The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (40 page)

He started to move towards his enemy, but Acennan held him back.

“I must help Leofwine. Let me go!”

But Acennan shook him. “If you go, the shieldwall will part and we all will die! Look, they attack again!”

The battle raged on till the men on both sides were exhausted. Time and again the Waelisc threatened to break the Bernician shieldwall, but each time Scand’s men rallied. Still, in the end they would have been overwhelmed despite their bravery and the toll they took on their enemies. It was as inevitable as night following day. More than half their number had fallen. Of those left standing, few were uninjured and all were so tired they could hardly think.

They would have been defeated but for wyrd.

For it must have been wyrd that made Scand’s fine sword blade shatter.

Scand stood in the front of his line and fought with courage. He defeated all who stood against him. He seemed invincible, despite his age. The Bernicians took heart at their leader’s war-prowess. Their enemies’ resolve began to falter. This battle should have been over quickly. Yet the Bernicians stood fast. The sight of their white-beard lord slaying foes like a young man filled them with pride. They would make him proud. They would make their dead king, who looked on from atop the Waelisc banner, proud too. They would not back down.

But they would be defeated.

They were only men, and men can only do so much. They fought on. For honour and to make the Waelisc pay dearly for this land. But as the sun dropped in the sky and the shadows lengthened, they did not fight to win.

Then, weary and half blinded by sweat and blood, Scand stepped forward to meet the next in a long line of men to kill. The young Waelisc staggered over the heap of dead, half sliding towards the grim warrior. He swung his short sword at the helmeted head, but Scand parried the blow with his own blade. It was notched and pitted from many battles, but it chose that moment to break. Shards flew out, flashing red and gold in the afternoon sunlight. For a moment, neither Scand nor his enemy could understand what had happened. Scand lost his balance, falling forward to one knee, as if in obeisance to the young man. The Waelisc regained his wits quickly and made a desperate lunge at the old warrior’s chest. Scand’s byrnie turned the blade and before the man could strike again, one of Scand’s retainers leapt forward with his shield to protect his lord. Scand’s closest companions rushed to their lord’s aid and the man was quickly killed.

They pulled Scand to his feet and handed him another blade. They prepared for the next attack. They looked left and right. The shieldwall was ragged. Gaps had appeared. They would be overrun soon.

But wyrd had played its part and they would not die that day. The Waelisc were retreating. Their king had been wounded and they huddled close to him, backing away through the corpse-clogged stream. For when Scand’s sword was broken, one of the iron shards had flown as true as if thrown by dexterous hand and embedded itself into Cadwallon’s cheek. It was close to his eye and caused him great pain.

The Bernicians could scarcely believe what they were witnessing. Each had made his peace, sure that soon he would breathe no more on this earth. Now, with the last rays of the sun dappling the blood-pink water in front of them, they began to hope again.

They removed helmets and ran gore-sticky fingers through sweat-drenched hair. They were thirsty, but would not drink of the water befouled by so many dead.

Beobrand watched the Waelisc retreat. Could it be that he would live to see Sunniva again?

All around him men were staggering back towards Gefrin. Moving away from the charnel stench of the river. Some men sat down, shock and fatigue making them slack-jawed and slow. Acennan slapped Beobrand on the back. “Well, they won’t forget this day soon,” he said, smiling. His face was a mask of blood and mud splatter.

Beobrand couldn’t smile. He could feel his hands starting to tremble, his legs were weak. He just wanted to sit down and catch his breath. Then he could talk.

Acennan shook him by the shoulders. “Hey! No time to rest now. We are going to need to move. We cannot stay here.”

Scand seemed to have the same thought. He was clearly exhausted, but he pulled himself up to his full height, stood before them and raised his voice. His throat croaked from the constant shouting, but his words still carried.

“Men of Bernicia, you have fought with courage and honour today. You should be proud. You stood like rocks against the sea. Unmovable. Ours was the victory today. Eanfrith king looked on and he saw heroes. Men worthy to sit at his mead bench.

“We have lost many, but the battle of Gefrin’s ford will be remembered in song for generations. Where few stood against many and did not break.”

The mention of song brought Beobrand out of his lethargy. Where was Leofwine? What had befallen Hengist? Had it truly been him he had seen in the Waelisc shieldwall? He looked for Leofwine amongst the men listening to Scand, but he could not see the bard’s handsome face.

“Our loved ones will be halfway to safety by now, but we cannot rest,” the old lord continued. “Dark is almost upon us. We must follow them through the night. We have bought them the time they needed, but now we must join them.”

The men roused themselves and prepared to leave. The bodies were rich pickings for weapons, armour and jewellery and many men became rich in those few moments after the battle. Acennan collected things of value from the men they had slain, but Beobrand looked for only one thing. It didn’t take him long to find it.

Leofwine lay sprawled face down. His long golden hair was brown with drying blood and filth. He was unmoving. Beobrand’s stomach tightened. He fell to his knees next to Leofwine and turned him over.

The young tale-teller groaned. He was alive! But his skin was white. The splashes of dirt and blood stood out starkly on his pallid face. Looking down, Beobrand saw a gaping wound in Leofwine’s stomach. He knew then that his friend would die.

Leofwine’s eyes flickered open. “Did we win?”

Beobrand swallowed. Was this victory?

“I think so,” he answered, his voice cracking. “They retreated when Cadwallon was injured.”

“I recognised him,” Leofwine said.

“Who?”

“The man who has killed me. It was Hengist. You stood before him in Engelmynster. But I am no warrior, Beobrand.” He smiled a wan smile. “That much is clear.”

“I will kill him,” Beobrand said. “He has taken too much from me.”

