The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (36 page)

Eanfrith understood their tongue well, having lived for many years amongst his wife’s people in Dál Riata, but the men spoke in hushed tones and he was only able to make out his own name and that of the king he was to visit.

Gwalchmei then said, “King Cadwallon will see you directly. He is expecting you and is anxious to meet you.”

They followed Gwalchmei and the new riders through the camp. Picking their way between the different shelters and fires, the Bernicians could feel all the eyes of the Waelisc warhost on them. The enmity was palpable. One man spat at Eanfrith. Others laughed and made insulting gestures. Eanfrith shrugged all of this off as the crude ignorance of the lowly Waelisc warriors. They were little more than savages. You could expect no better from them. He ignored them and rode on after Gwalchmei.

Their destination soon became clear. A wooden hall situated on a small rise in the middle of the encampment. It was a large hall and must have belonged to the local ealdorman or thegn.

At the riders’ approach, a murder of crows rose in a raucous flutter from where they had been feeding. Flapping away, they left their meal exposed. They had been feasting on three bodies that dangled from roughly made gibbets. The corpses’ faces were black and bloated. Their eyeless sockets stared blindly at Eanfrith and the others as they passed.

Eanfrith shuddered. “Who were those men? Why were they hanged?” he asked Gwalchmei.

Gwalchmei shrugged. “Every large group of warriors like this will always have some who choose not to obey the laws of their lord. They must be punished as an example to the rest.”

They reined in their mounts at the entrance to the hall. Servants saw to the horses and helped them carry their baggage.

Gwalchmei led the way to the doors of the hall, where he turned and addressed Eanfrith and his retainers. “King Cadwallon does not allow armed men to approach him.” There was consternation amongst Eanfrith’s men, but Gwalchmei continued quickly. “However, as a gesture of the peace and friendship that we hope will live between our kingdoms, you may keep your weapons. There is nothing for you to fear here, and we should fear nothing from you.”

The warriors, somewhat mollified, but still uneasy at being surrounded by Waelisc, followed their lord into the dark interior of the hall.

Inside, it was much like any other hall. Benches ran down either side and boards had been laid out with food and drink. A welcoming fire blazed on the hearthstone. At the head of the hall was an ornately carved wooden seat, upon which sat a slim man. He was dressed in fine robes and had a golden torc about his neck. Many rings adorned his fingers and arms. Gwalchmei strode to him and whispered something in his ear. The man nodded and stood, spreading his arms expansively.

“Welcome, Eanfrith, son of Æthelfrith, son of Aethelric, lord of Bernicia. I am in your debt and have long wished to meet you. Come drink from my cup.”

He poured mead into a shallow bowl and proffered it to Eanfrith. Eanfrith stepped forward, aware of the gravity of the moment and accepted the bowl and drank deeply.

“Thank you, Cadwallon ap Cadfan, king of Gwynedd and ruler of the land of Deira. It brings me joy to meet you at last.” He handed the bowl back to Cadwallon who drained the last of the mead.

The two men smiled at each other and turned to the warriors gathered in the hall.

“Let us feast!” said Cadwallon and offered Eanfrith a large chair at his right hand side. It was not as grand as the one Cadwallon sat upon, thought Eanfrith, but no matter. The Waelisc king was clearly friendly and Eanfrith was overjoyed at the reception. He had not dared admit it even to himself, but he had been secretly worried about this encounter. He felt the tension wash away as the drink warmed him. He put his worries aside and allowed himself to relax.

The Waelisc king lavished food and drink upon his guests. They were served heron, plover, pork, hare and venison. Never had any there eaten more or better fare. The bowls and drinking horns were kept full to the brim with ale and mead and after some time Eanfrith and his men were laughing uproariously. All concerns had left them and they slapped each other on the back and told tales of bravery to their host and his retinue. Many of the Waelisc did not understand much of what was said to them, but they smiled in response to the loud Seaxon men.

