The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  Eanfrith couldn’t stop talking now that the secret was out. He continued in a hurried rush. “Don’t you see? That is why I was not concerned at our apparent lack of protection here at Gefrin. I prefer the hall here and there is no reason to flee to Bebbanburg. We don’t need its cliffs and walls. We are not under threat here. I have taken Bernicia without losing a man in battle. The tale-tellers will talk of this for generations. I will have Leofwine begin work on a song as soon as I return from the visit to Cadwallon.”

  Scand was speechless.

  “What did you think? That I had lost my senses?”

  Scand stared at the king. He was like a young boy who had played a trick on his elders.

  Eanfrith laughed again. “No, my friend. I am no fool.”

  Scand said nothing.

  He dared say nothing. For he had a terrible feeling that his king was wrong.

  There was fog in the early morning. Thick and blinding. Shapes loomed out of the gloom like shadowed memories of bad dreams. Beobrand and the others saddled their horses, closed the door of the house they had used and left the lonely steading. They had seen nobody during the night, but one of the men had spotted what he thought was the glimmer of a fire someway off to the west, on higher ground. Whether it was the owners of the buildings, the men they pursued, or some other dweller of these lands, they could not tell.

  They rode on into the west. More slowly due to the fog. They were unsure of their quarries’ path, stopping whenever there was a fork in the track to look for sign and discuss which way to go. They felt lost in this land of shades and mist. At sundown they had thought they were almost upon their prey, now they were less sure.

  They rode on in silence, listening keenly for any sound beyond their horses’ hooves or the creak and jangle of their battle gear and harness. They heard nothing and rode on blindly, increasingly anxious and irritable.

  They were pleased when the sun rose high in the sky and dispelled the fog. They had been climbing steadily all morning, moving along valleys, but now they decided to get a better look at what lay ahead. They kicked their horses up a goat path until they rode atop the ridge of a large hill. The land opened up before them. They reined in their mounts and surveyed the land.

  They did not talk for some time, soaking in the rays of the sun. It breathed new life into them and their spirits lifted. The horses dipped their heads to crop at the long, sturdy grass that survived on this windswept peak.

  Below them was a desolate landscape of moors. Grass, heather and gorse. Small brooks trickled from higher ground. Mist still clung to dips in the land.

  Acennan broke the silence suddenly. “Over there!” he pointed. They peered into the distance, and saw three figures trudging over the moorland. They were too far off to see details, but they were convinced they had found the men they hunted. Beobrand believed it also. He thought he could make out who the three were, but he said nothing. He did not want to remind the others that he had once travelled with these men.

  He was not the only one to note that there was no horse with them.

  “Perhaps their horseman has ridden back to outflank us,” Acennan said. “Be on your guard for an ambush.”

  Beobrand thought of Octa. Had Hengist ambushed him? Hengist had surely been the rider in the group they were following, he would have allowed no other to ride before him. He shuddered at the thought of Hengist attacking them unannounced. He hoped none of the others had seen the shiver.

  “We should get off of this ridge,” he said. “They will see us against the sky and we may still have the element of surprise.”

  Taking a last moment to fix the men’s position with regard to the scant landmarks available, they spurred their horses down the hill at a canter. Their enemies were within their grasp now. They would catch them before the end of the day and mete out justice.

  Beobrand looked around at the horizon one last time for any sign of Hengist, but he saw none. He kicked his horse after the others, a feeling of disquiet wrapped around him like a wet cloak.

  “Woden’s teeth!” screamed the man, as his horse tripped and stumbled. He was thrown over its head and fell heavily. Rider and mount both rolled down the slope. The steed narrowly missed crushing the thegn, but did give him a nasty kick as it careened past. It was a glancing blow to the foot, but the man still let out another cry. Glancing blow or not, it hurt to be kicked by a horse.

