The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (26 page)

“A serpent can be crushed under a boot,” replied Beobrand.

By the time the men from Cantware were ready to leave, the sun was dipping low on the horizon, silhouetting the horsemen against the cloudless sky. Bassus and Gram were the last to mount. Gram secured a final bag of provisions to his saddle, then pulled himself up onto his horse in a well-practised motion. Bassus approached Beobrand, who was standing with Leofwine, watching the preparations.

Eanfrith had not deigned to speak with Bassus or any of the Cantware contingent since the afternoon’s outburst, but neither had he impeded them in any way. They had been allowed to procure provisions and to retrieve their weapons without hindrance. Not one of Eanfrith’s entourage of thegns was there to wish their guests farewell. But Bassus seemed to care nothing for the petty snub of a man he believed unworthy of holding the title of king.

“May your wyrd favour you in your quest for revenge, Beobrand,” Bassus said, as he grasped the younger man’s wrist in the warrior grip. “I hope our paths cross again one day.” Bassus’ voice was gruff, but Beobrand knew the older man was sad to be leaving him behind.

“Thank you, Bassus,” replied Beobrand, clapping the huge warrior on the shoulder with his left hand and squeezing his wrist firmly with his right. “You’ve been a true friend. To me and Octa before me.” He wanted to say more. How he’d never forget his kindness. How he would almost certainly be dead without Bassus’ help. But, unable to find the words, he merely said, “Have a safe journey.”

Bassus nodded. “Leofwine, tell tales of Beobrand’s exploits that will travel all the way to Cantware so that I can hear about his progress.” He winked, and Leofwine smiled in return.

“I’ll sing songs to rival those told of the great Beowulf,” the bard replied. “May the Lord watch over you and guide your steps on your travels, and may the wind always be at your back.”

Bassus mounted his large chestnut mare, heaving up his bulk with a grunt. He shifted his weight to make himself comfortable, then turned his steed to the south, dug in his heels and made out of Gefrin at a trot. Gram waved at Beobrand and Leofwine and then he and the other warriors followed behind Bassus.

A thin cloud of dust hung in the still, late afternoon air, the sun picking out larger motes like sparks rising in the smoke of a fire. Beobrand watched as the horsemen rode out of the town. Some of the townsfolk had stopped what they were doing to watch the men ride by and with a jolt Beobrand recognised the gold hair of Sunniva, glowing like molten metal. She had run out of the forge and was standing beside the path intently watching the warriors leave. Her father walked slowly from the forge and placed his hand around her shoulders.

When the men had passed, Sunniva turned, scanning her surroundings. When she looked in Beobrand’s direction, he raised his hand and smiled a wide grin. She had been looking for him amongst the men headed for Cantware. She was quite some distance away, but she must have spotted him, as she raised her own hand. No sooner had she done this than Strang spun her round and pushed her back towards the forge.

Any doubts he’d had about staying in Bernicia were washed away with that single glance and a wave from Sunniva.

Leofwine witnessed all of this. He’d learnt not to make fun of Beobrand and his interest in this girl from the forge, but he couldn’t help chuckling to himself.

Beobrand didn’t notice. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. He could still see Bassus, Gram and the others riding in the distance, but seeing Sunniva and having her acknowledge him so openly, made his heart flutter in his chest and left him light-headed. He stood there for a long moment, watching until the horsemen were lost in the haze of distance, unaware that he was smiling all the while.

Beobrand had found it hard to sleep.

He had decided he could not return to the great hall after the scenes between Bassus and the king, so he had asked the hostler, a kindly-looking man, whether he could sleep in the stable. The man, a thrall, felt pity for the young warrior so far from his homeland, so had allowed Beobrand to curl up in his cloak in a corner. But it wasn’t the hard floor or the stomping and snorting of the horses that kept him awake, it was the anticipation of seeing Sunniva again in the morning. He had relived the moments when he had seen her the day before. In his memory he watched her waving at him when she saw he hadn’t left with the other Cantware men. He felt again the fluttering sensation of excitement in his chest. He wasn’t sure what he would say to her, but he could think of nothing else but Strang’s daughter.

A long way into the darkest part of the night, he had fallen into a fitful sleep. His dreams did not permit him any rest. In them he had been standing at the water’s edge talking to Sunniva. She had turned and her face was awash with blood, her hair sopping with gore. He had felt a terrible pain in his side, which had made him cry out. When he’d looked down he had seen that Sunniva had stabbed him with his own bone-handled knife.

He had awoken, stifling a scream. The hostler’s snores resonated around the dark room. Outside, the birds sang to the day that was soon to arrive. Beobrand made his way out of the stable, careful not to disturb the slave’s slumber.

The fresh, cold air of the pre-dawn darkness revitalised him and the dream’s terror faded quickly. He shivered, his breath misting before him. On the horizon, the sun tinged the sky pink. It would be light soon. He could make his way to the river now, unseen before the town roused itself.

He walked down to the river, the growing glow from the dawn making the buildings and trees loom large and strange around him. By the time he arrived at the river there were a few people beginning to go about their business. It would be another fine day and there was much work to be done for those who worked the land or tended the livestock.

Beobrand retraced his footsteps from the day before and found the small secluded space on the riverbank, hidden from the town by trees. He sat with his back to a tree and waited, listening to the burble of the water as it flowed over the smooth pebbles of the river bed.

Some time passed and the steady sound of the water helped soothe his mind, drawing him down into the sleep that had eluded him during the night.

He awoke to the touch of a hand on his arm. Disoriented and frightened, he slapped the hand away and sprang to his feet, ready to fight. The sun had risen in the sky, casting deep shadows beside the trees and making the water of the river shine lambently.

Sunniva let out a small gasp, lost her balance and fell backwards, sitting down hard onto the dewy ground.

