The terrain had gone from forest to rolling hills of scrubby grassland. They travelled past the great Wall. Beobrand had seen it before when travelling with Edwin’s host to Elmet and had questioned Bassus about it. “It cuts the land from east to west,” Bassus said. Beobrand thought there could be no way such a huge thing could exist, but it disappeared into the distance in each direction and Bassus seemed serious.
“Who could have built such a wall?” Leofwine had asked as they made their way through a gap in the Wall, amazed at the scale of the stone edifice.
“The same people who made that angel floor back at Engelmynster, I’d imagine,” Bassus had answered. “Some say they were giants, but they were just men from a land far to the south. They built the road we’re walking on too, I’d wager.”
“I wonder what happened to them,” Leofwine had pondered.
That night sitting by the campfire, Leofwine told a tale of giants building mountains and fighting each other, throwing rocks across the sea from one island to another. The tale made the men laugh, but Beobrand awoke in the night, shivering, when thunder rolled in the distance, convinced that the giants who had made the Wall were returning.
The weather had been mild on the journey, but the people of the land were still afraid after the harsh winter of roving bands of brigands and Cadwallon’s forces marauding with impunity. Often, when they approached houses, they found them empty, the occupants having fled. Once they found a cow lowing pitifully. Its udders were painfully full of milk, so Beobrand, who had worked the land in Cantware since he was a tiny boy, milked it into a wooden pot they found in the abandoned house. The cow quietened and the men all had a drink of fresh warm milk. As they left the cow and house behind, Bassus placed a clipped half of a small golden coin inside the empty pot.
This pattern was repeated whenever they stopped at a dwelling for food. Whether they took something from an empty house, or were fed by bolder inhabitants of some of the villages on their way, Bassus always paid for their provisions, either in coin, or in some form of labour. At one homestead, the men helped chop firewood, at another, they carried water up from the nearby stream. The lord of one hall had accepted Leofwine’s singing as payment for food and lodging for the night. Leofwine had told again the story of Beobrand’s victory over Hengist. Beobrand was embarrassed and proud in equal measure as all eyes had turned to him.
How different it was to travel in this way, thought Beobrand. Paying your way instead of taking what you desired by force. People still feared them. They were armed warriors, after all. But the look in their eyes held something else too: respect.
As they stood now in front of the great hall of Gefrin, it was not respect, but amused disdain they saw in the eyes of the warriors flanking the door.
“What do you want?” enquired the shorter of the two. He was heavyset and had a round, almost soft face, but the silver rings on his arms denoted him as a warrior of some renown. “You with those others, from Cantware?”
“We are travelling with them, yes,” answered Beobrand. “We also wish to have an audience with the king.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” sneered the thickset man. “Well, we’ll see about that. What’s it worth, boy?”
Beobrand was nonplussed. He felt his face redden. The man was treating them with contempt, as if they were nothing more than children. Beobrand dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword and the two guards stiffened.
Before anyone could make a move, a tall man approached them from the other side of the great hall. “There you are, boys! What took you so long? You didn’t stop to sample the local lasses already, did you?” It was Gram, one of the men who had travelled from Cantware with Bassus. He was about ten years older than Beobrand, almost as tall as Bassus, but leaner. He flashed his quick smile at the two guards, assessing the situation instantly.
“Don’t kill these two, lads. They’re not ripe yet!”
The shorter guard, laughed. The other one smiled in return to Gram’s amused grin. All the tension vanished.
“Why don’t you boys come and help me brush down the horses and get them stabled? Bassus is inside talking to the king and the likes of us will have to wait until we’re invited in.” He put his arm around Beobrand’s shoulders and led him away around the side of the hall towards the other buildings there. Leofwine followed.
When they were out of earshot of the guards, Gram whispered, “You need to be careful of your quick temper. When I first saw you, you were doing your best to anger king Edwin in his hall at Bebbanburg. The next time I saw you, you were knee-deep in mud and slugging it out with none other than Hengist, one of the scariest sons of a whore I’ve ever seen fight. And now you’ve been on your own for no time and you are almost coming to blows with the door wards of King Eanfrith’s great hall! I’ve seen you with a blade, and you have some skills, but you won’t live long if you carry on like this.”
“He’s right, Beobrand,” said Leofwine, as they reached the horses. “The man was clearly a buffoon, but he didn’t get those arm rings by playing a tafl game.”
Beobrand knew they were both right. It worried him how easily he was ready to fight somebody. He had no qualms with fighting when it was necessary, but he would be stupid to get himself injured or killed over a petty offence.
His hands were shaking as he reached out to take the brush Gram proffered to him. Leofwine pretended not to notice. He shrugged off his pack and began helping with the other horses.
Beobrand felt his nerves settle as he rubbed the horse’s flank, the rhythm and rasp of the motion calming both him and the mount.
He took deep breaths, the scent of the horse and leather enveloping him. He walked around the horse to brush the other side. From this vantage point he could look down the road and make out the roof of the forge, nestling beside the large tree where they had spoken to Strang and his daughter, Sunniva. Beobrand thought of how her hair had glowed in the sunlight.
