The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1)

by Matthew Harffy

  When he had finished his meal, the woman collected the plate and mug and introduced herself. Her name was Wilda. When he made a move to raise himself from the bed she ordered him to lie back on the mattress and rest. Beobrand obeyed and Wilda went back to busying herself at the hearth.

  Beobrand spent the rest of the day in this way. He only got up to go outside to relieve himself, but was quickly and sternly told to get back to bed by his hostess as soon as he returned. Wilda didn’t talk much and Beobrand took pleasure in simply watching her work. She cleaned the trencher he had used, strained the fermented ale, removed the baked bread from the clay oven that was just outside the house, chopped carrots and cabbages for a stew. Later she sat at the loom. She did the things any woman did and watching her reminded him of his mother.

  In the late afternoon, he was visited briefly by the old monk, who introduced himself as Abbot Fearghas, and the bearded man, who turned out to be Alric, the man who had bandaged his ribs and eye. They asked him where he was from and what his plans were. Beobrand had no real answer for the second question, but understood that the prospect of feeding a man who could not work was not a welcome one for the modest community. Especially after having their stores plundered by the Waelisc. They didn’t dwell on the matter, but he sensed they were worried. How would they survive the winter with few supplies and without the protection of King Edwin? Beobrand assured them that he would move on as soon as he was able. This seemed to satisfy them and they made to leave shortly after, as Wilda, who was Alric's wife, told them that Beobrand needed his rest more than they needed to pester him.

  Before they left Beobrand had one question to ask them.

  “How is Coenred?”

  Abbot Fearghas turned at the doorway. “He is well enough, considering.” Then, after a pause, “Tata was his sister and his only living kin.”

  The words sent a pang of pain through Beobrand. He knew what it was to be orphaned and the despair of losing his siblings was still raw. His heart ached to think of the pain Coenred must be suffering.

  Fearghas moved closer again to Beobrand. “It is a good thing to be able to feel the pain of others. There is much good in you, young Beobrand.”

  Only then did Beobrand realise there were hot tears streaming down his right cheek. The bandage over his eye soaked up the tears on the left. He wasn’t good. There seemed to be no good left. The world had opened up to him and shown him what it really was - a dark, frightening place filled with unspeakable evil, fraught with dangers that a few months ago he could barely have imagined.

  And now he was responsible for a young girl’s death. Coenred had gone out of his way to help him. Had more than likely saved his life. And this was how he repaid such kindness. The gods had cursed him. Suddenly he was sure of it. Everyone who showed him tenderness died or suffered terrible consequences.

  The image of Tata’s pale, broken body flashed in his mind. He could not forget the pallor of her skin. The smears of blood. The blossom of bruises.

  If Coenred had protected his sister, instead of him, she would be alive now and Beobrand would have died. Perhaps he deserved death.

  “Do not blame yourself,” Abbot Fearghas spoke in his gentle, lilting voice, incisively understanding what was troubling Beobrand. “The Lord gives us life, and He takes it away when he sees fit. Coenred does not hold Tata's death against you.”

  Beobrand could not speak. He rolled onto his side and closed his good eye, but the tears kept flowing.

  The next days were spent in healing. The community of Engelmynster had suffered a terrible intrusion. One of its most beloved members had been violated and murdered. Coenred, whilst initially displaying his suffering more than the rest, had the resilience of youth and an ebullient nature that saw him begin to recover remarkably quickly. He began to visit Beobrand whenever he had time to spare.

  They could often be found sitting on logs in the lee of Alric and Wilda’s hut, talking about all manner of things. It was warm there next to the bread oven, out of the wind.

  “Tell me about Cantware,” said Coenred. “Is it the other side of the sea?” He gestured vaguely with his delicate hands, his fine fingers making the motion of waves.

  Beobrand smiled. Coenred’s hands seemed as flighty as his imagination and moved as much as his tongue. “No, it is to the south. A kingdom of this island of Albion.”

  “So we could walk there?”

  “I suppose we could. But it would be a long trek.”