Beobrand’s head cleared quickly. “I’m sorry,” he stammered, his cheeks flushing crimson. “Are you alright?” He held out his hand to help her up.

“I’m fine,” she said, dusting herself down. “I shouldn’t have startled you.”

“I wasn’t startled,” he said, embarrassed, “just asleep.”

She raised an eyebrow and they both smiled. Both knowing he’d lied.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Sunniva said. Then, in a rush, “I thought you’d left with the others yesterday. That I’d not see you again.” She looked embarrassed as soon as the words left her mouth.

“Bassus asked me to leave with him,” Beobrand replied in a quiet voice.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I told him I needed to stay to avenge my brother.”

Her face sank. She bit her bottom lip.

“And that is true,” Beobrand continued. “But I didn’t tell him the other reasons.” He looked into her eyes. They were limpid, nervous tears brimming there.

“And what were those reasons?”

“I would not be welcome back in my homeland.”

“Oh,” disappointment coloured her voice with a hint of sarcasm. “Why is that?”

“I… I cannot say. I will tell you one day, but now, I just cannot.” He had not spoken to anyone of his actions in Hithe. This was as close as he could go to the truth. He did not wish to frighten her away.

She looked at him seriously for a moment and then said, “You mentioned more than one reason. What are the others?”

“Only one other reason,” he said.

“And that is?” Sunniva asked.

He hadn’t known how to tell her how he felt. It was all so sudden. A girl as beautiful as her must have had plenty of men tell her all sorts of clever things. But she had confirmed what he had suspected: that she’d been scared he was leaving Gefrin bound for Cantware. He dared to believe for a moment that she reciprocated his feelings towards her.

Beobrand swallowed. His throat was dry. “You,” he said simply.

Sunniva’s face lit up and she grinned. Beobrand felt warm, as if basking in her glow.

After that, their conversation took on the easy playfulness of the day before. They sat close together, not quite touching, but close enough so that the other’s physical presence was a constant distraction.

After some time their talk turned to her family.

“Mother died last winter. I still forget sometimes and expect her to be weaving at the loom, or cooking when I go home.” She was silent for a moment, looking into the ripples of the river. “It is just father and me now. What of your family?”

“They are all dead. A year ago I had two younger sisters, parents and an older brother. The pestilence came and a murderer killed my brother and now I am alone.” Sunniva reached out and placed her hand over his. Her touch made him breathless.

“What do you plan to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I have sworn to avenge Octa’s murder, and I know who killed him. But first I need to gain a place in a lord’s gesithas. It is my hope that Leofwine will speak favourably of me with Eanfrith. Perhaps the king will allow me to join his warband.”

At the mention of King Eanfrith, Sunniva remembered her father’s work on the spear heads. She had been gone a long time and she needed to get back. He would already be suspicious. He was not stupid and he had seen the way she’d waved to Beobrand.

She jumped up. Beobrand felt a stab of loss as her hand left his. “I have to get back home,” she said. “I’ve been gone far too long. My father will be furious.”

Beobrand didn’t protest. He knew she was right. “When can I see you again?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I don’t think my father will allow me to come down to the river for water again tomorrow. Not now that I’ve been late back twice.” She stooped to the river and filled the two buckets she had brought with her. “Don’t walk back with me today. If he sees you, he’ll only be angrier.”

“Can you get away tonight?” Beobrand asked.

Sunniva bit her lip, calculating. “Maybe. He often falls asleep soon after sundown. I could sneak out then.”

“Very well then. I’ll wait here for you after dusk. Try and get away. If you can’t, I’ll visit you tomorrow at the forge.”

“Oh no, father would be so angry.”

“Well, you’d better make sure you get out tonight then,” Beobrand grinned.

Despite her nervousness at the prospect of her father’s anger when she was late back and the possibility of being caught in the evening, Sunniva found herself smiling too. She leant in quickly to Beobrand and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll bring a blanket. It will be cold down here at night,” she whispered huskily, her breath warm against his ear.

Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away as quickly as she could while balancing the weight of the two buckets.

Beobrand watched her leave. The sway of her hips and the ghost of her kiss on his cheek made him ache for her.

CHAPTER 14

“Well don’t just stand there. Tell me where he is,” thundered Eanfrith. It was important to keep up a show of strength in front of his men.

The messenger bowed his head, unsure what to say.

“Cadwallon, you fool! Where is he and is he on the move?”

The man was awestruck at talking to a king. He swallowed deeply. He had not been offered a drink before having to talk to Eanfrith. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice cracked in his throat. He swallowed again and finally managed to utter the message he’d been sent to deliver.

“My lord, and your humble servant, Bebeodan, would inform you that Cadwallon, may God cast his soul into hell, has camped south of the great Wall and is amassing his troops there. When I left my lord’s hall, two days hence, they were not moving. It is hard to know when they will. But it was clear they were readying for war again.”

A murmur ran through the men assembled in the great hall. They all knew that war was almost a certainty, but to have it confirmed, brought the truth of it closer to reality.

A grizzled, grey-bearded warrior who stood close to the king said, “Cadwallon can be upon us in a matter of days. We should fall back to Bebbanburg. It is impregnable.”

“I shall not retreat from this upstart,” answered Eanfrith. Scand had once been a warrior of renown, but Eanfrith found him to be cautious almost to the point of cowardice. “Bernicia will not be cowed by a rabble of Waelisc. I do not fear Cadwallon.”

There was another ripple of murmured comments, but nobody wanted to point out the obvious to the king. Cadwallon, with Penda’s aid, had already defeated Edwin, who had called himself Bretwalda, King of all Albion. After that the Waelisc king of Gwynedd had gone on to kill Osric, heir to the throne of Deira.