The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (3 page)

Unbidden, his mind turned to the events of the last months. He frequently found himself reliving Edita’s death. Then burying Rheda and their mother on the same day. The three of them gone within a week. All the while, his father had remained hale and strong. Beobrand had wondered for a long time whether he had been cursed.

He frowned and stared at the fire. Trying to burn the memories from his mind. He did not want to think of the past. Of what had happened.

Of what he had done.

He had come north in search of a future.

He turned to Tondberct who was in the middle of a story about one of the king’s sons, Osfrid. Apparently, Osfrid was a great huntsman, and that summer had single-handedly killed a bear. Tondberct’s incessant talking was becoming tedious, so he interrupted him with a question.

“Do you know where my brother is?”

Tondberct looked puzzled, trying to make sense of the question with regard to the story he was recounting.

“I suppose that depends on who your brother is,” he answered eventually with a smile, not appearing to be insulted by the interruption.

“Octa. He’s a bit taller than me. His hair is so blond it’s almost white.”

Tondberct opened his mouth as if to reply, but then thought better of it and closed it again. He looked down at his hands, then took a swig from his horn of mead. Beobrand thought that something very bad would be needed to leave the talkative Tondberct speechless.

“What is it?” he asked. Tondberct looked as though he wouldn’t answer. But then, after a few moments, he blurted out, “He’s dead!”

The words didn’t make sense. “What? No, he can't be ... I ...” Beobrand stammered.

But the look on Tondberct’s face told him this was no mistake. His face was ashen, aghast at what he had revealed to Beobrand.

“I’m sorry,” Tondberct said. He took another gulp of mead, looking acutely uncomfortable.

“How?” Beobrand choked the word out around the lump in his throat.

Tondberct cast his gaze down.

“How did he die?” Beobrand repeated the question, raising his voice.

Tondberct stared into Beobrand’s blue eyes. For a moment, Beobrand thought Tondberct would flee the hall rather than face his intense glare. But, after a moment the young man drew in a deep breath and said in a small voice, “He took his own life.”

His words were inaudible over the din of the room. Around them, the hall celebrated. They were an island of stillness in the turmoil. Like a cloud shadow passing over a field of barley on a windy summer’s day.

“What?”

Tondberct swallowed hard. “He took his own life,” he repeated, louder this time.

“How? Why?”

Tondberct swallowed again. He cleared his throat. Beobrand was staring at him, waiting to hear his reply. Waiting to hear why the brother he had travelled the length of Albion to see was dead. Eventually, seemingly resigned to his role of bearer of bad tidings, Tondberct spoke again.

“He jumped from the wall. To the rocks.”

Beobrand’s mind reeled. He could not pin down his thoughts. They were like leaves caught in a gale. None of it made sense. Edita, Rheda, and his mother had all been consumed by the pestilence. His father was gone too. And now Octa. “Why?” He blurted out the word again, not sure whether he was asking Tondberct or the gods.

“His lover was found slain. It seems he…” Tondberct’s voice trailed off.

Beobrand did not want to hear. He stood up quickly, suddenly feeling sick, the half-chewed piece of meat in his mouth made him gag. Wells of inconsolable pain built up from deep within him. Tears burnt behind his eyes. He did not want these strangers to see him cry.

Tondberct stood also, but he said nothing more.

Beobrand could no longer speak. His throat tightened. His breath came in gasps. The room began to blur, as his eyes filled with tears. He had to get out of this place. He turned, almost tripping over the bench and stumbled out of the hall.

The cold wind and rain slapped his face as he fled into the darkness.

Dead! All dead!

As he moved further from the hall, the darkness engulfed him. He could see torches guttering on the palisade where guards were posted, but he wanted to be far away from prying eyes. Alone with his grief. He headed for a large building that was completely shrouded in darkness, like the inside of a burial mound. It was the stables. He opened the gate and made his way inside.

He smelt and heard the horses more than saw them as he moved inside the building, feeling his way along the wall. He found a bale of hay and threw himself onto it. He hadn't allowed himself to grieve for his sisters or his mother. At first, all of his time had been spent caring for them. Later, he had pushed his pain deep down inside, where it had forged into the steel-hard blade of hate he had wielded at his father. His father who would never again raise his hand against him or anyone else.

With all of them dead, he had set himself the task of reaching Octa with the news of their deaths. Now Octa was gone too.

Octa. Quick-witted, cheerful and passionate Octa. His memories of him were as he had last seen him three years before. A tall, strong man of twenty, standing and laughing on the deck of the ship that would carry him northward. Blond hair whipping in the wind as Beobrand ran along the cliff top waving and shouting goodbye. He remembered the feeling of abandonment. They had been the closest of allies. They had worked the land together and trained with weapons under Uncle Selwyn’s tutelage. And Octa had always defended them from their father’s outbursts of violence.

Beobrand had never fully forgiven Octa for leaving that day.

He would never see that laughing face again now, or hear the warm, melodious voice. He had focused on finding his brother, and now he didn't know what he could do. He was truly alone for the first time in his life.

With this realisation, the tears finally came. They came in floods, all the tears he had held back, waiting to mourn for his family with Octa. Sobs racked his body. Small, animal noises came from his throat. Grief and self-pity consumed him.

He lay like that, face buried in the hay for a long time until his tears dried. He tried to compose himself. He imagined what his father would have said to see him crying like a baby, when he was a full-grown man. He would have cuffed him round the ear and told him that crying was for women and children. As weeping would accomplish nothing, there was no use in it. “Actions are what you need, son, not whining and tears”. How many times had he heard those words from his father? A hundred? A thousand?

In the end he had taken his father’s advice.

