunniva. He had long since abandoned any attempt at secrecy when visiting her. They could be seen together in the town or the environs whenever she could get away from her work at the forge. Strang had put up some resistance at first. He still did not approve of the young Cantware warrior, but he knew that to fight against the obvious attraction his daughter felt for him would get him nowhere. She was as stubborn as her mother. So, he had begrudgingly accepted that Beobrand could court her. However, Strang made sure she was as busy as possible so that she had less time to spend with him.

  But even when he made her work longer than he had ever done before, she still had the energy to meet Beobrand afterwards. The days were long, with dusk coming late, so the couple would stroll arm in arm, the light of the setting sun turning Sunniva’s hair to liquid fire. They were happy and revelled in each other’s company.

  “You’re sure it was him?” Hengist leant forward, eager and expectant. A wolf scenting a spring lamb.

  Dreng settled himself by the small fire. “Aye. There is no doubt. He is swiving the daughter of the smith.” He moistened his lips with his tongue. “She’s a tasty morsel. You’d like her.”

  Hafgan and Artair didn’t look up from where they sat. They both whittled sticks with avid attention.

  Tondberct tensed. He straightened his back and focused on the flames of the campfire. He feigned disinterest, but was clearly listening intently.

  Hengist grinned, instantly regretting it as the wound on his face split once again. He lifted a cloth to his cheek and dabbed at the seeping liquid that oozed from the cut. The cloth was already stained and damp from constant use. He could hardly believe Octa’s brother had done this to him. Training Beobrand had amused him at first. He had seen the killer in the young man. Having Beobrand join their band and look up to him as his leader was the ultimate revenge on that bastard Octa. There was a dark side to Beobrand that Hengist recognised. He had hoped to coax it out into the open.

  The weapons practice had provided them with entertainment over those interminable winter days. He’d never expected the young Cantware man to be able to best him.

  By Tiw, it was not fair!

  Time and again Hengist had run over the fight in his mind. He was certain it was mere chance that had caused Beobrand’s victory.

  He should have won. He had been toying with him. A cat tormenting a mouse. And then that muddy slip and the savage cut. His face was ruined. Nobody would look at him with anything but fear now. Or loathing. No woman would have him willingly ever again. When last it rained he had looked into a puddle and seen the face of a monster staring back at him.

  Hengist spat into the fire. The bitter taste of rage stung his throat. His wyrd was to topple kings. He was destined for greatness. He would fulfil his mother’s prophecy. But first he would destroy Beobrand. He hawked up phlegm and spat again, grimacing at the sting of his stretched scar.

  A curse on both sons of Grimgundi. They had caused him such anguish. Taken so much from him.

  But soon now, Hrunting would return to him and he would bathe it in Beobrand’s blood before the end.

  “He did not see you?” he asked.

  “No,” replied Dreng. “Gefrin is crowded with warriors and artisans. They prepare for war. I was careful. When I saw him with the girl, I followed them for a time, then returned here. Beobrand didn’t see me.”

  “Good. You have done well.” Hengist absently pressed the filthy rag to his face. “The smith’s daughter you say? Perhaps we should pay her a visit.”

  Hengist stared into the fire, dreams of death and vengeance burning in his eyes. He did not see Dreng shudder at the look on his leader’s shattered face.

  Scand scratched at his beard. The sweat made it itch and he wondered absently whether a tick had got in there and burrowed into his chin. Perhaps he’d shave. That was the best way to get rid of the lice and in this warm weather it would be a blessing to be clean-faced.

  The sun was low in the sky. A group of warriors had just finished a gruelling series of practice bouts and were slumped on the ground, resting in the shade of the great hall. All except Beobrand. Scand watched as the young Cantware man rose from the group, splashed some water from the trough on his face and made his way downhill towards the lodgings of the township of Gefrin. Towards the forge. Some of the men shouted jokes after him about who he was going to meet, but he merely waved over his shoulder and continued on his way
. Too tired to get angry, or perhaps he was just settling in to the warband and the ways of the men.

  He liked Beobrand, and admired his audacity in handling the audience with Eanfrith. And it had done Acennan no harm to have someone stand up to him. Beobrand seemed honest enough and eager to fit in. Scand considered himself a good judge of men, and Beobrand struck him as a man of honour. There was a dark side to him, but who could say they had no secrets? Scand had a feeling that God was smiling on them when he sent Beobrand to Gefrin.

