The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  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.

  He looked up into Edwin's eyes. He did not see humour there, only sadness and benevolence.

  All of a sudden, kneeling there, with all the eyes in the room on him, he knew what he must do. What would come next he did not know, but with a sudden clarity he was certain that all the events of the last months had been leading him to this moment. His wyrd had driven him forward through death and despair to this. He could not turn back. It was as if a beacon had been lit in his mind, shedding light into dark corners where he had never looked before. Without contemplating fully the consequences of his actions, before the light in his mind went out, allowing the shadows to come rushing back, Beobrand spoke.

  “If you think I will make a warrior, my lord Edwin,” he said, in a strong steady voice, that surprised everyone, including himself, “let me carry your shield into battle. Let me bear arms against your enemies and seek glory for you in all my endeavours. Let me serve you, as my brother served. What say you, lord, would you take me as your warrior?”

  Even the crackling of the fire seemed to still. The hounds appeared to pause in the gnawing of their scraps.

  Uncle Selwyn had recounted the oath sworn by warriors to lords, but Beobrand was unsure of the exact words. He continued as best he could, speaking into the silence. “I will to you be true and faithful. I will love what you love and shun what you shun and never displease you through deed or word.”

  The audacity of what he had done suddenly struck Beobrand. Seventeen-year-old farmers didn't walk up to kings and ask them to make them shield bearers in their warbands. The wrath of the king for such an affront would be terrible. He closed his eyes, cursing himself for a fool.

  After a moment he chanced a look at the king and saw that Edwin had thrown his head back and raised both his fists high in the air.

  He was going to smash those fists into him. He tensed, readying himself for the blow.

  Then he heard Edwin's deep laughter. The lord rocked back on his heels and guffawed. A few of the men in the hall laughed too, now that they saw the king's reaction.

  “By the bones of Christ, but you will be great one day!” Edwin tried to stifle his mirth. “You’ve got the bravery of a boar, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You make your father proud, and you are clearly Octa’s kin. Aye, I'll have you in my warband. I need all the stout hearts I can get! Now eat and drink, for you’ll be needing all your strength soon.”

  The hall was engulfed in a cacophony of cheering and laughter. The king sat down, placing his hand on his daughter's head. Eanflæd smiled at Beobrand. He rose shakily to his feet and walked back towards Hrothgar and the other Cantware men. Warriors he had never met slapped him on the back and shouted praise of his mettle as he walked by. He hardly knew what he was doing, his body was lighter than it should be. When he got to his countrymen, they made room for him and he sat down heavily, still in a daze at the turn of events.

  “Well, laddies,” Hrothgar shouted over the din in the hall, “looks like young Beobrand here is going to be a great warrior!”

  Beobrand's countrymen cheered and raised their drinks towards him. He had been elevated to the status of hero and they would revel in telling this tale when they returned to Cantware.

  For his part, Beobrand had no idea what to do, so he simply picked up a horn of mead and quaffed down its contents in three large gulps. Then, looking back at his friends, he forced a smile onto his lips.

  Inside, the empty feeling had been replaced with the cold, coiling-eel sensation of fear, and Beobrand felt like crying again.

  CHAPTER 2

  The next morning, Beobrand awoke with a pain in his head to rival that of his heart. The night was a blur to him. He recalled warrior after warrior coming up to toast his bravery and to give their condolences for his loss. Each man offered him mead or ale, so Beobrand drank more than many men twice his age could stomach. In the end he knew little of what was happening in the hall. Eventually, he had slouched in the corner, one of the dogs resting against his leg, and allowed the noise and warmth to smother him.

  The drink, while blunting his senses to the outside world, did little to assuage the terrible feeling of loneliness and despair that engulfed him. As the night drew on people began to leave him alone. Although he didn't weep again, his soul was ravaged by a pain he could hardly endure. All he could do was drink more, hoping that he would finally be able to forget where he was. Or perhaps even who he was.

  He vaguely remembered a bard singing of a great man who had killed a demon. Beobrand had tried to follow the story, to take his mind from his dejection. But in his addled state he couldn't focus. The intricate melodies the singer wove with his harp and beautiful voice became like the lilting sound of a flute, devoid of intelligible words. He never found out what became of the warrior in the song, because he fell into a fitful sleep.

  He sat up gingerly and looked around him. There was a slight chill in the air, the door to the hall had been opened to let in some light and freshen the place before the men broke their fast. The sun was already up and several slave women were sweeping the floor of the hall and readying the boards for the morning meal. There were a few other men sleeping under furs, blankets or cloaks in other parts of the hall, but most must already be up.

  Beobrand stood and noticed that some kind person had covered him with a blanket in the night. He rolled it up and set it on a bench and then decided that he had better get out of the hall quickly. The women would not welcome having to clean his dinner off of the floor.

