The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (22 page)

In the end, Ethelburga had relented and not ordered Bassus to do her bidding exactly. Since the death of her husband, she was less certain of her position and was unsure whether her husband’s men would follow her as they had followed him. After Edwin’s defeat at Elmet, a handful of his most trusted thegns had survived. Led by Bassus, the small group had escaped the field of battle, ridden hard north to Bebbanburg, where Ethelburga, the princess Eanflæd and the little atheling Wuscfrea waited. From there they had sailed south to the lands of Ethelburga’s brother, King Eadbald, in Cantware.

Bassus remembered those dark days clearly. The defeat at the hands of Penda and Cadwallon had been absolute and terrible. First Osfrid, Edwin’s heir had fallen. Edwin, dismayed and blinded by his loss, had struck out to avenge his son. He had charged forward on his own, causing the shieldwall to split and falter.

Bassus blamed himself. He should have reacted more quickly to the danger. He should have sensed the tide of battle shifting and acted accordingly. Instead, his king had been struck down and it was all Bassus could do to pull him away from the thick of the fighting before they were completely overrun. In those last moments, Edwin saw clearly what he had done and what the outcome of the battle would be. He had gripped Bassus’ wrist and made him swear on all the gods, both old and new, that he would follow Queen Ethelburga in his stead. Bassus would have gladly laid down his life for his lord, so he was powerless to refuse the request. But now, in the rare moments when he allowed himself to think on the past, he felt a deep-seated shame that he had not died on that battlefield.

Despite being back in her homeland in the south, Ethelburga still feared for the safety of her children. There was no clear ruler over the northern kingdoms. The exiled heir to Bernicia, Eanfrith, had returned. Osric, Edwin’s cousin, had sat himself on the throne of Deira. Cadwallon continued to vie for control of the two kingdoms, emboldened by his victory over Edwin, who had ruled both.

With the first green shoots of spring, a trader from Eoferwic had arrived in Cantware recounting tales of Osric being killed and his forces routed by Cadwallon during a siege.

It was this unsettled situation that had led Ethelburga to send a message north. It was possible that Eanfrith would seek to unite the two kingdoms as Edwin had done. If he was successful, he would surely wish to dispatch with as many potential usurpers of his throne as possible. So Ethelburga had decided to send a message of peace and Christian love to Eanfrith. He was reputed to worship Christ, albeit following the Hibernian traditions taught in the Pictish lands where he had been exiled, and not the teachings as laid out by Bishop Paulinus and Pope Honorius in faraway Rome. Nevertheless, she wished him prosperity and victory over his enemies in the name of the Lord. She also let it be known that her children were no threat to him. Despite this, Ethelburga decided to remove Wuscfrea, her one remaining son, along with Yffi, her stepson Osfrid’s son, from the courts of the noble houses of Albion. At the same time as Bassus had been sent north with the message to Eanfrith, the boys had been sent south to be fostered in the court of her cousin, Dagobert, in Frankia. She prayed they would be safe there, far from the machinations of the different royal lines of Albion.

Bassus sighed as the warmth of the fire began to seep into his bones. His toes tingled as the blood returned. With a conscious effort, he brought his focus back to the present. He had decided long ago that dwelling on the past was for fools. You could not go back and change your actions, so why go over and over your mistakes in your memory? Because he was a fool. A sentimental fool, who was getting old. He smiled at the thought. It was true that he was not young anymore, though he still had several useful years left in him, he hoped.

He looked over at the sleeping form of Beobrand. Now there was youth. Beobrand had endured terrible hardship, both of body and mind, and yet he shrugged off his ills as a duck’s feathers shed water. Well, perhaps not that easily. His wounds had been cleaned and bound and it would take several days until he was fighting fit again, but the colour had returned to his face after a small meal of pottage and some mead. Now he slept soundly. The sleep of a child. But he was a child no longer. The last vestiges of childish roundness had left his cheeks. His body and face had taken on a hard edge that was lacking when last Bassus had seen him.

