The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  “Welcome, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, son of Aethelric, lord of Bernicia. I am in your debt and have long wished to meet you. Come drink from my cup.”

  He poured mead into a shallow bowl and proffered it to Eanfrith. Eanfrith stepped forward, aware of the gravity of the moment and accepted the bowl and drank deeply.

  “Thank you, Cadwallon ap Cadfan, king of Gwynedd and ruler of the land of Deira. It brings me joy to meet you at last.” He handed the bowl back to Cadwallon who drained the last of the mead.

  The two men smiled at each other and turned to the warriors gathered in the hall.

  “Let us feast!” said Cadwallon and offered Eanfrith a large chair at his right hand side. It was not as grand as the one Cadwallon sat upon, thought Eanfrith, but no matter. The Waelisc king was clearly friendly and Eanfrith was overjoyed at the reception. He had not dared admit it even to himself, but he had been secretly worried about this encounter. He felt the tension wash away as the drink warmed him. He put his worries aside and allowed himself to relax.

  The Waelisc king lavished food and drink upon his guests. They were served heron, plover, pork, hare and venison. Never had any there eaten more or better fare. The bowls and drinking horns were kept full to the brim with ale and mead and after some time Eanfrith and his men were laughing uproariously. All concerns had left them and they slapped each other on the back and told tales of bravery to their host and his retinue. Many of the Waelisc did not understand much of what was said to them, but they smiled in response to the loud Seaxon men.

  When Cadwallon stood and raised both of his hands for silence it took some time for the men at the benches to quieten down. Eventually a hush fell on the room and Eanfrith and all of his men looked to the Waelisc king. He brushed his long hair back from his face and smiled at Eanfrith.

  “I hope you have enjoyed the feast. It seemed the least I could do.” Eanfrith and his gesithas hammered the boards with their knives and drinking horns. Some cheered to Cadwallon’s health. When they settled down, he continued, “I thank you again for your aid against Edwin, my enemy and yours. I think I could like you, Eanfrith,” he paused, “if you were not one of the accursed Seaxon who blight our land.” Eanfrith’s smiled wavered. Had he heard correctly?

  “I told Gwalchmei you would not be so foolish as to come to my camp with only a handful of men. But he had heard tell of your pride and I have to say, I am pleased that you have come. It will make taking Bernicia that much easier with you dead.”

  A chill washed over Eanfrith, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. Those of his men whose drink-addled heads could understand what Cadwallon had said were leaping to their feet. Drawing swords and seaxes. Preparing to fight.

  Eanfrith remained seated. He looked upon the hall with a strange detachment. Many armed Waelisc had entered the hall while their king spoke and now Eanfrith saw the first of his men cut down as he was rousing himself from the bench where he sat. Blood misted in the smoky air. Benches were overturned. Iron rang against iron. The hall was a tumult of raised voices, screams and the clatter of weapon play.

  He saw Galan, wide-eyed and incredulous, turn to him, as if he expected his king to somehow stop this nightmare. Galan opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, a blade was dragged across his throat. He blinked in surprise, still staring at Eanfrith in dismay, even as his blood spouted onto the board before him. And so this is how their bloodless conquest of Bernicia would end. All their scheming had been for nought.

  Eanfrith watched as one by one his men were slain. All the while he sat quite still. He was numb. He could not understand how this had happened. How could he have failed his people so absolutely?

  Desolation and regrets swept through him. He would never see Talorcan become a man. He had not been a good father to the boy. Or a good husband to his wife. He was surprised that in this moment, so close to his end, he should think of Finola. He had loved her in his own way, but never as she deserved.

  With the killing of Eanfrith’s last man, a hush fell upon the hall.

  He turned to look at Cadwallon. “How…?” he couldn’t speak. “Why…?”

  “Because, Eanfrith King,” Cadwallon replied, his voice dripping scorn, “you are a fool.”

  Eanfrith felt a looming presence behind him. He turned, saw the raven-haired man, Gwalchmei, stepping towards him, sword glittering in the firelight.

  And Eanfrith knew that Cadwallon was right.

  PART THREE

  THE QUENCHING

  CHAPTER 20

  They hanged them from an old yew tree.

  Hafgan put up a fight at the end. They needed to beat him to get the noose around his neck. They hoisted him off the ground still kicking and screaming abuse at them in his own tongue. His shouts became gurgling, strangled gasps. He struggled for a long time. Eventually, only his feet still moved. The last twitching as his spirit journeyed beyond middle earth.

  They lowered Hafgan’s corpse to the ground and removed the noose. They only had one rope.

  Dreng accepted the rope with a quiet dignity that the men respected.

  He licked his lips and calmly asked, “Will one of you pull on my legs? It will make my passing easier.”

  Acennan glanced at Beobrand, then nodded and stepped forward. “I will help you on your way, old man,” he said.

  The others pulled Dreng off of his feet and secured the rope. Acennan gripped his kicking legs around the ankles and pulled down hard. The kicking stopped abruptly.

  The sight of his two companions being hanged drove Tondberct mad with fear.

  “I didn’t kill anyone! Don’t kill me, by all the gods, I am not a murderer!” he screamed.

