The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (15 page)

Hengist knelt by Breca and whispered into his ear, “Now you can grovel all the time,
friend
.”

They rested in the hut all the rest of that day and the following night. For a long time, Breca whimpered and cried out for help.

“He sings as badly as he fights,” Hengist said, smiling, pleased at his joke. The others laughed. Beobrand’s eyes met Tondberct’s, but he couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

After some time Breca’s moaning grew tedious to Hengist and he signalled to Dreng. The old warrior got up from where he sat close to the warmth of the hearthstone and walked out into the gathering dusk. A few moments later, Breca screamed out, his words easily heard by the men in the hut.

“He’ll betray you all! He has no honour!” Then his cries ceased.

Later, when Hengist went outside to relieve himself, Beobrand turned to Tondberct and whispered, “What’s got into him? Why did he attack Breca? Is he touched by an evil spirit?” He could think of no explanation for Hengist’s violence.

Tondberct looked uncomfortable, but before he could respond, Dreng spoke into the silence.

“If you live to see as many battles as Hengist, you will not be the same man you are today, young Beobrand. Feeding the ravens with corpses changes a man. You’d do well to remember that.”

They fell silent as Hengist came back inside.

The old lady was terribly afraid. She cooked for them and treated them with deference. Hengist smiled benevolently at her, but still made sure that one of them was on guard at all times in the night. None of them wanted to have his throat slit during his sleep.

Sleep was a long time coming to Beobrand that night. When he closed his eyes he saw Breca cut down again. Hengist’s speed and skill was somehow obscene, but questions whispered in his mind. Could Hengist teach him? Could he learn to wield a sword with such prowess? He had thought his uncle had been a skilled swordsman, but he was nothing when compared to Hengist.

Then he remembered Breca’s final words and his sobbing cries for pity.

Deep inside he knew he should have heeded Coenred’s warning about these men. But what could he do now? He had chosen this path. He only hoped he could follow it without becoming lost.

They pressed on north, leaving the old woman behind. She was relieved to be rid of them but they had taken much of her food. How she would survive the winter she did not know.

Breca’s stiff body lay outside where it had been left. Wolves or foxes had worried the carcass in the night, but it was mostly whole. Walking away, Beobrand cast a glance back at the hut and saw the woman straddling the corpse. He glimpsed the glint of a sharp seax in her hand. He turned away, appalled.

Over the next few weeks winter set in. With the trees covered in frost, brooks turning to ice and snow falling from leaden skies, the band of warriors fell into a routine. They would forage for food, hunting when possible, and travelling little. Once they had set up a camp, much of their energy was taken up with collecting firewood. The cold seeped into their very bones. At night they would huddle around their small campfire for warmth. Their hands and faces became chapped and cut by the cold. They were desperate for anything that would provide protection from the winter chill. The skins of any game they caught were quickly made into rough hats and mittens.

Hafgan and Artair were fine huntsmen. They would often leave the group for a day or more, always returning with meat. After their first hunting trip they had returned, each weighed down with a side of venison. They had smoked much of the meat in thin strips and it lasted them for several days. But despite the brothers’ skills, they often went hungry over those winter months. On those days when they had no food, they would be irritable and lethargic. Their stomachs silently screaming with the agonising pangs of emptiness.

Then Beobrand would remember warm days hunting boar with Octa and his friends. The forests around Hithe were rich with game. They would leave small offerings on the edge of the trees for the forest spirits and head into the cool darkness. There they would look for the paths used by the great boars of the forest. Splitting up, one group would drive the boar towards the other, who would wait, spears ready.

They brought down many a bristling, tusked beast. The animals would burst forth from the undergrowth into the area they had prepared and the boys would pounce, spear points glinting dully in the gloom. Squeals, grunts, shouts and the sounds of breaking branches would follow, and then stillness and the panting of the hunters. Laughter at their success and having survived in the face of the forest beasts.

