The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (29 page)

The conversation in the hall got noisier, the onlookers restless to know the outcome of the discussion.

Beobrand could not tell from their faces whether the judgement would fall in his favour or not. He caught Leofwine’s eye. Leofwine offered him a small, bleak smile, and he nodded in return.

Turning slightly, he looked to Strang, hoping to acknowledge his help, but the smith stood resolutely looking forward and refused to meet his gaze.

The crowd quietened down as Eanfrith stepped forward and raised his hand.

“I have consulted with the Dooms as laid out for the kingdom of Bernicia and find you guilty of mutilating the nose of a warrior of the king. For this you must pay the weregild of twelve scyllings.”

The audience erupted. Friends of Acennan were pleased with this result. Those who disliked this new king’s warriors were disgusted. The young man had done nothing more than defend himself and reclaim what was rightfully his. This had been corroborated by Strang, who they knew as an honourable member of the community and one who would not lie about such things.

Beobrand’s heart sank. He had no livestock or coin, and the only thing he had of real worth was Hrunting, which he could not bear the thought of losing.

Eanfrith lifted his hand again until the hall was silent.

“Furthermore, we find Acennan, warrior of Bernicia, guilty of using a weapon where there was strife, but no evil had been done. For this, he must pay a reparation of six scyllings.” He raised his hand to quell any interruptions. “For the use of the sword owned by Beobrand son of Grimgundi, Acennan must pay a further six scyllings, thus paying twelve scyllings in total.”

The noise from the watching crowd reached a new height. This time, Eanfrith did not seek to quieten them. He let them chatter excitedly about the clever decision he had reached. By fining them both the same amount, their penalties negated each other. He smiled at Fugol, his scribe, clearly pleased that the complicated situation could be diffused while still upholding the law.

Eanfrith looked around the room, as if weighing up options and then, mind apparently made up, he turned to one of his men and said, “Bring Beobrand’s sword to me.”

Silence fell over the hall. The king was going to speak again. He held the sheathed sword in his two hands, outstretched before him.

“Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, approach and take what is rightfully yours.”

The guards either side of Beobrand stiffened, and the thegns around the king shifted, dropping hands to hilts of blades, readying themselves for action. This young warrior from Cantware was dangerous and they did not like the thought of him being armed with a good sword so close to their liege.

Others watching, were moved by the bravery inherent in the gesture. Beobrand himself was moved by the king’s trust in him. He was reminded of a time only a few months ago, but it seemed a lifetime away, when he had approached another king of Northumbria in front of dozens of onlookers. His stomach squirmed, but he forced himself to move forward.

Everyone was silent as he stepped towards the king. He reached out and took the sword from Eanfrith’s hands. He took a deep breath, sweat running down his cheek, despite the cool in the hall. He sensed the men beside him tensing as he held the hilt of the sword. He knew he had to act now.

With a flourish, he drew the blade from the scabbard and then proffered it hilt-first towards Eanfrith. There were gasps in the hall behind him and Beobrand heard the guards springing forward, fearing he meant to attack their lord. Beobrand ignored them all, focused his gaze on Eanfrith’s wide eyes and dropped to one knee.

Hands clutched at his shoulders, trying to pull him away. The room was in an uproar. To draw a blade in the presence of the king was amongst the worst of crimes, punishable by death. Beobrand continued to stare into the king’s eyes and raised his voice to say, “I offer you my sword, King Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, lord of Bernicia.” Beobrand remembered the oath he had spoken to another lord, in a different hall. He continued, recalling the words he had used. “I will to you be true and faithful. I will love what you love and shun what you shun and never displease you through deed or word.” It was close enough to the warrior’s oath. Some of the thegns nodded in appreciation.

Beobrand paused. The room was silent once more. The throng hung on his every word. Eanfrith stared at him, quite taken aback that this young stranger would take the moment that he, the king had created, and use it to his own ends.

“Will you accept me, lord,” asked Beobrand, his voice small now.

The silence stretched out for what seemed a long time to Beobrand.

“You ask much of me, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi. You come here accused and now seek my patronage.”

The king paused. There was total silence in the hall now. The sound of rain dropping into a puddle on the floor could be heard over the collectively held breaths.

“I cannot accept you as my man. That is too much honour for one such as you.” Gasps from the onlookers. Beobrand’s shoulders slumped. He had terribly misjudged his moment.

The king continued. “But as you submit yourself to my will, Beobrand, son of Grimgundi, I will accept you as one of my gesithas, if you swear your oath to Scand, the thegn whose man you wronged. What say you? Will you swear your oath to him?”

Beobrand felt a rush of relief. He turned to the grey-haired Scand. He looked severe and distant, but there was a glint in his eye, as if he was secretly amused by what he saw before him.

“I will swear the oath to Scand, my lord king. Willingly.”

Scand stepped forward. “Then stand and sheathe your blade. You are now one of my men.” The crowd, released from silence, broke out into cheers. This young warrior was brave indeed.

Beobrand slid his sword into its scabbard. Scand stepped close. “Do not make me regret this day, young Beobrand,” he said quietly, so that no-one else could hear. Then he turned and left the hall behind Eanfrith.

Against all the odds, Beobrand had a lord again.

CHAPTER 16

The next weeks were a time Beobrand always remembered fondly. Scand was a good lord. There was food in the great hall, and mead. He was accepted by the other warriors in Scand’s retinue and by those in the king’s warband. He had been worried that after the beating he’d given Acennan he would have enemies within the group, but apart from the usual ribald humour of any group of men, no real enmity was apparent. Acennan recovered and acknowledged Beobrand with a nod when their paths crossed, but both of them were reticent to talk after the fight. The rest of the warriors displayed a reluctant admiration for him.