  He cried and blubbered. Spittle ran from his chin, like the droolings of a toothless old man.

  Quickly, they placed the noose they had removed from Dreng around his throat. It was now fraying slightly and carried signs of its previous victims: hair, skin and dark blood stains where it had rubbed their necks raw. On seeing this Tondberct’s body was racked by sobbing. His ravings unnerved them. They regretted not hanging him first.

  One of them threw the end of the rope over a branch. Not wishing to listen to him anymore, they pulled on the rope with savage force. Tondberct was lifted off the ground at such speed that his neck broke with an audible crack.

  They all let out a breath then, enjoying the sudden silence.

  The wind rustled the leaves of the yew. Tondberct’s body swung, the rope creaking like the sound of oars in the tholes of a longship.

  When they were sure he was dead, they lowered his corpse down and laid it next to the others.

  Beobrand watched each man’s end with a heavy heart. The solace he sought from avenging Cathryn and Strang did not come. Tondberct’s pleading did not move him. There could be no mercy. Death was the only just payment for their crimes.

  So why did he still feel ashamed? How could he be rid of this deep-seated anguish?

  Of those present in that winter clearing, now only two remained. Hengist and Beobrand himself. He placed his hand on Hrunting’s hilt and once more swore a silent oath to all the gods that he would see Hengist dead. Only then, with the death of his kin-slayer, would he know peace.

  Riding away, their mood was sombre.

  They could not push the horses hard on the return journey. They led the lame horse and the five men rode on the remaining three steeds. They stopped regularly and rested the mounts, redistributing the riders.

  The weather was good, but they made slow progress. Each man carried enough horse meat to last the journey home. The rest of the carcass, along with the three corpses, had been left behind for the wolves and crows.

  By unspoken consent they travelled wide of the skull-topped shrine. None of them wanted to be close to that place again.

  On the afternoon of the second day they came back to the steading where they had slept on their outward journey. Now they approached from the empty lands to the west, with the sun at their backs. They co
uld see smoke drifting up from the buildings and as they got closer they saw a man moving in the space between the dwellings. He spotted them at last and ran inside. By the time they arrived at the collection of houses, there were six men in their path. Each was armed. There were a couple of spears, an axe and three seaxes, but they did not have the bearing of fighting men. They were nervous and the younger men fidgeted. Two were little more than boys.

  Acennan told Beobrand and the others to wait and he spurred his horse forward. He halted in front of the men.

  “I am Acennan, son of Bron, hearth-warrior of Scand, trusted thegn of Eanfrith, king of this land of Bernicia. We mean you no harm.”

  It took him some time to convince them of what he said, but in the end the leader of the group, a man called Cedd, gruffly offered them lodging for the night. With better grace, Cedd’s wife ushered them into her house and passed around a large wooden cup of mead. They all drank, solemnly sharing the drink, accepting the ritual welcome.

  They ate well that night. The womenfolk cooked plain food and were grateful for some of the meat the warriors carried, adding it to the stew.

  Cedd told them how Hengist and his companions had killed their best pig. They had not stopped at the farmstead for long. When Cedd’s folk had seen Acennan and his men coming from the east, they had gathered up their livestock and fled to a secret place.

  He was pleased to hear of the hanging, and asked for details of the fight. When they heard the tale they were all overjoyed to be eating the very horse that had been instrumental in their assailants’ capture.

  They all rested well that night, but Acennan made them keep watch. “You can never trust these ceorls in the middle of nowhere. They’d as likely butcher us in our sleep and eat us in place of the best pig they lost!”

  Scand was exhausted. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the setting sun. Still no word from Eanfrith or Acennan and the men who had ridden into the west. He was concerned about both. He was more convinced than ever that war was coming.

  That morning he had witnessed a terrible omen. The hall doors had been open to let in light and air. A magpie had landed in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright daylight. It had stood there for a moment, then it cocked its head as if listening to something, perhaps the voices of the dead. The fell bird had then flown into the hall. It had flapped along the length of the chamber and landed on the high back of the king’s seat. Scand had hardly believed his own eyes. He looked around to see the reaction of others, but unusually the hall was empty apart from him and the bird.

  It had stared at him with its beady eye, head moving with small jerky motions. He was certain that the bird brought him a message. It was a harbinger of terrible portent. Eventually, having made sure that the old warrior had seen and understood, the bird flapped to the ground, seized a scrap of meat in its beak and flew back out into the light.

  Scand had been shaken, but he did not mention the omen to anyone. Instead, he had made his face stern and unreadable then walked back out to where the warriors were training. They looked to him for guidance and he would not fail them or his king.

  Ever since Eanfrith had left with his retainers, following that black rider, Gwalchmei, Scand had worked incessantly on preparing the warriors and the people of Gefrin for battle. Eanfrith had placed him in charge and he did not mean to waste a moment. All around him men were slumped on the ground, panting and drenched in sweat. He had made them run in whatever armour they possessed and then form two shieldwalls. It was then a contest to see which group of men could shove the other back past a mark on the ground using brute force. For the winners Scand had promised mead and ale, for the losers only water that night. By the end of the day of exercises, the winning group was too tired to cheer.