When Cadwallon stood and raised both of his hands for silence it took some time for the men at the benches to quieten down. Eventually a hush fell on the room and Eanfrith and all of his men looked to the Waelisc king. He brushed his long hair back from his face and smiled at Eanfrith.

“I hope you have enjoyed the feast. It seemed the least I could do.” Eanfrith and his gesithas hammered the boards with their knives and drinking horns. Some cheered to Cadwallon’s health. When they settled down, he continued, “I thank you again for your aid against Edwin, my enemy and yours. I think I could like you, Eanfrith,” he paused, “if you were not one of the accursed Seaxon who blight our land.” Eanfrith’s smiled wavered. Had he heard correctly?

“I told Gwalchmei you would not be so foolish as to come to my camp with only a handful of men. But he had heard tell of your pride and I have to say, I am pleased that you have come. It will make taking Bernicia that much easier with you dead.”

A chill washed over Eanfrith, as if a cloud had passed in front of the sun. Those of his men whose drink-addled heads could understand what Cadwallon had said were leaping to their feet. Drawing swords and seaxes. Preparing to fight.

Eanfrith remained seated. He looked upon the hall with a strange detachment. Many armed Waelisc had entered the hall while their king spoke and now Eanfrith saw the first of his men cut down as he was rousing himself from the bench where he sat. Blood misted in the smoky air. Benches were overturned. Iron rang against iron. The hall was a tumult of raised voices, screams and the clatter of weapon play.

He saw Galan, wide-eyed and incredulous, turn to him, as if he expected his king to somehow stop this nightmare. Galan opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, a blade was dragged across his throat. He blinked in surprise, still staring at Eanfrith in dismay, even as his blood spouted onto the board before him. And so this is how their bloodless conquest of Bernicia would end. All their scheming had been for nought.

Eanfrith watched as one by one his men were slain. All the while he sat quite still. He was numb. He could not understand how this had happened. How could he have failed his people so absolutely?

Desolation and regrets swept through him. He would never see Talorcan become a man. He had not been a good father to the boy. Or a good husband to his wife. He was surprised that in this moment, so close to his end, he should think of Finola. He had loved her in his own way, but never as she deserved.

With the killing of Eanfrith’s last man, a hush fell upon the hall.

He turned to look at Cadwallon. “How…?” he couldn’t speak. “Why…?”

“Because, Eanfrith King,” Cadwallon replied, his voice dripping scorn, “you are a fool.”

Eanfrith felt a looming presence behind him. He turned, saw the raven-haired man, Gwalchmei, stepping towards him, sword glittering in the firelight.

And Eanfrith knew that Cadwallon was right.

PART THREE

THE QUENCHING

CHAPTER 20

They hanged them from an old yew tree.

Hafgan put up a fight at the end. They needed to beat him to get the noose around his neck. They hoisted him off the ground still kicking and screaming abuse at them in his own tongue. His shouts became gurgling, strangled gasps. He struggled for a long time. Eventually, only his feet still moved. The last twitching as his spirit journeyed beyond middle earth.

They lowered Hafgan’s corpse to the ground and removed the noose. They only had one rope.

Dreng accepted the rope with a quiet dignity that the men respected.

He licked his lips and calmly asked, “Will one of you pull on my legs? It will make my passing easier.”

Acennan glanced at Beobrand, then nodded and stepped forward. “I will help you on your way, old man,” he said.

The others pulled Dreng off of his feet and secured the rope. Acennan gripped his kicking legs around the ankles and pulled down hard. The kicking stopped abruptly.

The sight of his two companions being hanged drove Tondberct mad with fear.

“I didn’t kill anyone! Don’t kill me, by all the gods, I am not a murderer!” he screamed.

He cried and blubbered. Spittle ran from his chin, like the droolings of a toothless old man.