Leofwine cast a sidelong look at his friend. It was obvious where Beobrand’s gaze was directed. Leofwine smiled in the knowledge that he had been right to joke about him falling for the blacksmith’s daughter.
This time though, he chose to keep his thoughts to himself.
CHAPTER 13
The great hall was almost as noisy in the early morning as it had been the night before.
Beobrand winced as one of the women cleaning the hall broke into song. Her voice was not pleasing to the ear and several groans came from different parts of the hall where others had slept following the feasting.
“Well, if you don’t like my singing, be off with you,” shrieked the woman, in a voice that would easily have cut through the clamour on a battlefield. There were more groans, followed by movement, as men shook themselves awake and staggered to get away from the cacophonous crone. She laughed at their discomfiture.
“You should have thought about this morning last night.” She continued to mutter to herself about men and their lack of thought for the consequences of their actions. From time to time she let out another screeching line of song in counterpoint to her murmuring. All the while she swept, cleaned, moved furniture and told the younger women what to do.
“By all the angels in heaven, what unearthly creature from the underworld is abroad in this hall?” Leofwine sat up, all bleary eyes and dishevelled hair. His voice was hoarse from the strenuous singing he’d done to entertain all those present at the feast. The singing had paid off. Eanfrith had seen that Leofwine had talent and had asked him if he would join his retinue as the royal scop. The king was conscious that he had returned from exile after many years and that he needed all the help he could get to bolster his position. Having a singer and storyteller at one’s disposal was a great opportunity. Eanfrith of Bernicia’s exploits would be told around the hearths in the great hall and in the other royal villas as the king and his retinue travelled throughout the kingdom. All his subjects would hear of his prowess in battle and others would pick up the tales, retelling them in all cor
ners of Bernicia and beyond.
Leofwine was overjoyed. They had only arrived in Gefrin the previous day and he had already found patronage from the king himself. His happiness had led him to a heightened amount of exuberance, which only made the king more pleased in his choice of bard. Leofwine had celebrated with abandon, but now, as the old slave woman cleaning the hall indicated, he was regretting his excesses.
He got up shakily and made his way outside.
Beobrand smiled to himself at the sight of Leofwine stumbling from the hall. He was pleased for his friend’s success, but he was not jubilant about his own prospects in the court of this new king of Bernicia. He had naively expected Eanfrith to simply accept him into his warband, as if carrying a sword at his side was proof enough of his abilities. He thought how ridiculous it was that only a few months before he had been a farm boy and now he imagined it was his right to enter the service of a king as a warrior. Bassus had done his best to give Eanfrith a good impression of Beobrand, but as he recounted his exploits, it had become apparent that Beobrand had fought on Edwin’s side in the battle of Elmet. Eanfrith’s face had darkened and his interest in Beobrand had waned. He wanted warriors he could trust to be loyal to him.
Later, as the mead flowed, Leofwine recounted the heavily-embellished tale of Beobrand’s defeat of Hengist and many turned to look at the young Cantware man with new respect. Beobrand had surveyed the room and noticed the king looking at him through the fug of the great hall. Eanfrith had met his eyes and seemed to smile slightly. He had raised his drinking cup in a silent toast to Beobrand. Beobrand wasn’t sure if it had been sincere or in jest, but he had raised his drinking horn in reply and then drained its contents. When he had looked back at the king, Eanfrith was deep in conversation with the silver-haired thegn sitting at his left.
He stretched and walked stiffly from the great hall. He mulled over all of the events of the previous night and was unsure what he should do next. He had not drunk as much as many, but his head was still muzzy. He decided to walk down to the river that ran near the township. The air would clear his head and at the river he could get a drink and splash some water on his face to wash away the sleep that still clung to him like cobwebs.
It was going to be another bright and warm day, but it was still early and there was a slight bite in the air. The peak of the huge hill on the west of Gefrin caught the morning sun. The hill to the east was in shadow. The river was enshrined in a gossamer cloak of mist. As he walked he realised he would pass in front of the forge. His heart quickened at the thought of seeing Sunniva again.
He picked up his pace, hoping for a glimpse of her working with her father. He toyed with the possibility that she might be out walking on the path too, away from her father’s cloying protectiveness. They could meet and talk freely. Talk of what? He knew nothing of the girl, and she was probably uninterested in him.
As he drew close to the forge he heard the ringing sound of metal on metal. When the shaded work area of the forge was in sight, he could make out the imposing figure of Strang, bent over the anvil beating red hot metal with a heavy hammer. As he watched, the smith picked up the metal he was working on, inspected it closely for a moment, and then plunged it into the charcoal embers of the fiercely hot forge fire. There was no sign of Sunniva.
Strang looked up and caught Beobrand’s eye.
Beobrand quickly turned away, focusing his attention back to the path and the river ahead.
