Kin of Cain

by Matthew Harffy

  “If we do not bind your wounds, you’ll be joining that beast in death soon enough. You are as pale and weak as a newborn lamb.”

  He produced a kirtle from his bag, and tore the cloth with his knife.

  Octa’s mind was swimming. He looked beyond Gram, into the swirling mists. He must be dreaming. He remembered having a fever as a child and seeing things that his mother later told him were not there. He had seen shadowy creatures then, standing at the end of his cot, red eyes boring into him where he had lain, drenched in sweat, trembling and mewling in terror.

  “There is nothing there, my son,” his mother had said, but he had never fully believed her. He knew what he had seen.

  And now again he saw a shadow form in the mist. Stunted and hunched, it came towards them, gaining solidity and form as it approached. It scooped up Unferth’s fallen spear from the grass and then Octa saw the truth of it. This was no shadow-creature, looming over a feverish child, it was Modthrith.

  Hrothgar’s wife rushed forward, feet silent on the soft earth. Octa wanted to shout out a warning, but his tongue was cleaved to his palate. She ran towards Bassus, a savage anger burning in those eyes. A crazed ire that Octa recognised.

  Wealhtheow shattered the silence with a scream.

  “No, mother!”

  Bassus spun around. The spear-tip glinted in the pale light of the watery sun.

  “My son!” shrieked Modthrith. “You have slain my beautiful son.”

  The spear streaked towards Bassus’ heart, but with a warrior’s grace, he twisted his body, allowing the point to pass by harmlessly. Catching the spear haft in his grip, he heaved, using Modthrith’s own speed against her. Before she could react, Bassus had propelled her forward, away from him and over the edge of the cliff. She lost her grip on the spear and for the briefest of moments she seemed to hang there in the mists. And then she was gone with a wailing howl of anger and loss. A heartbeat later, her scream was silenced.

  Wealhtheow stepped to the edge of the cliff and stared down into the murk.

  “Poor mother,” she said.

  Turning, she went to the gnarled arm that lay on the earth. She reached out a tiny hand and stroked the hand. A tear trickled down her pallid cheek.

  “Poor Grendel.”

  Nineteen

  Octa allowed the warmth from the great hearth fire to soak into his bones. He normally preferred to sit further from the hearth when the fire was stoked high and blazing, but a chill had settled upon him on the journey back to Gefrin. By the time they had arrived he had been shaking uncontrollably. He had feared he would never get warm.

  But he had stopped trembling. The good mead in his drinking horn and the thick, tasty stew in his belly seemed to be doing as much as the fire to warm him. Elda once more poured mead into his horn, offering him a coy smile. He hardly noticed. His head was full of recent memories which would not let him free of their grip.

  He stretched the muscles of his back and grunted, regretting the movement. The blow from the nihtgenga had left a huge bruise, and the binding about his ribs did nothing to ease the burning pain from the cut he had received. His hands were also bound with strips of clean linen. The thorns of the sea buckthorn had left his palms torn and raw. Taking another sip of the sweet mead, he stared into the flames. They danced and spat sparks up into the air. Closing his eyes, he could see again Hrothgar’s steading ablaze, smoke billowing into the darkening sky.

  “You think we’ll ever see Hrothgar and his other sons again?”

  Octa opened his eyes and looked at Bassus. The older thegn was also subdued, quieter than normal. The events of the past few days had taken their toll on them all.

  “I pray that we do not,” said Octa. “I would forget Hrothgar and his kin, if I could.”

  Bassus nodded and took a long draught from his cup.

  After Gram had bound Octa’s wounds, they had set out for Hrothgar’s home in the swamp. As the mists had lifted, they had seen a dark column of smoke. Following the smoke like a beacon, they had found all the buildings burning. There had been no sign of Hrothgar and his sons. Octa had been surprised that the man had heeded Bassus’ warning about the king’s horses. They were tethered close by, but far enough away from the flames for safety. The animals had rolled their eyes in fear at the conflagration, and seemed content enough to be gone from the place as they rode away from the marsh.