  He hurried outside, feeling his gorge rise. His head spinning, he dashed round the side of the hall and leaned against the wall, retches racking his body.

  “Looks like you enjoyed a little too much of our lord Edwin’s mead, lad!” a jovial voice spoke from behind him. “A nice bit of porridge will do you good. Are you finished yet? Looks as if you’re going to puke your own puddings out!”

  When he was able to stand straight once more, Beobrand turned and looked at the man who had spoken. He was a giant of a man, with a full brown beard and receding hair. A long scar puckered the skin over his left eye.

  “You don't remember me, do you, lad?” the huge man asked. “I spoke to you last night, but I suppose you were in no state to pay attention. The name's Bassus. I was a friend of your brother's.”

  The fresh air and the fact that he had vomited up the contents of his stomach were making Beobrand feel a little better. His head still throbbed, but he thought he could walk without either puking or fainting.

  “You're a quiet one, I'll give you that,�
�� continued Bassus. “Come on, let's get some warm food in you, you're as pale as lamb's wool. You need to get your strength up if I'm going to make a fighting man out of you by sundown!”

  With this last disconcerting comment, Bassus placed a large hand on Beobrand's shoulder and steered him back into the hall where men were now gathering for the first meal of the day.

  The beach was pristine, washed clean by the storm the night before. A brisk wind came off of the sea, but the white banks of cloud on the horizon did not look like they carried more rain.

  Beobrand and Bassus walked down the steps from the fortress on the cliff and made their way towards the ships that were resting on their keels on the sand. There was a great amount of activity going on readying the two Cantware ships. Hrothgar and Swidhelm had both decided to take advantage of the fair weather and set out this morning. This announcement had caused the men from Cantware to curse and even now many complaints could be heard, as the men manhandled provisions and tied ropes, preparing the ships for sea. Despite the reticence of some of the crew members, who would have liked a few more days on shore before putting out to sea again, the work seemed to be proceeding at a fair pace.

  Beobrand walked in silence next to the massive warrior, thinking about his future and the decisions he had made. His life had changed in ways he could never have imagined only days before. His mind was clearer now. He had eaten some hot porridge and now, in the sunshine, with the cool breeze on his face, life didn't seem quite as terrible as it had the night before. There was still an ache deep down that threatened to surface at any moment, but he ignored it, casting his attention to problems at hand. His father would have been proud.

  Bassus in turn surveyed Beobrand. By the gods, he looked like his brother. Beobrand was not quite as fair-haired, not quite as tall and was less heavily-muscled than Octa. But a few months of training would soon see him beef up and turn into a real fighter, just like his older brother. He had that same easy gait and the piercing stare. He could see why Edwin had thought he would be a great warrior one day. To a thegn's eye, it was clear that this young farm boy had the makings of a killer within him. Bassus just hoped he could teach him enough to get him through the battle they would fight only days from now.

  He still couldn't quite believe that Octa was gone. From the moment they had first met they had become firm friends, despite Bassus being Octa's senior by some ten years. It was as if they were brothers. They had often joked about how similar their tastes were and frequently found themselves finishing each other’s thoughts. Now, with Octa dead, he felt as if he had lost a real brother.

  Over the morning meal, Beobrand had asked Bassus for more details of Octa’s death.

  “It is as you heard,” Bassus had replied, his face sombre. “He was found by fishermen on the rocks below the palisade.”

  Octa’s death had been an utter shock. Bassus could still see his body, smashed and broken by the fall from the lofty crag of Bebbanburg.

  “But why would he do something like that?” asked Beobrand. He couldn’t imagine his brother falling into such despair. But then, what did he know of his brother’s life? Three years was a long time.

  “He loved a girl called Elda,” Bassus had gazed into the freshly rekindled fire, lost in memory. “Her body was found after Octa. She had been killed. A savage murder.”

  He had not told the boy how she had been slashed and hacked into a mangled hunk of meat. As brutal a slaying as anyone had ever seen or heard of.

  “He killed her?” Beobrand had asked.

  “That is what people believe. That he killed her, and then killed himself.”

  “But you don’t?”

  Bassus had been silent for a long time. Elda and Octa had been lovers. Everyone knew this and so, with nothing to indicate otherwise, the obvious conclusion had been drawn — Octa had killed Elda and then leaped to his death.

  But none of that rang true. Octa had been passionate about Elda. They had courted for months. They were happy. They had talked of marriage. Even if Elda had committed some act of infidelity, Bassus knew that Octa would never have killed her. In battle he had been formidable, but he would not raise a hand against a woman.

  Edwin felt the same way, but with no witnesses and no evidence to the contrary, the obvious was the only explanation. He wondered whether they would ever find the truth of what had happened that night. Should wyrd bring answers, Bassus hoped that he would be there to avenge his friend’s death.

