The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (14 page)

“Hengist says that we can find a new lord to serve in Bernicia or Deira,” said Tondberct excitedly. “We have heard that Osric, cousin of Edwin, has taken the kingdom of Deira as his own. And there is tell that Eanfrith has returned from exile to claim the throne of Bernicia.”

Edwin’s father, Aella, had united the two kingdoms of Deira and Bernicia into the one realm of Northumbria. It was certain that both of these new kings would need warriors to help them maintain their tenuous holds on their dominions. It made sense for these men of war without a liege to head north in order to seek patronage.

“Which lord will you seek out, Hengist?” Beobrand asked. He thought that Osric, as kin of Edwin, would be the honourable choice, but he knew nothing of the politics of these northern kingdoms.

“Whichever gives his gesithas the best treasure,” answered Hengist. The others laughed. Beobrand joined in the laughter, but felt a sliver of doubt. He must not truly be a warrior yet, to worry about such things as kinship and honour. Those were the values his uncle had instilled in him. The traits of warriors in sagas and songs. It seemed that real warriors were not so concerned with these niceties. He would have to make an effort to be more like Hengist and the others.

“What are your plans, young Beobrand?” asked Hengist, raising an eyebrow. “Would you join us in our quest to find a lord worthy of our might in battle?” The older warrior smiled at his own sardonic comment.

Beobrand had been enjoying the company of Tondberct and Hengist, basking in the warmth of the fire and the camaraderie that comes from having fought the same enemies. He had not considered joining them and leaving Engelmynster. Now that the option was presented, it seemed the perfect solution. He had nothing to offer Wilda, Alric and the others. He was just another mouth to feed in what would surely be a difficult winter, especially having lost much of their stores to the Waelisc.

And Leofwine was right. He was a warrior inside. He had stood in battle, and whilst it scared him to think of it, he wished to feel again that surge of energy and power he had experienced. If he was to be a warrior like Octa, he needed a lord. Hengist had been a gesith to a king and had a plan to find one.

Once he had a lord, he could try to discover who had killed his brother. He had sworn vengeance for Octa’s murder. Yet to mete out justice, he would first need to find his brother’s slayer. Only then could he confront him.

“Would you train me to fight?” Beobrand asked.

Hengist grinned. “It’s all I
can
teach. Death is my mistress and she and I feed the ravens wherever we go. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind spreading her legs for you too, boy. There’s always someone who needs killing.”

Beobrand blushed.

“I would like to come with you, if you’ll have me,” he said, in a smaller voice than he had intended.

Tondberct slapped him on the back and laughed. “I’m glad we came to this shit hole,” he said. “It will be good to have you with us, Beo.”

Hengist nodded his agreement, offering only a wry smile as answer.

Dreng’s eye’s narrowed and he licked his lips, pink tongue wetly smearing around his chapped lips, as if his appetite was soon to be sated. Hafgan and Artair continued whittling their sticks. Whether they had not understood, or didn’t care, they showed no response to the news that Beobrand would be joining them.

A chill stroked the length of Beobrand’s back. He shivered.

He hoped he had chosen wisely.

Beobrand returned to the monastery in the afternoon, leading the donkey with its small cart back from the forest where Coenred had left it. He found the young monk waiting for him in the doorway of the chapel.

“You’re leaving with them, aren’t you?” Coenred spoke the words like an accusation.

“It is best for everyone. They can help me find a lord. Here I am a burden.”

“They would have killed me just to get what they wanted. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“It means they are men of action. They said what they needed to say. They are ruthless, but that is the way of the warrior.” He thought of the warriors in tales. Of honour and loyalty. “I am a warrior now, and I stopped them from hurting you.”

Coenred’s eyes brimmed with tears. Beobrand didn’t understand what these men were. What he might become if he travelled with them. Coenred was only young. A boy. But he had already learnt that you cannot make someone see something if they choose to be blind.

