The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (43 page)

Now she looked at him and wondered how such energy could dissipate so fast. His skin was sallow. Sweat drenched his hair. He had lost weight, making his cheeks more prominent. Dark, bruised-looking skin ringed his eyes.

He had fallen ill the day after arriving. He had complained that his hand was hurting during the feast that evening, but the drink had dulled the pain and it was not till the following morning that it became clear that elf-shot fever had entered into the wounded fingers. He had rapidly grown worse and soon he could not recall who she was. He spoke with the strong dialect of his homeland, but she could easily pick out words and phrases as she tended him. He spoke of his brother, Octa, and he sometimes mistook her for his mother. He would fall into a fitful sleep and then awake with a start screaming the name of Hengist. At times he would cry, cowering from some shade only he could see. It was difficult to understand all he said, but it sounded like he begged his father to stop. To stop what, she could only imagine.

Seeing him in this diminished state, vulnerable and powerless, made her love him all the more. And fear more keenly that he might be about to leave her for ever.

She stayed with him day and night, as if her presence could stop the unthinkable from happening. She would not allow him to die. She prayed to the old gods and even asked one of King Oswald’s Christ priests to come and say his magical words over Beobrand.

An old woman boiled up a wild garlic and bread poultice and helped her to wrap the stumps of his fingers. “It will draw out the fever, if the gods are smiling and the sisters of Wyrd are not set to cut his thread,” she said. Sunniva had thanked her, but the words filled her with dread. The three sisters, who spin the strands of the lives of everyone on middle earth, appeared to have decided to kill all of her loved ones.

“Don’t look so afraid, girl. He is young and strong and he has you and those fine hips of yours to come back to.” She had offered Sunniva a toothless grin, patted her arm and moved on to help others amongst the wounded.

Sunniva had been surprised when Acennan had come to Beobrand’s sickbed the day after he had fallen ill. When she had seen them last, they had been enemies and she stiffened as he approached, ready to drive him away. But he had knelt gently at her side and taken Beobrand’s hand in his.

“You need to rest, Sunniva,” he had said in a quiet voice. “I will sit with him a while.” He had seen the look on her face and said, “Things have changed between us now. We have stood side by side in the shieldwall. We are brothers in arms. I will not let anyone do him harm. I will watch over him. I’ll send word for you should anything change.”

She had looked at his face for a long time, before finally nodding and seeking a place to sleep for a time.

When she had returned, he was still sitting there. Straight-backed and proud, like a door ward protecting his lord’s hall.

Each day had seen the same pattern. Sunniva would sit with Beobrand during the night and for much of the day, but Acennan came each afternoon and allowed her some respite from her vigil. She came to appreciate the stocky warrior and was gladdened by his faithfulness towards Beobrand.

The fever broke after the seventh night. Sunniva had been prepared for the worst. Beobrand had looked truly terrible during the dark marches of the night. His face shone, pallid in the gloom.

Sunniva drifted into a doze but was awoken with a start when Beobrand reached out and stroked her hair. Outside drizzle was falling and a dim, watery light filtered into the hall from the small windows. Despite the grey morning light Sunniva could see straight away that his cheeks had more colour. His eyes were open and focused on her. He smiled and her heart leapt in her chest.

“You look lovely,” he said, his voice cracking from the dryness of his throat. She helped him to sit and offered him some ale to sip. He could feel the liquid running down inside his body, being soaked up like a dry summer field soaks up the first rain after a drought.

“You look awful,” she replied, smiling. He returned the smile and started to laugh. The laughter quickly turned into coughing and he fell back onto the pallet.

“Gods, I’m exhausted,” he said. “And starving. How long have I been ill?”

“A sennight. We feared you would leave this world.” Her voice broke. “I thought you would leave me.”

“You made me promise I’d come back, remember? I don’t break my oaths.”

She brought him some broth and they talked for a long while.

They talked of the past. Of the battle of Gefrin ford and Leofwine’s death at the hands of Hengist. They spoke of the stand with Scand before Bebbanburg, the slaying of Hengist, the loss of his fingers and then the arrival of Oswald.

Beobrand removed the bandage and poultice from his hand and looked at the damage Hengist’s blade had done. The swelling had subsided and the wounds were scabbed and healing well. The old woman’s poultices had done their job and drawn out the evil from the wound. He flexed the fingers of his right hand. His forearm was stiff and sore, but it was much better.

“I thought I would feel joy at Hengist’s death. That I would be satisfied with vengeance for all the lives he took from me.” He looked at Sunniva, thinking of her father. “From us,” he corrected.

“And what do you feel?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Relief perhaps. He is gone now. For too long he has been a shadow over my life. But he taught me much.”

“Such as?”

“That you cannot know the mind of those around you. You must judge them on their actions, not on what they say.”

She smoothed his hair and kissed him lightly. “When you are strong enough, I will show you how I feel with actions.” She gave him a mischievous smile. She had had enough of killing and death. She wanted to talk and think of other things.

“What has happened while I slept?” asked Beobrand.

“Oswald, Eanfrith’s younger brother, has declared himself king of Bernicia,” she said.

“And what did Scand think of that?”

“Scand and all of the men from Gefrin have sworn oaths to Oswald.”

Beobrand nodded. It seemed like a good decision. “And what of Cadwallon?” he said.

“News reached us that the king of Gwynedd is still ill. He has been struck down with a fever following his injury at Gefrin.”

“Is he still at Gefrin?”

“No. He has returned south to his camp near the great Wall. But his men still maraud throughout the land, destroying homesteads, slaughtering men and taking women and children into slavery. Bernicia is at war. King Oswald has started preparations to lead a force south to face Cadwallon in battle. He has said he means to eradicate Cadwallon and his warhost from the land.”