“Why were you crying?” A small voice spoke from the darkness, startling him.

“Men aren’t supposed to cry. Father says so.” The voice continued. It was very close. Beobrand sat up and wiped the sleeve of his kirtle across his face.

“Who are you?” he asked. His heart thumped in his chest.

“Eanflæd. What’s your name?”

The voice belonged to a little girl. What was she doing in a stable in the dark?

“Beobrand,” he answered.

“Are you from Cantware?” Eanflæd asked. “You talk strange.”

“Yes, I am. What do you mean I talk strange?”

“You sound different,” she replied, then repeated her original question. “Why were you crying?”

Beobrand did not want to talk about his loss, his overwhelming grief, especially not with a precocious little girl. So he asked, “What are you doing here? Do your parents know where you are?”

Eanflæd’s voice took on a wistful tone. “I like sitting with the horses. Nobody knows I’m here. They are too busy feasting. My father is Edwin.” She paused, and then, as if explaining something to a rather slow child, “He’s the king.”

Beobrand staggered quickly to his feet, bumping into one of the stalls behind him. If he were found here with this young princess, alone in the dark, it would be more than difficult to explain what they had been doing. A horse whinnied and stamped a hoof at this disturbance.

“Shhh, boy, that's it, calm now”, he soothed the horse, using the soft voice he always used with nervous animals back on the farm. The horse quietened.

“Eanflæd, I don't think it's a good idea for you to be here. I think you should go to your bed now.”

He heard her rise.

He hoped she would do as he suggested and that nobody would see her leave; he didn't want to have to explain this situation to anyone.

“Alright”, she said in a very meek voice. “It is late, I suppose. Goodnight, Beobrand from Cantware.”

“Goodnight, Eanflæd, Edwin’s daughter,” he murmured.

The sounds of her moving quickly and surely back towards the door came to him and the door creaked open slightly, letting in a gust of wind and rain. Then he was in the dark again, alone with the horses.

He sat there, listening to the storm buffeting the walls of the stable. The encounter with the princess had served to focus his mind, but he felt hollow inside. As if the bout of crying had emptied him of emotion. What could he do now? He could not travel back south with Hrothgar. There were too many ghosts there. Perhaps he could stay in this northern land. But how? He had nothing to offer.

He couldn’t bring himself to care about his own fate. Nothing seemed important anymore. Whatever his wyrd had in store for him, he would face it as it came.

After a short time he thought he should go back to the great hall and get some food before the feast was over. Maybe that would help to fill the empty hole inside him. He got up and carefully made his way out of the stable. The wind was dying down and the rain had lessened. He closed the stable door gently behind him and walked slowly back towards the hall. Nobody called out to him and there was no sign of the girl.

Back inside the warmth and noise of the long hall he cast around for somewhere to sit. He didn't want to have to endure the prattling of the talkative Tondberct, but there was little room on the benches. As he was contemplating sitting with some of the younger men on the floor near the fire, he realised that the hall had gone strangely quiet, just as it had when he had first entered at the beginning of the feast. Imagining that the king was going to speak again, he turned towards the head of the table, where the fine sword still protruded from the oak board, and looked straight into the eyes of King Edwin. He was gazing directly at him. Beobrand's heart missed a beat. He saw a young girl sitting at Edwin's feet, stroking a grey wolfhound. He had not seen Eanflæd in the dark of the stable, but he was sure that this slim, flaxen-haired girl was the king's daughter. Perhaps the fact that she had also failed to see his face would save him. But this hope was quickly dashed when the king spoke. He raised his voice to be heard by all those present in the hall.

“You there. Are you known as Beobrand?”

Beobrand could not bring himself to speak, so merely nodded.

“Come here, where I can see you.”

Beobrand slowly walked the length of the hall, acutely aware of all the eyes following him. And the whispers. People wondered what was afoot. As he walked past his countrymen, Hrothgar rasped close to him, “What have you done, boy?” Beobrand didn't answer. He was caught in the stare of the king, like a lamb looks at the eyes of the priests before a sacrifice.

He came to a halt a few paces before the lord of the hall. Unsure what to do, he knelt before him and lowered his head.

“Well, Beobrand, Eanflæd here, tells me you were in the stables, in the dark. What were you doing there?”

Beobrand did not even contemplate lying.

“Grieving for the loss of my brother, sisters and parents, sire”, he said, his voice breaking. “I did not want to cry in front of everyone.”

The hall now was completely silent, save for the crackling of the fire and the sound of the dogs crunching bones under the tables. Everyone was straining to hear what was said.

“Who was your father, and who was your brother?” Edwin asked, a softness entering his voice.

“I am son of Grimgundi and brother of Octa, my lord.”

A murmur ran through the hall. The name of his brother was known to them.

“Your brother’s death was a tragedy. He was much loved here, a valiant thegn whose deeds will be sung at our table for many a year.” A shadow passed over his face. “Crying at the loss of loved ones does not belittle you, young warrior.”

“I am no warrior, lord.”

“Oh, but I see iron in your eye and flint in your heart, Beobrand. You may not yet know it, but I say you are a warrior. I see much of Octa in you. You will be great one day, I'll wager.”

Beobrand was taken aback. He had expected retribution for some supposed misconduct with the king's daughter. Instead the king was telling him that he could follow Octa’s path. A compliment indeed from such a powerful king in the presence of his battle host. Being a warrior was something he had only dreamed of. A secret dream. Like a shiny trinket to be brought out and played with for comfort when life was tough. He used to imagine what it would be like to don battle harness and stand in the shieldwall. Shoulder to shoulder with heroes. The glory of battle. The songs of victory. The rings given by a lord.