The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (37 page)

It had stared at him with its beady eye, head moving with small jerky motions. He was certain that the bird brought him a message. It was a harbinger of terrible portent. Eventually, having made sure that the old warrior had seen and understood, the bird flapped to the ground, seized a scrap of meat in its beak and flew back out into the light.

Scand had been shaken, but he did not mention the omen to anyone. Instead, he had made his face stern and unreadable then walked back out to where the warriors were training. They looked to him for guidance and he would not fail them or his king.

Ever since Eanfrith had left with his retainers, following that black rider, Gwalchmei, Scand had worked incessantly on preparing the warriors and the people of Gefrin for battle. Eanfrith had placed him in charge and he did not mean to waste a moment. All around him men were slumped on the ground, panting and drenched in sweat. He had made them run in whatever armour they possessed and then form two shieldwalls. It was then a contest to see which group of men could shove the other back past a mark on the ground using brute force. For the winners Scand had promised mead and ale, for the losers only water that night. By the end of the day of exercises, the winning group was too tired to cheer.

For the rest of the townsfolk he had set the task of gathering their belongings together in small enough packs and bags to be carried. He relied on the women to organise themselves. The young woman, Sunniva, seemed to have been strengthened by the death of her father. The way that steel is tempered by fire in the forge. No sooner had her father been laid in the ground than she had begun to go from house to house with Fugol ensuring that people were choosing the most important items for a hasty retreat from Gefrin should the time arise. Beobrand had chosen well there. Or more accurately he had been lucky that she had chosen him. A brief smile played on his lips before his habitual frown returned.

Finola had risen to the task of organising the royal household. She was soft-spoken and small, but she knew what she wanted and was the daughter of a king. The thralls and bondsmen quickly learnt to do her bidding without comment.

When he looked into the flames of the fire in the great hall at night, he saw the faces of men who had fallen in shieldwalls far away and long ago. Men he had called friends who had been taken from this world in the way of wyrd. He remembered his first glimpse of the island of Hii, white sand glittering like a jewel in the dark sea. He remembered individuals who had died over that sea in Hibernia, where Eanfrith and his brothers had fought for their Dál Riatan protectors. Their faces were clear to him, but not their names. He had seen too many good men die. And too many women. His own wife, Morna, had left him many years before. How he had loved her, his Pictish beauty. She had died bearing their first child, a son, while he was in Hibernia. The baby had not lasted a week and both were long in the ground when he had returned. He had never married again. No other woman could compare with Morna. His only female company now was Finola. The delicate, thoughtful young woman reminded him in many ways of Morna. She spoke in the same lilting tones and he would sometimes sit with her, talking by the fireside late into the night, wondering what could have been. But his affection for her was that of a father to his child. He felt protective of Finola and her son, Talorcan. Both were ignored by Eanfrith, and it saddened Scand to see it.

He had sacrificed so much and travelled so far with Eanfrith through all the years of exile waiting for this moment to come, when they could return to the land that was rightfully theirs. He hoped that Eanfrith was right in his assessment of the situation with Cadwallon, but Scand had seldom heard a good word about the honour of the Waelisc king and he feared the worst: that Eanfrith’s pride and eagerness for a crown had clouded his mind.

The responsibility for the queen and atheling and the people of Gefrin sat heavily on Scand, but he would not rest until he knew he had done all in his power to ensure their safety. He had several men patrolling the area surrounding Gefrin both day and night, and he had ordered beacons built at regular intervals to be lit if enemies were spotted. He worked the men harder than any of them liked until they all collapsed in exhaustion at the end of every day. Too tired for riddles and song, and all too pleased to let sleep engulf them in her dark embrace.

They left Cedd’s folk shortly after dawn, eager to get back to Gefrin. They made good progress. The day was dry and bright. Soon they would be back with their lord and loved ones. Their spirits were high.

They rested the horses frequently and took a long break from the midday sun in the shadow of the trees where the charcoal pits were. When they passed through the clearing all was silent and still. The fires were cold, the clearing deserted.

The men did not speak, but each of them recalled the sights they had seen there a few days before. They were tired from the long days in the saddle, but they sat up straight on their steeds. They had delivered justice to the men who had brought death to the charcoalers and Gefrin’s smith. They had done their duty and were now anxious to return.

When they were still some way from Gefrin, two horsemen approached them. They had been posted by Scand to watch the road. They exchanged news. Beobrand, Acennan and the others were shocked to hear of Eanfrith’s decision to ride south to meet with Cadwallon. All of them were worried that he had not yet returned.

They rode on, but worry now gnawed at them.

It was dark by the time they crossed the river that flowed to the south of Gefrin. They could see the great hall on the horizon. A black shape that blotted out the stars of the clear night. The settlement was silent, the sound of their horses’ hooves travelling far.

They talked briefly to the door wards of the hall who told them that Scand and the men were sleeping. They should rest and then they could tell their tale to Scand in the morning. Acennan and the other men made their way quietly into the hall. Some of the sleeping men stirred and they settled them with soft words.

Acennan turned towards Beobrand, who had stayed in the doorway of the hall. “Are you not going to sleep?” he whispered. Then, realisation dawned and his teeth flashed bright in the starlight. “Or perhaps you have other ideas?”

Beobrand could feel his cheeks colour, but he knew none could see him blush. “I’ll go and check on Sunniva,” he said awkwardly.

Acennan chuckled quietly. “See you in the morning,” he said and moved into the hall.

The door wards closed the doors and sent for bondsmen to tend to the horses. Beobrand walked back down towards the forge past the silent houses that loomed in the night.

