The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (38 page)

That evening, despite all of the men being shattered from practising weapon play, they wanted to hear the tale of the hunt into the west and how the malefactors had been brought to justice.

Leofwine had sat with Beobrand and Acennan during the midday meal and questioned them on every detail. Now, the firelight illuminating his face with a ruddy glow, he told the tale with the verve of an epic saga. Beobrand and Acennan became as giants fighting dragons. He spoke with the voice of the horse that had so bravely sacrificed itself to break the defence of the men they had hunted. Then the tree from which the men were hanged spoke of its sadness at being sullied by the evil of men who were not worthy to be suspended from its great branches.

Beobrand and Acennan looked at each other and grinned. Leofwine’s gift at spinning a story was awe inspiring. All of those who listened felt themselves uplifted. When the tale-teller finished, the men cheered loudly, banging their fists on the boards before them. They were proud of their men and proud of Leofwine.

Scand smiled. It was a wonderful thing to see the power of words over men. Yet he knew that words could only carry them so far. In the end it would be strength and steel that would defend this hall.

As he fell asleep that night, he remembered the magpie on the throne. He pulled his blanket around him, trying to push the memory away. But the image of the black eye of the bird would not leave him and dark dreams of death and fear disturbed his sleep.

In the darkest, quietest marches of the night, when the embers had died down and the only sounds in the hall were the snores of its sleeping residents, the creak of the cooling timbers and the distant shriek of a vixen, Scand was awoken by a sudden tumult.

Other men were rousing themselves. Fumbling for weapons and shields where they were stacked against the walls. There were shouts from outside the hall, the drumming of hooves on packed soil. Scand thought for a moment of the tale Leofwine had told of the rending creature from the mere that stalked the night.

They heard the door wards hail someone who approached. There was a muffled reply and then the doors were swung open.

All the men in the hall were standing now. The room bristled with hastily-drawn swords. A figure stood in the doorway, a shade against the starlight. Cold night air wafted in. The embers glowed more brightly.

“Who disturbs our rest?” asked Scand. He raised his voice, but his throat was dry from sleep and it came out as a croak. Like a magpie’s harsh voice.

The man in the doorway took a step into the hall and the dim glimmer of the fire showed them his face. He was one of the men who had been posted to watch the south road. “I bring dire news. Cadwallon marches north with a mighty host. They are almost upon us. The beacons have been lit. We must ready ourselves for war.”

There was a moment’s silence and then the hall erupted in a cacophony of voices. Men shouted questions. Others screamed for silence.

Scand once more raised his voice. In battle he was able to make himself heard over the screams of dying men and the din of death blows being dealt. Now his voice cracked.

Nobody else heard him, but to Scand, the sound of his own voice echoed in his head like the cackle of a tiding of magpies.

CHAPTER 21

“We will make our stand at the river.” Scand’s battle voice had returned to him and all the men gathered in Gefrin could hear his words. Gone was the uncertainty. Put aside was the fear for his lord. He had a clear objective now and he would act to see it done. Or he would die trying.

There was no time left to worry or think about Eanfrith’s fate. The warhost had been seen marching northward and from the account of the man who had seen the Waelisc, they far outnumbered the Bernicians. The river was the best place Scand could think of to defend. The trees would provide a funnelling effect and the water was a natural barrier that would slow their attackers down.

All the fighting men were there. Some, the men who had lived in exile with Eanfrith, were well known to Scand. They were stout of heart and hale. He could trust their resolve. Many of the others he was less sure of. There were younger men in the group and fewer wore armour than he would have liked. Many of the men simply wore a tunic and trousers. He had seen to it in the last few weeks that all had a shield and a spear. That was something. They would have to pray that the days of training would prove enough.

He surveyed the men’s faces. Most were grim and dour. Some of the younger lads looked eager, excited, almost happy. Those were the ones who had never stood in the shieldwall before. They would die first, or live to tell the tale and never smile at the prospect of battle again.

Beyond the men, the women and children, along with the longbeards were trailing out of Gefrin and heading east. They had a couple of carts and all of Gefrin’s livestock was being herded along with them. Finola’s red hair caught the light of the sun. She walked at the head of the column, with Talorcan at her side. Scand’s heart tightened. He loved the queen and the young atheling and hoped he would see them again in this world. It was a straggling group and he prayed they would not meet with any of Cadwallon’s warbands. He contemplated sending some of the young men with them, but thought better of it. They would be of no use against a concerted attack, but here, he could use their numbers.

Beobrand followed Scand’s gaze. He could see Sunniva at the front of the group, just behind Finola. Her golden hair glowed in the brilliant sunlight. She turned at that moment, as if she had felt him looking, and waved.

He could remember her words as she had clung to him desperately that morning. “Don’t you dare die, Beobrand son of Grimgundi. Fight with honour, but come back to me. You’re all I have now.” He had not replied. He had kissed her long and hard and then left to join the warriors in their preparations. He had no intention of dying, but he didn’t want to tempt wyrd by saying as much. He touched the iron hilt of Hrunting for luck, then checked that the hammer amulet was safely around his neck. He waved back, forcing a smile.

“We will go to the river and there we will form our shieldwall,” Scand said. “We will meet Cadwallon in battle and hold him there. We must be as iron. We will not break. We will stop these Waelisc in their tracks and make them pay dearly for marching into our land.”

He did not need to tell the men that their loved ones needed time to reach sanctuary at Bebbanburg. Many thought that Bebbanburg was where they should have been all along. It was impregnable and would be a perfect base. But their king had insisted on staying at Gefrin. He hoped it would not be their undoing.

At the river they waited. Waited and sweated. The day was hot and they were glad to have the cool water of the river to hand. At least they would not be thirsty. They dipped helmets into the water and slaked their thirst as the sun rose to its zenith.