Quickly, they placed the noose they had removed from Dreng around his throat. It was now fraying slightly and carried signs of its previous victims: hair, skin and dark blood stains where it had rubbed their necks raw. On seeing this Tondberct’s body was racked by sobbing. His ravings unnerved them. They regretted not hanging him first.

One of them threw the end of the rope over a branch. Not wishing to listen to him anymore, they pulled on the rope with savage force. Tondberct was lifted off the ground at such speed that his neck broke with an audible crack.

They all let out a breath then, enjoying the sudden silence.

The wind rustled the leaves of the yew. Tondberct’s body swung, the rope creaking like the sound of oars in the tholes of a longship.

When they were sure he was dead, they lowered his corpse down and laid it next to the others.

Beobrand watched each man’s end with a heavy heart. The solace he sought from avenging Cathryn and Strang did not come. Tondberct’s pleading did not move him. There could be no mercy. Death was the only just payment for their crimes.

So why did he still feel ashamed? How could he be rid of this deep-seated anguish?

Of those present in that winter clearing, now only two remained. Hengist and Beobrand himself. He placed his hand on Hrunting’s hilt and once more swore a silent oath to all the gods that he would see Hengist dead. Only then, with the death of his kin-slayer, would he know peace.

Riding away, their mood was sombre.

They could not push the horses hard on the return journey. They led the lame horse and the five men rode on the remaining three steeds. They stopped regularly and rested the mounts, redistributing the riders.

The weather was good, but they made slow progress. Each man carried enough horse meat to last the journey home. The rest of the carcass, along with the three corpses, had been left behind for the wolves and crows.

By unspoken consent they travelled wide of the skull-topped shrine. None of them wanted to be close to that place again.

On the afternoon of the second day they came back to the steading where they had slept on their outward journey. Now they approached from the empty lands to the west, with the sun at their backs. They could see smoke drifting up from the buildings and as they got closer they saw a man moving in the space between the dwellings. He spotted them at last and ran inside. By the time they arrived at the collection of houses, there were six men in their path. Each was armed. There were a couple of spears, an axe and three seaxes, but they did not have the bearing of fighting men. They were nervous and the younger men fidgeted. Two were little more than boys.

Acennan told Beobrand and the others to wait and he spurred his horse forward. He halted in front of the men.

“I am Acennan, son of Bron, hearth-warrior of Scand, trusted thegn of Eanfrith, king of this land of Bernicia. We mean you no harm.”

It took him some time to convince them of what he said, but in the end the leader of the group, a man called Cedd, gruffly offered them lodging for the night. With better grace, Cedd’s wife ushered them into her house and passed around a large wooden cup of mead. They all drank, solemnly sharing the drink, accepting the ritual welcome.

They ate well that night. The womenfolk cooked plain food and were grateful for some of the meat the warriors carried, adding it to the stew.

Cedd told them how Hengist and his companions had killed their best pig. They had not stopped at the farmstead for long. When Cedd’s folk had seen Acennan and his men coming from the east, they had gathered up their livestock and fled to a secret place.

He was pleased to hear of the hanging, and asked for details of the fight. When they heard the tale they were all overjoyed to be eating the very horse that had been instrumental in their assailants’ capture.

They all rested well that night, but Acennan made them keep watch. “You can never trust these ceorls in the middle of nowhere. They’d as likely butcher us in our sleep and eat us in place of the best pig they lost!”

Scand was exhausted. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the setting sun. Still no word from Eanfrith or Acennan and the men who had ridden into the west. He was concerned about both. He was more convinced than ever that war was coming.

That morning he had witnessed a terrible omen. The hall doors had been open to let in light and air. A magpie had landed in the doorway, silhouetted against the bright daylight. It had stood there for a moment, then it cocked its head as if listening to something, perhaps the voices of the dead. The fell bird had then flown into the hall. It had flapped along the length of the chamber and landed on the high back of the king’s seat. Scand had hardly believed his own eyes. He looked around to see the reaction of others, but unusually the hall was empty apart from him and the bird.