  “How did your family die?” Coenred asked, changing the subject abruptly.

  Beobrand frowned, looking out over the buildings to the darkness of the forest beyond. He didn’t want to talk about his family, but he owed this boy his life and was responsible for the loss of his sister; he could not deny him. “The plague took my sisters and my mother.”

  “You said you had a brother too. What happened to him? And your father?”

  Beobrand was silent for a moment, before deciding to speak. “My brother, Octa, was one of King Edwin’s gesithas. He was murdered a few weeks before the battle of Elmet.”

  “Who killed him?” Coenred couldn’t keep the excited interest from his voice.

  “I don’t know,” said Beobrand. “But if I find out, I will kill him.”

  Coenred squirmed uneasily. “You could kill so easily?”

  Beobrand fixed him with his one, blood-shot eye. He remembered the men he had slain in the shieldwall, recalled the fire consuming his home. “As Woden is my witness, I could and I will.”

  He saw that he had shocked Coenred and was sorry for causing him more distress. But he would not lie to him. Life was harsh, as he well knew, and vengeance was the warrior’s way. He would not forgive as Coenred’s Christ taught.

  As Coenred's company helped keep his spirits out of the depths of despair, so Wilda and Alric’s care helped his body recover its strength and start to mend. Everyday Wilda saw to it that he was well-fed and, although she was not demonstrative, she treated him as well as either of her two sons, Leofwine and Wybert.

  Each evening, the family would eat together and afterwards Alric would check Beobrand’s bandages. He was pleased with the way the ribs were healing but would not let him uncover his left eye.

  “The poultice needs time to do its work,” he said, when Beobrand asked for how much longer he would need to have his eye covered. “The time to remove the bandage will come soon enough.”

  Often, after the evening meal, Leofwine would sing for them in his fine, strong voice. He knew many tales and songs, which he played on the lyre. His fingers were deft, nimbly picking out tunes in counterpoint to his voice. When he began singing it was never long before other families and some of the monks would appear in the doorway of Alric’s house. They would wait expectantly to be invited in, eager to listen to the stories of magic and heroes.

  Beobrand loved listening to Leofwine. He lost himself in the tales. He would close his good eye so as to better imagine the warriors and monsters the young man sang of. During those evenings, with the sound of Leofwine’s resonant voice washing over him, the heat of the fire on his face and the warm, comforting presence of Coenred, Alric, Wilda and the others around him, Beobrand began to feel he belonged. It was almost as if he had a family again.

  But then he would imagine himself in the battles of Leofwine’s stories, wearing bright metal armour and wielding a patterned sword that glittered as it slashed through his enemies.

  He had tasted battle, and as Bassus had said, some people found they revelled in it. The pain of defeat and loss had been awful. But as his wounds healed, the pain became remote, difficult to remember.

  He had gloried in the battle play. He relived the battle in his mind's eye, and he found he relished the moment when his spear had hit home, the instant his seax had sliced flesh. He wondered whether it was simply the ale and mead talking to him. But the next day, in the chill sunshine of late autumn, he watched Alric and his sons going about their chores – cutting wood, mending thatch, carry
ing water - and he could not see himself doing those menial tasks again.

  He had been a warrior, albeit only for a few days. He had carried spear and shield for a lord and had defeated foes in battle. He could not return to the life of a farmer that he had once known.

  When he was strong enough, Beobrand took the spear and shield that Coenred had found him with and went out to the edge of the clearing. There, by the river, shivering under the bite of a cold north wind, he began practising what Bassus had taught him. He pictured the huge warrior standing in front of him, as he had on the beach at Bebbanburg, urging him to push himself harder. Uncle Selwyn had never driven him so hard when teaching him with wooden blades. It had always seemed like a game. But Bassus had been adamant that he learn the ways of the spear; his life would depend on it in the shieldwall. But there had been little time to hone his skills. Now Beobrand was determined to strengthen the muscles he would need in future battles, and to improve the speed with which he could bring spear and shield to bear. He soon realised that no matter how much he wanted to train himself and build up his muscles, his wounds were nowhere close to fully-healed. His ribs began to hurt as soon as he lifted the shield and when he tried to raise it to block an imaginary foe, the pain was so acute that his vision blurred.

