The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (23 page)

A group of mounted men approached from the south. At the head of the column was a giant of a man. He was armoured, had a shield and metal helm hanging from his saddle. A sword strapped to a baldric was slung over his shoulder. The rest of the men were similarly accoutred, though none with finer armour, steed or weapons.

The huge warrior was familiar, but for a moment Sunniva could not place him. She knew all of the warriors in Gefrin by sight. Many had arrived early in the new year with Eanfrith. These men were riding from the south, not from the northern kingdom where the heirs of Bernicia had been exiled. She looked up at the figure silhouetted against the bright sky and was at last able to put a name to the warrior. Bassus. King Edwin’s hearth-ward. His most trusted thegn.

Strang recognised him at the same instant. Father and daughter both tensed. Bassus pulled on his reins and drew up in front of them. Now that they had placed Bassus, many of the other riders’ faces quickly came back to them. All had been Edwin’s men. Edwin had seized the throne of Bernicia from Eanfrith’s father and caused his sons’ exile for years. The arrival of several armed men who had previously served Edwin could quickly spark violence.

Sensing their nervousness, Bassus smiled. Strang stood, defensively moving in front of his daughter. “Do not fear, good smith Strang,” said Bassus, who had also recognised the smith and recalled his name, “we have no quarrel here with you or anyone in Gefrin. We carry a message for King Eanfrith. He is residing at the great hall?”

“That he is, lord.” Strang said.

Bassus thanked him and Strang stepped back from the path. The riders moved off towards the largest building in Gefrin. They passed quickly. From where they stood, Sunniva and Strang could now make out a couple of people straggling behind. Curious, they waited to see who these travellers were rather than returning to their work at the forge.

After some time they were able to pick out details. One was large with blond hair. He carried himself with the confidence of a warrior, had a spear in his hand and a sword hanging at his side. On his back were a circular shield and a pack. The other was a bright-faced young man, who walked with a light step. Over his shoulder he had a strangely-shaped, leather-encased box.

As they got close, Sunniva studied the warrior more closely. From afar she had thought him older. Now she could see that despite the hard edges and scars on his face he was probably not much older than her. Under the grime of long days of travel, piercing blue eyes shone with a cold intensity.

With a start, Sunniva realised she was staring and the warrior’s eyes had met hers, returning her gaze. At the same instant, both looked away, but not before Strang had noticed the silent exchange. This boy warrior would be trouble.

Strang stepped forward once more, unconsciously placing himself between his daughter and these newcomers. “Do you travel with Bassus?” the smith asked.

“Yes,” answered the blue-eyed warrior, somewhat tersely.

“But not as quickly. Our legs are not as long as their horses’,” interjected the other young man, smiling.

Strang pointed up the path to the great hall that dominated the village. “They’ve gone up there to see the king.”

“Thank you,” said the blond warrior, and then, looking at Sunniva, “My name is Beobrand.”

Sunniva felt her cheeks redden. There was a pause, and when it became apparent that Beobrand was not going to introduce his companion, the young man carrying the unusual box took a step forward and said in a fine, clear, musical voice, “I am Leofwine.”

The smith glowered at them for a few moments. He did not want to have anything to do with Bassus or these strangers. They would only bring discord, he was sure. And the young warrior standing in front of him, staring unashamedly at his daughter, would be the most problematic of all. He toyed with the idea of not returning the introduction, but thought better of it. However young they were, one of these men was heavily armed. They were also friends with Bassus and his band. It would be very unwise to antagonise them with rudeness.

He forced a smile. “I’m Strang and this is my daughter, Sunniva. Well met, but now we must be getting back to work”

With that, he ushered Sunniva back to the forge. He gave the travellers a curt nod.

