The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  They mounted up and moved off into the pre-dawn gloom. They had loosened their blades in their scabbards, donned helmets and sharpened spears. They all hoped that today would bring an end to the hunt. They rode quietly towards where Acennan had spotted the fire in the darkness.

  The sun rose on a clear day. All of the clouds had blown away during the night. The riders’ shadows streamed in front of them, pointing the way westward. Further into the unknown.

  As the light picked out the details of the terrain, their quarries’ camp could be seen clearly. It was closer than they had expected, on the lower slope of a large, tree-topped hill. Acennan, who rode at the front of the group, pointed and signalled for the men to prepare themselves. They drew their weapons and spread out. They rode up the hill in silence and were barely a spear’s throw away when one of the camp’s inhabitants saw them and raised the alarm.

  The figures jumped up and readied themselves for combat quickly.

  Acennan said, “Give them no time to prepare. Forward!”

  The riders heel-kicked their steeds forward, quickly closing the gap.

  The three figures in the camp drew together, forming a tiny shieldwall. Beobrand recognised each of them. Hafgan, the tall, lithe Waelisc was on the right, Dreng, the old, bloodthirsty warrior stood on the left and Tondberct, the young Bernician warrior whom Beobrand had considered a friend, stood in the middle. The three locked shields and stood against the horsemen who lumbered up the hill.

  There was no sign of Hengist or a horse in the camp.

  The incline took the speed out of the charge and before they could join in battle, Hafgan let fly with one of his javelins. Beobrand watched its flight. It wobbled as it left Hafgan’s hand, but the throw was true. It arced into the bright sky, a dark sliver of death streaking on duck-shell blue, before falling quickly to lance into the neck of the horse carrying two riders. The horse whinnied and shied off to one side. The javelin had not penetrated deeply and was shaken free. The men managed to slow the horse and dismount, but they would have to climb the rest of the way on foot. The horse galloped away down and eastward, toward the lame horse that had been left at the bottom of the slope.

  Beobrand kicked his horse on, urging it to go faster. Acennan and another rider rode on either side of him.

  When they got close to the puny shieldwall, the others pulled their mounts to a halt and quickly dismounted. It was not the way of the Angelfolc to fight from horseback. Shield to shield was the warrior way.

  But Beobrand drove his horse on, raking its flanks savagely with his heels. He felt the cold, clarity of battle descend on him. If they faced them with their own shieldwall, the outcome would be uncertain. They were attacking uphill, they did not drastically outnumber their foe and they had sustained the first injury to their ranks with Hafgan’s javelin. Their only advantage was the bulk of the horses they rode. There was no time to think clearly about what he was doing. He’d made the decision almost before the idea had formed in his mind.

  Acennan slid from his horse and pulled his shield onto his arm, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder with his companions. He saw Beobrand riding on and saw he had no intention of stopping. He shook his head in disbelief.

  “Onwards!” he shouted, and ran up the slope as fast as he could.

  At the last moment Beobrand saw recognition in the faces of the three men who stood defiantly before him. Recognition and the realisation that he did not plan to stop. Fear too. This was the man who had faced Hengist and survived. They had seen Beobrand kill savagely with the ease of a ceorl scything hay.

  Hafgan was the fastest to react. At the instant before impact he lifted another javelin from the ground and plunged it into the unprotected chest of Beobrand’s mount. The animal screamed. Dark blood splashed. The javelin snapped and whipped across Tondberct’s face, stunning him. The horse’s momentum carried it on, even as its lifeblood pumped from the wound in its chest. It crashed into Tondberct and Dreng’s shields, sending them both reeling backwards.

  Prepared for the collision, Beobrand leapt from the saddle, launching himself at Dreng and clear of the flailing horse. He mistimed the jump and landed hard, sprawling to the dew-wet ground. The fall winded him, but he pushed himself up. He was exposed and vulnerable while prone. He drew Hrunting.

  Dreng was also climbing to his feet. Tondberct did not move. Hafgan pulled his long knife and turned, squinting into the rising sun, to face the men running up the hill towards them.

  The horse thrashed on the ground, unable to rise now. Its whinnying cries were pitiful to hear.