  Acennan, Beobrand and the other two riders who were still in their saddles were unable to contain their mirth. They were feeling cheered by the sighting of their quarries and the sunshine. Seeing their companion tossed onto the ground and then kicked by his own horse struck them as one of the funniest things they could recall. The object of their humour was not laughing. He stood shakily and scowled at the others where they had reined in to watch. The look on his face set them off again.

  He rubbed his foot and hobbled over to where his horse stood. It was shaking and skittish. It took him a while to calm it with soothing words. In that time, it became clear to all of them that the horse was hurt. The mood changed at once. This was no laughing matter now. A lame horse would mean their pace would slow. They might not catch up with the three figures they’d seen from the top of the bluff.

  They dismounted and crowded round. They enquired after the horse’s leg, asked if the man was well. He was not easily mollified. The horse was lame, as they’d expected. It had a pronounced limp and would not bear the weight of a rider.

  “We must not waste time here,” Acennan said. “We will lead the horse and you can share one of the other mounts. We’ll take turns so as not to tire them too much.”

  They quickly agreed who the horseless rider should share with first and they set off again, more slowly now, into the west.

  They passed a small clump of bushes, surrounded by a circle of stones. Each stone was nearly the height of a man. The bushes fluttered with tatters of cloth and trinkets that had been hung from the branches. Left there by people who sought divine intervention from whichever god was revered in this place. As they drew close to the shrine, a cloud moved over the sun. At the same moment, they saw that one of the stones was decorated with a ghastly token. A human skull peered sightlessly at them, grinning teeth crooked and yellow.

  This was a bad omen. Perhaps the men they pursued had prayed here, or offered sacrifice.

  They hurried past. The sun returned from behind the clouds.

  They pressed on, but all of the men now felt anxious. Acennan touched the boar that was carved into his fine war helm. He caught Beobrand’s eye. Beobrand saw fear there. They outnumbered their prey, were men of strength and honour and carried strong battle weapons, yet the omens had sapped their resolve. They rode on, despondent now. Where they had been convinced of victory and success, now they only expected failure and defeat. The change in them was as striking as it was fast in coming.

  Beobrand could feel his own will waver. Perhaps we should turn back, whispered a small voice in his head.

  But this was not the voice of a warrior. Of one of the comitatus, of the mighty thegn, Scand, right-hand man of the king. This was the voice of a coward. He refused to listen to it.

  “Come, men,” he said in a strong voice, startling them out of their gloomy reverie. “Are we womenfolk who would cower at the shadow of a cloud over the sun? Should we fear the portent of a horse falling on a steep path? No, we are warriors of Scand and we ride to bring our lord king’s justice to outlaws. We should not be afraid of omens. It is our enemies who should be frightened, for we will bring vengeance to them! We will smite them with our lord’s wrath for what they have done.”

  The men laughed. The young man spoke well. The spell of the standing stones was broken and their mood lifted somewhat.

  Acennan watched Beobrand’s back as he rode on.

  Maybe he had been too quick to judge. The boy might do.

  CHAPTER 19

  In Gefrin, they feasted long into the night. The king was in fine spirits and this rubbed off on
his thegns. All except Scand. He sat gloomily in the corner and did not join in the merriment. The men glanced at him, and one of them, Galan, as jubilant as the king, called out to him, offering him mead and meat, but Scand was not interested. Perhaps he was ailing with something, they thought. Or maybe the king had rebuked him when he had pulled him away from the group. Whatever cloud hung over Scand, the others forgot about him as the drink flowed and the hall became raucous with boasting talk and tales.

  Leofwine seized onto the mood and sang with a fine loud voice. Then, later, as the night drew in and the only light in the hall came from the embers of the hearth fire, he told the story of a troll that crept into a hall on just such a night. He told the story well, and the up-lit faces of the men were rapt. They were slack-jawed in expectation as he described the beast dripping with grime from the mere where he lived and how he ravaged the people of the hall with terrible strength. To fight the beast, the lord of the hall called upon a great warrior from across the sea. Leofwine called this warrior, Eanfrith, which gained a huge cheer from his audience and a broad smile from the king, who banged the table with his eating knife in appreciation.

