The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (33 page)

It was almost full dark now and the men moved nervously onto the last building. The feeling of being watched had increased as they’d moved through the buildings and Beobrand was convinced that something evil would leap from the fourth door. The others felt it too. They were all tense. Muscles taut and aching from remaining at the ready for too long.

Acennan swung the last door open. The bearded face of Hengist burst out from the gloom towards Beobrand. He took an involuntary step backwards. Raised Hrunting before him.

Hengist did not leap out of the hut. Beobrand let out a ragged sigh of relief. His eyes had played mischief with him. It was just a dark cloth hanging behind the door, probably to lessen draughts. It had billowed out with the door as it had been opened.

Feeling foolish, he swung his sword and cut down the cloth. Behind it they found another empty room.

The settlement was deserted.

“My guess is that they are hiding with their livestock,” said Acennan. “Perhaps they saw us coming.” Mounted and armed strangers would frighten most people. “Or perhaps they hid from the men we hunt. We can rest here. There is shelter and a fire. We would not be able to follow the tracks in the night, and we do not know this land well.”

The men were pleased to rest. They added kindling to the fire in the largest house and set up watches for the night.

Acennan said, “Remember, these are houses of men of Bernicia. Treat them well. Rest while you can. We leave before first light.”

Beobrand offered to take the first watch. He was on edge. Thoughts and images tumbled through his mind as he stood by the tethered horses. He saw Strang’s face in the dark. Charred. White teeth bared in a rictus. Cathryn’s beautiful face, eyes pleading. Hengist as he had last seen him, face opened to the bone, blood gushing in a sheet over his chin. Octa waving as he left Cantware, smiling. Hair streaming in the wind. Tiny Edita, wrapped in linen, being lowered into the ground. Rheda, trying to smile, even as she died. His mother, gripping his hands as she spoke her final, haunting words to him. His father, hands reaching out imploringly as the flames licked at the straw mattress.

It was a cool, dry night. The wind was shredding the clouds. He looked up, wondering where the dead went. Could they see him? Were they looking down from Woden’s hall? Or perhaps they gazed upon him from the heaven the worshippers of the Christ talked of. He shivered. The moon and stars stared down implacably.

He tried to summon up the face of Sunniva. Radiant, hair glowing in bright spring sunlight. But he couldn’t see her. His mind was only able to bring up images of death and sadness.

Somewhere, a long way off, a wolf howled.

“This is madness!” Scand could hardly believe that Eanfrith was seriously considering accepting the invitation to meet Cadwallon. “It is a trap. He offers sweet words like honey, and you, like the bear in the forest, fail to see the bees ready to sting.”

There was a murmur from the men in the hall. Scand and Eanfrith were seated at the end of the long table, while the king’s retainers sat at the other end, leaving them enough space to speak without being overheard. As long as they spoke in hushed tones. But both of their voices had been raised for some time now. Scand was tired and outraged. He was also genuinely frightened for his lord’s life should he go to Cadwallon.

The king slapped the table with his palm. “Enough! You forget yourself. I am your king.”

Even those thegns who had been feigning disinterest in the conversation turned their heads and stared.

Scand knew he had overstepped his position. “I apologise, my lord. You are right. But I only speak in this way for I see great peril in what you are planning. You are my lord and protector of the people, but I also have sworn an oath to you and your father before you to protect the rightful king of Bernicia.” Scand felt helpless. Eanfrith would not be swayed in this. He could see it in the set of his jaw. “I would not be doing my duty if I did not speak out against your decision in this matter.”

Again, there was a rumble of assent from the gathered thegns. They too were worried. Dispirited at the uncertainty of the future. They had known war was coming. Now their enemy spoke of peace and their king seemed to accept the words without a second thought.

The messenger, Gwalchmei, had delivered his message and then departed as quickly as he had arrived. Cadwallon called on Eanfrith, accompanied by twelve of his most trusted thegns, to be his guest in the camp of the Waelisc three day’s hence. There they would feast and talk of how they should rule their neighbouring kingdoms peacefully.

Scand had started to dismiss Gwalchmei, believing only a complete fool would consider the offer, when Eanfrith had raised his hand for silence. To Scand’s dismay he had replied to the haughty Waelisc in a courteous voice, telling him to return the next day for his answer. The messenger had galloped off. God alone knew where he was planning to camp, or if he travelled with more warriors. Scand had doubled the guard that night, fearing a surprise attack.

Now Eanfrith stood and bid Scand to follow him to the back of the hall, where curtains partitioned off his sleeping quarters.

Unable to contain himself, Scand continued to rail against the king, but now in a tense and forced whisper. “Again, lord, I am sorry for my outburst, but you must see this is a trap.”

He could see that Eanfrith was angry, furious at being dishonoured in front of his most trusted followers, his comitatus. Yet he saw him rein in his ire before he spoke.

“Do not fret, old friend,” said Eanfrith, his voice calm. Quiet and soothing. “Cadwallon will do me no harm.”

He spoke with an assurance that was unsettling. Something in his voice made Scand give pause. A tiny sliver of dread needled him. “How can you be so sure, lord king?”

Eanfrith smiled. “He is in debt to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I gave him aid.”

“What aid?”

“Wealth, to buy weapons and armour. Information about Edwin’s court.” Eanfrith’s smile broadened.

“And what did you get in return?” Scand’s voice was flat.

“Bernicia, of course. My birthright!” He was pleased with himself at having kept these things secret for so long. Almost as pleased as he was at having collaborated with the Waelisc king in order to secure the throne of Bernicia once more. The look of pure shock on Scand’s face made him laugh aloud, unable to suppress his glee.