  Acennan and the other three warriors soon reached the camp. They stood, shield to shield, metal-garbed and menacing. They were some way behind Beobrand, but he did not want to lose the moment of advantage he had gained.

  He took a step towards Dreng and spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Put down your weapons or be killed!”

  Tondberct groaned. Hafgan and Dreng looked uncertain. Behind them, the horse’s harsh breaths were growing weaker. Its hooves now silent.

  “Now!” thundered Beobrand. He took a step to close the gap with Dreng.

  The old warrior licked his lips, his eyes darting this way and that, searching for an escape. In the faces of the five warriors before him, he saw none. Certain death awaited him if he chose to fight. He dropped his langseax.

  A moment later, Hafgan dropped his knife.

  Acennan let out a long breath.

  “Lie down on the earth. Face down,” said Beobrand. His voice as cold and sharp as the blade in his hand.

  Dreng, resigned to his defeat now, complied.

  Hafgan still stood. He stared at Beobrand defiantly. “Why should I lie before you? You are no better than I.” His accent was strong, but the words were clear and easy to understand.

  Beobrand walked slowly towards the Waelisc, stopping in front of him, close enough to smell his breath. “You will lie as I have commanded it. We are gesithas of Scand, thegn of Eanfrith, King of Bernicia. This is his land. By your hand innocent men have died.” All of his impotent rage at Cathryn’s death rose up within him. “Women too,” he said more quietly, so only Hafgan could hear. Their eyes met. Beobrand let his anger consume him. Without warning, he hammered his forehead into Hafgan’s face. The blow carried months of pent up aggression and shame and Hafgan’s head was flung back with the force of it. His nose broke and blood spurted. He fell to the ground in a daze.

  “I said, lie down,” said Beobrand. He spat on Hafgan’s unmoving form and turned away. “Tie their hands.”

  Acennan raised an eyebrow at Beobrand assuming the mantle of command so effortlessly, but now was not the time to confront him. He stared at the tall, pony-tailed man on the ground. Acennan’s hand involuntarily touched his own scarred nose, crooked since the fight with Beobrand.

  He said, “I’ll say this for you, Beobrand. You know how to get your way.” He smiled wryly.

  “Come on,” he said to the others, “tie their hands. Then we can decide what to do with them.”

  “We cannot take them back with us. We will be slow enough as it is.” Acennan looked at Beobrand as he spoke. He was not happy with losing another horse, but he had to admit that the young Cantware warrior’s action had saved them a fight. Shieldwall to shieldwall, there was no telling how that fight would have gone. The three men they’d captured certainly looked able to acquit themselves in combat. It had been a foolhardy thing to do, but the gods smiled on the brave.

  One of the men said, “We need talk no more on this. We saw what they did to the smith and the charcoal men. The old one wears Strang’s cloak brooch. They are all doomed by their actions.”

  Their three captives lay on the ground some way from the fire that they themselves had built. Acennan and the others had added fuel to the embers and were now preparing a warming meal of roast horse meat. Acennan had made Beobrand butcher it. It seemed fitting, as he had caused its death. It had been a fine mount. Scand would not be pleased at its loss. But the cooking me
at smelt so good that Acennan's anger had already dissipated.

  The lame mare and the javelin-injured horse had been brought up the hill, a little way from the campsite. There they had been tethered, along with the two other horses, to stakes in the ground. They were nervous from the fight. The smell and sight of the fallen horse made them skittish. But the men had been pleased to see that the javelin wound was superficial; the bleeding had already stopped.

  Beobrand was silent for a long while after the confrontation with his erstwhile companions. His hands started to shake and he felt dazed. He concentrated on butchering his horse, hiding his trembling hands from the others. He left them to discuss the fate of their captives. Once his hands were still again, he spoke up.

  “These men are guilty of all you saw in the charcoal men’s clearing. But there are other acts for which they should be given justice.” He paused, aware that all the men were listening to him. “I have been a witness to man-slayings of the worst kind. And the forcing of women.”

  A man laughed, ready to make a ribald comment, but one look from Beobrand saw the words dry up in his mouth.