Bassus still found it hard to believe the boy’s story as it had been told to him that afternoon. How he had survived against all the odds, escaping the battlefield at night. Then being nursed to health here in this village, narrowly avoiding marauding Waelisc from Cadwallon’s force. And finally joining up with some survivors of Edwin’s warband and travelling the wilds throughout the winter. Beobrand had told him little of what had happened during the long winter months, but he had clearly learnt how to fight. When Bassus and his companions had arrived, the fight between Beobrand and Hengist was almost over. Beobrand had been injured and was struggling, yet he still carried himself well, blocking, parrying and attacking like a seasoned veteran. Bassus knew Hengist too. He was a warrior to be reckoned with, savage, skilled and ruthless, with a nasty penchant for wanton violence. So Bassus was surprised at the outcome of the fight. The moment he’d recognised Beobrand, he’d decided to step in to stop Hengist from killing Octa’s younger brother. Just at the moment he’d taken a step forward and was preparing to shout out a command to both warriors to put up their weapons, Beobrand had slipped and ended the fight with the terrible blow to Hengist’s face.

Beobrand wasn’t just a natural warrior, mused Bassus. He had the commodity that warriors prized more highly than any other: luck.

Bassus turned his attention to the young monk who sat next to Beobrand like a faithful hound. He had been introduced as Coenred and there was clearly a strong bond of friendship between him and Beobrand. It was he who had found Beobrand and nursed his wounds after the battle of Elmet. It seemed that Hengist had threatened to kill the boy, which is what prompted Beobrand to fight him. Just like his brother. Brave to the point of careless, and a more loyal friend you would not find.

As he watched, Coenred’s head sank slowly forward. His chin ended up rested on his chest and he fell ever so slowly sideways, until his head rested on Beobrand’s legs. Bassus smiled. He really did look like his dog now.

Alric, who was sitting quietly next to Bassus, broke the silence. “I’m surprised Coenred stayed awake as long as he did,” he said quietly. “It’s been a terribly long day, and he took a real beating from those bastards.”

Bassus grunted. He didn’t feel like speaking. He was happy to sit here watching over Beobrand and the monk. From outside came the sound of distant laughter. Bassus’ companions had been put up in different homes in the village, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. The storm had blown itself out. The night was still, allowing the noise to travel far.

Alric didn’t press him into conversation. Instead he refilled Bassus’ drinking horn with ale. Bassus nodded his thanks, taking a deep draught. It was good. Fresh and light.

Both men raised their drinks in silent toast.

PART TWO

THE TEMPERING

CHAPTER 12

Sunniva was late.

She was supposed to have the fire burning and the forge ready before her father came out to start work. He said he worked harder than her all day, so it was only fair that she get up before him to prepare things. She wasn’t sure she’d call it fair. She helped lift the glowing hot billets of iron out of the fire and onto the anvil for him to hammer in a shower of white sparks, and she worked the bellows until her back and arms ached, but she didn’t argue with her father. Strang was a man most men feared and with whom few would pick a quarrel. His shoulders and arms looked capable of bending the metal he worked without the use of fire, anvil or hammer. He was quick to anger, and while he rarely raised his hand to Sunniva, she had learnt to avoid conflict.

Strang’s sullen moods were worse than his rages. Sunniva’s mother, with her quick smile and easy manner had always been able to snap him out of his depressions. But ever since her death the winter before, Strang spent most of his days gloomily focused on his work. Not having the forge set for him in the morning was not a good start to the day.

Sunniva rushed to blow air into the charcoal with the bellows. She could hear her father moving inside the house. He would be pulling his leather apron down from its hook by the door. Readying his tools. Sunniva pumped the bellows harder. She was pleased to see the satisfying glow from deep within the mound of charcoal. A wave of heat washed over her with each heave of the bellows. The forge would be ready after all. Stray wisps of her long blond hair, that had escaped her plait, were plastered with sweat to her forehead.

