He sat up carefully. He felt dizzy at once and the jolt of pain in his chest made his vision blur. His breathing came in ragged gasps and he began to believe he wouldn’t be able to stand.
If I don’t get up, I’ll be as good as dead.
He felt the hard wet shaft of a spear under his hand and grasped it. With its help he managed to finally haul himself upright, but the effort caused him a wave of nausea and dizziness. He stood for a few moments, panting in the dark, the rain driving down. He trembled and it was all he could do to keep his teeth from chattering. He had no idea where he could go on foot in his condition, but it was clear to him that the best way to begin would be away from his enemies’ camp.
He was preparing to make a start when he heard voices raised in anger. They were very close by, only the dark and the rain had prevented him from being discovered. He stood still and tried not to breathe. The voices had been lowered and he could not make out where they had come from. Suddenly, seemingly right next to him, Beobrand heard the voices talking in loud whispers.
“I tell you I saw it first! And it was my idea to take it.” The voice was gruff, yet whining.
“But you got that cloak clasp too. It’s not right and you know it. If we didn’t have to be quiet about it, I’d break your jaw, you whoreson!” The second voice was deeper and more melodious, but the owner was obviously furious.
Beobrand remained motionless. He could hear the two men whispering as they moved past him, but he could make out no more of what they said. When he could no longer hear them, he waited a few heartbeats more and then made off away from the camp and also in a different direction to the two men. He remembered that the fen rose into heath land a few hundred paces in the direction he guessed he was going. He also recalled the forest crowning the heather-covered hill. He decided to make for the shelter of the trees.
It took him a long time to reach the trees. It had stopped raining and the clouds began to blow apart. A cold wind from the north rustled the heather and the leaves of the oaks. Beobrand had hoped that movement would relieve the pain in his chest and clear his head, but this was not the case. His head reeled with every step and his chest felt as if someone was stabbing him between the ribs with each breath. But he did not stop. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the wind chilling his sodden clothes. If he stopped now, with no fire and no shelter, he was bound to freeze in the night. He pushed on, staggering into the darkness under the trees.
It seemed warmer amongst the boles of the oaks and ashes. To Beobrand it sounded as if the forest was whispering to him, softly urging him to rest. His mind began to wander. He thought of Octa. He had not seen him for over three years and he would not see him again on this side of the afterlife. But his brother’s face was clear in his mind. He smiled and beckoned to Beobrand.
Other faces vied for his attention. His mother. Edita. Rheda. His father. All gone now.
He trudged on into the forest. Some part of his mind drove him forward, away from the battlefield. Away from death.
He had been fleeing death for months now. Perhaps his wyrd would see death catch up with him.
Walking on, staggering from one tree trunk to the next, he was not aware of where he was travelling, only that he must move onward.
His thoughts turned to the events of the last few days. He had learnt so many things, made new friends. And lost so much. What had happened to Tondberct in the crush of the shieldwall? Had Bassus survived the battle?
Without realising what he was doing, he sat down with his back to a gnarled old oak. His vision clouded and memories he had fought to forget crashed in.
Spark-spattered smoke billowing into the night sky, carrying his father’s spirit with it. The flames had caught quickly in the dry thatch of the house. The beams had groaned and moaned. The heat soon became unbearable and he had turned his back on his burning home.
He had turned away from his past and walked down to the coast, to find a ship to carry him northward, to his future.
As his injuries pulled him down into darkness, his mother’s voice whispered in his mind, “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…”
Later, in the stillest, darkest part of the night, a badger passed close by. It sniffed the man curled up by the moss-covered tree and then went upon its way.
No other living thing came close to the wounded warrior until dawn.
CHAPTER 5
It had been a bad day for Coenred. He had first woken to find that he had overslept and missed the Vigils. Abbot Fearghas had made him scrub the chapel floor before Matins as a punishment. After that, the day just seemed to get worse.
At Matins he had forgotten a prayer and Abbot Fearghas had given him one of his looks. Since being orphaned two years before, Coenred had been at the monastery of Engelmynster. He tried hard to learn, but he was not the best of students. He received rather more of Abbot Fearghas’ looks than he would have liked. And the looks were usually followed by strict punishments. This time was no exception, and after Matins Fearghas tottered up to him.
“You will think about the prayer you have forgotten whilst you are fetching firewood. You may return to break your fast when you have forty faggots of a good size.”
Coenred bit back the answer that he wanted to blurt out. He had learnt that his quick retorts to Abbot Fearghas’ reprimands were not welcomed, and only made the penance more severe.
“Yes, Father”, he said meekly, but as he turned away, he could feel the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. It would take him ages to collect that much wood and he was ravenous.
When he left to head for the forest, his spirits sank even further. It was raining heavily and the ground was a quagmire. Soon, both Coenred and the donkey pulling the small cart were plastered with mud and panting at the climb up into the forest that overshadowed Engelmynster.
By the time they reached the edge of the wood the sky in the east was turning a watery grey. The rain had stopped, but heavy clouds filled the sky. It looked like it would rain again before he was finished cutting the firewood. He was glad that dawn had arrived though. He was loth to enter the dark forest during the night. Even now, very little light filtered through the rain-laden clouds, and still less penetrated the gloomy interior of the wood.