“I’ll pray for your soul,” Coenred said, and turned and walked inside the chapel.

Beobrand stood for a moment in the dank, grey afternoon and wondered at his friend’s reaction. It hurt him that they were to part on these terms.

Once he had found a lord, he would return and visit Coenred.

CHAPTER 8

Beobrand stared down into the mist-filled valley. He loved these moments of peace just after the sun had risen. The air was chill. He wrapped his cloak more tightly about his shoulders. The cold made his ribs ache, but the dull throb was not difficult to endure. In some ways, it was comforting, reminding him of who he now was.

He drew air deep into his lungs, wincing slightly as his recently healed wounds stretched. Behind him, the others were packing up their meagre belongings. They had been travelling steadily northward since leaving Engelmynster. Towards Bernicia and King Eanfrith he presumed, but Hengist refused to be drawn out on the subject.

“Just follow me and you’ll find a ring-giving lord, young Beobrand. Don’t fret,” he had said the day before when Beobrand had once again asked where they were heading.

The uncertainty was unnerving. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made the right choice in joining these men. Could Coenred have been right about them? He had a nagging feeling of foreboding, but they had done nothing to cause alarm. Tondberct was talkative and convivial as ever. When they sat around the fire at night, Hengist was content to tell of his previous exploits in Edwin’s warband. Beobrand and Tondberct would listen raptly, drinking in the tales of heroism and valour.

During one such tale, Beobrand asked, “Did you know my brother, Octa?”

Hengist’s features clouded for a moment and he cast him a sidelong look. “Aye. I knew him. He was a great warrior. It is easy to see you are his kin.” He paused and stared into the flames, his eyes gazing into the past. “It was a sad thing that happened to him.”

Beobrand had many questions, but Hengist wrapped himself in his cloak, lay down by the fire and spoke no more.

Dreng said little, but was friendly enough. Beobrand was wary of the Waelisc brothers. Hafgan and Artair kept themselves apart from the group, but Hengist and the others trusted them.

Beobrand hoped that Hengist spoke true about finding a lord. All he wanted was to find somewhere to call home. He asked for nothing more than somewhere to sleep and simple fare on the board. Somewhere he could leave his past behind and start a new, better future. For that, he would give up anything he had. He smiled to himself, but there was no humour in it. It was the smile of a man who knew he was fooling himself. He owned nothing, save for an old spear, a shield and the clothes he wore.

Looking over the country below him, he thought how beautiful this land of Northumbria was. More mountainous than his native Cantware, and the winter was harsher than he was used to. Yet gazing out from the hilltop, seeing the mist following the course of the river, the sun rising out of the pink-tinged clouds, he knew that he wanted this to be
his
land.
His
home.

But Northumbria had become as deadly as she was beautiful. The land was lawless. Neither Osric in the southern kingdom of Deira, nor Eanfrith in the more northerly Bernicia held enough sway over the populace to bring peace. Without a king’s protection the land was becoming more dangerous by the day. Bands of warriors and ruffians travelled the tracks and paths preying on the innocent. They took what they could, using whatever means necessary.

So far when they had met with such groups their weapons and number had kept them safe. They had avoided confrontation and travelled on their way.

They finished packing and set off once more, down the hill toward the misty valley below. They were all hungry. The provisions they had taken from Engelmynster had run out the day before.

Beobrand was wondering where their next meal would come from when they spotted a homestead. Just a small hut nestled in the bend of a stream. A man was chopping wood outside the dwelling, wielding a formidable looking axe. They were still distant. The sound of his axe reached them a moment after they saw his swings impact into the logs.

They walked down towards the hut. They had spent a cold night in the forest; the wood too damp for a fire. Hengist was in a foul mood. He had been sullen all morning, rubbing his temples as if his head ached. At spotting the man stripped to the waist, his temperament seemed to improve.

“What are you doing, Breca?” Hengist called out. He clearly recognised the man. “Thought you were dead.”