Strang stepped out into the dim daylight and gazed at his daughter for a moment before she realised he was there. She was half-turned away from him. The heat from the forge made the air flicker above it. She brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and then gave the bellows a last few pushes. She was so beautiful it made his heart ache. It was as if her mother stood before him, as she had looked when he first met her. Etheswitha was more than Strang could ever have hoped for. She was graceful, quick-witted and devoted to him and Sunniva. But she had not been strong. She had been ill for much of their time together. She had borne him four children. Two had been stillborn and one, a boy, had only lived for a few days before succumbing to a terrible cough. Sometimes, in the still of the night, he thought about those tiny babies that had died before they even had names. If it hadn’t been for Sunniva, he would have thought that the gods had cursed him. But then he would see his beautiful daughter and his heart would swell.

Sunniva looked up and saw Strang standing watching her work the bellows. “The forge is ready, father,” she said, smiling brightly.

He returned the smile as best he could and began work on the dozens of spear heads that the new king, Eanfrith, had commissioned.

Around them, the rest of the town was awakening. Voices could be heard, dogs barked, somewhere a cockerel crowed.

The winter had been quiet in the town of Gefrin. After Edwin had fallen in battle, Queen Ethelburga and her children had left Bernicia and many people fled with them. The lands became dangerous, with wandering groups of lordless warriors preying on travellers. Marauding Waelisc, from Cadwallon’s forces also roamed the land. There had not been as much work as normal. But then Eanfrith, the exiled heir, had returned from the north with his retinue of retainers and the settlement began to feel alive once more.

Sunniva had watched the king closely when he came to speak to her father about making new spear heads for his warband. She was unsettled by how handsome he was. He was broad shouldered, tall and strikingly attractive, despite being many years her senior. He flashed her a sparkling smile as he swept into the forge, flicking his fine crimson cloak over his shoulder. She’d blushed at the knowing look in his eye. He appraised her in the same way that many of the warriors did, but with one important difference: the warriors around Gefrin kept their distance, fearing Strang’s wrath should they approach Sunniva. Eanfrith had the confidence that if he wanted to act on an impulse, he could. He was the king, after all. When his green eyes had met Sunniva’s, she could see the mischief lurking under the surface. She had been suddenly aware that she had benefited from her father’s protection all these years without paying it any heed. She didn’t like the feeling of confronting a man who was not afraid of her father.

Eanfrith had quickly lost interest in his dealings with Strang. He had begun by inspecting a few pieces of Strang’s work before coming to an agreement on price. But when Strang had begun to explain some of the finer points of the forging process, Eanfrith’s concentration had waned and he had said he had other business to attend to. Sunniva had taken offence, later saying to her father that it was not right that a smith of his experience should be treated in that way.

The smith had been much more pragmatic. “He is the king. He can treat me any way he pleases.”

The commission would keep the two of them occupied for weeks and would provide enough for them to live comfortably for several months, so Strang was as happy as he could be. Keeping busy and providing for his daughter were the only things that concerned him since Etheswitha had left him. Producing all of these spear heads for Eanfrith’s gesithas fulfilled both of those criteria. Perhaps he’d even have enough money to buy a slave. Sunniva could not be expected to work the forge with him forever. She was already old enough to be married and the gods only knew why no man had proposed to her already.

The day was warm with only a few feathers of cloud scudding high in the azure sky. Despite the shade over the forge, which helped protect the fire from the elements and made it easier on sunny days to gauge when the glow of the metal was right for working, it was sweltering work. By midday father and daughter were drenched in sweat and eager for a rest.

Sunniva went into the house and brought out a loaf, some cheese and a pot of ale. They took off their leather aprons and sat in the shade of the oak tree that grew beside the path. They ate their meal in companionable silence. The township bustled around them. A drover walked a small group of oxen past them on the way to the tannery. The acrid smell of the piss used to cure the leather wafted to them from time to time on the light breeze.