The people of Gefrin were anything but reluctant to show their appreciation of how he had stood up to one of the warriors in the king’s service and then managed to get accepted into the coveted position of warrior companion of a thegn in the king’s inner circle. Everyone in Gefrin knew his name and talked to him whenever he walked through the town. Although he was from Cantware, his connection to Edwin through Bassus and his brother Octa made many of the townsfolk consider him somehow one of their own. Beobrand was embarrassed by the attention, but flattered too. On a few occasions people would talk about the king derisively in front of Beobrand, questioning why Eanfrith did not send out more patrols or prepare the town for attack. When this happened, Beobrand was quick to remind them to whom he had sworn allegiance, but he also made sure to mention the concerns to Scand later. The old man valued the newcomer’s honesty and his ability to hear from the people of Bernicia what was really happening.

He spent much of each day engaged with the other warriors in arms practice. He was perhaps not the best swordsman of them all, but he was certainly better than most, despite many of them having a decade or even two decades more experience. His skill raised a few eyebrows and comments. He was naturally gifted with the sword and they all remembered what he had done to Acennan with his bare hands. Beobrand enjoyed the chance to test himself against new opponents and to hone the skills he had picked up from Uncle Selwyn and later Hengist. It was also good to feel his muscles strengthen and the aches from his various wounds subside. A roof over his head, wholesome food and regular training healed him better than any poultice or potion could have. The colour returned to his cheeks and Leofwine noted that the haunted look in his eyes was increasingly less frequent.

During this time he often sat in the shade of the afternoon talking to Leofwine. The storyteller was a wonderful listener and Beobrand found it easy to open up to him. As the conversations moved onto painful subjects, such as the death of his brother, Beobrand would sometimes come to an abrupt halt, like a man walking in a marsh who realises he’s strayed from the path. At these times, it was as if a spell had been broken and the thread of the conversation could not be picked up again. In their conversations Beobrand touched on many difficult subjects, but never spoke of the events of the forest in the winter. He didn’t even mention Cathryn’s existence. He was scared to say her name. Wyrd had brought him out of the darkness and cold and he was frightened that it could plunge him back in without warning. Above all, he was ashamed when he thought of her. Of how he’d let her die. To think that Hengist was present at both her death and Octa’s kindled a fire deep within him that he stoked with his shame.

For Beobrand, chief among the good things of his life in Gefrin was Sunniva. He had long since abandoned any attempt at secrecy when visiting her. They could be seen together in the town or the environs whenever she could get away from her work at the forge. Strang had put up some resistance at first. He still did not approve of the young Cantware warrior, but he knew that to fight against the obvious attraction his daughter felt for him would get him nowhere. She was as stubborn as her mother. So, he had begrudgingly accepted that Beobrand could court her. However, Strang made sure she was as busy as possible so that she had less time to spend with him.

But even when he made her work longer than he had ever done before, she still had the energy to meet Beobrand afterwards. The days were long, with dusk coming late, so the couple would stroll arm in arm, the light of the setting sun turning Sunniva’s hair to liquid fire. They were happy and revelled in each other’s company.

“You’re sure it was him?” Hengist leant forward, eager and expectant. A wolf scenting a spring lamb.

Dreng settled himself by the small fire. “Aye. There is no doubt. He is swiving the daughter of the smith.” He moistened his lips with his tongue. “She’s a tasty morsel. You’d like her.”

Hafgan and Artair didn’t look up from where they sat. They both whittled sticks with avid attention.

Tondberct tensed. He straightened his back and focused on the flames of the campfire. He feigned disinterest, but was clearly listening intently.

Hengist grinned, instantly regretting it as the wound on his face split once again. He lifted a cloth to his cheek and dabbed at the seeping liquid that oozed from the cut. The cloth was already stained and damp from constant use. He could hardly believe Octa’s brother had done this to him. Training Beobrand had amused him at first. He had seen the killer in the young man. Having Beobrand join their band and look up to him as his leader was the ultimate revenge on that bastard Octa. There was a dark side to Beobrand that Hengist recognised. He had hoped to coax it out into the open.

The weapons practice had provided them with entertainment over those interminable winter days. He’d never expected the young Cantware man to be able to best him.

By Tiw, it was not fair!

Time and again Hengist had run over the fight in his mind. He was certain it was mere chance that had caused Beobrand’s victory.

He should have won. He had been toying with him. A cat tormenting a mouse. And then that muddy slip and the savage cut. His face was ruined. Nobody would look at him with anything but fear now. Or loathing. No woman would have him willingly ever again. When last it rained he had looked into a puddle and seen the face of a monster staring back at him.

Hengist spat into the fire. The bitter taste of rage stung his throat. His wyrd was to topple kings. He was destined for greatness. He would fulfil his mother’s prophecy. But first he would destroy Beobrand. He hawked up phlegm and spat again, grimacing at the sting of his stretched scar.

A curse on both sons of Grimgundi. They had caused him such anguish. Taken so much from him.

But soon now, Hrunting would return to him and he would bathe it in Beobrand’s blood before the end.

“He did not see you?” he asked.

“No,” replied Dreng. “Gefrin is crowded with warriors and artisans. They prepare for war. I was careful. When I saw him with the girl, I followed them for a time, then returned here. Beobrand didn’t see me.”

“Good. You have done well.” Hengist absently pressed the filthy rag to his face. “The smith’s daughter you say? Perhaps we should pay her a visit.”

Hengist stared into the fire, dreams of death and vengeance burning in his eyes. He did not see Dreng shudder at the look on his leader’s shattered face.

Scand scratched at his beard. The sweat made it itch and he wondered absently whether a tick had got in there and burrowed into his chin. Perhaps he’d shave. That was the best way to get rid of the lice and in this warm weather it would be a blessing to be clean-faced.