The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (32 page)

“I recognise him.” Beobrand’s voice had taken on a hard edge. “His name was Artair. He travelled with the man who killed my brother. When we find them, their leader, one called Hengist, is mine.”

They could not ride as hard as they wanted. The path through the trees was winding and difficult to navigate on horseback. After a short while, they decided to dismount and lead the horses through the trees. This also meant that they could better survey the ground for sign of their quarries’ passing. The ground was soft now, but the men they hunted appeared to have left the charcoal burners’ glade before the rains, so they had left little in the way of tracks on the path.

Fortunately, they had taken the ox and cart, so there were from time to time indications that they had travelled that way. With the cart, there was nowhere else for them to go but the path, at least until they left the woodland.

The men did not talk. Their faces were grim. They all knew that this journey would end in bloodshed. The task was clear. They would have no qualms exacting justice on the men who had killed those they were sworn to protect, but the unknown size of the group preyed on their minds. Beobrand told them what he knew of the group from when he had travelled with them, but they did not know if their numbers had changed since then, and none of them were expert trackers.

The men looked sidelong at him.

Beobrand felt their eyes on him. Knew what they were thinking. What sort of man travelled with the likes of these murderers? Had he no honour? Could his oath be trusted? He set his jaw and pressed on. There was nothing he could do to make them trust him apart from showing them with actions where his duty now lay. He cursed his stupidity at having fallen in with Hengist and the others. Wryd. It was pointless to question it. Bassus had told him never to dwell on the past, but to think of the future. He did that now. He planned his revenge. There were so many that cried out for vengeance. Octa, Cathryn and her father, Strang and the countless others Hengist had killed. Beobrand gripped the reins tightly enough to hurt his hands and picked up his pace.

They were soon out of the woods. They mounted again and continued along the path that stretched into the distance through nettles and grasses. The rain had stopped, though clouds still brooded in the sky and the wind was cold and blustery. The tracks of the cart were clearer now. The path was not frequently used and was quite overgrown, so the wheels of the cart had crushed foliage as it had passed. There was dung from the ox too, and then from a horse, so at least one of them was mounted. They spent a short while scanning the ground trying to work out how many men there were and the number of horses. They couldn’t agree, but all thought that there was only one, or perhaps two horses. If the band was the same size as Beobrand mentioned, with one of their number dead, there were four left.

The five pursuers kicked their horses’ flanks and cantered forward. The men they hunted had a day’s head start on them, but they were not all mounted and the cart would slow them down.

In the early afternoon, they found the men’s campsite. They had huddled under the lee of a steep hill. The remains of their small fire were still warm to the touch, despite the heavy rain. It was easy now to see where the men had lain. Near the fire were four areas of flattened grass.

Beobrand, Acennan and the other three warriors paused there briefly. They ate sparingly of the provisions they had taken from Gefrin. They had also taken the food originally given to the three who had returned to the great hall with the bodies. They did not know how long the hunt would take, but all were anxious to bring the men to justice and get back to Gefrin. War was in the air, and this seeming random act of violence unnerved them. They did not want to be cut off from the warband when battle commenced. It was their duty to stand with their lord. The shieldwall was where their names would be made and silver arm bands won.

The wind picked up again, blowing directly into their faces as they mounted and rode once more into the west. Into higher ground. Towards the wilds where the people were as untamed as the lands they dwelt in.

They drew their damp cloaks around them, and rode on.

Scand and the others arrived at Gefrin late in the afternoon, leading the horses with their grisly burdens. They trudged between the dwellings, the hooves of the mounts squelching in the mud of the path. A bondsman, guarding livestock at the enclosure on the edge of the township, saw them and asked who the men over the backs of the horses were. When they told him, he ran off with the bad news, ahead of them. Bearing bad tidings was evidently a rare excitement for the man.

By the time the men had led their horses to the great hall, they were followed by a small procession of townsfolk. The wives of the charcoal men joined the throng with their children. Their faces were almost as ashen as their dead husbands’. They hoped beyond reason that the news they had heard was not true. That the corpses on the horses were not their men, but when the thegns dismounted and cut them down, lowering the bodies with reverence to the wet ground, they saw what they already knew. Their men were gone. Without them, they would not be able to feed their children. They cast their eyes down when the king stepped from the hall. Everyone there knew the women would likely have to place their heads in Eanfrith’s hands if they were to survive. They would cease to be free then. By throwing themselves on their lord’s mercy they would become thralls.

But first they would tend to the dead. The womenfolk of the town gathered around the bodies and started giving men orders to pick them up and take them to their abodes, where they would be cleaned and prepared for burial in the old tradition.

Sunniva came dashing up the hill, her golden hair bright against the grey sky. When she saw her father on the ground, she let out a wail of grief and fell to her knees. She was still young and had seen less death than the older women, who had buried husbands, fathers, brothers, sons. She would learn, they thought. They crowded around her, raised her up from the ground and took charge of the preparations for her father. Etheswitha had been their friend and they all loved Sunniva. She was kith to them.

As they drew her away, leaving the menfolk to talk of the events, she suddenly turned. “Where is Beobrand? Is he…?” She could not bring herself to finish.

Scand spoke loud enough for all to hear. The king needed to know what had happened, and the people may as well know too. He was tired and had no inclination to have to repeat the telling.

