The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (34 page)

Beobrand could feel his own will waver. Perhaps we should turn back, whispered a small voice in his head.

But this was not the voice of a warrior. Of one of the comitatus, of the mighty thegn, Scand, right-hand man of the king. This was the voice of a coward. He refused to listen to it.

“Come, men,” he said in a strong voice, startling them out of their gloomy reverie. “Are we womenfolk who would cower at the shadow of a cloud over the sun? Should we fear the portent of a horse falling on a steep path? No, we are warriors of Scand and we ride to bring our lord king’s justice to outlaws. We should not be afraid of omens. It is our enemies who should be frightened, for we will bring vengeance to them! We will smite them with our lord’s wrath for what they have done.”

The men laughed. The young man spoke well. The spell of the standing stones was broken and their mood lifted somewhat.

Acennan watched Beobrand’s back as he rode on.

Maybe he had been too quick to judge. The boy might do.

CHAPTER 19

In Gefrin, they feasted long into the night. The king was in fine spirits and this rubbed off on his thegns. All except Scand. He sat gloomily in the corner and did not join in the merriment. The men glanced at him, and one of them, Galan, as jubilant as the king, called out to him, offering him mead and meat, but Scand was not interested. Perhaps he was ailing with something, they thought. Or maybe the king had rebuked him when he had pulled him away from the group. Whatever cloud hung over Scand, the others forgot about him as the drink flowed and the hall became raucous with boasting talk and tales.

Leofwine seized onto the mood and sang with a fine loud voice. Then, later, as the night drew in and the only light in the hall came from the embers of the hearth fire, he told the story of a troll that crept into a hall on just such a night. He told the story well, and the up-lit faces of the men were rapt. They were slack-jawed in expectation as he described the beast dripping with grime from the mere where he lived and how he ravaged the people of the hall with terrible strength. To fight the beast, the lord of the hall called upon a great warrior from across the sea. Leofwine called this warrior, Eanfrith, which gained a huge cheer from his audience and a broad smile from the king, who banged the table with his eating knife in appreciation.

In the way of stories, the hero defeated the fell beast and the warrior, Eanfrith, was rewarded handsomely for his bravery. Leofwine had told this story before with a differently-named hero, but in the full version the hero got old and died. Judging his audience well, he decided against completing the tale, preferring to leave the hero wealthy, famous and lauded by all.

As the applause and cheering abated, Eanfrith, his cheeks shining in the hearth-light, pulled a gold ring from his finger and tossed it towards Leofwine. It was a poor throw and the light was dim, so Leofwine dropped it. He reached down quickly and scooped it up, holding it high for all to see. His cheeks burnt.

“Gold for a golden voice!” slurred Eanfrith. “His skill at catching does not match that of his singing!” It was a poor jest, but the throng laughed loud and long.

Elsewhere in Gefrin there are women preparing their dead for burial, thought Leofwine, yet here we are feasting. He did not know what else he could do, but the thought sat heavy on him. He gripped the golden ring in his fist and hoped that Beobrand’s woman was not alone with her dead father that night.

A light rain fell during the night, drizzling over Beobrand and the others where they lay wrapped in blankets. Beobrand slept fitfully and rose before he was roused to take his turn on guard. He stood and stretched, his lower back and thighs stiff from the riding. They had ridden hard all the previous day, but they had not come upon the men they sought. Nor had they seen any other people. The land was desolate and lonely. As night fell, they had made camp and collapsed with tiredness.

A wind was blowing out of the north and the rain clouds were scudding south, breaking up as they went. Beobrand could make out the still figure of Acennan silhouetted against the deep, silken purple of the night sky. The stocky warrior was standing, leaning his head against the shaft of his spear. Beobrand wondered if he was asleep on his feet, but Acennan proved he was alert by speaking up as Beobrand approached.

“I could see their fire again. Before the rain. I don’t believe they know they are being followed. They make no attempt to conceal themselves.”

“We should leave before first light. With any luck we will catch them by surprise.”

“Yes. We should put an end to this tomorrow. We are far from our lord’s hall. It feels wrong. War is brewing and we should be with our lord.”

The use of the term “our lord” was not missed on Beobrand. It was a good feeling to be included by Acennan in Scand’s comitatus. He was unlikely to get anything closer to an apology or open acceptance.

“Why don’t you sleep for a while?” said Beobrand. “I will awaken you before dawn.”

“Very well. Don’t fall asleep or I’ll have to give you a beating.” Beobrand could not see his face in the darkness, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

Eanfrith’s mood was still ebullient in the morning. Despite the amount of mead and ale he had consumed, the king seemed as fresh as a child who had slept the whole night after a drink of warm milk. He ordered his steward to prepare horses and provisions for a journey for him and twelve of his most trusted thegns.

Thralls and bondsmen ran hither and thither filling sacks with hams, cheeses and all manner of other food. Skins were filled with water. Two slave girls brushed and wrapped the king’s best clothes for him to wear when attending the King of Gwynedd.

By the time Gwalchmei rode once more into Gefrin, Eanfrith and his thegns were ready to leave.

As the black-garbed rider approached, Eanfrith turned to Scand. “I leave you in charge, old friend.”

Scand could not bring himself to smile, instead he bowed his head. “I will keep Gefrin safe in your absence. I will watch over Finola and Talorcan and see that no ill befalls them.” The queen had not come out to bid her husband farewell, but young Talorcan stood by Scand’s side, watching proceedings with a keen eye. Scand placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder protectively.

Eanfrith gave his son a brief smile and a nod. “Do as Scand says, Talorcan.”

“Yes, father,” he replied, but he did not look at Eanfrith.

Eanfrith turned his attention back to Scand. “You have nothing to fear here. Find yourself a nice girl. You should enjoy yourself.”