  “It is no matter of jest to see a young woman violated and then murdered.” He stared at each man in turn, daring them to make light of his words. None accepted the challenge. “I know you have seen battle. In that there is honour. But these men, and the man who rode with them, enjoy killing and torturing those who cannot defend themselves.”

  “You rode with them,” a man said. “Aren’t you as guilty as them?”

  Beobrand lowered his eyes. “I was weak. But I did try to stop them. I fought their leader.”

  “We have heard the tale told by Leofwine in King Eanfrith’s hall,” Acennan said. “Let no man here doubt Beobrand’s honour. Any that does, will have to answer to me. I say Beobrand should decide what we do with them, as he knows their crimes better than us. What say you, Beobrand?”

  Beobrand stared at the three tied men. Helpless now, just as Cathryn had been. Dreng lay with his eyes closed, reconciled to his fate. Hafgan glared at him, his face caked with dried blood. His swollen, puffy eyes defiant and full of hate. Lastly, he looked at Tondberct. Easy-going and quick to jest. He had thought him a friend. Yet Tondberct had done nothing to stop Hengist and the others from their savagery. He had stood by and would have watched as Hengist killed Coenred. He had turned against Beobrand completely in Engelmynster.

  “Did Hengist ride with you?” he asked.

  Tondberct was suddenly hopeful. If he told Beobrand what he wanted to hear perhaps he’d let him go. “He did. He left us two days ago.”

  “Why did he leave you?”

  Tondberct’s eyes flicked to Dreng. “We quarrelled. He wanted to go south, we wanted to travel west. He rode away. You know what his moods are like. He’s been worse since…since you fought him.”

  “Where did he plan to go?”

  “I don’t know. He said he might join Cadwallon or Penda. He made no sense. He babbled a lot about your sword. Said it should have been his.”

  “Why don’t you shut your mouth, you snivelling runt?” spat Dreng. “I am tired of listening to you prattle like a woman.”

  Beobrand ignored Dreng. He stared into Tondberct’s eyes. They were pleading with him. He remembered that cold night in the forest when he had stared into other pleading eyes. Anger filled him.

  Sensing that his doom was about to be pronounced, Tondberct said in a whining voice, “Come on, Beo. We had some good times, didn’t we? You could release us. We’d never come back to Bernicia. You’d never see us again. We’d disappear. I swear it!”

  “Your oath is like chaff on the wind. Your words are hollow.” Beobrand’s voice was as hard and chill as the ground underneath Cathryn’s mutilated corpse.

  “But I never killed anyone,” Tondberct continued, starting to snivel. “That was the others.” He sounded pathetic, like a child blaming an older sibling for some small misdemeanour.

  It was probably true though. Tondberct was never comfortable with the violence in the way that Hengist, Dreng and the others were. Beobrand had also stood by and witnessed terrible acts. His shame threatened to engulf him as it came flooding back.

  “You chose your path a long time ago, Tondberct. You could have left. You could have fought.”

  “But they would have killed me!” Tondberct was weeping now. Dreng and Hafgan turned away from him, ashamed. Dreng spat and then licked his lips.

  “They might have. But it would have been an honourable death. A man’s death. A warrior’s death.”

  Beobrand didn’t want to hear Tondberct’s crying anymore. It grated on his soul. He wanted rid of all these men who had been present in that forest clearing. Who had witnessed his shame.

  “Hang them all,” he said and turned away.

  Tondberct’s cries rose to a new pitch.

  Eanfrith had a warm feeling inside. The ride south to Cadwallon’s camp only took a couple of days and the weather was kind. His men were understandably tense, feeling they were riding into the jaws of the wolf, but Eanfrith assured them they would come to no harm. He did not wish to tell them about his secret pact with Cadwallon. Most warriors were simple when it came to the ways of kings and diplomacy. They were governed by a simple code of oaths and honour and would not comprehend that a king could not always be so simplistic in his dealings. He had done what was needed to get back the kingdom that had been his father’s and he was proud of that.

