The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

Cautiously, but with haste, he moved between stables and storehouses, past the kitchens and the alehouse, where the ever-present scent of brewing hung in the air. His path kept him far from sentries and torches, but should anyone step from a building to relieve themselves of tonight’s mead and ale, he would be undone.

Reaching the foot of the ladder to the palisade, he cast a look along the wall and saw the guard at the far end. The wall ward was standing by a brazier, the light of which would make it difficult to see clearly into the darkness. Octa’s slayer grasped the rung of the ladder and made his way up, one laborious step after another. Despite the cool air, he was drenched in sweat and his back and arms ached with the effort of carrying his grisly burden. He could feel his strength waning. He would need to be rid of the body soon, or he would drop him.

A grim smile played over his lips at the thought. He reached the palisade’s platform. Below, waves crashed against rocks. White foam glowed in the darkness, like ghosts. Without pausing, keen to be rid of the heavy burden and the evidence of his crime, he hoisted the body from his shoulder and let it drop over the wall to the sea below. He watched as Octa fell, a dark shape against the swirling of the waves. He leaned against the palisade and drew in deep breaths. His pounding heart slowed and his sweat cooled. The guard at the end of the palisade was still hunched over his small fire.

In the morning, the body would be found, if the sea did not drag it away into its murky embrace. People would ask why a warrior who had everything would take his own life in this way, for surely he must have jumped to his death.

The clouds parted and the light from the moon gilded the fortress once more. Woden looked down again. Did he search for Octa? Or was he already in the All-Father’s hall, feted and loved as he had been by King Edwin? Octa’s murderer shuddered. This was the night in which he took control of his wyrd, but he did not wish to be judged by the gods. He turned his face from the moon.

Edwin should have recognised who amongst his thegns was most worthy. Instead he had chosen to elevate Octa. His blindness would lead to his downfall. Events were in motion that would see his destruction. Edwin would be dethroned and his kingdom would fall.

The killer smiled in the darkness. Before he fulfilled his mother’s prophecy there was something else he must do. He descended the ladder and retraced his steps back towards the stable.

He hoped Elda was still there. She would soon regret her betrayal.

PART ONE

THE FORGING

CHAPTER 1

Beobrand wiped the sweat from his brow. Pulling the long ship up onto the beach was tiring work. His legs felt weak, his stomach woozy. His body missed the constant motion of the sea beneath the keel; the continuous rolling of the waves which had been so unfamiliar to him only a few days before. He looked up at the fortress on the rock above. The mighty Bebbanburg, home of the royal family of Bernicia.

Guillemots and gulls careened in the grey, windswept sky, silhouetted against the brooding storm clouds that spoke of more bad weather to come.

“You’ll have plenty of time to look, boy. Once we get the ship safely under that slope.” Hrothgar’s voice was rough, his throat hoarse from shouting at the hands on deck. “Now get pushing with the rest of us!”

Beobrand leaned once more into the side of the ship and heaved. They only had a little way to go before the ship was in line with the other two that were already beached beyond the high tide line.

He recognised the closer of the two ships as that of Swidhelm. He had seen the ship twice before and remembered the smooth line of its prow and the serpent figurehead carved there. Swidhelm must have missed the storm they had encountered the day before to be able to arrive before them. Hrothgar often said that Swidhelm was not only a fine seaman, but had the luck of the gods too. Fine praise from the taciturn sailor.

The other ship Beobrand did not know. He knew little of ships, but it was larger than any he had ever seen, almost a third longer than the other two. He wondered at the power of the owner of such a vessel. Could it belong to the king of this northern kingdom? How many men must he have in his warband? The figurehead was of a strange beast, long tongue protruding from fanged maws. It was painted red, like fresh blood.

“All right, lassies,” shouted Hrothgar. “That’s far enough!”

There was a moment’s murmured thanks from the weary men, who stopped and stretched tired muscles.

Beobrand was stiff from rowing and his hands were raw from pulling on the coarse ropes. He was no sailor and had struggled at first, but Hrothgar and the older men had humoured him. He learnt fast and was hard-working. He had little more to offer than his strength by way of payment for the passage. He suspected that Hrothgar hadn’t needed an extra hand, but his story was well-known, so the surly captain had taken him on board. Most likely out of pity.

He had seen pity on many faces in recent weeks. His was not the only family affected by the pestilence, but few were hit harder by the sickness. The first to succumb had been Edita. She had gone from sprightly, giggling girl, to pallid, shivering wraith overnight. Death had come to her rapidly, like darkness before a thunderstorm. And after that…

“Let’s get on with the unloading or do you want to be out here when the rains come again?” said Hrothgar.

Beobrand and some of the younger crew members groaned, but the more seasoned hands began manhandling the bales and barrels off of the ship and onto the sand, ready for the climb up the steep steps to the fortress.

It was some time later when they reached the top of the cliff with the last of the ship’s stores. The light had gone from the sky and it had started to rain. The chill autumn wind blew their cloaks about them, driving the rain into their faces. Beobrand followed the others through the archway at the top of the cliff steps and into a courtyard surrounded by large buildings. Across the open area, the welcome light of the main hall’s entrance beckoned. The hubbub of voices and laughter reached them when the wind abated briefly.

A tall thin man, with a long moustache, ushered Beobrand towards a building. “Come on. Leave that sack on the right with the others.” The man seemed impatient, probably wanting to be back in the warmth of the hall with a horn of mead. He pulled his fine woollen cloak more tightly around him and looked to see if any more men were coming through the arch.

“You the last one?” he asked Beobrand. His accent was thick and strange to Beobrand’s ear, but he could make out the words easily enough.

“Aye. Those still down there are to guard the ships.” Beobrand stepped into the storeroom and looked for the pile of sacks the man had mentioned. In the gloom he could see that the large barn was full of provisions.

