The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) (9 page)

He heard someone returning to the room. Coenred’s voice brought him back to more mundane matters. The gnawing emptiness in his stomach first among them.

Coenred helped him to prop himself against the wall behind the mattress where he was lying. The pain of moving made Beobrand cry out.

“You have some broken ribs,” Coenred explained, “but they are bound tightly and should heal well.”

As soon as he sat still, the pain subsided. Coenred helped him to drink the warm broth he had brought.

As he fed him, a spoonful at a time, Coenred talked incessantly. Beobrand didn’t mind listening. Coenred’s voice was pleasant and strong and although he talked with the enthusiasm of a boy about all manner of things, he did not prattle. Beobrand could sense the intelligence behind the voice and was pleased to be able to use Coenred’s descriptions of the foibles of the different monks and members of the community to keep his own dark thoughts at bay.

After he had finished the soup, Beobrand asked about the aftermath of the battle at Elmet.

“I don’t know much,” said Coenred. “A pedlar came through yesterday and said he’d heard that Edwin and his son had been killed. Most of his warhost too.”

“Have no other Northumbrian survivors come this way?” asked Beobrand.

“No, you are the only one.”

Beobrand wondered what had befallen his new friends. Bassus had seemed invincible. Yet so had Edwin, and he had not survived the battle. Tondberct was probably dead too. He had got on well with the light-hearted young warrior, but if Edwin had died could Tondberct have surpassed the trials of battle? Beobrand mourned the loss of the possible future friendship they could have had.

Everyone he had ever cared about, or who had shown him any kindness was dead. He must be cursed.

Darkness was imposed upon him by the bandage over his eyes, and darkness threatened to engulf him from within. Behind the bandage his eyes filled with tears, but they soaked into the cloth and none reached his face. He was glad that Coenred could not see him weep. He was tired of his own weakness, yet he was helpless to stop the tears.

“You should rest now,” Coenred said, standing up.

The boy was right. He was exhausted. Both his body and mind had suffered terribly. He lay down carefully, trying to avoid jarring his ribs or his eye. He heard Coenred mutter something about returning later to check on him.

Beobrand lay on the lumpy mattress, images flapping at his inner eye like ravens’ wings. He was sure he would not be able to sleep. Too many black fears assaulted him. However, a few moments later, his breathing became rhythmic and he fell into a sleep without dreams.

He awoke suddenly.

For a few heartbeats he was unsure what had woken him. He did not know whether it was day or night. The air he breathed in felt cold and his body was stiff from inactivity. He lay still, listening. Footsteps rushing over wooden boards. Muffled whispers, urgent and sibilant in the dark. By the gods, how he wished he could see. He was helpless. Blind and powerless against the threats in the darkness. He sat up as quickly as he could. In the distance a man shouted something angrily. A dog barked. Then there was a scream.

Beobrand needed no more signals. All was not right. His life was in danger. Moving his hand to the bandage around his head, he tentatively tweaked the cloth up to uncover his uninjured, right eye. Before he had moved the bandage more than a hair’s breadth, he heard someone enter the room. He stiffened, ready to pull the bandage off. He would not be killed by an unseen assailant.

“Wait! Don’t pull off the bandage! You will lose your sight for sure if you do!” the voice of Coenred spoke from the cold gloom. He spoke urgently, but in a whisper. “I will lead you. We must leave.”

“What is happening?” Beobrand demanded. He felt Coenred place the blanket from his bed around his shoulders.

“Waelisc are here. If they find you, they will kill you. Come on, there is no time.” Coenred tugged frantically at Beobrand’s hand and pulled him to his feet.

Beobrand felt giddy. Disorientated. The searing pain in his chest was like fire and his head throbbed. His legs buckled as he stood upright, but Coenred held him steady and after a moment he rallied. Coenred’s urgency and fear were almost palpable. As if to accentuate the peril they were in, another scream rent the darkness. The dog’s barks grew louder and more frenetic, and then were cut short with a yelp. Coenred pulled Beobrand, urging him to move and together they stumbled out of the room.