Leofwine stared at Beobrand for a long time before speaking again. “I think you will. It will make a great tale.” He started to laugh, but it turned into a cough. A trickle of blood bubbled from his lips. He closed his eyes briefly against the pain. When he opened them again, they were unfocused, as if he was looking at something distant. “But I fear someone else will have to do the telling,” he said. He closed his eyes again and soon Beobrand understood that Leofwine’s spirit had departed.

Never again would men sit enthralled by the melodious voice of Leofwine, son of Alric. Beobrand stroked his long hair and his mind turned to Octa. So many dead. Why did he still live? He felt tears burning his eyes, but they did not fall. He had seen too much of death in this past year. His tears had dried up in him, like a stream can run dry in the heat of summer.

Victory should not be like this. He felt empty. All about him was death and dying.

He wanted to lie down next to Leofwine and weep for his friend. Or perhaps simply to sleep. But Acennan found him and drew him to his feet.

As if in a dream Beobrand carried the burdens Acennan handed to him. In a daze he traipsed along with the others leaving the battlefield to the ravens.

They could not carry their dead and hope to escape from the Waelisc warhost if they were pursued. So their companions were left were they had fallen and this weighed heavily on them all. Those who had survived the day could not rejoice. The cost had been too high.

Their shadows streamed long before them as they walked into the east.

Soon the sun fell below the horizon. The air grew cooler and darkness wrapped the land like a shroud.

That night was interminable. They were all so tired that walking a dozen steps would have seemed impossible and yet they trudged on through the night. They knew that if they were caught in the open by the Waelisc they would have no chance of surviving another battle. Many of the Waelisc had not stood in the shieldwall, so would be fresh. Their only chance was to get to the safety of Bebbanburg. And so they walked on.

There were not enough horses for them all to ride. Those mounts they had, carried the wounded.

Once all the light had gone from the western sky, they could clearly see the beacons that still burnt as a warning of attack.

The question went unspoken, but thought by many: Why had Oswald not ridden to his brother’s aid from Bebbanburg at the sign of the beacons? None knew the answer.

The warriors were too exhausted and disheartened at the loss of their king and hall-fellows to talk much. They lowered their heads, hoisted their weapons and shields on their backs and forced their feet to move them forwards towards the east. Towards the coast. Towards Bebbanburg.

Beobrand followed the man in front of him and tried not to think. But he could find no peace. The image of Leofwine’s pale face was etched into his mind’s eye. Leofwine joined the ranks of all the others killed by Hengist. Beobrand was filled with sorrow, but his sadness fuelled his anger the way a breeze fans the flames of a fire. And as he walked the flames of his anger forged his desire for vengeance into the strongest steel deep within him. He would meet Hengist again and when he did he would destroy him.

It was when they stopped to rest that they saw the fires in the west.

A huge conflagration illuminated the clouds as if the gods themselves had lit torches or dragons were sweeping down and razing all before them with their fiery breath. The men gazed at the distant flames for some time before Acennan broke the silence.

“And so the mighty hall of Gefrin is destroyed.”

They knew that he was right. The Waelisc must have moved up from the river to the buildings of Gefrin and put them to the torch. As they watched, more fires sprouted like yellow and red flowers in the black night.

No more was said. But it took no cajoling to get the men back to their feet. They had nothing to return to now. Behind them lay death and fire. Their only hope lay ahead.

The wounded were checked and those who had died were left at the resting place, so that others could ride.

And thus their numbers dwindled.

But the burning of their lord’s hall rekindled the spark of their spirits. It was a final insult and could not be ignored. The Waelisc would have to pay.

They walked on, straining to see the first light in the east that would presage the dawning of a new day.

CHAPTER 22

The first fingers of sunlight caressed the billowing clouds in the eastern sky with red. Below the clouds, silhouetted black against the dawn, rose Bebbanburg. It stood on a high, rocky crag that soared up from the low land around it. On the east it was protected by steep cliffs and the sea. Its palisades had never been broken. It had been the centre of Bernician power for generations. It was impregnable.

The men did not cheer at the sight of their goal as the sun rose. Instead, there was an air of dejected resignation about the company. For before them, blocking their way to the cliff-bound fortress, stood a line of Waelisc warriors. It was not the whole of the surviving host they had faced, but it was a sizable number. Perhaps twice that of their own warband. The Waelisc had ridden through the night and cut them off within sight of their destination. It was a bitter draught to swallow. The men, already on the verge of collapse, could find no more vestiges of energy within themselves to stand against this new foe.

The Waelisc had only just arrived. They had galloped in from the north, having circled them. Now they dismounted, tethered their horses and began to form into a shieldwall. They meant to finish what they had started the day before.

Scand cursed the gods silently. Whether Cadwallon had died from his wounds and the Waelisc sought revenge, or he had ordered them to pursue Eanfrith’s men, he did not know. The outcome would be the same. His men were too tired to win a battle. The men before them would be tired too, but riding did not sap a man’s strength in the same way as walking and many of the Waelisc may not have even fought in the battle at the ford.

Scand surveyed his men. They were wounded and broken. Some had sat down as soon as the Waelisc had been sighted, content just to have a moment’s respite from the march. Scand knew despair at that moment. They would die now. It was like a bad joke of the gods to have had them walk all night only to be killed now, so close to sanctuary.

Beobrand looked at the grey-haired lord. Scand’s face was grim. His shoulders slumped in defeat. He had the aspect of a man who had lost hope.

In the long, painful march through the darkness, Beobrand had pictured how he would exact his revenge on Hengist. He had become convinced that it was what wyrd had planned for him. The threads of their lives were inextricably entwined, but the next time they met, he would cut Hengist’s thread. Then he would be free from the shame and heartache he felt at not having been able to protect those he loved.