  In the way of stories, the hero defeated the fell beast and the warrior, Eanfrith, was rewarded handsomely for his bravery. Leofwine had told this story before with a differently-named hero, but in the full version the hero got old and died. Judging his audience well, he decided against completing the tale, preferring to leave the hero wealthy, famous and lauded by all.

  As the applause and cheering abated, Eanfrith, his cheeks shining in the hearth-light, pulled a gold ring from his finger and tossed it towards Leofwine. It was a poor throw and the light was dim, so Leofwine dropped it. He reached down quickly and scooped it up, holding it high for all to see. His cheeks burnt.

  “Gold for a golden voice!” slurred Eanfrith. “His skill at catching does not match that of his singing!” It was a poor jest, but the throng laughed loud and long.

  Elsewhere in Gefrin there are women preparing their dead for burial, thought Leofwine, yet here we are feasting. He did not know what else he could do, but the thought sat heavy on him. He gripped the golden ring in his fist and hoped that Beobrand’s woman was not alone with her dead father that night.

  A light rain fell during the night, drizzling over Beobrand and the others where they lay wrapped in blankets. Beobrand slept fitfully and rose before he was roused to take his turn on guard. He stood and stretched, his lower back and thighs stiff from the riding. They had ridden hard all the previous day, but they had not come upon the men they sought. Nor had they seen any other people. The land was desolate and lonely. As night fell, they had made camp and collapsed with tiredness.

  A wind was blowing out of the north and the rain clouds were scudding south, breaking up as they went. Beobrand could make out the still figure of Acennan silhouetted against the deep, silken purple of the night sky. The stocky warrior was standing, leaning his head against the shaft of his spear. Beobrand wondered if he was asleep on his feet, but Acennan proved he was alert by speaking up as Beobrand approached.

  “I could see their fire again. Before the rain. I don’t believe they know they are being followed. They make no attempt to conceal themselves.”

  “We should leave before first light. With any luck we will catch them by surprise.”

  “Yes. We should put an end to this tomorrow. We are far from our lord’s hall. It feels wrong. War is brewing and we should be with our lord.”

  The use of the term “our lord” was not missed on Beobrand. It was a good feeling to be included by Acennan in Scand’s comitatus. He was unlikely to get anything closer to an apology or open acceptance.

  “Why don’t you sleep for a while?” said Beobrand. “I will awaken you before dawn.”

  “Very well. Don’t fall asleep or I’ll have to give you a beating.” Beobrand could not see his face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

  Eanfrith’s mood was still ebullient in the morning. Despite the amount of mead and ale he had consumed, the king seemed as fresh as a child who had slept the whole night after a drink of warm milk. He ordered his steward to prepare horses and provisions for a journey for him and twelve of his most trusted thegns.

  Thralls and bondsmen ran hither and thither filling sacks with hams, cheeses and all manner of other food. Skins were filled with water. Two slave girls brushed and wrapped the king’s best clothes for him to wear when attending the King of Gwynedd.

  By the time Gwalchmei rode once more into Gefrin, Eanfrith and his thegns were ready to leave.

  As the black-garbed rider approached, Eanfrith turned to Scand. “I leave you in charge, old friend.”

  Scand could not bring himself to smile, instead he bowed his head. “I will keep Gefrin safe in your absence. I will watch over Finola and Talorcan and see that no ill befalls them.” The queen had not come out to bid her husband farewell, but young Talorcan stood by Scand’s side, watching proceedings with a keen eye. Scand placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder protectively.

  Eanfrith gave his son a brief smile and a nod. “Do as Scand says, Talorcan.”

  “Yes, father,” he replied, but he did not look at Eanfrith.

  Eanfrith turned his attention back to Scand. “You have nothing to fear here. Find yourself a nice girl. You should enjoy yourself.”

