The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (25 page)

Beobrand turned and walked along the river bank, away from the path, upstream to where the water would be clean of any of the waste from the people and animals of Gefrin. There were trees and bushes along the banks, which meant that from time to time he had to move away from the water’s edge, but they would provide some cover from any prying townsfolk. Beobrand wasn’t overly concerned if someone saw him bathing, but he would prefer some privacy if possible.

After some time, he found a gap between two trees which provided some shelter and also a gentle slope down to the water. He pulled off his kirtle and hung it over a low branch. He had no weapons to worry about, having left his sword and spear back at the great hall. He had handed them to the king’s door wards the previous evening before the feast. He was not one of Eanfrith’s trusted companions and was therefore not permitted to carry arms inside the hall. Bassus, Gram and the others had also relinquished their weapons, accepting that the hospitality of their host would only stretch so far.

He knelt by the water and scooped up a double-handful, splashing it onto his face. It was icy and it made him gasp. He repeated the process, enjoying the tingling sensation that the water left on his skin. He sat back and checked his most recent wounds. They were healing well, but his side was still tight, and the scar was a vivid red. It remained tender to the touch.

As he looked up again, just about to reach into the water for a drink, he noticed something floating in the water. It was a leather bucket and it circled slowly in the current as it drifted towards his position. He could see that he would not be able to reach the bucket from the bank, so he quickly pulled off his shoes and stepped into the water. He waded out towards the deeper, colder water at the middle of the river. The water came up to his thighs in a couple of steps. From here, he was easily able to reach out and snag the bucket as it reached him.

He waded back to the shallows and hauled himself up onto the bank. Whose bucket could it be? It might have floated from another village altogether. That was when he heard the girl’s voice, raised in anger.

“By Thunor’s balls!”

The expletive came from upstream, but didn’t sound very far away. Beobrand leapt up, suddenly wishing he had thought to retrieve his weapons before leaving the safety of the hall. For a moment he thought of the cold, dark forest clearing where another girl’s screams had split the night’s silence. Then, without pausing for more thought, he ran in the direction of the noise.

He leapt over a fallen branch, and skidded to a halt when he saw the source of the commotion.

Sunniva had her back to him, but he recognised the curve of her neck and the spun-gold brilliance of her hair. She was leaning over the river, looking downstream. He supposed she was trying to see where her bucket had gone. She continued to shout curses that would make hardened warriors blush.

Beobrand watched her for a moment, enjoying the scene and learning some new insults.

When she paused for breath, he cleared his throat. “Looking for this?” He held out the bucket.

She spun around, instantly on the defensive. He smiled at her, trying to put her at ease. “I’ve never heard anyone swear like you before. And I’ve been in battle and sailed aboard a ship.”

“Well, I dropped the bucket,” she said, as if that was explanation enough. Her cheeks were coloured, whether from the exertion of shouting abuse at the errant receptacle, or from being overheard by him, Beobrand could not tell.

“I rescued it for you,” he said, proffering the bucket to her again.

She stepped closer and took it from him. “Thank you,” she said, then, looking down at his dripping trousers, “You’re soaked. Did you jump into the river to get it?”

He smiled sheepishly. “It seemed like the right thing to do.” He was suddenly acutely aware that his chest was bare. “I’d better go back and get my clothes and shoes,” he said, awkwardly.

“Wait,” she said. “Let me fill both the buckets and I’ll come with you. I have to take the water back to my father. He’ll be wondering where I have got to anyway.”

She stooped, picked up both the bucket Beobrand had retrieved from the water and another one that had been resting at her feet, and dipped them into the river. When they were full, she stood, balancing the load with one bucket in each hand.

“Let me help you,” Beobrand said. She didn’t protest as he took one bucket from her. Their fingers brushed and he felt his stomach flutter. He could sense her gazing intently at his muscled torso as he walked in front of her to where he’d left his clothes.

He sat to pull on his shoes and flinched slightly as he stretched to pull on his tunic.

“Those scars look new,” she remarked. “And painful. How did you get them?”

“You’ll have to ask my friend, Leofwine, to tell you the story. It sounds much more exciting when he tells it.” She laughed.

They walked back to the forge slowly. Each wanting the moment to last as long as possible.

“Where are you from? You speak strangely,” she said.

“You’re the second girl to say that to me in Bernicia,” he answered.

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow archly.

“Yes. She had golden hair too.”

“And who was this golden-haired beauty?”

“I never said she was beautiful.” His cheeks grew hot as he teased her.

“Wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was. And a princess.”

Sunniva let out a small gasp. “You jest with me.”

“No, it is true. She was Edwin’s daughter, Eanflæd.”

“But she is only a child!”

“I know, but she is beautiful.” He paused for effect. “But not as beautiful as you.”

Now it was her turn to blush.

Beobrand smiled. He had never been good talking with girls, but talking with Sunniva seemed natural to him. It was hard to believe they had only met the day before. He had not felt happy for a long time, but the encounter with Sunniva lifted his spirits. He didn’t want the moment to end, but he could sense her getting restless as they got close to her home.

“I’ve already taken much longer to fetch the water than I should have. I need to get back,” she said. “Shall we meet again by the river? Tomorrow at the same time, or a bit earlier?” She sounded breathless, as if shocked by the audacity of her own words.

Beobrand’s step faltered. A few drops of water splashed from the bucket he was carrying. He turned to look at her, trying to see whether she was making fun of him in some way. She looked in earnest, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. He swallowed hard. “I’ll be there,” he said.

“Make sure my father doesn’t see you going down there. Go round behind the forge.”

“Sunniva! What are you doing dawdling there with that good-for-nothing foreigner?” Strang had stepped out from the forge and was holding his hands on his hips, glaring at the two of them.