Sunniva pumped the bellows to get the forge hot enough to start working again. She waited until her father had turned away from her to pick up an iron billet and then she cast a furtive glance at the young warrior, Beobrand, as he made his way up the hill towards the king’s hall. As if he sensed her gaze, he looked round. Their eyes met again for the briefest of moments. Sunniva looked back at the forge and pushed on the bellows with all her strength, trying to convince herself that the heat from the fire was what was making her face burn.

The sight of Sunniva, the girl at the forge, was enough to make Beobrand forget the pain of his blistered feet from the days of walking. She was the most beautiful girl he had seen since…his mind brought back to him the face of Cathryn. He felt a chill down his spine as he realised how similar Sunniva was to the ill-fated girl. They could easily have passed for sisters. He couldn’t help staring at her. It was as if the gods had brought Cathryn back as a reminder to him of his failure to protect her. Sunniva had seemed equally interested in him, which made Beobrand all the more unnerved. Sunniva’s likeness to Cathryn, coupled with her intense focus on him, added to his feelings of unease.

During the brief conversation with Strang, Beobrand struggled not to see Cathryn’s blood-drenched face, staring up at him from the cold earth. Beobrand had not told anybody of the death of Cathryn. He held the secret tight inside. Ashamed to talk of it, but also unable to let it go. Frequently, his mind picked at the hidden memory as his fingers picked at the scabs that itched over the wounds he’d received in the fight with Hengist. In contrast to the bitter days of death and pain in the forest, it was now warm and the sun shone bright in the sky. And Sunniva was vibrant and alive, and looking at him with a warm interest that both excited and scared him. By the goddess Frige, the girl was magnificent.

Beobrand stole a glance over his shoulder to catch one more look at her as they walked away. To his embarrassment, he found himself staring straight into her eyes. He quickly turned back, but not before noting the shape of her body under her mantle as she stretched to pull on her leather apron. Beobrand walked forward, resolutely staring at the ground ahead. His cheeks were warm and they reddened further when Leofwine began to hum a love song under his breath. It seemed the connection between Sunniva and Beobrand had not been missed by his companion. He could expect jokes for several days to come. He tried to frown, but a smile threatened to form on his mouth. In an effort to divert the attention away from him, he pointed at the great hall that loomed over the other buildings in the township of Gefrin.

“Bassus said it was impressive,” he said.

“But he didn’t mention smith Strang or his equally impressive daughter,” replied Leofwine, smiling broadly.

Beobrand tried to ignore him and focused on the great hall.

It was lofty, as well as long. Higher than any building he’d seen, its roof was made of wooden shingles. The gables were adorned with carvings of animals and swirling decorations, painted in vibrant shades of red, green, yellow and blue. At the apex of the roof, at the top of the south-facing gable, the roof was garlanded with what appeared to be two wooden horns. It was a truly magnificent building and was clearly designed to instil awe.

The main door into the hall stood open. There were two men standing either side of it. Both were armed with spears and eyed the two young men with interest.

Beobrand and Leofwine approached with some trepidation. Each had come to Gefrin for his own ends and was now unsure how to proceed.

Leofwine had decided to seek his fortune as a bard. He was talented and played the lyre with great skill. These traits, in addition to his innate charisma and easy-going nature, made him sure to succeed in Beobrand’s opinion.

Beobrand sought a lord to serve. Someone worthy of the majestic sword that had become his. At night he would draw out the blade and gaze at it in the firelight. He was entranced by the patterns on the blade. It shimmered like the skin of an iridescent serpent.

A lordly gift to his brother for his bravery should now serve a good lord again. Wyrd had brought Hrunting back into the hands of its rightful heir. Beobrand would make sure it was put to good use.

“How could such a blade have failed Octa?” Beobrand had asked Bassus one night, as they sat by the campfire.

“I do not know,” Bassus had replied. “But I would guess that Hengist surprised him with Elda, and killed them both.”

“Hengist is like an animal.”

Bassus had looked at Beobrand for a long time, his eyes reflecting the red of the flames. “No. Animals do not kill for pleasure. Hengist loves killing and death.”

