The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (18 page)

The flickering light from the fire lit a nightmare scene. Hengist and Dreng were straddled over the form of the injured brigand. He was now conscious and Hengist and Dreng were working on his body with their knives. The flames lighting from below made their faces distorted, monstrous. As Beobrand watched in dismay, Hengist slit the man’s left eye with the tip of his blade. Liquid oozed down his already blood-slick cheek. Dreng sawed at the side of the man’s head, then held up his severed ear in triumph, a look of rapturous glee on his face. The man was screaming, but the sounds he made were muffled and guttural. Beobrand saw then that the man’s tongue had been cut out.

He turned away in disgust, and looked straight into the eyes of Cathryn. She was lying on her back on the frozen earth. The milky skin of her thighs, where her dress had been pulled up, was a stark contrast with the dark of the forest floor. Hafgan was holding her wrists, pinning her arms to the ground with his weight. Artair was on top of her. His bare buttocks, white in the darkness, moved up and down as he thrust himself into her with a furious passion. Tondberct was standing by, watching with rapt enjoyment on his face.

Grey-haired Cynric lay sprawled and inert near the fire.

Cathryn’s eyes pleaded with Beobrand. Tears streaked her face, glistening in the firelight. The brigand’s tortured cries filled Beobrand’s ears. Artair reached out and ripped Cathryn’s mantle aside, exposing a breast. He squeezed it viciously, pinching the nipple hard between thumb and forefinger. Cathryn let out a cry and closed her eyes tight against the pain, blocking out the night.

Beobrand felt himself becoming aroused. He’d only been with a girl once before, back in Hithe. But Udela had been no beauty like Cathryn, and he hadn’t really known what he was doing. That encounter had ended quickly and had become an exciting but embarrassing secret memory, to be dwelt on in the deep of night. Is this what it was to be a warrior? To hear the screams of your enemies in your ears while taking beautiful women with impunity. His arousal grew more intense, his gaze roaming over Cathryn’s flesh.

Artair’s pace quickened. He leaned forward and gave Cathryn’s breast a savage bite. She moaned, clenching her eyes even tighter in an attempt to shut out what was happening.

Beobrand’s memory filled with the image of Tata’s lifeless body on the altar in the small chapel. The teeth marks on her breast, her eyes staring, unseeing, as if in accusation. Coenred’s terrible grief. Had he really changed so much in a matter of weeks that murder and rape now meant nothing to him? His mother’s dying words came to him then: “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…” He shook his head, trying to focus. No, his father had used his strength to beat those weaker than him, never to protect them. He had thrived on violence against the helpless.

Beobrand could not allow this to carry on. He would never be able to face Coenred again if he stood by and did nothing. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. Edwin had seen something in him. A determination, a strength that he predicted would make him a great warrior. If he was to be a great warrior, worthy of his brother’s memory and Edwin’s praise, he must act now.

He was not his father’s son.

Without pausing to consider the consequences, he stepped quickly into the firelight. Artair was reaching his climax, arching his back, his face a rictus of pain and pleasure. Beobrand stooped to pick up a log from the pile of firewood and swung it into Artair’s head. Artair collapsed immediately, falling to the side of Cathryn. Whether unconscious or dead, Beobrand did not know nor care. He spun towards Hafgan, who let go of Cathryn’s wrists and leapt to his feet. He moved away from Beobrand and drew his hunting knife. Beobrand had left his langseax by the fire, so he drew his small knife and stepped forward to meet Hafgan.

Before they could close in combat Beobrand felt a crashing blow to the back of his head. His ears rang and his vision blurred. He fell to his knees. He struggled to regain his feet. Hafgan sprang forward and kicked him full in the face. He landed on his back, legs folded awkwardly beneath him.

Cathryn’s eyes met his. His sight began to cloud and he knew he had failed her.

CHAPTER 10

Beobrand was surprised to awaken the next morning.

He ached all over, head throbbing from the blow he’d received. His left eye was again swollen shut. His ribs felt broken once more, or at least badly bruised. His legs were numb from having lain on them in an unnatural position for a long period of the night.