  For the rest of the townsfolk he had set the task of gathering their belongings together in small enough packs and bags to be carried. He relied on the women to organise themselves. The young woman, Sunniva, seemed to have been strengthened by the death of her father. The way that steel is tempered by fire in the forge. No sooner had her father been laid in the ground than she had begun to go from house to house with Fugol ensuring that people were choosing the most important items for a hasty retreat from Gefrin should the time arise. Beobrand had chosen well there. Or more accurately he had been lucky that she had chosen him. A brief smile played on his lips before his habitual frown returned.

  Finola had risen to the task of organising the royal household. She was soft-spoken and small, but she knew what she wanted and was the daughter of a king. The thralls and bondsmen quickly learnt to do her bidding without comment.

  When he looked into the flames of the fire in the great hall at night, he saw the faces of men who had fallen in shieldwalls far away and long ago. Men he had called friends who had been taken from this world in the way of wyrd. He remembered his first glimpse of the island of Hii, white sand glittering like a jewel in the dark sea. He remembered individuals who had died over that sea in Hibernia, where Eanfrith and his brothers had fought for their Dál Riatan protectors. Their faces were clear to him, but not their names. He had seen too many good men die. And too many women. His own wife, Morna, had left him many years before. How he had loved her, his Pictish beauty. She had died bearing their first child, a son, while he was in Hibernia. The baby had not lasted a week and both were long in the ground when he had returned. He had never married again. No other woman could compare with Morna. His only female company now was Finola. The delicate, thoughtful young woman reminded him in many ways of Morna. She spoke in the same lilting tones and he would sometimes sit with her, talking by the fireside late into the night, wondering what could have been. But his affection for her was that of a father to his child. He felt protective of Finola and her son, Talorcan. Both were ignored by Eanfrith, and it saddened Scand to see it.

  He had sacrificed so much and travelled so far with Eanfrith through all the years of exile waiting for this moment to come, when they could return to the land that was rightfully theirs. He hoped that Eanfrith was right in his assessment of the situation with Cadwallon, but Scand had seldom heard a good word about the honour of the Waelisc king and he feared the worst: that Eanfrith’s pride and eagerness for a crown had clouded his mind.

  The responsibility for the queen and atheling and the people of Gefrin sat heavily on Scand, but he would not rest until he knew he had done all in his power to ensure their safety. He had several men patrolling the area surrounding Gefrin both day and night, and he had ordered beacons built at regular intervals to be lit if enemies were spotted. He worked the men harder than any of them liked until they all collapsed in exhaustion at the end of every day. Too tired for riddles and song, and all too pleased to let sleep engulf them in her dark embrace.

  They left Cedd’s folk shortly after dawn, eager to get back to Gefrin. They made good progress. The day was dry and bright. Soon they would be back with their lord and loved ones. Their spirits were high.

  They rested the horses frequently and took a long break from the midday sun in the shadow of the trees where the charcoal pits were. When they passed through the clearing all was silent and still. The fires were cold, the clearing deserted.

  The men did not speak, but each of them recalled the sights they had seen there a few days before. They were tired from the long days in the saddle, but they sat up straight on their steeds. They had delivered justice to the men who had brought death to the charcoalers and Gefrin’s smith. They had done their duty and were now anxious to return.

  When they were still some way from Gefrin, two horsemen approached them. They had been posted by Scand to watch the road. They exchanged news. Beobrand, Acennan and the others were shocked to hear of Eanfrith’s decision to ride south to meet with Cadwallon. All of them were worried that he had not yet returned.

  They rode on, but worry now gnawed at them.

  It was dark by the time they crossed the river that flowed to the south of Gefrin. They could see the great hall on the horizo
n. A black shape that blotted out the stars of the clear night. The settlement was silent, the sound of their horses’ hooves travelling far.

  They talked briefly to the door wards of the hall who told them that Scand and the men were sleeping. They should rest and then they could tell their tale to Scand in the morning. Acennan and the other men made their way quietly into the hall. Some of the sleeping men stirred and they settled them with soft words.

  Acennan turned towards Beobrand, who had stayed in the doorway of the hall. “Are you not going to sleep?” he whispered. Then, realisation dawned and his teeth flashed bright in the starlight. “Or perhaps you have other ideas?”

  Beobrand could feel his cheeks colour, but he knew none could see him blush. “I’ll go and check on Sunniva,” he said awkwardly.

  Acennan chuckled quietly. “See you in the morning,” he said and moved into the hall.

  The door wards closed the doors and sent for bondsmen to tend to the horses. Beobrand walked back down towards the forge past the silent houses that loomed in the night.

  He had not seen Sunniva since Strang’s death and he was unsure how she would react to his return. But he could not imagine waiting another heartbeat without seeing her. He had missed her terribly. Only now, with the prospect of seeing her moments away, did he comprehend the extent of his longing to be reunited with her. There was nobody else now.

  His heart fluttered in his chest as he swung open the door of the house by the forge. It was dark inside, but he could sense that the hut was not empty.

  There was a rustle of cloth and then Sunniva’s voice, frightened, tremulous, blurred by sleep. “Who is there?”