The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (10 page)

Hesitantly, Beobrand and Coenred entered the building. They strained to see in the gloom. The interior was as silent as a burial mound. As their eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, they made out a shape on the altar at the end of the hall. They moved slowly forward, drawn towards the shape. Beobrand did not wish to believe what it was, yet he was already certain. He walked past the broken pottery and ripped sacks that were strewn on the ground, hardly noticing them. Beobrand did not heed the fabulously intricate design of a man’s face in small tiles on the floor. His eyes were held in the inexorable grasp of the unthinkable form on the altar.

When they were close enough he saw the true horror. The pale skin of the blood-stained thighs. The teeth-shaped bruises on the breasts. The tongue, lolling from the blue-lipped mouth. And those sightless eyes. Staring, staring, in imploring silence.

He wished he had trusted his instincts and turned away. This was a sight he would never forget. It would haunt his dreams. Its gory vividness seared into his mind.

Beobrand did not know the young woman who lay like an animal carcass ready for butchering, but he shuddered to think of how she must have suffered. Coenred let out a cry on seeing the girl and fell to the ground. He buried his head in his arms and wailed. Beobrand, now without support, staggered. He stumbled to the side of the hall, and leaned against the wall.

He wanted to avert his eyes from the body of the girl, but some perverse fascination drew his gaze back. He shouldn’t look, he knew, but he was powerless to stop. He felt sordid, shameful.

Coenred’s sobs filled the chapel. “Tata! Tata!” he cried. Beobrand didn’t know how to console him. His own recent losses seemed to have inured him to the sorrows of others. He just wanted fresh air. To be away from the milky white flesh of the slaughtered girl. Using the wall for support he made his way out of the building and left Coenred alone with the corpse and his grief.

He stepped out into the watery light of the afternoon and pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. It was cold, and they would need a fire soon, and food. He looked in the direction of some of the living quarters. Did the houses contain similar gory secrets to the chapel? He wasn’t strong enough to enter any dwelling yet, not alone. When Coenred had calmed himself they could go in search of clothes and food. Maybe get a fire going. But for now he would just sit and wait.

He had been sitting with his back propped against the door frame for a short while when he sensed a presence nearby. He looked up, afraid that the Waelisc had returned. Perhaps they had feigned leaving in order to lure people from hiding. The man standing over him leaned down and said in a soft, unusually accented voice, “Do not fear, my child.” Beobrand had been avoiding looking in the direction of the dog and the sound of Coenred crying must have covered any noise the man made when he approached, but his sudden appearance was unnerving. The man was old, with thinning grey hair and intelligent, sad eyes. Beobrand tried to stand, but pain coursed through his chest and his vision blurred. The old man put a gentle hand on his head, bidding him to stay seated.

“Jesu be praised that you have been spared,” the old man said. “Is it Coenred who weeps inside the chapel?”

Beobrand nodded, but found no words worth uttering.

“Does he weep for Tata?” the old man asked, but went on without waiting for a reply. “Her faith in the Lord was stronger than mine. She said he would deliver us from evil, but we fled. God have mercy on our souls.” He drew in a ragged, deep breath and walked slowly into the gloomy chapel. Towards the sounds of Coenred’s grief.

If this was how the Christ god protected his faithful from evil, allowing their enemies to rape and murder them, Beobrand preferred the old gods. They smiled on the brave and laughed at the weak. They didn’t offer false hope.

Others were now moving into the clearing. Having watched the old man enter the chapel safely, thirty or forty people came out of the trees at the foot of the slope and walked sheepishly into the settlement. Beobrand estimated that there were some ten monks, wearing the same dark robes as the old man, a handful of other men, wearing the normal breeches and tunics of ceorls, and the rest of the number was made up of women and children. They all had the pale faces and nervous eyes of those who expected the worst at any moment. It would appear that they also lacked faith that their god would protect them if the Waelisc came back.

Inside the chapel, Coenred’s sobs had ceased and Beobrand could make out the lowered voice of the old abbot consoling him. The other monks and men came towards the place where Beobrand was sitting. The women hung back with the children. When he was surrounded by the men, Beobrand struggled to pull himself upright. His chest was stabbed through with pain, but he was vulnerable at the feet of so many strangers and so suffered the agony in order to meet them face to face.

Once he was standing, a gruff looking man, with a black beard stepped forward. “You are still weak,” he said. “Come in to my house, we could all do with some food.”

Beobrand allowed himself to be led to one of the buildings on the edge of the clearing. The bearded man gave orders to four of the men to keep watch for the Waelisc and for the women to get fires lit and food cooking. Beobrand was staggering slowly towards the dwelling when tiredness washed over him and he almost fell. The man caught him by the arm and guided him into the dark interior of the thatched house. He righted an overturned stool and indicated that Beobrand be seated. Two young men and three of the women had gone into the building first and were in the process of putting things in order.

The Waelisc had clearly stayed in the house. There was food and rubbish strewn about the floor. Two of the women found brooms and began sweeping the detritus out of the house, while the third started laying a fire. The monks fetched firewood from outside and soon the house was in a semblance of normality.

Once the place was tidy, one of the women, a middle-aged woman with sallow cheeks and dark eyes came to Beobrand. “You must rest,” she said in a surprisingly deep voice for one so thin. “I have made a bed for you by the fire.” She helped Beobrand to stand and he murmured his thanks. The bed was a mattress stuffed with rushes and Beobrand needed no coaxing to make him lie down. His body had yet to recover from its wounds and the fear from the night before had taken a heavy toll on him. He eased himself down onto the mattress with the aid of the woman. His chest hurt terribly, as did his head, but he barely noticed.

“You are safe here,” the woman said.

Even through the fog of approaching sleep Beobrand couldn't help but wonder what made the woman so sure of that. Perhaps faith in her god or an optimistic nature prompted her assurance of safety. Or maybe she was just saying what they both wanted to hear.

CHAPTER 6

On waking Beobrand felt refreshed. His body still ached but he had slept through the afternoon, all through the night and long into the morning, and the rest had done him good. He lay for a while and listened to the movements of the people around him. He could hear the crackle of the fire on the hearthstone and feel its warmth against his cheek. There was the sound of someone stirring something in a bowl, and the cloying scent of malt and honey. Underneath the smell of ale being prepared, Beobrand detected the subtler aroma of baking bread. He could hear a woman's melodious voice intoning a ditty quietly, absently, under her breath. Life was going on normally, despite the tragedy of the last days. The woman had been right about their safety. The Waelisc had not returned.

He sat up. His ribs hurt, but the constant headache had subsided somewhat. The woman from the afternoon before noticed his movement and motioned for him to stay where he was. She promptly picked up a trencher containing some bread and cheese and made her way to him. She then brought him some ale. He gulped it down quickly, his parched throat welcoming the cool liquid. The brew was delicious, despite the bitter taste that indicated it was nearing three days old and would soon only be fit for the pigs. He thanked her and slowly began to eat. It was the first food he had tasted in days and his stomach started to grumble the moment he began chewing on the first piece of cheese.

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.