  He refused to be deterred. He unslung the shield and practised lunging with the spear. Each thrust caused him excruciating pain, but he did not give in. He carried on in this way for some time, before he heard someone approaching from the monastery. He turned, the sweat cooling on his face in the cutting breeze that shook the trees on the far side of the river.

  Coenred stood on the shingle beach. “Do you think you are strong enough to kill already?” he asked. His tone was harsh. He was clearly furious.

  Beobrand was out of breath. His panting caused his chest to burn with each intake of air. “I cannot afford not to be strong. I have been weak and I do not like the feeling.”

  “Well, I think you'd better leave off the training for today,” Coenred's voice softened. “Alric has tried to save that eye of yours, and I don't think he'll be too happy that you've made it bleed again!”

  Beobrand raised his hand to the bandage on his head. It was wet and when he looked at his fingertips, they were smudged red.

  Beobrand sighed. He was exhausted. Coenred was right. Losing his eye because he was angry at the world was pointless. He began to bend to pick up the shield, wincing from the pain.

  “I'll get it,” said Coenred. “You'll end up breaking your ribs again.” There was no ire or recrimination left in his voice, and he smiled as he retrieved the shield from the stony bank.

  Together, they made their way back to the buildings.

  That night, after Vespers, Coenred left the chapel and came to Alric’s house.

  Abbot Fearghas had been lenient with him since Tata’s death, allowing him to visit Beobrand frequently. He recognised that each young man's healing was aided by the company of the other. One night Coenred had even missed Compline, having been too engrossed in a debate about the merits of Christ over the old gods. When Coenred realised his fault, he was distraught, terrified of the punishment Abbot Fearghas would mete out. But when he had gone to the old monk, head hung in shame and penitence at his transgression, Fearghas simply told him to be more careful in future and bade him go to his bed. Coenred could hardly believe he had not been chastised. He wondered how long Abbot Fearghas would remain so tolerant towards him.

  He entered Alric’s house quietly and sat by Beobrand for some time, quietly listening to Leofwine recounting a story of a beast that came in the night and killed warriors in their beds. Outside, it had begun to rain, and Coenred was not looking forward to returning to his dormitory. He would get drenched and muddy on the way back. And the trees around the village loomed and quivered like the unholy monsters from Leofwine’s tale. If he had braved the elements simply to hear Leofwine, it would not have been worth it, but Coenred wanted to be near Beobrand. He knew his friend was getting restless but didn’t want him to leave. He had no family now. But this young, strong, quiet Cantware man was the only thing that partly filled the gap left by Tata’s death. Thinking of her brought the sting of tears to his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. Beobrand seemed tense. His jaw was set, and his blue eye was piercing in the smoky gloom. He had changed, as if he had made a decision.

  “Why do you want to kill?” Coenred asked suddenly, in a voice that only Beobrand could hear.

  Beobrand turned towards him. He didn’t seem surprised at the question. Coenred and he had become close and it was hard for them to hide their feelings from each other. “I do not want to rely on the gods or my wyrd to protect me or my own, so I must learn to fight. If I have to kill, then so be it.” He tensed, his hands balling into fists. “There are some who deserve death. If you could kill the men that -- ,” he hesitated, as if not wanting to say the words. They rarely spoke of Coenred’s sister; talk of her hurt him so. But Beobrand needed to explain how he felt and so forged ahead.

  “If you could kill the ones who killed her,” Beobrand continued, still not bringing himself to say her name, “wouldn't you do it?”

  Coenred sat in silence for a long time. He thought about his lovely sister and how she had looked after him when their mother had been unable to work and they had been turned out into the wilds. How she had laughed at his jokes, how they had cooked together, how she had done whatever was needed — unspeakable things with strangers that he had never asked about — so that her little brother had something to fill his belly. Later, once they had been rescued from that life and come to Engelmynster, she had joined him in learning about Christ. She had believed in the one God absolutely and loved the stories of Jesu, the Christ. She would often regale Coenred late into the night with tales from the Bible that she had heard told by the monks. He could not stop the tears now and he let them wash over his cheeks freely.