Sunniva turned, lowering her eyes and walked back to where her father waited. “He’s not good for nothing, father, he stopped me losing one of the buckets…” she mumbled.

Strang looked exasperated. “Well get it back then, child!”

She turned and quickly retrieved the other bucket from Beobrand. “Goodbye,” she said, followed by a whispered “See you tomorrow.” While her back was still turned to her father.

“Come on, girl,” Strang shooed her into the forge, giving Beobrand one last long, piercing stare before returning to his work.

Beobrand could feel the distrust washing off of Strang like the waves of heat from his forge, but it did not bother him. His headache had gone and he felt wide awake. Exhilarated.

He looked up at the sky and smiled. It was going to be another gloriously warm day and he no longer cared whether Eanfrith would offer him a place in his warband.

Beobrand had just talked to the most beautiful girl in Bernicia and she wanted to see him again.

“The man’s an idiot!” Bassus roared. “And a rude idiot at that.”

Gram and Beobrand both looked around furtively to see if anyone had overheard.

Gram said, “Hush yourself. You’re as foolhardy as young Beobrand here. You know as well as any man that you cannot speak about a king that way. Unless you don’t want to be returning home, that is.”

“He’s not worthy to be called king. I’ve a good mind to knock some sense into him, the little runt.” The veins on Bassus’ temples bulged. “He called her Edwin’s whore! By Christ’s bones and all the old gods, if I’d had my sword, Bernicia would be looking for a new heir now!”

It was afternoon and they were walking in the livestock enclosure on the southern edge of town. There were sheep, cattle and some geese in the enclosure, but none of the watching ceorls or thralls were near enough to make out Bassus’ words. At least Gram hoped not, or they would have to leave Gefrin in a hurry.

Until a few moments before, Gram and Beobrand had been sitting in the afternoon sun outside the great hall while Bassus had been inside giving Eanfrith the message from Ethelburga. They had been relaxed and drowsy in the heat of the sun, enjoying the peace when they had heard a crash from inside the hall. The guards posted on the main entrance had made to enter the building, but before they could, Bassus had burst forth in a terrible rage and barged them both out of the way, oblivious to any danger posed by their weapons.

Beobrand and Gram had leapt up and followed Bassus, managing to steer him to this relatively isolated area of the town.

“But what exactly happened?” asked Beobrand.

Bassus continued to pace, his face red. “I gave him the gift. He laughed in my face. Said he’d hoped for something more useful than a psalter. Asked what good a book was going to do him when Cadwallon was banging on the door of the great hall.” Bassus’ breathing was finally slowing and he seemed to be in control of his emotions once more.

“Well, he has a point,” ventured Gram.

Bassus shot him a withering glance. “I don’t care if he’s right, he had no reason to insult her. When I gave him her message, he said he cared not for Edwin’s whore’s whelps!” He walked on, brooding. “I lost my temper then.”

Gram and Beobrand shared a look, unsure what to say.

Bassus stopped abruptly and said to Gram, “Round up the men. We’ll not be staying another night in this place.”

“But…” Gram stammered, trying to find the words that would convince Bassus to allow them to stay at least another night. He’d spent the previous night with a comely slave girl who had performed some rather memorable feats with him and he’d been looking forward to seeing what further delights she had to offer. He didn’t bother to continue protesting however. Bassus was not going to change his mind, that much was certain. He’d known the man for years and he was a stubborn as the animal that gave him his name.

Bassus calmed down quickly. He’d purged himself of the anger and made a decision, now he moved on. To continue raging over Eanfrith’s insulting behaviour was a waste of energy and would get him nowhere. This ability to push his emotions to one side and remain calm, coupled with his passionate rages, made him a formidable opponent in battle. Calculating, yet ferocious.

“Gram,” Bassus said, “get the men together. Find our weapons and buy us some provisions. I want to be ready to leave well before nightfall.”

Gram looked crestfallen, but resigned to obeying Bassus’ orders. As he trudged away, Bassus called after him. “Don’t worry, there are plenty of other dirty slave girls south of here!”

Bassus turned to Beobrand. “Sorry, boy. I think my temper has left you in a tight spot. Eanfrith wasn’t all that keen on you, and now I can’t use any influence on him to make him take you in. Your best bet would be to come with me, back to Cantware. What do you say?”

Beobrand thought of his homeland. The low rolling hills, the dense forests of ash and beech, the white cliffs of the coast. He thought of the old friends he’d left behind, his boyhood friends, Alwin and Scrydan, with whom he’d played on the long summer evenings after his chores were done. He fingered the whale tooth pendant that hung around his neck and thought of Hrothgar and the other sailors who had treated him with such kindness. Part of him cried out to return to Cantware, to what he had once known, to what seemed safe. But his thoughts turned to the billowing furnace of his home as the flames lifted his father’s spirit up to the gods. He swallowed hard. He could not return to Hithe. There were too many ghosts and too many questions would be asked of him.

He thought of all that held him in Northumbria. Hengist was still here somewhere and he meant to find him, and kill him. Hengist had killed Octa and Beobrand would use his brother’s sword to exact vengeance. He also had friends here. Leofwine was in Gefrin and then, of course, there was Sunniva. He knew it was madness to say he would stay for her, and he would not dream of voicing it out loud, but deep down, he knew it was the truth. Since that morning’s chance meeting by the river, she absorbed his every waking thought. He could not stand the thought of going away and not seeing her again. He hoped beyond reason she felt the same way.

“Thank you for the offer,” Beobrand said. “In many ways I wish I could go with you, but I feel must stay here. After all, I have to finish what I started with Hengist. Octa must be avenged.”

Bassus nodded grimly. “You take care, Beobrand. Hengist is like a serpent, cunning and fast.”