  Wealhtheow had gazed silently at her old home, as the sod-covered roof collapsed in an explosion of sparks and roiling smoke. She had not uttered another word since the clifftop. Octa looked over at where she sat at the edge of the great hall. She was sat as she had been when they had found her in the cave, knees drawn up to her chest, dark eyes watching everything. She met his stare and he suppressed a shudder.

  Without bidding, his eyes flicked to the grisly trophy that commanded attention in the hall. Grendel’s arm, muscled and mottled, pale in death, yet still exuding the power of the man-beast, hung, hand down from where it had been nailed to a beam.

  Edwin had been overjoyed that they had returned with a token to show that the night-walker was dead.

  “You have slain the great beast,” he had said, his voice full of praise. “Do I not have the doughtiest of gesithas?” he had asked of the inhabitants of the hall. The gathered men and women cheered their king and his warriors. The darkness of the winter nights was a little safer now.

  “It was not a beast, my lord king,” Bassus had said, striding forth with the arm. “It was but a man. Moonstruck and evil, but a man nonetheless.”

  The hall had grown silent.

  Edwin had frowned.

  “Indeed? But where is Wiglaf the quick, and what of brave Unferth? Were they slain by a mere man?”

  Octa had recalled Grendel’s power, the huge bulk beneath the matted furs and iron shirt. The blazing madness in his eyes. Was he truly just a man?

  “Alas, Wiglaf fell,” said Bassus.

  “And Unferth, most trusted of thegns? What of Unferth?” The king’s brows furrowed.

  Bassus took in a deep breath and proffered Hrunting to his king. “He too was lost,” he said, at last.

  Octa had wondered at Bassus’ words, but then nodded to himself. Why speak of Unferth’s cowardice? Why bring shame upon him? If he yet lived, he would never return to Edwin’s hall. He was a thegn who had abandoned his spear-brothers. One so craven would never show his face again.

  Edwin had looked upon the fine blade, his face a mask of sadness. At long last, he drew himself up to his full height.

  “You have done a great service to me and the people of Bernicia. I can see that you have suffered much on your quest to rid us of the nihtgenga. So, rest now, fill your bellies with hot food. Slake your thirst on my finest mead. You will be well rewarded for killing this monster, but for now, recover your strength. Feast and be merry. For no longer should we be fearful of the winter’s nights. The fell beast is dead.”

  He had lifted up the pallid arm and the hall had erupted with a roar of approval.

  Now, with his shaking finally subsided, Octa felt a tide of exhaustion wash over him. He needed sleep. He hoped he would not dream of the mad eyes and the great weight pulling him down, the sea buckthorn ripping through his fingers.

  But first he needed a piss. Pushing himself to his feet with a wince at the pain in his arm, ribs and back, he walked stiffly to the door of the hall. A small figure ran up beside him as he left the warmth and stepped into the frigid air of the Northumbrian night. It was Ælfhere, the scop. The man’s eyes twinkled with excitement like the stars that shone in the cloudless sky above the hills surrounding Gefrin.

  Ælfhere fell into step beside Octa.

  “Mind if I join you?” Ælfhere said.

  Octa was in no mood for pleasantries.

  “Do what you want, scop.” His breath clouded before him. “If you need to piss, you need to piss. It is no concern of mine.”

  Ælfhere laughed. Octa frowned. The man spun a good yarn and was a talented
tale-teller, but his frivolity often rankled with Octa.

  “The beast’s name was Grendel, you say?” Ælfhere asked.

  “I did not say, but yes. Grendel is what Wealhtheow called him.”

  “Wealhtheow, yes.” Ælfhere was slightly breathless, having to almost run to keep up with Octa’s long strides. “Interesting names. Fine names.”

  Octa ignored him and walked on in silence.

  Ælfhere trotted along beside him, seemingly unable to stop talking.

