The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (6 page)

Next to Edwin stood his lady, the statuesque Ethelburga. Her face was lovely but stern, the set of her mouth told of a strength of character to rival that of any king. Also with the king and queen were their children. Their son, Osfrid, was as tall as his father and was also wearing the trappings of war. Next to Ethelburga, Beobrand noticed Eanflæd, her flaxen hair pulled back in a long plait. She turned towards him and their eyes met. She raised her hand slightly, as if to wave. Beobrand quickly looked away, embarrassed. Behind the royal family stood a tall, thin man in flowing black robes. A priest, Beobrand supposed.

Then the door behind the King was closed with a crash and the man who had slammed it walked around to face the gathered warriors. With a start, Beobrand recognised Bassus’ bulk. He had wondered where his new friend and trainer was. Bassus was wearing a leather jerkin that was dotted with metal plates, he had a green cloak around his shoulders and a large shield strapped to his back. He carried a helm in his hand and a huge sword hung from his belt. He stopped before the royal retinue and faced the crowd of men gathered there. He looked each man briefly in the eye, giving no indication of friendship when he looked at Beobrand, and then he addressed the group in a resonant voice.

“Why are you gathered here today?” he asked.

“To fight!” the men replied in unison. Beobrand spoke the words slightly late and more quietly, so as not to draw attention to the fact he didn’t know what he should say.

“Why do you wish to fight?”

“To protect our land,” the throng replied.

“Who gave you your land?”

“Our king.”

“Who is your king?”

“Edwin!” The men shouted this response, and Beobrand joined in, getting caught up in the men’s enthusiasm.

Bassus waited for the noise to die down.

“So for whom do you fight?” he asked.

“For Edwin!” they screamed. If volume alone could win battles, they couldn’t lose.

With the ritual thus concluded, Edwin and Osfrid strode down to their awaiting horses and mounted. Edwin turned to his men and raised his hand.

“Come, my trusted warriors. My gesithas. To battle! Glory and riches await us on the field!” With this he wheeled his steed around and cantered out of the palisade gates, followed by his son and the few other thegns who were mounted.

The carts began to roll towards the gates. Beobrand joined the men who would travel on foot.

To battle. To death?

Beobrand squared his shoulders and matched his pace to that of the others. The hollow inside threatened to engulf him. He raised his eyes to the head of the column where Bassus rode on a massive brown steed next to Edwin.

He was not all alone. His brother had good friends here.

And enemies too. Enemies who needed repaying for his murder.

Beobrand didn’t know what wyrd had in store for him, but he wasn’t ready to die just yet.

CHAPTER 3

Edwin was worried. They had been travelling for eight days. His scouts had spotted the enemy host camped in a shallow valley in the area called Elmet.

He sat astride his stallion and looked at the line of warriors marching up the hill to where he and the mounted thegns waited. The host he had raised was big, several hundred strong, as large as any he had ever commanded. Men had answered the call to defend the land as he knew they would. Ealdormen and thegns, accompanied by their gesithas, their retinues of warriors, had trickled in, swelling the numbers of the fyrd as it had marched south using the cracked and furrowed roads left by the Romans hundreds of years previously.

But looking at the warhost now, Edwin wasn't sure it would be enough. They were going to face the joint ranks of Penda and Cadwallon. Not one host, but two. And two of the most dangerous and capable leaders in Albion into the bargain.

Edwin felt the presence of Bassus looming behind him. For the other thegns and warriors, Edwin put on a show of bluff confidence, declaring that victory was their God-given right. But with Bassus, his champion, he didn’t hide his true feelings. It would have been pointless anyway. The massive warrior could always tell his moods. It sometimes felt as if Bassus could see inside his head to what he was thinking.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Edwin said. “Do you think we have a chance?”

Bassus sat still on his chestnut mare for a time, thinking of his answer.