  Eanfrith’s attempt at levity fell flat. He faced the approaching Waelisc rider.

  Gwalchmei halted and said, “What decision have you taken, Eanfrith King?”

  Eanfrith smiled. “I will ride to your camp and meet your lord.” He mounted his horse, a fine grey stallion held ready by the hawk-nosed Galan. Eanfrith swung into the saddle lithely. He was not a young man, but he had always been a good rider. The men who would ride with him mounted too. They were caparisoned in their finest trappings of war. Polished helms, silver-hilted swords, freshly painted shields. They were a formidable band of warriors, hale and strong.

  Eanfrith turned to the men who were staying behind. “You are to follow Scand as if he speaks with my voice until I return. I will come back soon and I will bring good news of peace. Watch to the south, for our returning. Lead on, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar.”

  They rode out of Gefrin, leaving a pall of dust hanging in the air. The day was clear and dry and the sun was warm, but as he watched the thirteen men riding after the black rider on the black horse, Scand felt a chill run down his back.

  “Are you sure you want to burn him, child?” the elderly woman asked Sunniva. It was the old way, but most of the people of Gefrin now embraced the Christ priests’ teachings and buried their dead.

  “I am sure. It is what he would have wanted. He lived with fire and would want to be sent on with fire.”

  She was determined in this and had been awake since the first light of dawn collecting firewood. She had refused any help, piling it high into a pyre behind their house.

  Now, four men helped to carry her father out to the mound of wood. They laid him down with reverence on the branches. The tightly-wrapped cadaver shifted and for a moment they thought the pyre would collapse. But after a moment, it settled. They moved away to a safe distance.

  Sunniva walked slowly back to the forge where she had stoked the fire that morning, like so many other mornings. She scooped some of the charcoal into a pot. It was fitting that fire from Strang’s forge should start the flames that would consume his earthly remains.

  She walked back around the house to her father’s waiting form. Men and women were gathered around to witness the smith’s final passing.

  Sunniva stooped at the base of the dry wood, spilling some of the coals at different points. The kindling had been cunningly placed and flames quickly licked up the wood. She was good with fires. It was one of the things her father had taught her.

  She stood close to the flames, the early morning breeze fanning them.

  The heat grew too much for her. The onlookers were suddenly afraid that she meant to throw herself o
nto Strang’s bone fire.

  Her tears were hot on her face. Her hair was whipped about by the wind rushing in to breathe life into the fire. Her father’s body was dark, blackened and blurred by the conflagration.

  Wisps of her hair singed and shrivelled. Her eyes stung from the heat.

  At last she staggered back. The women caught her. Their hands held her. Supported her. She sobbed, but there was no sound over the roar of the fire that sent her father’s body on to the afterlife.

  The fire burnt for a long time.

  The others slowly moved away. There were more dead to see to.

  And life went on.

  All around Gefrin people saw to their business. People mourned their loved ones. Newly-widowed mothers fretted about how they would feed their children. Livestock was taken to pasture. Warriors practised the art of killing.

  But all the while the smoke from the smith’s funeral pyre painted a dark smudge on the sky.

  Sunniva, daughter of Strang, watched over it all that long day. She watched until the embers collapsed in on themselves.

  Never again would she hear her father working the metal at the forge, bending the strongest of elements to his will. Nor would she again sit with him and share food in companionable silence.

  She was alone.

  Her thoughts turned to Beobrand. She prayed over her father’s ashes, where his spirit could take the message to the gods. She prayed that her lover would find her father’s murderers. She asked that the gods would guide him. That he would find them, and kill them.

  And then, the blood price exacted from her father’s slayers, she prayed Beobrand would come back to her.

  Beobrand shook them all awake when the birds were announcing the imminence of the dawn. They ate sparingly of their provisions, drank a few gulps of water and did not light a fire. The lame horse was no better, but no worse.