Eanfrith’s attempt at levity fell flat. He faced the approaching Waelisc rider.

Gwalchmei halted and said, “What decision have you taken, Eanfrith King?”

Eanfrith smiled. “I will ride to your camp and meet your lord.” He mounted his horse, a fine grey stallion held ready by the hawk-nosed Galan. Eanfrith swung into the saddle lithely. He was not a young man, but he had always been a good rider. The men who would ride with him mounted too. They were caparisoned in their finest trappings of war. Polished helms, silver-hilted swords, freshly painted shields. They were a formidable band of warriors, hale and strong.

Eanfrith turned to the men who were staying behind. “You are to follow Scand as if he speaks with my voice until I return. I will come back soon and I will bring good news of peace. Watch to the south, for our returning. Lead on, Gwalchmei ap Gwyar.”

They rode out of Gefrin, leaving a pall of dust hanging in the air. The day was clear and dry and the sun was warm, but as he watched the thirteen men riding after the black rider on the black horse, Scand felt a chill run down his back.

“Are you sure you want to burn him, child?” the elderly woman asked Sunniva. It was the old way, but most of the people of Gefrin now embraced the Christ priests’ teachings and buried their dead.

“I am sure. It is what he would have wanted. He lived with fire and would want to be sent on with fire.”

She was determined in this and had been awake since the first light of dawn collecting firewood. She had refused any help, piling it high into a pyre behind their house.

Now, four men helped to carry her father out to the mound of wood. They laid him down with reverence on the branches. The tightly-wrapped cadaver shifted and for a moment they thought the pyre would collapse. But after a moment, it settled. They moved away to a safe distance.

Sunniva walked slowly back to the forge where she had stoked the fire that morning, like so many other mornings. She scooped some of the charcoal into a pot. It was fitting that fire from Strang’s forge should start the flames that would consume his earthly remains.

She walked back around the house to her father’s waiting form. Men and women were gathered around to witness the smith’s final passing.

Sunniva stooped at the base of the dry wood, spilling some of the coals at different points. The kindling had been cunningly placed and flames quickly licked up the wood. She was good with fires. It was one of the things her father had taught her.

She stood close to the flames, the early morning breeze fanning them.

The heat grew too much for her. The onlookers were suddenly afraid that she meant to throw herself onto Strang’s bone fire.

Her tears were hot on her face. Her hair was whipped about by the wind rushing in to breathe life into the fire. Her father’s body was dark, blackened and blurred by the conflagration.

Wisps of her hair singed and shrivelled. Her eyes stung from the heat.

At last she staggered back. The women caught her. Their hands held her. Supported her. She sobbed, but there was no sound over the roar of the fire that sent her father’s body on to the afterlife.

The fire burnt for a long time.

The others slowly moved away. There were more dead to see to.

And life went on.

All around Gefrin people saw to their business. People mourned their loved ones. Newly-widowed mothers fretted about how they would feed their children. Livestock was taken to pasture. Warriors practised the art of killing.

But all the while the smoke from the smith’s funeral pyre painted a dark smudge on the sky.

Sunniva, daughter of Strang, watched over it all that long day. She watched until the embers collapsed in on themselves.

Never again would she hear her father working the metal at the forge, bending the strongest of elements to his will. Nor would she again sit with him and share food in companionable silence.

She was alone.

Her thoughts turned to Beobrand. She prayed over her father’s ashes, where his spirit could take the message to the gods. She prayed that her lover would find her father’s murderers. She asked that the gods would guide him. That he would find them, and kill them.

And then, the blood price exacted from her father’s slayers, she prayed Beobrand would come back to her.

Beobrand shook them all awake when the birds were announcing the imminence of the dawn. They ate sparingly of their provisions, drank a few gulps of water and did not light a fire. The lame horse was no better, but no worse.

They mounted up and moved off into the pre-dawn gloom. They had loosened their blades in their scabbards, donned helmets and sharpened spears. They all hoped that today would bring an end to the hunt. They rode quietly towards where Acennan had spotted the fire in the darkness.

The sun rose on a clear day. All of the clouds had blown away during the night. The riders’ shadows streamed in front of them, pointing the way westward. Further into the unknown.

As the light picked out the details of the terrain, their quarries’ camp could be seen clearly. It was closer than they had expected, on the lower slope of a large, tree-topped hill. Acennan, who rode at the front of the group, pointed and signalled for the men to prepare themselves. They drew their weapons and spread out. They rode up the hill in silence and were barely a spear’s throw away when one of the camp’s inhabitants saw them and raised the alarm.

The figures jumped up and readied themselves for combat quickly.

Acennan said, “Give them no time to prepare. Forward!”

The riders heel-kicked their steeds forward, quickly closing the gap.

The three figures in the camp drew together, forming a tiny shieldwall. Beobrand recognised each of them. Hafgan, the tall, lithe Waelisc was on the right, Dreng, the old, bloodthirsty warrior stood on the left and Tondberct, the young Bernician warrior whom Beobrand had considered a friend, stood in the middle. The three locked shields and stood against the horsemen who lumbered up the hill.

There was no sign of Hengist or a horse in the camp.

The incline took the speed out of the charge and before they could join in battle, Hafgan let fly with one of his javelins. Beobrand watched its flight. It wobbled as it left Hafgan’s hand, but the throw was true. It arced into the bright sky, a dark sliver of death streaking on duck-shell blue, before falling quickly to lance into the neck of the horse carrying two riders. The horse whinnied and shied off to one side. The javelin had not penetrated deeply and was shaken free. The men managed to slow the horse and dismount, but they would have to climb the rest of the way on foot. The horse galloped away down and eastward, toward the lame horse that had been left at the bottom of the slope.