Coenred hesitated. People told tales of goblins and elves being seen in the woods. Abbot Fearghas had told him not to fear evil spirits, as God would watch over him and protect him. That was easy for Abbot Fearghas to say – he never ventured into the forest alone in the rain to cut firewood.
Coenred tried not to be frightened. But he could not stop imagining malicious creatures of the forest lurking just out of sight. The boles of the trees were grey in the dim light, the colour of dead flesh. Rainwater dripped from the limbs, echoing eerily. He began to recite the Pater Noster in a hushed whisper. He couldn’t go back empty-handed just because he was scared. He would be beaten, not only for not bringing back the wood, but also for lack of faith.
He began to move slowly into the gloom, towards the small glade where the monks cut their firewood. After he had walked a short distance the donkey pulled up to a halt. He tugged the harness but the animal refused to move. Its ears were flat against its head, its nostrils flared. Coenred gently patted the donkey’s neck, trying to soothe it. The animal’s obvious fear did nothing to reassure Coenred and he looked around nervously, trying to spot what had frightened the beast. He thought he caught a glimpse of something shining through the trees. He moved closer, not breathing. The donkey stood where he left it, quivering silently.
As Coenred edged a little closer to whatever he had seen through the trees, he became aware of a sound. He stopped moving and listened. He could barely make out a low moaning. It was possible that words were being spoken in a hushed voice, but Coenred could not be sure. He realised he was shaking uncontrollably. Surely this was the sound of an elf placing a curse on him or some evil spirit chanting to the elder gods of the forest. He was on the verge of turning to flee when the part of
him that led him to imagine phantoms and elves in every shadow lost the battle with the part that couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing what was lying just out of sight. His vivid imagination lost to his insatiable curiosity.
Still trembling, ready to run if his worst fears proved correct, Coenred looked out from behind the tree that was shielding him from whatever was moaning in the darkness.
At first he wasn’t sure what it was that was making the sound. In the poor light he could only see a dark lump at the bottom of a tree. As he peered at it, he became aware of details. The glimmer he had seen was the leaf-shaped point of a war spear, propped against the tree trunk. The lump was the huddled form of a man, partially covered by a round shield, the boss of which was dull in the darkness. He began to make out words now in the sounds that the man was making. He didn’t seem to be making any sense and Coenred thought that he must be talking in his sleep. Suddenly, the warrior screamed out, slumped to one side and lay still.
Coenred spat involuntarily in an effort to ward off evil spirits and then quickly crossed himself. He found it hard to abandon the old traditions, despite the number of times Abbot Fearghas had punished him for his pagan ways.
He waited. The man was silent, so he decided to move closer to the prostrate form. He took a few steps, half expecting the stranger to suddenly leap up and confront him. The closer he got, the less likely that appeared. The man seemed unconscious, not asleep. A few steps more convinced him that the warrior was not going to cause him harm. His breathing was shallow and feverish, his face a mess of caked dried blood and mud. His left eye was so horribly swollen that it looked as though a plover had laid an egg in his eye socket, and there was a deep gash on his temple. The shield boss, which had at first appeared rusty and tarnished, was in fact smeared with dark liquid, now dry and crusted. Whether the warrior’s blood or his foe’s Coenred wasn’t sure.
Apart from the shield and the spear, there was little to indicate that the man was a warrior, except perhaps for his size. He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his clothes – a simple kirtle and trousers - were those of a ceorl, a commoner, not a thegn.
The donkey moved restlessly behind Coenred, startling him. He would have to make a decision about what to do. He could run back to the monastery and tell Abbot Fearghas what he had found. That would be the easiest option and he’d get away from danger quickly. But the stranger was obviously very sick. If he went back now, leaving the man in the chill damp morning, he was bound to get worse. He might well die. Brother Sebbi had been struck dead by a fever only last month and he hadn't looked half as ill. But what would happen if the man got well and then caused them harm? Coenred fretted. The stranger was a man of war and he looked strong enough to do considerable damage if he were fit.
Then Coenred recalled the tale Jesu had told of the Samaritan who had helped his enemy. It didn't matter who this man was - he was in need of help and God had seen fit to place Coenred in a position to aid him. He may have overslept and forgotten his prayers, but this was a trial he would not fail.
With new resolve, Coenred went to the fallen man and tried to lift him. He couldn't move him to start with, but after a few attempts, the man's right eye flickered open. It was a pale blue, but glazed with pain and fever.
“I can't lift you. You'll have to help”, said Coenred, hoping the man would understand.
The wounded man didn't reply, but shut his eye again and let out a sigh. Coenred thought that he had lapsed back into unconsciousness, but a moment later the warrior gripped Coenred's arm.
With a lot of help, the stranger managed to get to his feet. He was in great pain and rested much of his weight on Coenred's shoulder. With difficulty Coenred guided him to the cart where the man collapsed. He had used the last of his strength and he didn't even groan when Coenred lifted his legs into the cart.
Beobrand awoke slowly.
Recently, he seemed to always be waking up feeling terrible and this was no exception.