They talked until Beobrand’s eyelids began to droop. He was keen to go and talk to Acennan and Scand. To understand Oswald’s plans. But his body was as weak a newborn’s.

“Rest now,” Sunniva said, placing a soft kiss on his lips. “Acennan will come to see you in the afternoon, as he has every day.”

That afternoon Acennan rejoiced to find Beobrand much restored. He had eaten some more and was even strong enough to stand.

“Help me to walk outside,” said Beobrand. “I would see the sky and breathe air that is not foetid with the breath of the sick and dying.”

And so it was that they made their way out into the courtyard. From there, Beobrand wished to climb up to the palisade.

“I haven’t seen the sea in nearly a year,” he mused. The afternoon was warm, but the breeze from the sea was chill, so Acennan, fearing for his friend’s health, placed his own cloak about his shoulders. Beobrand struggled with the ladder, unable to grasp well with his left hand. The bandage, the pain and the unfamiliarity of the missing fingers, made it hard going, but Acennan was close behind, ready with a steadying hand.

At last they reached the platform, Beobrand feeling light-headed and breathless, trembling slightly at the exertion as much as the cool wind.

Acennan was concerned. “We should go back down before you faint and I have to carry you,” he said, putting a smile in his voice that he did not feel.

“I have been abed too long, Acennan. It is as if I had died and now I am reborn.” He looked out over the slate-grey sea. The Whale Road, sailors called it. Gannets and guillemots and other sea birds cavorted in the sky, relishing the zephyrs that wafted over the water and up the cliffs. The rain had blown over and now the sky was dotted with clouds that cast shadows on the water. In the distance they could see a small group of islands and a little way to the north lay a larger island, closer to the land. It was high tide now, the waves rolling in to the cliffs below Bebbanburg, but at low tide it would be possible to ride a horse over to that island.

“We thought you would die,” said Acennan quietly. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

Beobrand smiled. This gruff assertion was all he could expect from Acennan, and he needed no more.

They stood in silence for a while, watching the birds and feeling the wind on their faces.

“You know,” said Beobrand, “this is where I arrived in Bernicia. It was less than a year ago. It seems like a lifetime. In that time I have learnt of my brother’s death, killed men and fought in battles worthy of song.” He thought of Leofwine, lying dead in his arms. Tata sprawled on the altar at Engelmynster. Cathryn’s pleading face. Strang’s mutilated body. “And I’ve seen too many good people die.”

He would have to return to Engelmynster and inform Alric and Wilda of their son’s death. They deserved that at least. They had been so kind to him. He would see Coenred too and his spirits lifted at the prospect of seeing the young monk again.

They turned as someone else climbed the ladder and joined them on the platform. It was Scand. He looked refreshed, but older than he had only a couple of weeks before.

“But you’ve learnt to fight as well as any warrior I’ve known, Beobrand,” he said, clearly having overheard the conversation. “Your defeat of Hengist has already become legendary on the mead benches of Bebbanburg. Slaying your brother’s murderer and avenging Strang is a thing to be proud of.”

Scand looked at Beobrand and Acennan. “And you have made good friends. That is something any man can be content with. True friends are as rare as gold, and more valuable. You also have a beautiful woman who dotes on you. Life can be harsh, it is true. But you must learn to dwell on the now and the future.”

“And what does the future hold for me?” asked Beobrand.

“Who can say? But if you will still follow me, we will march soon to crush Cadwallon in battle once and for all.”

“I’ve heard that before. Last time I was here, I swore fealty to Edwin and we marched to Elmet.”

“As I said, do not dwell on the past. Much has changed. Penda no longer stands with Cadwallon. The Waelisc king is weakened. Now is Oswald’s time.”

“Why did he not respond to the beacons?” Beobrand asked the question that had troubled him.

“Ours is not to question the ways of kings,” replied Scand.

Beobrand thought that it surely benefited Oswald to have his brother killed by Cadwallon. He wondered what the Christ god’s priests preached on the subject of brother-slaying, but he held his tongue. He was sure the Christ God would not smile on all of his actions this past year. Grimgundi’s face came into his mind, peering through smoke, then his mother’s voice: “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…” What had she meant? He pushed thoughts of his parents away. He should take Scand’s advice and think of the present and the future, not the past.

“So you have sworn fealty to Oswald?”

“I have.”

“Is he a good man?” asked Beobrand.

“He is a king of the royal line of Aethelric, descended from Woden himself. That is good enough for me. We are but warriors, Beobrand. We need a lord to follow, and to protect us.”

“I gave my oath to you, lord Scand. If you now follow Oswald, then my oath is already his too.”

Scand clapped him on the shoulder. “I am glad to hear it. You are a formidable addition to any warband. It is good to see you back on your feet too. We will be marching soon. You must regain your strength.” Scand turned to leave.

“When I last stood here I had only a boy’s dreams of being a warrior and seeing the glory of battle. I wept for the death of my brother and hoped that if I became a shield-bearer I would find happiness. Now I have a fine sword, helm, shield and iron-knit shirt. And I have killed many men.”

Scand paused at the top of the ladder. “And have you found happiness?”

“I don’t know what happiness is anymore.”

“You were born to fight. I have seen you wield the sword. But the way of the sword is not rife with happiness. The sword is like a serpent. You can try to tame it, but it is venomous and will often bite the hand that holds it.” The old lord descended the ladder and was gone from view.

Beobrand turned back to look out to sea. Far away on the horizon beyond the sun-dappled waves of the Whale Road storm clouds were brewing.

Acennan placed a hand on his shoulder. “We should go back down. It is cold and you need more rest.”

Beobrand nodded and made his way awkwardly down the ladder. Towards the good woman who loved him.

His limbs quivered with weakness when he reached the ground. He did need rest. And time alone with Sunniva. Scand was right. He should not dwell on the past.