He got slowly onto all fours. Then, after catching his breath and working the blood back into his limbs, he got to his feet. There was a thick frost on the ground. Mist hung under the trees.

A few paces from the smouldering embers of the fire he found Cathryn.

She was dead. Her mutilated corpse unrecognisable save for her long braided hair and clothes.

His head spun. His stomach twisted convulsively. He fell forwards, onto his hands and knees, and vomited.

He stared groggily at the outpouring of evil, purged from his body in a steaming puddle. Would that the memories of the night could be expelled so easily.

For the first few days following Cathryn’s murder, Beobrand wished they had killed him that night. He could not understand why he yet lived.

He was a mass of bruises. His head pained him if he moved too quickly, and breathing deeply caused him to wince.

Slowly, his body recovered. But worse than his physical wounds were those of his soul. He had been unable to stop them. Perhaps confronting them had inflamed their savagery enough to kill Cathryn. Had he caused her death by intervening?

He could not bring himself to talk with any of his companions, but Tondberct was persistent. He sat close to Beobrand in the evenings and chattered inanely. He was desperate for Beobrand’s attention. As though he thought if he could get Beobrand to consent to talk with him, he would somehow be exonerated from the atrocities of that night.

Eventually, Beobrand relented. “Why did they not kill me?” he asked, keeping his voice low so only Tondberct could hear.

“It was Hengist,” answered Tondberct, pleased that Beobrand was talking to him at last. “He calmed Hafgan down. Told him it was the battle lust. Said you wanted your part of the spoils. That you were impatient for your turn. Hafgan stopped arguing once he got on top…” His voice trailed off. Beobrand’s bruised face had taken on a thunderous aspect.

“And Artair?” asked Beobrand, his words clipped.

“He cared little about it. Said it was normal. You are young. Jealous.”

“And the others?”

Tondberct looked blank.

“Did they each have a turn?”

Tondberct nodded.

“And you?”

Tondberct was unable to meet his gaze. That was answer enough.

“Who killed her?” Beobrand whispered.

“Dreng and Hengist.” Tondberct was keen to shift the focus to someone else. Beobrand’s piercing eyes were like ice. “They woke her up, so they could…enjoy her.”

Beobrand could listen no more. He stood abruptly, making Tondberct flinch.

He spat and stalked from the camp. Impotent rage burning inside him with a savage heat.

Beobrand was wretched with self-doubt. Could he have saved Cathryn if he’d acted sooner? He recalled the feeling of arousal at seeing her naked flesh and shuddered in revulsion. How was it possible that he’d been aroused at the sight of her being raped? He tried not to think of his own lust for Cathryn, but his mind, like a tongue probing a rotten tooth, always turned back to the moment when he had stood and watched. And enjoyed it.

He dreamt of Cathryn’s eyes, pleading with him, asking for him to save her. In his dreams he would leap into the fray and attack her rapists, killing them all with savage fury. But then he would wake up and know the truth. He had watched for a time before acting and thus had failed to protect her.

She became the focus of his every waking thought. Unlike the men who had killed Octa or Tata, he knew exactly who Cathryn’s assailants had been. All of his rage at the loss of his brother and the self-loathing he felt at having failed to protect Cathryn seethed within him. It formed into a crystal-hard resolve. By all the gods, he would avenge her, or die trying.

However, there were five men responsible for her death, and he was but one. Despite his prowess and natural ability with a blade, Beobrand knew that he was no match for the group all together. He would have to bide his time, and until such time as he was able to mete out justice, he would have to act as one of them.

He had become withdrawn after that night in the forest. Now he forced himself to settle back into the life of the group. After the conversation with Tondberct, he slowly rejoined the group. He sat closer by the campfire and resumed conversing with them. Their words often stung. His own words tasted like bile in his throat. But he let none of his anguish show on his face.

Following Cathryn’s death they had travelled someway further north, into the hills of Bernicia. But they were now headed south again.