Thoughts of Hengist roiled in his mind, often bubbling to the surface the way scum floats atop a cauldron of broth. How he wished he had seized the moment in Engelmynster and slain his brother’s murderer. The night after the fight, he had sworn his oath anew on Hrunting and before all the gods that he would avenge his brother’s murder. At Octa’s grave he had not known his killer’s identity, now he had an object for his revenge.

Perhaps Hengist had succumbed later from his wounds. It was possible. Probable even. Yet somehow Beobrand doubted he would die that easily.

After the fight with Hengist, Beobrand had been unsure of what to do. He was quietly proud of his victory over the older warrior. Despite the element of chance involved, he knew he had held his own better than most warriors would have done and it was no mean feat. Alric, Bassus and the others had all praised his bravery. Leofwine had told the story of the battle between Beobrand and Hengist the following night at a meal attended by most of the inhabitants of Engelmynster. The way Leofwine recounted the fight, Beobrand battled against a giant of a man with the strength of ten bears, the cunning of a fox and the prowess of Tiw, god of war, in battle. Beobrand, stiff from the exertion and injuries he’d suffered, had smiled at the story, embarrassed at the embellishments. He had been surprised that even the people who had witnessed the fight began to believe some of the more outlandish elements of Leofwine’s telling. By the time he had turned in that night most of the village would have sworn he had disarmed Hengist with a single blow of his langseax before picking up the fine sword that had once belonged to his own brother and delivering the winning blow to Hengist’s face with a flourish.

Falling asleep that night, the noise of the merriment washing over him, he had mused on the power there was in Leofwine’s words. His story had already grown in the telling and he wondered whether the truth would be remembered at all once it had been told a few more times.

Following the celebration, he had begun to feel better. His wounds were clean and healing well. The weather had broken. Clear skies brought warmth to the land and, it seemed to Beobrand, to that part inside of him that was still chilled from the winter and the events he had witnessed.

Bassus had come to him that morning shortly after he had woken.

“What do you plan to do now?” Bassus asked.

“I don’t know.” Beobrand thought of the sudden rush of excitement that overtook him in battle. Of the total focus and control. And of the feeling of power he had felt at taking lives. At beating armed men who sought to kill him or harm others. It was a much better feeling than that of impotence he had felt at the death of Edita, Rheda, his mother, Octa … Cathryn. “I’m not sure why, but I want to fight,” he said.

“I know why — you’re good at it. Come north with me. You could join Eanfrith’s warband. He’ll need good men. Or, if you prefer, you can come back with me to Cantware.”

Beobrand had gingerly touched his wounded side, wincing. He could not return to Cantware and the memories he had fled from. “I can’t travel yet. My wounds will open.”

Bassus had given him a long look. “We can wait for you to heal. We’ve made good time from Cantware,” he lied, “and the men could use a few days of rest before continuing.” Bassus felt he owed it to his friend, Octa, to protect his younger brother. But more than that, he liked the boy and would welcome his company.

And so they had lingered in Engelmynster for several more days until Beobrand was fit enough for the long walk north into Bernicia.

When they finally left, Leofwine had joined them. “If we stay longer here, we’ll end up with half the village joining us,” joked Bassus, as they said their farewells to the inhabitants of Engelmynster.

Coenred took the parting hard. He loved Beobrand like an older brother and looked upon him with the awe of a younger sibling. He clung to Beobrand as the horsemen rode from the village.

“You will come back again, won’t you?” he had sobbed.

“I will return, if the gods will it.” Beobrand could not bring himself to give false promises.

Coenred had nodded and turned away. He did not know what the Christ or any of the old gods willed for Beobrand.

Alric and Wilda had looked upon Leofwine’s leaving with a mixture of pride and fear. They each hugged him briefly. Then, while he said goodbye to Wybert, Alric had approached Beobrand.

“You look after my boy,” the older man had said, gripping Beobrand’s arm and looking searchingly into his eyes. “God go with you.”