Years before they had conquered Elmet, easily wresting control from the native Waelisc tribe. They had been a dishevelled group of farmers, with very few real warriors and Edwin had crushed them in as long as it took to boil an egg. They would have more of a fight on their hands this time.

“There is always a chance, lord.” he said at last.

Edwin smiled. He should have known that Bassus wouldn’t feed his growing fears with his own concerns. That was not in his nature.

“What are your thoughts on the battle? How should we proceed?” Edwin asked.

It was late in the year and although the enemy would pose a much more serious threat than the Elmetii had, there was no time to play cat and mouse. The fyrd had few supplies and winter was setting in. So he had decided to march to where the enemy had chosen, rather than search for a more propitious location.

Bassus paused, thinking about the lie of the land in Elmet. “The place isn’t the best, but it could be worse. If the scouts tell true, we will be fighting uphill, but the slope isn’t too bad. We should try to attack at sun up, with the sun behind us. That will give us an edge.”

“Will that be enough? Against Cadwallon and Penda?”

“We are strong and Paulinus has said that God is on our side.”

Edwin sneered. “God. Will he bring us victory?”

The king’s sombre mood was infectious. It was the presence of Cadwallon that unnerved Edwin above all else.

They had been like brothers once. Sent to King Cadfan’s court during his exile, Edwin had befriended the young prince of Gwynedd and they had become inseparable.

How had Cadwallon changed from the youth he had hunted and played with in the mountains of Gwynedd, into the implacable warlord he now was? Edwin had no answer. Any frontier settlement taken by Cadwallon could expect only the harshest treatment. The men would be slain, and the women defiled and sold into slavery. Cadwallon would often butcher the children too, in an effort to eradicate the Angelfolc, the descendants of the invaders from across the North Sea, from the land he claimed rightly belonged to his people.

“Strong iron, stout hearts and hale warriors in the shieldwall will bring us victory.”

“If only this unholy alliance had not held. Neither Cadwallon nor Penda would dare to face me alone.”

“I think that is the point,” Bassus said, raising an eyebrow sardonically. “Though with his hatred of our kind, I know not how Cadwallon allies himself with Penda.”

“That is easy to answer,” said Edwin. “His hatred for me is greater than his loathing of all Angelfolc. Penda would side with the devil himself if it would help him gain more land and riches.”

They were silent a moment. Edwin’s stallion swung its head suddenly, aiming a bite at Bassus’ mare. The mare sidestepped quickly, almost unseating Bassus, who was not a skilled rider. Both men slapped the necks of their mounts at the same time.

They laughed. But the sound was jagged and forced.

“So? Have you a strategy in mind, old friend?” Edwin asked, once the horses had quietened.

“If their hosts can be split, then we should divide them. But I don’t know whether we have enough men to cover two flanks.” Bassus turned to Edwin, a smile on his lips and a glint in his eye. “Then again, the best strategy is simply to kill the bastards!”

Edwin returned the smile, but his unease did not abate.

That night they camped with the enemies’ campfires in sight. The ever-swelling numbers of the fyrd had fallen into a routine at each evening camp, but this night was different. Where before the younger men had trained with spear and shield before sinking down beside the large fires to listen to the older warriors’ tales of battle and glory, this night the men were nervous. The excitement had fled and they smothered their fears with drink. Mead and ale were consumed in huge quantities and many of the warriors were unconscious before midnight.

Beobrand drank sparingly. Early in the night, Bassus approached where he was sitting with Tondberct and some other young warriors and pulled him aside.

“Don’t drink any more tonight, Beobrand. We fight at first light and the drunken men will be the first to die tomorrow. You need your wits about you.”

“Pay no heed to that old worrier,” jeered Tondberct, already well on his way to drunkenness. “Anyone would think he was your mother, the way he fusses over you.” The others laughed.

Bassus gave them a stern look, then shook his head and left them to their youthful jests. Before he left, he patted Beobrand on the arm and said, “Seek me out in the morn. You will stand with me in the shieldwall.”