  “And the father of the beast was Hrothgar?”

  “It was no beast, merely a man.”

  “Yes, yes. But in the tale, it will be a beast. A great monster. A giant. Kin of Cain, was that not what that Christ priest called it?”

  They had walked far enough. Octa halted and loosened his breeches. With a sigh of satisfaction, he released the pressure from his bladder. Steam rose from the frosted grass. He noted that Ælfhere did not join him. So he had no need to relieve himself.

  “You mean to tell the tale of this night-stalker?” Octa asked, fastening his breeches.

  “Of course. I have long been dreaming up a great saga. A story of distant lands. Of Svears and Geats. Wyrms and monsters. But it needed something else.”

  “And this Grendel is what you needed?” Octa spat and turned to walk back to the hall. The noise of laughter and chatter came to them on the still, cold air.

  “Oh yes,” Ælfhere’s eyes glittered. “I can see the tale forming in my mind. The monster, kin of Cain, attacking the king and his host in their great hall.”

  “But that is not what happened,” replied Octa. He had no time for this wittering bard. He made to step past him, but Ælfhere blocked his path.

  “This will be greater than what happened. All the best tales are.” He laughed again. “I am still searching for a name for the hero of the tale. A tall, fair warrior who slays the beast and frees the kingdom.” Ælfhere looked Octa up and down appraisingly.

  “Not I. I do not want to be remembered for killing a mad man and his mother.” And then a thought struck him. All he wished was to be free of this annoying man, to be able to return to the hall and find somewhere to sleep. He imagined his brother, back in Cantware, so keen to be a warrior. He too was tall, fair and strong. And wouldn’t he love to be the hero of a scop’s tale?

  “How about Beobrand?” he said.

  “For the hero? Hmmm…” Ælfhere scratched his beard and tilted his head, as if listening to the sound of the name. “Beobrand. Beobrand. No, it is not quite right. Beo… Beo…”

  Far off, in the hills overlooking the settlement a wolf howled, its long, plaintive call reminding them that the night was still not safe from all danger.

  For a moment, both men stood listening to the echo of the wolf’s moaning voice.

  “Hmmm… a wolf,” said Ælfhere. “Yes, that might just work.”

  Octa looked down at the scop. The small man was practically jumping from one foot to the other, such was his delight.

  “What?” asked Octa, finding himself being drawn into Ælfhere’s enthusiasm, despite himself. “What might work?”

  “The hero’s name,” Ælfhere answered, his tone gleeful. “I have it. The hero shall be called… Beowulf!”

  We hope you enjoyed this novella!

  Killer of Kings, the fourth novel in the Bernicia Chronicles, will be released in summer 2017

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  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Matthew Harffy

  About The Bernicia Chronicles

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  Author’s Note

  The exact date of the composition of the epic poem, “Beowulf”, is unknown. Hygelac, Beowulf’s first lord was, as were several other characters in the poem, a real person who is recorded in the Frankish annals as having died in AD 521. The only manuscript of the poem to have survived to the present day dates from around AD 1000. It is in the Nowell Codex, which is now located in the British Library. The poem, that is widely regarded as one of the most important pieces of Old English literature, was very nearly lost back in 1731. It was badly damaged by a fire that swept through Ashburnham House in London where it was in a collection of medieval manuscripts assembled by Sir Robert Bruce Cotton.

  Though there is disagreement on the date of composition of the poem, most scholars agree that it was passed down for generations as part of the rich oral tradition of the Anglo-Saxons.

  The events of the poem do not actually take place in Britain, though it is written in Old English. Rather it hearkens back to the distant past and the lands of the forebears of the Germanic tribes that settled in the British Isles. The story takes place in Denmark and Sweden. The saga is fabulous, full of strong imagery of mead halls, warriors, ring-giving lords, and of course, monsters. It has been the inspiration for countless works of fiction, from Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings, to recent movies and television series that have attempted to bring the magnificent story to life.