  As they rode south, Eanfrith enjoyed surveying the land that was now his. It was vast and beautiful. Rugged and fertile. When they passed farms or settlements he made sure that the people knew who he was and that he was riding south to secure peace for the whole of Bernicia. The people were scared. They had suffered much in the winter and expected the worst when they saw riders approaching with a warlike aspect. On more than one occasion they found houses empty, their inhabitants having fled at the sight of the armed men. Those people they did see stared blankly back at the king. He had armed men with him and therefore he should be respected, but one king was to them the same as any other. If he could bring peace to the land, then the gods be praised. But the rumours from the south were that the Waelisc were amassing a warhost to ride north into Bernicia. This man with a handful of warriors was unlikely to stop war from coming.

  The further south they rode, the more nervous the locals and other travellers were. When they were less than a day’s ride from the Waelisc camp, they began to come across buildings that had been razed to the ground. Eanfrith was displeased. “These are my people,” he said to Gwalchmei, “why have their homes been destroyed?”

  The Waelisc replied, “You must not forget, Eanfrith King, that we have been at war with Edwin for a long time before now. We did what we had to do. I’m sure you understand.”

  The explanation made sense to Eanfrith. He understood that nothing was simple.

  “I understand,” he said, airily. But as they passed an increasing number of burnt out buildings, his men became more uneasy.

  When they arrived at the camp they were shocked at its size. There were tents and makeshift shelters covering a huge area to the south of the massive Wall that crossed the land from east to west. The Wall made up the northern perimeter of the camp. They could see men standing on the Wall as they approached. Behind them, the camp was shrouded in a thin fog of smoke from dozens of campfires.

  As they rode up to the broken gateway through the Wall, a group of riders made its way out to them and hailed Gwalchmei in their musical tongue. They spoke briefly.

  Eanfrith understood their tongue well, having lived for many years amongst his wife’s people in Dál Riata, but the men spoke in hushed tones and he was only able to make out his own name and that of the king he was to visit.

  Gwalchmei then said, “King Cadwallon will see you directly. He is expecting you and is anxious to meet you.”

  They followed Gwalchmei and the new riders through the camp. Picking their way between the different shelters and fir
es, the Bernicians could feel all the eyes of the Waelisc warhost on them. The enmity was palpable. One man spat at Eanfrith. Others laughed and made insulting gestures. Eanfrith shrugged all of this off as the crude ignorance of the lowly Waelisc warriors. They were little more than savages. You could expect no better from them. He ignored them and rode on after Gwalchmei.

  Their destination soon became clear. A wooden hall situated on a small rise in the middle of the encampment. It was a large hall and must have belonged to the local ealdorman or thegn.

  At the riders’ approach, a murder of crows rose in a raucous flutter from where they had been feeding. Flapping away, they left their meal exposed. They had been feasting on three bodies that dangled from roughly made gibbets. The corpses’ faces were black and bloated. Their eyeless sockets stared blindly at Eanfrith and the others as they passed.

  Eanfrith shuddered. “Who were those men? Why were they hanged?” he asked Gwalchmei.

  Gwalchmei shrugged. “Every large group of warriors like this will always have some who choose not to obey the laws of their lord. They must be punished as an example to the rest.”

  They reined in their mounts at the entrance to the hall. Servants saw to the horses and helped them carry their baggage.

  Gwalchmei led the way to the doors of the hall, where he turned and addressed Eanfrith and his retainers. “King Cadwallon does not allow armed men to approach him.” There was consternation amongst Eanfrith’s men, but Gwalchmei continued quickly. “However, as a gesture of the peace and friendship that we hope will live between our kingdoms, you may keep your weapons. There is nothing for you to fear here, and we should fear nothing from you.”

  The warriors, somewhat mollified, but still uneasy at being surrounded by Waelisc, followed their lord into the dark interior of the hall.

  Inside, it was much like any other hall. Benches ran down either side and boards had been laid out with food and drink. A welcoming fire blazed on the hearthstone. At the head of the hall was an ornately carved wooden seat, upon which sat a slim man. He was dressed in fine robes and had a golden torc about his neck. Many rings adorned his fingers and arms. Gwalchmei strode to him and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and stood, spreading his arms expansively.