He could feel something pressing on his face. His chest felt tight and ached with each breath. He tried to open his eyes, but found that something prevented him. He reached up and found a damp bandage was wrapped around his face, covering both his eyes. As his fingers brushed the left side of the bandage, an acute pain flared in his eye and head. He gingerly made a move to remove the bandage but a voice from the darkness stopped him.
“Don’t take off the bandage,” said an anxious voice. “Alric says you’ll go blind if you do.”
Beobrand let his arm fall by his side, he had no desire to live life as a blind man. The voice that had spoken was young, that of a boy.
“Who are you and where am I?” Beobrand’s voice croaked in his dry throat.
“Here, have some water,” the boy replied and Beobrand felt a hand behind his head and a cup brush his lips. He swallowed a little of the cool water and let his head rest back on what he guessed was a straw mattress.
“Thank you,” Beobrand said and then repeated, “Where am I?”
“Engelmynster. I found you in the woods, nearer to death than life. My name’s Coenred.”
“How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days. Your fever broke yesterday and Alric said that you would probably live, with God’s will. I prayed for you every day, as Abbot Fearghas told me to do.” Coenred seemed pleased with himself.
“Thank you.”
“Whose side were you on? In the battle? Edwin’s?”
“That much should be clear…,” answered Beobrand, feeling weak and empty, the sarcasm jagged in his voice. “Is there anything I can eat?”
“Of course. Sorry,” stammered Coenred. “I’ll fetch you some broth.”
Beobrand heard him stand up, move away from him and then pause.
“What is your name?” Coenred asked from some distance away.
“Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”
There was a pause, and then he heard Coenred leave the room.
Beobrand lay there. He was unable to look around, so he looked inside himself.
Where would he go now? Was he blind? A despair as dark as a winter night filled his soul. Why had he not died? To live as a cripple, depending on others’ pity for food and shelter was worse than death. Why had Octa died leaving him alone in this northern kingdom? He thought of his father and the burning house back in Hithe. Had his actions offended the gods so, that they would leave him in a state of living death? Was that his wyrd?
He heard someone returning to the room. Coenred’s voice brought him back to more mundane matters. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach first among them.
Coenred helped him to prop himself against the wall behind the mattress where he was lying. The pain of moving made Beobrand cry out.
“You have some broken ribs,” Coenred explained, “but they are bound tightly and should heal well.”
As soon as he sat still, the pain subsided. Coenred helped him to drink the warm broth he had brought.
As he fed him, a spoonful at a time, Coenred talked incessantly. Beobrand didn’t mind listening. Coenred’s voice was pleasant and strong and although he talked with the enthusiasm of a boy about all manner of things, he did not prattle. Beobrand could sense the intelligence behind the voice and was pleased to be able to use Coenred’s descriptions of the foibles of the different monks and members of the community to keep his own dark thoughts at bay.
After he had finished the soup, Beobrand asked about the aftermath of the battle at Elmet.
“I don’t know much,” said Coenred. “A pedlar came through yesterday and said he’d heard that Edwin and his son had been killed. Most of his warhost too.”
“Have no other Northumbrian survivors come this way?” asked Beobrand.
“No, you are the only one.”
Beobrand wondered what had befallen his new friends. Bassus had seemed invincible. Yet so had Edwin, and he had not survived the battle. Tondberct was probably dead too. He had got on well with the light-hearted young warrior, but if Edwi
n had died could Tondberct have surpassed the trials of battle? Beobrand mourned the loss of the possible future friendship they could have had.
Everyone he had ever cared about, or who had shown him any kindness was dead. He must be cursed.
Darkness was imposed upon him by the bandage over his eyes, and darkness threatened to engulf him from within. Behind the bandage his eyes filled with tears, but they soaked into the cloth and none reached his face. He was glad that Coenred could not see him weep. He was tired of his own weakness, yet he was helpless to stop the tears.
“You should rest now,” Coenred said, standing up.
The boy was right. He was exhausted. Both his body and mind had suffered terribly. He lay down carefully, trying to avoid jarring his ribs or his eye. He heard Coenred mutter something about returning later to check on him.
Beobrand lay on the lumpy mattress, images flapping at his inner eye like ravens’ wings. He was sure he would not be able to sleep. Too many black fears assaulted him. However, a few moments later, his breathing became rhythmic and he fell into a sleep without dreams.
He awoke suddenly.
For a few heartbeats he was unsure what had woken him. He did not know whether it was day or night. The air he breathed in felt cold and his body was stiff from inactivity. He lay still, listening. Footsteps rushing over wooden boards. Muffled whispers, urgent and sibilant in the dark. By the gods, how he wished he could see. He was helpless. Blind and powerless against the threats in the darkness. He sat up as quickly as he could. In the distance a man shouted something angrily. A dog barked. Then there was a scream.
Beobrand needed no more signals. All was not right. His life was in danger. Moving his hand to the bandage around his head, he tentatively tweaked the cloth up to uncover his uninjured, right eye. Before he had moved the bandage more than a hair’s breadth, he heard someone enter the room. He stiffened, ready to pull the bandage off. He would not be killed by an unseen assailant.
The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) Page 6