Beobrand knew nothing of the monastery’s layout, so he had no idea where Coenred was taking him. All he could do was to concentrate on his footing and try not to jar his aching chest. Coenred had obviously decided in advance where they should hide and he moved through the night with haste. From time to time he would warn Beobrand to duck his head or that there was a step down or up, but other than that they moved in silence. Listening to the sounds of the night. There was more shouting. Then some crashing. Wood splintering. Screams.

Coenred faltered for a moment, but his resolve quickly returned and he pushed on. Beobrand felt the air grow colder on his skin. The atmosphere and acoustics changed. They had stepped outside.

“Come on,” hissed Coenred and set off at a faster pace. Beobrand thought he would surely lose his balance or trip on a tree root, but for once wyrd smiled on him and he managed to keep up with Coenred without falling. After a short distance walking uphill, Coenred told Beobrand to stop and to sit down. The ground beneath then was soft and dry. There was a strong redolence of bark and sap in the air.

“We are inside a hollow oak,” explained Coenred in a whisper. “If we are quiet, I hope they won’t discover this place. It is hard to see from the path and the entrance is hidden completely from Engelmynster.”

They made themselves as comfortable as they could and spoke no more, both fearing discovery. Sounds of screams and coarse laughter drifted up from the buildings they had left. Coenred prayed the Waelisc would not find them in their hiding place.

After a long while, the scent of smoke was borne on the wind and they feared that the monastery had been put to the torch. The smell of burning passed soon enough though and they were left wondering what fire they had noted.

So it was that they spent the rest of that chill night, huddled together, not daring to speak. Each was glad of the other’s company, though they barely knew each other. Time passed and the sounds of destruction and torment from the monastery died down.

By morning, Beobrand had decided that he would risk moving the bandage from his right eye. Coenred had said he may go blind, but he had probed with his fingers through the night and it didn’t hurt at all, whereas the left eye was a constant dull throb. He reasoned that if he had been able to see with the right eye when he left the battlefield, he should still be able to do so. And he certainly didn’t want to face a day of uncertainty and danger as a blind man being led by the young monk.

In the dark of the bole of the huge hollow tree where they hid, Beobrand reached up and carefully pulled up the bandage where it covered his right eye. There was a brief flare of pain in his left eye as the bandage tightened against it, and then the dull ache returned. He opened his good eye. For a hideous moment, he thought he was truly blind, just as Coenred had warned. Then he noticed a slightly lighter area in the darkness that surrounded him. It was still night, but the moonlight that filtered into the forest made the opening in the tree’s trunk a grey swathe in the black wall. He let out a sigh of relief. He was unsure whether he could see perfectly, but his eye was definitely working. That knowledge lifted his spirits more than he would have thought possible.

Later, as the grey patch grew paler, Beobrand risked a whisper.

“I can see out of my right eye.”

Coenred jolted fully alert. He had been dozing and the sound of speech startled him awake.

“What?” he hissed.

“I can see,” repeated Beobrand. “I’ve taken the bandage off of my right eye.”

Coenred shook his head at the foolhardiness. He could have made himself blind for life. But it would be better to have a companion who could see for himself.

“God be praised,” he whispered. Just what Abbot Fearghas would have said.

They spent that day cowering in the tree. The day was cold and foggy and the two young men only had one blanket between them. Both wore only light sleeping tunics, so they squeezed as close together as they could and wrapped the blanket about them.

The sun rose slowly in the sky, casting dim light into their hiding place. There were cobwebs strewn in the upper reaches of the hollow tree. Beobrand studied his rescuer as the gloom lifted. Coenred was three or four years younger than him with mousy brown, short-cropped hair. He was slender and Beobrand noticed that where he clutched the blanket, his fingers were long and thin and stained with some dark substance. Beobrand felt weak with relief at being able to see these details. Whatever happened to his other eye, he did not need to face the future as a blind man.

There was no sound of anyone coming near to the tree, so Beobrand risked a whisper.

“What is this place? Engelmynster you called it? What sort of name is that?”