  Finally, Coenred turned his tear-streaked face towards his friend. “No, I wouldn’t.” And it was the truth. Tata would not have wanted more death, for that is not what Christ would have wanted.

  “That is the difference between you and me, Beo. I wasn't made for killing.”

  Coenred stood up quickly, and before Beobrand had a chance to reply, he left the house, disappearing into the dark, no longer afraid of what might lurk outside.

  The driving rain that soaked Coenred to the skin on the short walk back to his sleeping quarters made him wonder if God was crying too.

  After all the visitors had left, Leofwine wrapped his lyre carefully in a linen cloth and placed it in a leather-covered box. Once the instrument was safely hanging in its box from a peg above his cot, he returned to the fire and sat beside Beobrand.

  “What happened with Coenred?” Leofwine asked.

  Beobrand had been lost in his thoughts, almost dozing in the warm glow of the hearth. He stirred, turning his head towards Leofwine so he could see him with his uncovered eye.

  “He is angry with me,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “He thinks I am a killer.”

  “Aren’t you?” Leofwine cracked his knuckles, loosening his fingers from the strains of playing the lyre.

  Beobrand was silent for a while, staring into the flames.

  “Yes, I am,” he said at last. “And I will kill again to defend my loved ones. Or to avenge them.”

  “That is as it should be,” said Leofwine. “You are a warrior, even if it has not always been so. Yours is the arm that defends the people. Every person has his place. I help feed the animals, cut wood, plough the fields and harvest the crops, but those things are not what my wyrd has woven for me. My wyrd is to tell tales, play the lyre and sing. I am a scop in here.” He tapped his chest. “And here.” He touched his forehead. “And you are a warrior. That much is plain.”

  Beobrand remembered Edwin’s words back in Bebbanburg and nodded.

  “But your song is yet to be written, Beobrand. A warrior’s tale tells of his deeds. Wh
at he does with spear and shield, whether he serves his lord loyally. Where will your wyrd take you? What songs will be sung about you?”

  “I do not know.” Beobrand’s eye glittered. “My deeds have been far from song-worthy. I feel lost. Alone.”

  “You are not alone or lost. You have friends here. Coenred is a good boy and will be a true friend, if you let him. And he is not angry with you.”

  “No?”

  “He is worried for you. And for himself. He likes you and doesn’t want to lose you.”

  Beobrand frowned. Leofwine’s words rang true.

  From the shadowy recess of the hut where Leofwine’s parents slept, Alric said, “Can you two stop wittering like good-wives and go to sleep? Some of us need to be up with the dawn for the milking. And that means you, Leofwine. Perhaps you can think up a song about the kine while you are at it.” Leofwine’s brother, Wybert, chortled from his cot.

  “You see, Beobrand. We are both misunderstood. Normal people do not understand our brilliance.” His teeth shone bright in the firelight. “But we’ll show them, won’t we? What deeds you’ll perform and what tales I’ll sing!”

  He stood and slapped Beobrand on the shoulder. “But first it seems, I must sleep if I am to have the strength to deal with cantankerous beasts in the early morning darkness.”

  A few days later Alric walked up to Beobrand where he was sitting on a log outside the house. It was an unseasonably warm day and Beobrand was sweating, his hair plastered to his forehead. He was helping Wybert prepare firewood. Wybert used a large axe to split logs and then tossed the smaller pieces of wood to Beobrand who chopped them into kindling with a hand axe. Beobrand had tried wielding the two-handed axe himself, but quickly regretted the decision as the pain in his left side flared up. Wybert had laughed at him and Beobrand had felt his temper rising. He didn't much like Wybert, who was the antithesis of his brother. Where Leofwine was sensitive, artistic and charismatic, Wybert was surly and crude.