“Beobrand is unhurt, or was when we left him. He travels with Acennan and the others in search of the men who committed these murders most foul. We found these men in the charcoal clearing, where they had been slain. This fifth man was one of their attackers. Beobrand knew him and told us of the men he travelled with. They are men who believe themselves outside the law. Five of my gesithas, mounted on fine steeds and with sharp blades and strong war harness are hunting these outlaws. They will find them and they will be brought to justice.” He turned to the king and bowed his head. “I trust I have done what you would have ordered.”

Eanfrith was shocked at how old Scand looked. Remove the battle dress and weapons and he would be one of the longbeards who sat sucking their gums by the fireside.

The king drew himself up to his full height and spoke clear and true. “You have done well, most trusted Scand. We must protect our people and bring to justice any who raise their hand against us. Now come into the hall and share a cup with me. It has been a hard day for you and you need rest.”

Scand scowled. Eanfrith’s comment belittled him, making him appear weak and tired in front of his men. He didn’t protest though. Eanfrith was his king, and the truth was that he was exhausted. He began to make his way into the hall, already anticipating sitting on the mead bench and resting his weary legs in the smoky warmth inside, when there came the thrumming of galloping hooves behind him.

They turned to see a single rider approaching. He rode a large black stallion, a fine horse, with braided mane. The rider was unknown to them. He had hair as black as his horse. His cloak was white and it billowed behind him. At his side he had a sheathed sword and at his neck shone a golden torc.

Scand’s fatigue vanished and he quickly stood in front of Eanfrith. The other warriors formed a protective line in front of their king. Weapons were drawn. It was only one rider, but he bore down on them like a black devil. The corpses on the ground reminded the men what happened to those who do not prepare for battle.

The crowd of people parted and let the rider through. At the last possible moment, he pulled hard on the reins, bringing his steed to a skidding halt. Gobbets of mud spattered the bodies.

Scand stepped forward. “Who are you and what brings you here? You come at a time of sadness, as you can see.”

The man remained mounted, his horse turning skittishly, unnerved at the smell of blood. “My name is Gwalchmei ap Gwyar and I bear a message for Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, king and ruler of Bernicia and all its peoples.”

Those watching were hushed. This man was one of the Waelisc, the proud foreigners from the west who had long battled against the Angelfolc. He was brave indeed to ride alone to the very doors of the great hall of Gefrin.

Eanfrith spoke in a clear voice. “I am Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, son of Aethelric, and I rule this land by the right of the old gods and the new. Who sends me a message, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar?”

“The message I bring you is from Cadwallon ap Cadfan, King of Gwynedd and ruler of the kingdom your people know as Deira. My lord would meet with you to discuss terms of peace.”

CHAPTER 18

Cresting a hill the riders saw an overturned cart in the valley below. The path was steep and treacherous, made up of loose stones. They rode cautiously down towards the cart. Drawing close they could see large gashes in the scree of the path, where the cart had slipped and finally come to rest on its side. One of the cart’s wheels had come off and was lying some way from the path.

The ox that had pulled the stolen cart had clearly outlived its usefulness. Its carcass lay in the long grass beside the broken vehicle. It had been quickly butchered. Choice cuts had been removed, but most of the meat was still on it. No time had been wasted.

“I’d say they know they are being followed,” said Acennan, swatting at the flies that buzzed up around his face, disturbed from where they feasted on the bloody wounds of the beast.

“Or they know someone will be following them soon and they want to make up as much ground as they are able before they are hunted,” replied Beobrand.

Acennan did not disagree. “Whichever the reason, they are travelling fast. Now, without the cart they can make better time in these hills. We might lose them.”

“There is still some light in the sky. Let’s press on till dark. And we should not light a fire this night. It will be cold, but we do not want them to see us coming.”

They swung back into the saddle and carried on.

Shortly after finding the cart, they came across some buildings nestling in the crook of a stream. There were four small, thatched cottages. A thin line of smoke rose from three of the buildings. The sun was low in the sky. It shone in their faces briefly as it dipped below the clouds. Then it was lost behind the horizon. The valley they were riding into was shadowy and dark. There was no movement from the buildings.

Warily, they rode into the settlement. There were small wattle enclosures for animals, but they were empty and the whole place was eerily silent. One of the enclosures stood open, its gate swinging in the breeze. Part of the gate was stained dark. Beobrand dismounted and touched the gate. Blood. There was more on the ground underneath it.

“Hail!” Acennan shouted, shattering the silence. The men waited for a long while. There was no response. “Hail!” he shouted again. Nothing.

They all dismounted and tied their horses to the gate. The smell of the blood made the horses nervous. They stamped their hooves and lay their ears flat on their long heads.

Acennan spoke quietly now, so as not to be overheard should there be people listening from the huts. “We will go to each house in turn. Beobrand and I will open the doors. The rest of you watch the other buildings in case anyone comes out to attack us.”

They went first to the hut where there was no smoke. Beobrand drew his sword and hefted his shield. The others all brandished their own weapons. Dusk was falling and none of them wished to be in an exposed position once it was full dark. Acennan looked Beobrand in the eye. They both nodded and Acennan swung the door to the hut wide. Beobrand leapt forward, holding his shield before him, wary for a blow being struck from the dark interior of the house. No attack came. They peered inside and saw a simple hut arranged in the way of such dwellings. There was a hearth in the middle of the single room. A table, stools, a chest. Some herbs and dry fish hung from the rafters.

The hut was still and cold. Empty.

Beobrand had the feeling that they were being watched. The back of his neck prickled.

They moved on to the next house and went through the same process. Again the house was empty and there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. In this building, the embers of a small fire still glowed on the hearthstone.

The next house was just as empty as the first two. Again, the fire was still hot, the embers winking dimly like the eyes of a wolf in the darkness.