When he emerged, the man closed the door, then turned toward the hall. Beobrand followed him.

As he walked into the smoky building, all the noise of talking and eating ceased. For an instant Beobrand felt conspicuous. Out of place. Sure that all eyes were on him. That for some reason he was the cause of the sudden hush. Then, just as quickly he realised that the men and women sitting at the tables were all looking at a tall man who was standing at the head of the hall. His bearing was that of one who commands. In his hand he held a finely-wrought sword. His long brown moustache was sprinkled with white as if with salt after a sea voyage. His bald head shone in the light of the blazing hearth.

“Word has come to me that Penda of Mercia, may God blast his bones, has joined with the Waelisc king, Cadwallon of Gwynedd as we feared. At this moment they are camped with a warband in the land of Elmet.” His voice rang clearly throughout the hall. “This alliance must be broken. Penda has gone too far if he believes he can invade the lands of Edwin, son of Aella. We march south in two days. I have sent riders out to summon the fyrd. The men of the land will do their duty and take up arms with me. Together our fury will smite them in the field, for that is where we shall meet. I am done with diplomacy. Penda is vermin. He must be killed as such. He has defiled my land and raised arms against my people. See now, I have drawn my sword,” he lifted the finely-made broadsword above his head, the wave-patterned blade shimmered in the firelight, “and it shall not be sheathed till its thirst is quenched with the blood of our enemies!” With this last shout, he spun the sword downward, plunging it into the oaken board of the table in front of him. A wooden cup toppled over with the impact and fell to the floor, spilling its contents.

Nobody heard the cup clatter onto the wooden floor, for before Edwin’s voice had finished reverberating around the room, the crowd of thegns in the hall began to cheer. They stood and downed the contents of mugs and horns, shouting praises for their king and spitting curses on their enemies.

The noise and heat of the hall engulfed Beobrand. That is how a king speaks. He suddenly felt he could grow to love this place and this king. As his brother had. Beobrand scanned the occupants of the tables, searching for Octa’s familiar blond hair. Octa had joined Edwin’s warband three summers before. From what little news had reached Beobrand back home in Hithe in Cantware, he had done well in the service of his new lord.

Beobrand could not find Octa in the crowds of warriors gathered in the hall. He was probably on guard or perhaps he was tending to his own land, if the king had seen fit to bestow such riches on him. Well, Octa could wait. It had been an arduous, tiring day and the smell of the boar roasting on a spit over the fire reminded him of how long it had been since his last meal.

The hall was grander than his lord Folca’s back in Hithe, but the layout, with benches and boards arrayed along the length, and the fire on the hearthstone in the centre was familiar to him. He did not often frequent his lord’s hall, but the festive atmosphere reminded him of the Thrimilci feasts when all the freemen were invited to celebrate the bounty of the land. At such times copious amounts of drink were consumed, along with vast quantities of all manner of food. But in the feasts in Folca’s hall there were many fewer thegns present. And their blades were less exquisite. Beobrand’s eyes flicked to the sword, still quivering in the wood of the high table. Octa and he had always dreamt of owning such a sword. Perhaps Octa had fulfilled that dream, as he had succeeded in becoming a thegn.

He looked for a place on one of the benches. All the others who had arrived on the ship with him had found places and were being served mead, ale and food. The thin man from the storeroom had sat down at a place near the king. Beobrand was left in the doorway, feeling awkward. The atmosphere in the hall was buoyant now. The men were set on eating their fill and drinking to their exploits, both past and future. For soon they would march to battle, and battle is what these warriors lived for.

Beobrand envied them.

For as long as he could remember, he had wanted to be a warrior. Their father’s brother, Selwyn, had fought in a warband, travelling far in his youth before returning to Hithe where he had filled his nephews’ heads with tales of battle play and adventure. Octa had left in search of the destiny he felt was his, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle and find glory in the service of a great lord.

He had left Beobrand behind. Beobrand had been too young to leave with him, so had stayed to tend their father’s land and to look after their sisters and mother.

Now there was nothing holding him in Cantware.

A young man with a straggly beard saw Beobrand standing on his own and beckoned to a place at his side. Beobrand accepted, thankful to be able to sit after the long climb up from the beach.

“My name is Tondberct,” the young man said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard over the noise. “You must have come on one of the ships from Cantware.”

Beobrand nodded and his face must have betrayed his feelings because Tondberct, following his gaze, reached for a horn of mead and passed it to him. “You must be tired after the voyage.”

“Yes,” Beobrand replied after taking a long draught of the sweet drink. “And hungry,” he added. “This is my first journey out of the lands of my lord, King Eadbald.”

Tondberct waved to a comely slave who was carving meat from the pig. She made her way over to them with some choice cuts on a trencher. The thrall smiled at the two young men and returned to the fireplace. Beobrand picked up a piece of the meat and, although the hot grease burnt his fingers, he took a large bite.

Tondberct poured some more mead from a large earthen jug. He seemed to have no qualms about talking to a stranger and Beobrand was happy to listen while he ate.

“The day after tomorrow I will march with the warriors for the first time. My father gave me a new spear and shield last summer. Now I shall have a chance to test them.” His eyes glistened in the firelight. Beobrand could understand his excitement.

Beobrand looked at the warriors in the hall while Tondberct talked about his new weapons and what he would do with them in the forthcoming battle. There were at least fifty able-bodied warriors at the tables. A veritable host. If Edwin could raise more from surrounding villages and farms, he would have a force worth reckoning with. He wondered how many, like Octa, were not present at this feast.

He finished a mouthful of bread that he had soaked in meat juices and washed it down with more mead. The warmth and the drink were relaxing him. He could feel the tensions of the voyage easing from his muscles.