Hengist was leading them on a circuitous route and Beobrand was unsure where their final goal was. It clearly wasn’t Eanfrith’s hall at Gefrin. Beobrand became increasingly certain that the encounter with Galan at Ecgric’s hall had disrupted Hengist’s plans. He thought of Breca’s words warning of Hengist’s treachery, then he pictured the scene of torture and murder in the clearing and it was not hard to believe that Hengist had been involved in some betrayal of his king, as Galan had implied. Why else would he have been with Cadwallon and Penda? Perhaps he’d intended to seek patronage from Eanfrith in the beginning, but Galan recognising him made that impossible now.

Whether he had in mind to find a different lord, Beobrand didn’t know. Hengist’s nature craved blood and violence and there were few lords who would allow their thegns to mistreat their ceorls so badly. If any of them asked Hengist where they were heading, he would give a noncommittal shrug, saying they’d know when they got there.

As they moved further south, from the hills of Bernicia back into the forest they’d left behind in Deira, Beobrand began to get an uneasy feeling. By his reckoning they were heading back towards the campsite at the fallen oak. Hengist and Dreng rode the horses they’d taken. Beobrand and the others trailed someway behind them on foot.

For the first time since Beobrand had joined the band at the beginning of the winter, Hengist seemed to have a clear destination in mind. They travelled hard, leaving little energy for talk, but Tondberct tried to start a conversation with Beobrand.

“Where do you think we’re going?” he asked.

“I don’t know, but I hope there will be some good food and a bed there!” answered Beobrand, quickening his pace in an effort to dissuade Tondberct from further chatting.

Tondberct frowned after him, but Beobrand didn’t care. He wanted to get where they were going as soon as possible so that he could find out whether his fears were correct. He had noticed Hengist smiling to himself as he rode and Beobrand couldn’t shake the feeling that they were getting ever closer to something evil. They passed the fallen oak without stopping.

Hengist waited for Beobrand to catch up and said, “You remember this place, Beobrand? You were the only one who didn’t have fun that night.” He laughed and Dreng chortled.

Beobrand gritted his teeth. He swallowed the angry words he wanted to shout at Hengist. The time would come for more than words.

They travelled on through the forest, the late winter sun not managing to warm the undergrowth. As night began to fall, Hengist ordered them to set up camp and they fell into their now well-practised routines. In a short time they had a fire lit, water collected from the stream they were following, and a thin stew beginning to simmer.

They talked into the night, but Beobrand kept himself apart from the others. Dreng watched him from the other side of the fire with humour in his eyes. It was as if the old warrior knew some funny anecdote about Beobrand, or that they shared a private joke. The old man’s leer only made him more uncomfortable. More on edge.

Beobrand chose to take the first watch that night. After rousing Artair to relieve him, he fell into a fitful sleep, rolled up in his cloak near the fire.

He dreamt of Cathryn. She was lying on the ground on warm, lush grass. Bathed in the golden glow of a summer’s afternoon. She wore a flimsy, white robe that clung to her breasts and thighs. He could make out the shape of her nipples pushing the fabric taut as she reached towards him, beckoning him to join her. Her lips parted in a half smile, her mouth inviting him to kiss her.

As he bent to embrace her, his lips seeking hers, he saw a splash of red blossom under her robe. Blood gushed from some hidden wound, drenching her dress, leaving it plastered to her body. He looked back at her face and saw that it was no longer beautiful and inviting. Great strips of skin had been flayed from her cheeks. Her nose had been carved crudely off, leaving a gaping hole, which bubbled with fresh blood. Blood flowed down her face and into her mouth, which was moving erratically. Gurgling sounds came.

She was laughing.

He awoke with a start, choking back the scream building in his throat.

The others were already up and about, moving around the campsite. Hafgan was prodding the fire with a long stick, adding tinder to get it burning again. Dreng was sitting with his back to a tree trunk. He was staring at Beobrand, his gimlet eyes lidded. As Beobrand caught his eye, Dreng licked his lips and smiled. Beobrand’s shudder was only partly caused by the cold.