The meat from an animal you have killed yourself tastes sweeter than any other. Boar meat, skin crisp and flesh succulent and dripping had always been a favourite of Beobrand’s. Thinking of it in the bleakest of winter days set his stomach growling and made him yearn for his brother, and his friends.

It seemed to Beobrand that they had been avoiding settlements as they travelled. Ever since the incident with Breca, Hengist had seemed keen to camp in the forest, despite the cold. On a few occasions they had seen smoke, but each time Hengist had rejected the idea of seeking the warmth of shelter they could expect from a village. Perhaps the fight with Breca had unnerved Hengist too, but that seemed unlikely.

One late afternoon, as the pale sun dipped towards the trees on the horizon, they came upon a village. Not the usual kind of place they saw of a few huts and animal pens, but several stout buildings, with white walls, surrounding a sizable hall. The last of the sun gave the thatch of the hall’s roof an inviting warm glow. Smoke billowed through the chimney hole into the still winter air, where it hung, wreathing the building in a hazy crown. The sound of laughter and chatter reached Beobrand’s ears and he half imagined the smell of cooking meat.

They all turned to Hengist, enquiring silently whether they could seek refuge at the hall for the night. They were freezing and wet. It had been raining all of the previous night and that morning, only abating a short while before they had stumbled upon the welcome sight of the hall that beckoned to them with its invitation of warmth.

Hengist shrugged. “I’m cold too. A fire and a roof over our heads would be good.” They all smiled, their spirits lifting as they picked up their pace on the road towards the hall. Faces peered at them from doorways as they passed by the houses. A man looked up from where he was fixing a fence and nodded a taciturn welcome. A few children ran up behind them and dogged their steps until Dreng turned around and growled at them playfully. The children ran away screaming.

Before they reached the hall at the settlement’s heart, four men approached them. Each carried a spear and shield. The oldest of the four, a dour-looking man of perhaps thirty years, with flecks of grey in his beard, held up his hand and said, “What business have you in this shire of our Lord Ecgric?”

Hengist said in a voice as smooth as burnished silver, “We are travellers. We are weary, cold and wet and seek your lord’s hospitality. One night at his table and under his roof and we will be on our way.”

The man glanced at their weapons, clearly assessing how much of a threat they posed. “Travellers, you say? Where do you travel so laden with weapons?”

Hengist smiled. “The roads are dangerous for travellers, but we are warriors, as you can see. We mean you no harm. We travel north in search of patronage. We seek to offer our service to the new lord of Bernicia, King Eanfrith.”

“Then perhaps the gods smile on you this day. One of Eanfrith’s men is here. Wait here while I speak to my lord.”

The man turned and left the other three guards to look over Hengist, Beobrand and the others. He walked to the hall and disappeared inside. The guards shifted their feet nervously, frequently looking over their shoulders at where their leader had gone.

Beobrand watched Hengist as they waited, trying to gauge his mood. He looked relaxed enough, but there was a tension in him that could not be totally hidden. Beobrand hoped for all their sakes that nothing would ignite his pent up anger. Breca had been alone, but here, in a lord’s hall, they would all be in danger if a fight broke out.

The lead guard returned. “You may enter the hall, but you must leave all weapons outside with me.”

Beobrand watched as Hengist bridled. He always wore his sword and even slept with it wrapped inside his cloak. He was never parted from it. But they all knew that to enter a lord’s hall, weapons were left at the door, so they handed over their spears and seaxes, only being allowed to keep their small eating knives. Hengist unbuckled his belt and handed it with great ceremony to the door ward. “Do not draw her blade. If it is freed, it must taste blood,” said Hengist. The guard’s eyes widened, but he nodded solemnly as if such assertions were common.