He had not seen Sunniva since Strang’s death and he was unsure how she would react to his return. But he could not imagine waiting another heartbeat without seeing her. He had missed her terribly. Only now, with the prospect of seeing her moments away, did he comprehend the extent of his longing to be reunited with her. There was nobody else now.

His heart fluttered in his chest as he swung open the door of the house by the forge. It was dark inside, but he could sense that the hut was not empty.

There was a rustle of cloth and then Sunniva’s voice, frightened, tremulous, blurred by sleep. “Who is there?”

Warm relief flooded through Beobrand at the sound. He stepped over the threshold and said, “Do not fear, Sunniva. It is I, Beobrand. I am come home.”

And even though he had never lived in this small building, had been in Bernicia for less than a year and in Gefrin for only a couple of months, he knew that it was true.

Sunniva watched Beobrand as he slept.

She could hear the usual sounds of the settlement outside. Someone was whistling. The distant strikes of a hammer on wood. A group of people hurried past talking excitedly, their words muffled by the wattle and daub walls.

The normal sounds of Gefrin would be replaced soon. She was sure of it. War was coming and then all would be chaos and fear. But she looked upon her man’s sleeping features and clung to this moment of peace. Since he had left to seek her father, Sunniva’s life had spun out of control. Her father’s death threatened to consume her with grief the way hidden rocks in a riverbed can cause swirling currents to drag floating objects under. She could feel the darkness ready to smother her, so she had not allowed herself to rest.

She had collected Strang’s ashes in an earthenware urn. She had buried the urn with the seax she had made for her father when she was fourteen. He had always cherished it, despite it not holding its edge. She had also interred his hammer. She hoped he would be able to forge metal in the afterlife. It was his passion. She had laid her father to rest next to her mother’s remains. He had missed her so, it was right that they were together again.

As soon as the burial was finished, she had set about helping to prepare Gefrin for battle.

She had not allowed herself to think about her father or mother. When she took a moment’s rest her mind turned to Beobrand. Would he return? Would he abandon her too?

When he had stumbled into her house, waking her, she thought he was part of her dreams. A shade come to torment her sleep.

But then he had spoken. Touched her hair. Held her in his arms and she had grown weak with relief.

She had fed him and he had told her briefly of what had happened. The hunt into the west. Capturing the men. The hangings.

She had sat close to him, her body warming his. In the darkness her hand had found his. He’d trembled at her touch. She’d felt a rush of desire then and kissed him. Their passion mounted rapidly and she had pushed him onto her bed. Frantically pulling his kirtle and trousers off she had straddled him, gasping as he entered her. They had made love desperately. Like two wayfarers lost in a maelstrom they had clung together, scared to let go.

Spent, they had fallen asleep in each other’s arms. She had awoken first and was now content to watch the rise and fall of his chest. To listen to his breathing through half-opened mouth. Safe in the knowledge that he was alive and she was not alone.

She watched motes of dust float in the shaft of bright sunlight that pierced the gloom of the house through a crack in the door. The light fell on Beobrand’s face. He stirred, mumbling something in his sleep.

She could hear the shouts of the warriors drifting down from where they were training by the great hall. Beobrand had slept late, exhausted from his journey, but he would want to join the men soon. She did not want him to leave her side again, but she knew this was the man that her wyrd had chosen for her. A brave man. A man of war. And she could no more change his nature than she could tame a wild bear.

He opened his eyes and smiled to see her gazing at him.

“That is the best sight I have seen these past many days,” he said.

She returned his smiled. Traced the scar on his face with her fingers. “I was so scared you wouldn’t come back.”

“Only death could keep me away from you.”

She looked away, tears prickling her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Death had taken away so much from them both. For a long time she said nothing.

“Did they have a hard passing? The men who killed my father?”

He thought of the yew tree and the creaking rope. “It wasn’t easy. They will hurt nobody now.”

“Like they hurt you?”

“My wounds have healed.”

“I don’t mean where you were cut. You carry some other pain with you.”

He sat up. Reached out and brushed her hair away from her forehead.

“The one they…
we
travelled with, Hengist. He killed my brother.” His voice turned hard and cold. She shivered. “I will have revenge for what he has done.”

“Will it take away your pain? If you kill him?”

He stood abruptly.

“I don’t know, woman! Once I have killed him, I’ll tell you.”

He pulled on his trousers and kirtle. Picked up his sword. Prepared to leave. Scand would need him.

She did not reply, but dropped her gaze to the ground. Bit her lip.

He sighed. “Forgive me. I am tired.”

“Do not be angry with me,” she said. He pulled her into an embrace and held her tightly. Her hair stroked his face. He breathed in her scent. She whispered in his ear.

“I asked because you have killed and I have not. Death is a thief to me. Only taking. But you bend it to your will, taking back what others have stolen. I hope killing your enemies brings solace. If not, how can we hope to end this pain?”

Scand was pleased that Acennan and the men had returned with no losses apart from a horse. They had meted out justice to all but one of the perpetrators and this was to be celebrated. He gathered the townsfolk together and recounted what had befallen those who had slain their menfolk. The people were still anxious that their king had left them, but the news of justice gave them a grim sense of satisfaction.

There was still no sign of Eanfrith and Scand caught himself looking south ever more frequently as time went by. He pushed the men in their training. The addition of Acennan, Beobrand and the others to their ranks lifted their spirits.

Scand was pleasantly surprised to see Acennan and Beobrand talking to each other from time to time. Even smiling and joking during some of the exercises he put them through. Friendships forged in conflict were the strongest. He glanced once more to the south, but all of that day there was no sign of their king.