  He cast his eyes beyond the town and surveyed the horizon. He didn’t expect to see anything out of the ordinary. There were scouts posted around Gefrin and he had men watching Cadwallon’s troops, so a surprise attack was unlikely. Nevertheless, the old warrior found himself scouring the land to the south with increasing frequency.

  Battle was coming. As sure as smoke rose from fire. He could almost smell it. When it would come, and in what form, he did not know. But come it would.

  Rumours were rife. Information flowed into Gefrin with the new warriors who gathered under Eanfrith’s banner. Cadwallon continued to build up his numbers in the south, but he still showed no inclination to attack Eanfrith. The land was dangerous with wandering groups of warriors. Landless and lordless after the rout at the battle of Elmet, many now chose to come to Gefrin, where they were welcomed by Scand. They needed all the fighters they could get, so he asked few questions. But he kept the new arrivals away from the king and the great hall. Instead they were camped within the animal enclosure on the edge of the town. It was all too possible that one of these new warriors could be sent by an enemy of Bernicia to kill the king. He might not be able to talk sense into Eanfrith and have him pull back to the fortress of Bebbanburg, but he could make sure that the king would not fall to a stealthy dagger in the night.

  The swelling numbers of men boded well for Bernicia, but they could not stay in Gefrin for much longer. They were low on provisions and would need to move in order to be able to collect food from farms and other royal villas. Perhaps that would be a way to convince Eanfrith to move to Bebbanburg, thought Scand. He’d talk to Fugol about the numbers so that he could tackle the king armed with knowledge. If they didn’t attack as a large force soon, the host would need to be broken up. They would simply not be able to feed them.

  Eanfrith planned to summon all the ealdormen of Bernicia to Gefrin to swear the oath of allegiance to him. Those lands with no ealdormen would be granted to his most trusted thegns. The warriors who had come seeking a lord would be spread amongst the ealdormen of the kingdom.

  The plans were good, as far as they went, but Scand knew they were premature. The time to talk of dividing up the land had not yet come. First would come the time of killing and death. Land could not be settled until it had been paid for with the blood of men.

  And Scand was sure the day the land would exact its tribute was fast approaching.

  “What are you gawping at, young man?” asked Sunniva. She was bending down to spread her oldest cloak onto the warm grass. When she turned to look at Beobrand, he’d been watching her with his mouth wide open. “If you don’t close your mouth, you’ll catch a fly!”

  Embarrassed, he shut his mouth quickly. He was often embarrassed when he was with Sunniva. She was so effortlessly beautiful and quick-witted that she made him feel stupid and clumsy. He knew she didn’t mean to, and she showed no sign of thinking badly of him, but he couldn’t help but feel he was not worthy of her.

  She sat and patted the cloak next to her. “Well, what were you staring at?” she asked, smiling archly.

  Beobrand sat. “I was just looking at you,” he mumbled.

  “Oh. And did you like what you could see?” She was enjoying herself now.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “As good as the shepherdess I saw you looking at on the way here?”

  Beobrand didn’t know what she was talking about. It was true that they’d passed a flock of sheep on their way to this meadow, but he hadn’t noticed the shepherdess. Then he saw the gleam in Sunniva’s eye and realised she was teasing him.

  “Well, you’re not bad, but that shepherdess was like a goddess.” He tried and failed to keep a straight face and they both burst out laughing.

  Sunniva felt wonderful. This young man was all she’d ever hoped for in a husband. He was strong and brave, but there was a tenderness and thoughtfulness there too.

  She leant forward, placing her hand on his thigh and kissed him lightly on the lips. He shivered and returned her kiss gently. She knew the power she had over him, and she loved that he never attempted to force himself on her. He always responded to her, but she could tell he was holding himself in check, not allowing his passion to run wild. This only excited her more.

  Over the last few weeks they had seen a lot of each other and their encounters had become increasingly physical and passionate. Sunniva had decided that this would be the day that she would give herself to him.

  Strang had told her three days before that he would be travelling to collect charcoal and had asked her to accompany him. She had waited until the night before and then feigned the arrival of her monthly bleeding. She knew her father would not remember when her last blood had come and when she said she had stomach cramps and wished to stay in the house, he did not argue. Her mother would have quickly seen through the ruse.