Eanfrith couldn’t stop talking now that the secret was out. He continued in a hurried rush. “Don’t you see? That is why I was not concerned at our apparent lack of protection here at Gefrin. I prefer the hall here and there is no reason to flee to Bebbanburg. We don’t need its cliffs and walls. We are not under threat here. I have taken Bernicia without losing a man in battle. The tale-tellers will talk of this for generations. I will have Leofwine begin work on a song as soon as I return from the visit to Cadwallon.”

Scand was speechless.

“What did you think? That I had lost my senses?”

Scand stared at the king. He was like a young boy who had played a trick on his elders.

Eanfrith laughed again. “No, my friend. I am no fool.”

Scand said nothing.

He dared say nothing. For he had a terrible feeling that his king was wrong.

There was fog in the early morning. Thick and blinding. Shapes loomed out of the gloom like shadowed memories of bad dreams. Beobrand and the others saddled their horses, closed the door of the house they had used and left the lonely steading. They had seen nobody during the night, but one of the men had spotted what he thought was the glimmer of a fire someway off to the west, on higher ground. Whether it was the owners of the buildings, the men they pursued, or some other dweller of these lands, they could not tell.

They rode on into the west. More slowly due to the fog. They were unsure of their quarries’ path, stopping whenever there was a fork in the track to look for sign and discuss which way to go. They felt lost in this land of shades and mist. At sundown they had thought they were almost upon their prey, now they were less sure.

They rode on in silence, listening keenly for any sound beyond their horses’ hooves or the creak and jangle of their battle gear and harness. They heard nothing and rode on blindly, increasingly anxious and irritable.

They were pleased when the sun rose high in the sky and dispelled the fog. They had been climbing steadily all morning, moving along valleys, but now they decided to get a better look at what lay ahead. They kicked their horses up a goat path until they rode atop the ridge of a large hill. The land opened up before them. They reined in their mounts and surveyed the land.

They did not talk for some time, soaking in the rays of the sun. It breathed new life into them and their spirits lifted. The horses dipped their heads to crop at the long, sturdy grass that survived on this windswept peak.

Below them was a desolate landscape of moors. Grass, heather and gorse. Small brooks trickled from higher ground. Mist still clung to dips in the land.

Acennan broke the silence suddenly. “Over there!” he pointed. They peered into the distance, and saw three figures trudging over the moorland. They were too far off to see details, but they were convinced they had found the men they hunted. Beobrand believed it also. He thought he could make out who the three were, but he said nothing. He did not want to remind the others that he had once travelled with these men.

He was not the only one to note that there was no horse with them.

“Perhaps their horseman has ridden back to outflank us,” Acennan said. “Be on your guard for an ambush.”

Beobrand thought of Octa. Had Hengist ambushed him? Hengist had surely been the rider in the group they were following, he would have allowed no other to ride before him. He shuddered at the thought of Hengist attacking them unannounced. He hoped none of the others had seen the shiver.

“We should get off of this ridge,” he said. “They will see us against the sky and we may still have the element of surprise.”

Taking a last moment to fix the men’s position with regard to the scant landmarks available, they spurred their horses down the hill at a canter. Their enemies were within their grasp now. They would catch them before the end of the day and mete out justice.

Beobrand looked around at the horizon one last time for any sign of Hengist, but he saw none. He kicked his horse after the others, a feeling of disquiet wrapped around him like a wet cloak.

“Woden’s teeth!” screamed the man, as his horse tripped and stumbled. He was thrown over its head and fell heavily. Rider and mount both rolled down the slope. The steed narrowly missed crushing the thegn, but did give him a nasty kick as it careened past. It was a glancing blow to the foot, but the man still let out another cry. Glancing blow or not, it hurt to be kicked by a horse.

Acennan, Beobrand and the other two riders who were still in their saddles were unable to contain their mirth. They were feeling cheered by the sighting of their quarries and the sunshine. Seeing their companion tossed onto the ground and then kicked by his own horse struck them as one of the funniest things they could recall. The object of their humour was not laughing. He stood shakily and scowled at the others where they had reined in to watch. The look on his face set them off again.

He rubbed his foot and hobbled over to where his horse stood. It was shaking and skittish. It took him a while to calm it with soothing words. In that time, it became clear to all of them that the horse was hurt. The mood changed at once. This was no laughing matter now. A lame horse would mean their pace would slow. They might not catch up with the three figures they’d seen from the top of the bluff.

They dismounted and crowded round. They enquired after the horse’s leg, asked if the man was well. He was not easily mollified. The horse was lame, as they’d expected. It had a pronounced limp and would not bear the weight of a rider.

“We must not waste time here,” Acennan said. “We will lead the horse and you can share one of the other mounts. We’ll take turns so as not to tire them too much.”

They quickly agreed who the horseless rider should share with first and they set off again, more slowly now, into the west.

They passed a small clump of bushes, surrounded by a circle of stones. Each stone was nearly the height of a man. The bushes fluttered with tatters of cloth and trinkets that had been hung from the branches. Left there by people who sought divine intervention from whichever god was revered in this place. As they drew close to the shrine, a cloud moved over the sun. At the same moment, they saw that one of the stones was decorated with a ghastly token. A human skull peered sightlessly at them, grinning teeth crooked and yellow.

This was a bad omen. Perhaps the men they pursued had prayed here, or offered sacrifice.

They hurried past. The sun returned from behind the clouds.

They pressed on, but all of the men now felt anxious. Acennan touched the boar that was carved into his fine war helm. He caught Beobrand’s eye. Beobrand saw fear there. They outnumbered their prey, were men of strength and honour and carried strong battle weapons, yet the omens had sapped their resolve. They rode on, despondent now. Where they had been convinced of victory and success, now they only expected failure and defeat. The change in them was as striking as it was fast in coming.