  “No, I do not,” he answered at last, “I think he was murdered. By the same man who killed Elda. But who that could be, or why, I do not know.”

  Beobrand clung to those words like a drowning man clutches to a piece of driftwood. He could not believe his brother was a murderer who had taken his own life. Better to believe he had been murdered.

  Who could his killer be? Beobrand looked over his shoulder, up at the fortress. Was he there? In Bebbanburg? Had he been in the hall last night? Had he spoken to him? He did not know who had slain Octa. No weregild would be paid for his death. If Beobrand found his brother’s killer, there was only one payment he would take.

  They were nearing the boats now and Bassus dropped the two shields he had slung over his back and thrust the two spears he was carrying into the sand. Beobrand turned to the huge warrior and spoke for the first time since they had left the hall.

  “I won't be long. I just want to say goodbye.”

  Bassus nodded. He sat down on the sand and looked out at the grey blue sea.

  Beobrand walked the short distance to the ships. Before he could shout a greeting to the Cantware men, several of them hailed him. A few stopped their chores to come to him and say their farewells. Most of the men were older than him and were rough and ready at the best of times, but there was a tenderness to them now that touched Beobrand. He was one of their own. They were leaving him behind to an uncertain fate and they were worried for him. They knew of his personal tragedies and hoped that he would find happiness in this northern kingdom. A few of the men gave him something to remember them by – a small leather purse from Anna, a bone-handled knife from Immin, and Hrothgar even gave him a whale tooth pendant, carved into the shape of Thunor’s hammer, that he had always worn round his neck.

  “May this bring you luck, young warrior,” he said, gruffly, and then, clearly not wishing to show too much emotion, he turned quickly and began to shout at the men who had stopped work. “Come on, you maggots. We haven't got all day and the tide waits for no man!”

  Some of the men waved to Beobrand and then went back to their tasks on the ships. Beobrand walked to Bassus. The massive thegn looked like a boulder on the beach. The two spears quivering in the sand beside him made Beobrand wonder how much he could learn about their use in only one day. He had said as much after they had eaten. In response to his doubts Bassus had replied, "Better to learn something, than nothing, lad!" Beobrand thought that advice could have been uttered by his father. In its pragmatism there was no argument to refute it.

  Beobrand had often practised weapon-play with Selwyn, but he had always favoured the sword. Ever since his uncle had taken them to see a smith forging a blade in Cantwareburh. The smith knew Selwyn and had been happy enough to explain to the boys what was required to forge a strong blade. He showed them how twisted rods of iron were heated until they glowed like the setting sun and then beaten together, until they became one. This process was repeated over and over, giving the blade its shimmering patterns and also its inner strength and flexibility. The more strands of iron welded together in this way, and the more different twists each rod had, the stronger and more beautiful the final blade.

  “Like the different stories that make up a man’s life. The more twists in each story, and the more stories that are beaten together by life’s adversities, the stronger the man,” Uncle Selwyn said. Beobrand had never forgotten that.

  Ever since that moment he had longed to own a sword like that. The blade had called to him.

  His uncle ha
d not allowed him to use his own fine sword, but he had crafted wooden practice weapons for his nephews, which they had used whenever they could get away from their duties. The spear seemed unwieldy and slow in comparison, and had never captured Beobrand’s imagination in the way that the long blade of the sword had.

  But he had no sword, and the shieldwall stood strong as a forest of spears. Now, with battle so close at hand, Beobrand wished he had devoted more time to learning the use of the ash-hafted spear.

  So, when Bassus raised his considerable bulk from the sand and threw a spear to him, Beobrand caught it and made himself ready to learn as much as he possibly could.

  This was the life he had chosen for himself. Battle-glory and death. Spear and shield.

  The next day they would march south with the fyrd, the host called upon to defend the land. In battle, he would have to kill. That was something that Bassus could not teach. Beobrand thought fleetingly of his father. He was sure he could kill.

  With thoughts of killing his mind returned to the man who had murdered Octa. He vowed silently that he would find him. And when he did, he would be ready. Ready to take payment.

  They spent the rest of the day practising the techniques needed by a warrior. Bassus concentrated on those skills that would best serve Beobrand in the shieldwall. He showed him how to hold a shield so that it would protect him and be easily brought to bear on different types of attack. Beobrand also learnt how to thrust with a spear effectively.

  “Don’t try to poke their eyes out, go for the legs and feet. A man will not be much trouble after he has a spear in his foot!”

  Bassus also showed him how to use a spear to pull a shield away from an enemy’s body.

  “You have to know what you’re doing, mind, and trust that your shield mate will help you, or else you leave yourself exposed.”