“Come on, Beo,” said Tondberct. “There is plenty of drink to go around.” Tondberct passed him a flask and Beobrand drank, but sparingly. He heeded Bassus’ words and would not let himself be goaded into drinking heavily, no matter how persuasive Tondberct could be. Gods, but it was hard to refuse him. He smiled and passed the mead back.

Tondberct had become his closest friend over the days they had trudged south. They had practised spear-play together in the evenings and both shared the common dream of becoming great warriors. Most of the other men had also been good to him, accepting him. They had talked and joked as they walked and sometimes he had even managed to keep his mind from picking at the scabs of the past for long stretches at a time.

He looked around at the men of the fyrd. They knew battle would be upon them with the dawn, yet they didn’t seem to care. But Beobrand listened to Bassus and only sipped ale for a while until he decided to get some sleep. He found it very difficult. The noise from the men was distracting, but what really prevented him from sleeping was the growing feeling of fear. It had turned his stomach to water. But it was more than fear. It was excitement too.

What would the next day bring? Would they be victorious? Would he bring glory to his name?

Would he live up to Octa’s memory?

He wrapped himself in his cloak against the chill of the night, but still shivered. One thought surfaced, pushing all others from his mind.

Perhaps the next day he would join Octa in the afterlife.

Bassus woke Beobrand the next day before dawn. Men were readying themselves all around them. Many were vomiting, leaving steaming puddles dotted throughout the encampment. Bassus handed him his spear and made sure he was holding his shield correctly. Bassus was wearing his full armour and in the dark he looked like a giant from a scop’s tale.

“Here, take this.” Bassus handed Beobrand a seax. It was short, not much more than a knife, with a simple bone handle. The single-edged blade shimmered with the patterns of finely-forged metal. “It doesn’t look like much, but it is a good blade and holds its edge well. Once we are in close, you’ll find it more use than the spear. Your brother gave it to me and it served me well. He would have wanted you to have it.”

Beobrand thanked him and they walked together towards the edge of the camp. The shieldwall was forming there. Edwin had taken Bassus’ advice and set up camp to the east of the Mercian and Waelisc host, so that when they attacked, the sun would be in the eyes of their enemies.

Nearing the centre of the line, Beobrand saw that Edwin and Osfrid were standing there, metal-garbed, battle-ready and proud, with their gesithas around them. They parted and allowed Bassus and Beobrand to take up places in their ranks.

Beobrand looked along the line. Spears bristled, held aloft, a deadly winter forest. Armour and weapons jingled. Somewhere a man laughed. A short, wiry man to his left drew a stone slowly along the length of his seax with a grinding rasp. Beobrand’s whole body thrummed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Bassus said in a calm voice, “Easy now, Beobrand. This is your first battle and you will not be wanting to die in it, so listen to me.” Bassus took off his helmet and Beobrand could just make out the scar running above his left eye. “Use what I have shown you. If you stick by me, you’ll be all right. And remember, if I get one of their shields down, get in quick and skewer the bastard.”

Beobrand nodded and turned his attention towards the enemy. Cadwallon’s and Penda’s hosts had seen the Northumbrians readying for battle and they were forming their own shieldwall. They stood in a ragged line at the top of a small rise, the sky behind them a dark purple. In between the land was flat and boggy. To the centre of the enemy line Beobrand made out a standard bearing a wolf’s head and several wolves’ tails. To the left of that he saw another banner, this one carried a human skull and a crossbeam from which dangled what appeared to be human scalps. The men below those standards were lifting up spears, and hefting shields. Preparing for battle. Preparing to kill.

Smoke billowed from the campfires behind them, mingling with the ground fog.

Would one of the men he could see in the dim pre-dawn light kill him soon? He felt sick all of a sudden and started breathing through his mouth in an effort to calm his stomach. He closed his eyes and leant his head against the ash haft of his spear.