Breca turned, wiping sweat from his brow. His eyes narrowed as he took in the men approaching him.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Hengist?” He spoke without rancour. His voice was light. A smile played at the edge of his lips. “I’m chopping firewood to pay for my keep. I waited for you after the battle. I’d heard you’d gone south…”

Hengist interrupted him. “Work like a slave, would you?” he scoffed at the young, stocky warrior. “You’re a warrior, man! You should make your living fighting, not grovelling to some peasant woman.” Hengist continued to stride down to the hut. Breca held the axe in both hands across his sweat-slick body. His eyes darted nervously back to Beobrand, and the four others approaching behind Hengist.

Dreng said in a quiet voice, “Hengist is in a bloody mood. Looks like he’ll have him a fight now. Will settle his blood.” He licked his lips and chuckled to himself, as if he had said something to rival the wit of the best bards.

“What do you want?” Breca asked, in a strong voice.

“I want you to grovel to me, like you grovelled to this old crone.” Hengist waved his hand in the direction of the hut’s owner, who had emerged from the smoke-filled interior to see what was happening.

Breca said, “I have no quarrel with you, Hengist. Just be on your way.” Then, in an effort to calm the situation with good humour, “There’ll be no grovelling today, friend.” He smiled briefly, perhaps imagining that Hengist was jesting, or maybe drunk.

Hengist stared at him for a few heartbeats and then flung himself at Breca. He drew his broadsword as he sprang forward and bellowed with an insensate rage.

Breca stumbled backwards, but managed to keep his footing. He swung his axe up and was barely able to parry Hengist’s wild lunge. He deflected the sword thrust upwards and then surged forwards, using the axe two-handed, like a quarterstaff, to push Hengist away.

They circled each other for a moment, then Hengist attacked again. He feinted a savage blow towards Breca’s face, changing the direction of the blade at the last moment into a scything strike aimed at his midriff. Breca dodged backwards, and then darted forward, attempting to swing the axe head upwards into Hengist’s groin. Hengist parried the blow easily and backed away.

He was smiling, relaxed and happy. He rolled his head to loosen his neck muscles. Breca was focused, concentration etched into his features. Both men were panting, their breath smoking in the winter air.

Dreng giggled, a sound like the cackle of a crow. The bird of death.

Beobrand watched on in shock at how rapidly the morning had descended into violence. The fight looked one-sided. Breca was skilled and had strength, but his movements were clumsy in some indefinable way. Not natural to him. Hengist carried his sword as if the blade were an extension of his hand. It was awe-inspiring and terrible to behold.

“You will grovel today,
friend
,” Hengist spoke softly, the last word dripping with sarcasm.

“What are you doing, man?” said Breca, a note of desperation entering his voice. “We have stood together in the shieldwall. We were sword brothers.”

Hengist attacked for the final time. He swung his sword overarm, leaving his body unprotected. Breca saw the opening and took it, sweeping his axe at Hengist’s chest. With the benefit of having anticipated Breca’s move perfectly, Hengist took a step backwards and hammered his blade down, hacking into Breca’s left hand. He screamed, dropping the axe and grasping his smashed left hand in his right. Blood seeped between his fingers and trickled down his forearm, mingling with the sheen of sweat.

Breca gritted his teeth, his breath rapid and shallow against the pain.

“Kill me then, you bastard!” he gasped. “I always knew you were no better than a dog. You have no honour.” He raised himself up to his full height.

Hengist shook his head, smiling still. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said, and walked past him, towards the hut, where the old woman was cowering in the doorway.

For a moment Breca looked confused. Then relieved. Believing the contest over, Beobrand and the others started to move forward.

Then, with the speed of a striking adder, Hengist spun around and dragged his sword in a slicing motion deep into the back of Breca’s legs. Sinews and muscles were severed. Breca screamed again. He collapsed to the ground, his legs failing to support him.