Coenred again started at the sound of Beobrand’s voice. “It is a monastery. Abbot Fearghas named it after the angel he found on the floor of the building he turned into the chapel.”

This made little sense to Beobrand. “What is a monastery?” he asked.

“It is where monks train. Holy men. I am studying to be a monk. I learn about the one true God and his son, Christ. I learn prayers and how to read and write.”

Praying and letters sounded terribly boring. There had been a priest of the Christ in Hithe. A sour, sombre man, who always spoke of sacrifice, love and turning the other cheek. Whilst people attended the priest’s sermons by the newly-erected cross in the village, most still prayed to the old gods in private. They wore hammer amulets in honour of Thunor, gave mead and meat at feasts in offering to Woden and buried bread in the fields so that Frige would bring plenty.

“How did you come to be learning about the gods?”

“Not gods, the one true God. Abbot Fearghas says there are no other gods.” Coenred smiled. “I know it is hard to understand.”

Beobrand didn’t think it was difficult at all. Just stupid. But he said nothing. He thought there were enough people on middle earth for all the gods to have their share.

“I came here two years ago,” said Coenred. “Abbot Fearghas found us in Eoferwic.” In the shadows his face took on a strained look.

“Found who?”

“Me and my sister. We were all alone. He gave us a new life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “What about you? Do you have family?”

“I did,” said Beobrand. “They are gone now. I’m all alone now too.” He bit his lip.

“You’re not alone now,” said Coenred. His teeth flashed in the gloom.

Beobrand forced a smile, but deep inside he felt empty and lost.

Sometime towards midday they heard movement from the monastery. Laughter, talking and the sound of horses and waggons being readied for travel permeated the fog. When the Waelisc finally left, they moved up the hill in the direction of the hollow tree. Beobrand willed them not to detect their hiding place. Coenred closed his eyes and clasped his hands together. Beobrand was sure he was praying for his god to make them invisible to the heathens.

The group of Waelisc walked within an arm’s length of the entrance to the tree trunk. They were so close that Beobrand and Coenred could smell their sweat, but none of them turned to look in their direction and after some time, the pair dared to breathe again.

They waited a while longer before venturing out of the oak. They were hungry and stiff. Beobrand found it hard to stand and needed to hold onto the trunk of the tree for support. His breath was ragged as he concentrated on staying on his feet. The pain in his chest flared up acutely and his throbbing head made him dizzy.

Once he felt more confident, Beobrand put his arm around Coenred’s shoulders and allowed the young monk to lead him back towards Engelmynster. The fog had cleared, but the day was still cold and damp. The sound of their feet in the thick carpet of wet leaves seemed unnaturally loud in the still forest.

Coming to the edge of the trees, Beobrand got his first look at the monastery. It was made up of a hall, circled by several smaller dwellings. The group of buildings nestled in the bend of a small river. On both sides of the river, the forest sloped upwards. All the structures save for one were made of wood and had thatched roofs. The exception to this was the largest building, which had walls partly made of stone. The finely hewn rocks were mortared and went to about the height of a man’s waist. At that point they were topped by walls of the more common wattle and daub. All this was crowned by golden thatch, one corner of which was charred and blackened.

They paused before continuing down to the monastery buildings. There was no movement down there. No sound or smoke from a fire. Neither Beobrand nor Coenred spoke. Both feared what they would find when they gathered enough courage to enter the compound. Coenred shuddered. Beobrand gripped his shoulders more tightly, both comforting and gaining comfort from his grasp.

They went first to the largest building. Near the entrance, there was what at first glance appeared to be a fur cape, crumpled in a heap where it had been dropped. When they got closer, Beobrand saw it was a small dog. It had been hacked almost in two. Coenred mumbled something under his breath. Beobrand couldn’t make it out, but he thought it was the name of the animal. He cast a glimpse at Coenred. Tears had begun to roll down his smooth cheeks, leaving salty furrows in the grime. Beobrand looked away and back to the building they had now reached. The corner of the thatch had been set alight, and part of the lintel of the doorway was black and cracked. The damp weather had saved the structure, and the Waelisc had apparently lost interest when they had failed to get a blaze going easily.