The men congregated into groups of friends and discussed tactics. Some regaled others with stories of past battles, but the boasting sounded hollow. In the same way small dogs will bark when they are scared.

Beobrand sat beside Leofwine. The tale-teller carried a shield and spear; a seax hung from his belt. He was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Beobrand liked Leofwine, but he wished Bassus was with him now. The giant warrior’s presence would have done much to calm him. He seemed invincible. Beobrand wondered if he would ever see him again.

He found himself looking over at Acennan. A few weeks ago he would not have believed it, but now he was pleased to see him and would welcome him at his side when the weapon play began. Acennan caught his glance and smiled briefly.

His thoughts drifted to the other time he had been in battle. He had not known what to expect then. He had been full of the tales told in mead halls. He had imagined battle as a glorious thing. Nothing had prepared him for the chaotic gyre of screams, blood, shit and piss of the shieldwall.

Some of the younger warriors tried to engage him in conversation. They asked him what the shieldwall would be like. How many men had stood with Cadwallon at Elmet? Did he think they could stand against the Waelisc king?

Beobrand didn’t answer and soon the questions ceased. What could he say? That Cadwallon’s men had numbered like the stars? That he could see no way that they could survive against the vastly larger Waelisc host?

He already skirted on the edge of despair. He did not want to dent the men’s courage with his own fears. Courage was all they had. That and the knowledge that their actions would give their families time to reach safety.

He could still hear Sunniva’s words. She was all he had too. He looked up at the sun and conjured up her face and radiant hair in his mind.

He sat in silence and prayed to Woden it would not be the last time he saw her.

As the sun started to fall into the west the men got restless. Could it be that the Waelisc had travelled some other way? Maybe their families would get cut off from Bebbanburg.

Scand told them to hold firm. They would need to fight soon and they could not afford to split up now. “The Waelisc have heard what a fearsome band of warriors awaits them and they are frightened,” he said. The men laughed.

Inside, he cursed silently at the time that had been wasted. Where was Cadwallon? They could have found a better place for this battle, or they could have gone with the womenfolk. Just as he was beginning to think that the men may be right in their fears, the mounted men he had sent south to watch the warhost galloped into view.

Their horses splashed through the ford, droplets glistening like jewels in the air.

They dismounted and their horses were led to where the few others were tethered. “They will be upon us very soon. We have ridden ahead of them for some time.”

All of the men stood up. Urgency and fear were upon them again.

“How many?” asked Scand.

The man paused. He took a cup of water that was offered and took a large gulp. He swilled it around his mouth and then spat, washing away the dust of the road. He lowered his voice so that some of the men could not hear his words. “Four, maybe five times our number, my lord.”

Scand looked closely at the path ahead of them. They could see the dust from the host as a pall on the southern horizon. A low-lying dun-coloured cloud.

The trees and bushes to the side of the path would squeeze the enemy force down the slope to the ford where the Bernician shieldwall was formed. The ford was as good a place to defend as any they would be likely to find. The river was too deep and wide for a long way east and west to be easily crossed. Nevertheless, they would have to make sure they kept a watch for the Waelisc trying to cross and outflank them.

Scand turned to the men, raising his voice to carry to all of them. “They are coming now. We have chosen the place of their destruction. The river will run red with their blood. There may be more of them, but you are each worth ten Waelisc!” They cheered. “Now stand strong and remember all you have practised. Keep the shieldwall strong and do not break. Their womenfolk will weep over their corpses tonight. For you are men of Bernicia and you will make them pay the blood-price for attacking our land.”

The men formed the line. Linden shields were hefted. Swords and seaxes were loosened in scabbards and sheaths. Helms were placed onto sweaty heads. Men kissed talismans for luck. Beobrand felt a hollow queasiness in the pit of his stomach. Somewhere down the line to his right a young man doubled over and vomited into the river. Some of the men laughed, but more than one looked as if he might do the same.

Beobrand looked around him and saw that Acennan stood to his right. He was pleased. The stocky man was a fighter and he could think of nobody else in Gefrin he would rather have at his side. He noticed that Leofwine had been separated from him and was now three or four men away to his left.

They waited and watched as the Waelisc force slowly came into view over a shallow rise. It was as the man had said. The host was several hundred strong. Beobrand thought that at Elmet there had been more men, but it was hard to tell. One thing was certain: the Waelisc outnumbered the defenders.

At the head of the host was carried a standard. Beobrand had seen it before. At Elmet. It had been topped with a human skull then, but now it also had a head, which still bore flesh and hair, but it was too far away to make out the features of the severed head. Several straggling human scalps dangled from the crossbeam.

Scand peered at the standard. It was still some distance away. The dust in the air made it hard to be sure, but the head looked familiar to him.

He let out a gasp. He had known the face well in life and its features had suddenly become clear to him. His worst fears were confirmed. His lord Eanfrith was dead! He should have been there at his ending. It was his duty to fall with him.

One of the other thegns recognised the head and let out a cry. “We have failed our lord. He is killed by his enemy and we were not there to protect him.”

A ripple of disquiet ran through the men of the shieldwall. Scand knew that this battle could be lost before it began if the men lost morale. He stepped forward and addressed them, turning his back on the enemy amassing on the other side of the river.

“Do you see the head of our lord king? These Waelisc pigs have slain him with treachery. But they have made a grave mistake. They have come to us showing their vile deeds openly. Their crime is there for us all to see. And they have brought back our lord! Eanfrith watches us from Woden’s Hall. Will you disappoint him? Will you let him see us fail here? No! We will make them pay the weregild for a king with their blood. With their lives.” He could sense the moment of doubt had passed. The men were once again ready for battle.