  The seed of my retelling of part of Beowulf’s story, or more accurately, my tale of incidents that could have inspired some of Beowulf’s story, came when a reader who had read The Serpent Sword contacted me and asked the question, “Is the sword in the novel the Hrunting?” Now, the truth of the matter was that I had wanted to use a real name for the famed sword in my novel and found such names were few. There are others, and it was also tempting to create a name for the sword, but in the end, I picked the name of one of the swords from Beowulf, liking the hint at the mythology of the blade, and the fact that it does not always serve its master well.

  But the question played on my mind. What if, I asked myself, it was the Hrunting? What if the sword was part of the inspiration for the poem of Beowulf? Perhaps the poem had been composed in Britain by a scop seeking to remind his people of their illustrious past. Could there be a way for me to tell the story without having to fall into the realms of fantasy, of dragons and ogres?

  I went on to write the third novel in the Bernicia Chronicles, Blood and Blade, but all the while, in the back of my mind the seeds of the tale that would become Kin of Cain were germinating.

  This novella is a fanciful imagining of events that could have perhaps sparked the muse in a fellow storyteller well over a thousand years ago. The people of the seventh century believed in monsters that stalked the night and prowled the lonely places of the wilds, the fens and the moors, so I do not think it is unlikely that if animals and people were killed in savage attacks with no witnesses, the murders would have been attributed to all sorts of dire and magical creatures. After all, think of the hysteria that gripped London during the Whitehall murders of the nineteenth century and of the various outlandish identities people dreamt up for the elusive Jack the Ripper.

  It doesn’t take a huge leap to imagine something like this occurring back in the sparsely populated countryside of Northumbria where perhaps, just perhaps, a poet might have been mulling over ideas for a saga about a warrior of renown who would become a great king. A man who would kill monsters and dragons and lead his people with honour. Perhaps the story and the character of “Beowulf” were not just figments of a bard’s imagination, maybe there really was a warrior who, back in the darkest reaches of the past, fought, and killed, the Kin of Cain.

  Acknowledgements

  As always, thanks must go first and foremost to you, dear reader, for picking up this book and reading it. I hope you have enjoyed it. If you have, please tell others about it, and if you want to be exceptionally nice, leave a short review on the online retailer of your choice. Reviews and ratings really help new readers to make a decision on whether to spend hours of their life reading a book, so online reviews truly make a difference.

  I must also thank James Webb, for asking me the question about Hrunt
ing that sparked my imagination.

  As usual, I gave the book to several test readers, so thanks to Gareth Jones, Graham Glendinning, Richard Ward, Shane Smart, Emmett Carter, Alex Forbes and Simon Blunsdon for reading early drafts and providing feedback. Their comments were, as ever, extremely useful in helping to polish the final version.

  I would like to thank my agent, Robin Wade, for his unwavering support and no-nonsense approach to publishing.

  Everyone in the Aria/Head of Zeus family has been great and I love being part of such a dedicated and talented team. Special thanks to Caroline Ridding, Nia Beynon, Yasemin Turan and Paul King.

  There are too many to mention here by name, but I must thank all the historical fiction authors and readers who always provide such great support online. The whole process of writing would be a lot more isolated and difficult without the camaraderie of so many friends from the huge virtual world of the Internet.

  And lastly, extra special thanks to my family, Elora, Iona and Maite, for all their love, encouragement and support and, of course, for putting up with me.

  About Matthew Harffy

  MATTHEW HARFFY has worked in the IT industry, where he spent all day writing and editing, just not the words that most interested him. Prior to that he worked in Spain as an English teacher and translator. Matthew lives in Wiltshire, England, with his wife and their two daughters. When not writing, or spending time with his family, Matthew sings in a band called Rock Dog.

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  About The Bernicia Chronicles

  The Bernicia Chronicles is a series of action-packed historical fiction books set against the backdrop of the clash between peoples and religions in Dark Ages Britain.