  After her father had left Gefrin, she had gone down to a secluded spot by the river and bathed. Then she had changed into her favourite dress. It was blue, with white embroidered edges. She and her mother had sewn it together.

  She had packed a basket with food, some cheese, a piece of ham, bread, folded her old cloak on top of the provisions, and gone in search of Beobrand.

  She had found him training with some other warriors. He was stripped to the waist, his muscular torso glistening with a sheen of sweat. He was wielding his fine sword effortlessly, thrusting, parrying, lunging. The blade flickered in the bright sun, flashing silver like a fish darting in the shallows of the river. She had watched as Beobrand drove his opponent backwards, his footwork lithe and precise. He was in total control, despite his adversary being several years his senior. In the end, the warrior tripped and fell onto his back on the dusty ground. Beobrand stepped over him, holding the point of his sword at the man’s throat.

  All the onlookers were silent. There was a cold fire burning in Beobrand’s blue eyes. The man on the ground lay motionless, staring fixedly into those eyes. For a moment he looked in fear for his life, but then Beobrand looked up, saw Sunniva, and smiled in welcome. He switched his sword to his left hand and held out his right to help his opponent up.

  Relieved, the man grasped the offered hand and Beobrand pulled him to his feet. “Be glad your girl arrived when she did. Another moment and I would have humiliated you!” the older man said loudly with a grin. The watching warriors laughed. Beobrand clapped him on the back and made his way over to Sunniva. The tension had gone, but the men were all wise enough not to jest further about Sunniva. Many of them looked sidelong at the couple. The girl was a beauty, and not a few of the men were jealous of Beobrand’s luck.

  Beobrand had pulled his kirtle on and Sunniva had asked if he cared to join her for some food. He was never going to refuse so she’d led him away to the north of Gefrin. They’d walked for some time until they had reached the meadow. It was one of her favourite places, and she loved to come here and doze on warm days. It was close enough to Gefrin to be reached on foot, but far enough away to grant them some privacy.

  The small swathe of meadow was roughly square in shape. It was on a slope and overlooked by a stand of rowan and pine trees on three sides, which meant it was secluded.

  Sunniva’s hand was warm on Beobrand’s leg. He felt himself growing aroused and he returned her kiss with mounting passion, his tongue probing her mouth. Breathless, he pulled away. He had caught himself thinking of Cathryn. He remembered his arousal in that dark forest clearing. He shuddered. Self-loathing cooling his desire.


  “What is it, Beobrand?” Sunniva asked, unsure what she had done wrong.

  “Nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you want me?”

  He watched entranced as she unfastened the brooches that attached her peplos, her over-dress, to her under-dress. She removed her belt and then shrugged out of the blue and white peplos, leaving just her cream-coloured linen under garment. It clung to her form, accentuating the swell of her breasts. She reached up and unlaced the string that held the neck of the garment closed.

  Beobrand swallowed. “Of course I want you. It’s just that…”

  “What?” Her voice took on an edge of pique. Was he going to reject her now, after all her plans?

  “I don’t want to hurt you. You are so perfect.”

  “You won’t hurt me,” she smiled, mollified.

  “I…I am not a good person,” he stammered.

  “You’re good enough for me,” she laughed and kissed him again. “Let’s not talk any more. There are much better ways for us to spend the afternoon.” She took hold of his hand and pulled it to her chest, sliding aside the cloth so that his fingers touched her warm, bare flesh. His palm brushed her nipple and she let out a small gasp of pleasure.

  She grasped his kirtle with both hands and tugged it over his head. For a moment she gazed in admiration at his muscular torso, taking in the scars she had seen before, tracing them with her fingertips. He shivered again, but it was warm in the meadow. She moved in close and kissed his chest, his neck, his mouth.

  He stroked her breast again, feeling her nipple harden. He kissed her deeply.

  After some time, they paused, both breathing heavily, as if they’d been running. Beobrand’s manhood throbbed. He was desperate for her to touch him there. He fumbled with his clothes. She helped and they managed to pull his britches down. She reached out and gripped him in her slender hand. Her fingers were callused from working in the forge, but her touch was tender. Now it was his turn to gasp.