Satisfied that they were bereft of weapons, the door ward stood aside and ushered them into the hall. It was not a large hall, nor was it as sumptuously decorated as the royal hall of Bebbanburg, but in comparison with sleeping wrapped in a cloak by a guttering fire in the forest, it was luxurious indeed. A fire burned brightly in the centre of the floor, casting moving shadows into every corner. Above the hearth hung an iron cauldron, from which emanated the rich scent of a meaty stew. Beobrand’s stomach rumbled. Around the edge of the hall, tallow candles burnt, adding extra light and making the room warmer and more inviting.

Boards were laid out along the length of the hall and several men were already seated at the benches. At the head of the room stood the high table, where there sat on a gift-stool, a large, heavy-jowled man with grey hair. To his right sat a slim man, with hawk-like features. He was dressed in fine clothes and a gold chain glittered at his neck.

The large man heaved his bulk out of his seat and stood, wobbling on his feet slightly, as if he had already drunk too much mead.

“Welcome travellers,” he said, his voice loud over the din of conversation. “Is that you, Hengist? I thought you surely killed at Elmet.”

Hengist took a step forward. “Well met, Ecgric, son of Eacgric. I survive to tell the tale of the fall of Edwin, son of Aella. But many men fell to my sword before the end, when my liege was struck down by the Waelisc scum.”

Some of the men in the hall banged cups, knives or fists on the boards in approbation of Hengist’s words.

Lord Ecgric peered at Hengist for a long time, as if he was struggling to make him out in the dim light and the haze of smoke from the fire. After some time, he raised his hands for silence.

“You must join us at the high table, Hengist. I would know how it is that you survived when so many fell. I myself sent four men to join the fyrd and none returned. Tale of the slaughter has reached us. There are many widows this winter in Bernicia and Deira.”

A hush fell on the room. Beobrand glanced at Hengist and saw that his lips were pressed tightly together. A vein throbbed at his temple.

“Do you accuse me of being craven, lord? I am not armed, but I cannot let a slur on my name go unchallenged.”

The mood in the hall changed. A stillness and tension such as descends before a thunderstorm fell upon the throng.

Ecgric held up his hands to placate Hengist. “Brave Hengist, I would not dream of questioning your mettle or your courage, not even in my own hall. I merely wish to hear of your exploits and how you escaped from that carnage with your life. I meant no harm.” His words were spoken in calm earnest, but the twinkle in his eye belied his innocent tone. Beobrand wondered whether this lord knew how dangerous Hengist could be. But then again, they were surrounded by the lord’s gesithas and Hengist was unarmed.

Ecgric said, “Come, join us at the table.”

Hengist took a step forward and the tension began to ease out of the gathering. But before the volume of chatter could reach the level it had been when they had arrived, the hawk-faced man at lord Ecgric’s side said, “How is it, Hengist, that I saw you at the table of Cadwallon and Penda after the battle of Elmet?”

Silence slammed down on the room. All eyes turned to Hengist. Beobrand stood closest to him and could feel the waves of ire washing off him. He was ready to explode into violence at any moment. Beobrand took a step away from him involuntarily.

Hengist fixed the man with a stony glare. “What did you say?” His voice was clipped, each word forced out through clenched teeth. The muscles in his jaw bulged.

The man next to Ecgric seemed oblivious of Hengist’s anger. “I asked how it was that you were dining with your enemies while your king lay dead, his body not yet cold?” he said.

A whisper ran through the hall as men muttered their disbelief. Whether at the substance or the audacity of the accusation Beobrand could not tell.

Hengist swallowed. His hand trembled where it groped unwittingly for the hilt of the sword that no longer hung from his belt.

“Who are you?” Hengist asked. “I would know the name of a man before I kill him.”

“I am Galan, son of Galen. I saw you when I bore a message to Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd from my master and lord, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, rightful heir to Bernicia.” He smiled. “But why do you threaten to kill me rather than answer my question? I have a reason for my presence in Cadwallon’s camp. Do you? It seems my questioning upsets you. Could it be that I have uncovered a dirty secret?” He raised his eyebrows and a faint smile played at the edge of his mouth.