When Beobrand arrived at the river, the mist that had veiled it from afar was already beginning to burn off as the sun rose in the sky. Thin wisps clung to the shaded areas, where trees overhung the water. He walked down to the water’s edge, feet crunching on the smooth pebbles and looked around. Gefrin was awake and there were several people in sight, going about their everyday business.
In the distance, cattle were lowing in the large fenced off area where all the livestock of the town was kept. A cart, pulled by an ox, was being driven by a short, swarthy man towards the river crossing. The ox was labouring under the weight as the path went slightly uphill before it dropped down toward the ford, and the man beat the beast mercilessly on the back with a long, supple stick of birch.
In the other direction, back towards the great hall, the smoke from many cooking fires hazed the air, casting a pall in the sky over the town. A boy chased a group of geese down the road towards the river, waving his arms and whooping. The geese protested noisily, honking and flapping their wings as they waddled to keep ahead of the boy.
Beobrand turned and walked along the river bank, away from the path, upstream to where the water would be clean of any of the waste from the people and animals of Gefrin. There were trees and bushes along the banks, which meant that from time to time he had to move away from the water’s edge, but they would provide some cover from any prying townsfolk. Beobrand wasn’t overly concerned if someone saw him bathing, but he would prefer some privacy if possible.
After some time, he found a gap between two trees which provided some shelter and also a gentle slope down to the water. He pulled off his kirtle and hung it over a low branch. He had no weapons to worry about, having left his sword and spear back at the great hall. He had handed them to the king’s door wards the previous evening before the feast. He was not one of Eanfrith’s trusted companions and was therefore not permitted to carry arms inside the hall. Bassus, Gram and the others had also relinquished their weapons, accepting that the hospitality of their host would only stretch so far.
He knelt by the water and scooped up a double-handful, splashing it onto his face. It was icy and it made him gasp. He repeated the process, enjoying the tingling sensation that the water left on his skin. He sat back and checked his most recent wounds. They were healing well, but his side was still tight, and the scar was a vivid red. It remained tender to the touch.
As he looked up again, just about to reach into the water for a drink, he noticed something floating in the water. It was a leather bucket and it circled slowly in the current as it drifted towards his position. He could see that he would not be able to reach the bucket from the bank, so he quickly pulled off his shoes and stepped into the water. He waded out towards the deeper, colder water at the middle of the river. The water came up to his thighs in a couple of steps. From here, he was easily able to reach out and snag the bucket as it reached him.
He waded back to the shallows and hauled himself up onto the bank. Whose bucket could it be? It might have floated from another village altogether. That was when he heard the girl’s voice, raised in anger.
“By Thunor’s balls!”
The expletive came from upstream, but didn’t sound very far away. Beobrand leapt up, suddenly wishing he had thought to retrieve his weapons before leaving the safety of the hall. For a moment he thought of the cold, dark forest clearing where another girl’s screams had split the night’s silence. Then, without pausing for more thought, he ran in the direction of the noise.
He leapt over a fallen branch, and skidded to a halt when he saw the source of the commotion.
Sunniva had her back to him, but he recognised the curve of her neck and the spun-gold brilliance of her hair. She was leaning over the river, looking downstream. He supposed she was trying to see where her bucket had gone. She continued to shout curses that would make hardened warriors blush.
Beobrand watched her for a moment, enjoying the scene and learning some new insults.
When she paused for breath, he cleared his throat. “Looking for this?” He held out the bucket.
She spun around, instantly on the defensive. He smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “I’ve never heard anyone swear like you before. And I’ve been in battle and sailed aboard a ship.”
“Well, I dropped the bucket,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. Her cheeks were coloured, whether from the exertion of shouting abuse at the errant receptacle, or from being overheard by him, Beobrand could not tell.
“I rescued it for you,” he said, proff
ering the bucket to her again.
She stepped closer and took it from him. “Thank you,” she said, then, looking down at his dripping trousers, “You’re soaked. Did you jump into the river to get it?”
He smiled sheepishly. “It seemed like the right thing to do.” He was suddenly acutely aware that his chest was bare. “I’d better go back and get my clothes and shoes,” he said, awkwardly.
“Wait,” she said. “Let me fill both the buckets and I’ll come with you. I have to take the water back to my father. He’ll be wondering where I have got to anyway.”
She stooped, picked up both the bucket Beobrand had retrieved from the water and another one that had been resting at her feet, and dipped them into the river. When they were full, she stood, balancing the load with one bucket in each hand.
“Let me help you,” Beobrand said. She didn’t protest as he took one bucket from her. Their fingers brushed and he felt his stomach flutter. He could sense her gazing intently at his muscled torso as he walked in front of her to where he’d left his clothes.
He sat to pull on his shoes and flinched slightly as he stretched to pull on his tunic.
“Those scars look new,” she remarked. “And painful. How did you get them?”
“You’ll have to ask my friend, Leofwine, to tell you the story. It sounds much more exciting when he tells it.” She laughed.
They walked back to the forge slowly. Each wanting the moment to last as long as possible.
“Where are you from? You speak strangely,” she said.
“You’re the second girl to say that to me in Bernicia,” he answered.
The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) Page 18
