Read Online The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Matthew Harffy
Tags: Bernicia Chronicles
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make for the shelter of the trees.
It took him a long time to reach the trees. It had stopped raining and the clouds began to blow apart. A cold wind from the north rustled the heather and the leaves of the oaks. Beobrand had hoped that movement would relieve the pain in his chest and clear his head, but this was not the case. His head reeled with every step and his chest felt as if someone was stabbing him between the ribs with each breath. But he did not stop. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the wind chilling his sodden clothes. If he stopped now, with no fire and no shelter, he was bound to freeze in the night. He pushed on, staggering into the darkness under the trees.
It seemed warmer amongst the boles of the oaks and ashes. To Beobrand it sounded as if the forest was whispering to him, softly urging him to rest. His mind began to wander. He thought of Octa. He had not seen him for over three years and he would not see him again on this side of the afterlife. But his brother’s face was clear in his mind. He smiled and beckoned to Beobrand.
Other faces vied for his attention. His mother. Edita. Rheda. His father. All gone now.
He trudged on into the forest. Some part of his mind drove him forward, away from the battlefield. Away from death.
He had been fleeing death for months now. Perhaps his wyrd would see death catch up with him.
Walking on, staggering from one tree trunk to the next, he was not aware of where he was travelling, only that he must move onward.
His thoughts turned to the events of the last few days. He had learnt so many things, made new friends. And lost so much. What had happened to Tondberct in the crush of the shieldwall? Had Bassus survived the battle?
Without realising what he was doing, he sat down with his back to a gnarled old oak. His vision clouded and memories he had fought to forget crashed in.
Spark-spattered smoke billowing into the night sky, carrying his father’s spirit with it. The flames had caught quickly in the dry thatch of the house. The beams had groaned and moaned. The heat soon became unbearable and he had turned his back on his burning home.
He had turned away from his past and walked down to the coast, to find a ship to carry him northward, to his future.
As his injuries pulled him down into darkness, his mother’s voice whispered in his mind, “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…”
Later, in the stillest, darkest part of the night, a badger passed close by. It sniffed the man curled up by the moss-covered tree and then went upon its way.
No other living thing came close to the wounded warrior until dawn.
CHAPTER 5
It had been a bad day for Coenred. He had first woken to find that he had overslept and missed the Vigils. Abbot Fearghas had made him scrub the chapel floor before Matins as a punishment. After that, the day just seemed to get worse.
At Matins he had forgotten a prayer and Abbot Fearghas had given him one of his looks. Since being orphaned two years before, Coenred had been at the monastery of Engelmynster. He tried hard to learn, but he was not the best of students. He received rather more of Abbot Fearghas’ looks than he would have liked. And the looks were usually followed by strict punishments. This time was no exception, and after Matins Fearghas tottered up to him.
“You will think about the prayer you have forgotten whilst you are fetching firewood. You may return to break your fast when you have forty faggots of a good size.”
Coenred bit back the answer that he wanted to blurt out. He had learnt that his quick retorts to Abbot Fearghas’ reprimands were not welcomed, and only made the penance more severe.
“Yes, Father”, he said meekly, but as he turned away, he could feel the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. It would take him ages to collect that much wood and he was ravenous.
When he left to head for the forest, his spirits sank even further. It was raining heavily
It took him a long time to reach the trees. It had stopped raining and the clouds began to blow apart. A cold wind from the north rustled the heather and the leaves of the oaks. Beobrand had hoped that movement would relieve the pain in his chest and clear his head, but this was not the case. His head reeled with every step and his chest felt as if someone was stabbing him between the ribs with each breath. But he did not stop. The temperature was dropping rapidly, the wind chilling his sodden clothes. If he stopped now, with no fire and no shelter, he was bound to freeze in the night. He pushed on, staggering into the darkness under the trees.
It seemed warmer amongst the boles of the oaks and ashes. To Beobrand it sounded as if the forest was whispering to him, softly urging him to rest. His mind began to wander. He thought of Octa. He had not seen him for over three years and he would not see him again on this side of the afterlife. But his brother’s face was clear in his mind. He smiled and beckoned to Beobrand.
Other faces vied for his attention. His mother. Edita. Rheda. His father. All gone now.
He trudged on into the forest. Some part of his mind drove him forward, away from the battlefield. Away from death.
He had been fleeing death for months now. Perhaps his wyrd would see death catch up with him.
Walking on, staggering from one tree trunk to the next, he was not aware of where he was travelling, only that he must move onward.
His thoughts turned to the events of the last few days. He had learnt so many things, made new friends. And lost so much. What had happened to Tondberct in the crush of the shieldwall? Had Bassus survived the battle?
Without realising what he was doing, he sat down with his back to a gnarled old oak. His vision clouded and memories he had fought to forget crashed in.
Spark-spattered smoke billowing into the night sky, carrying his father’s spirit with it. The flames had caught quickly in the dry thatch of the house. The beams had groaned and moaned. The heat soon became unbearable and he had turned his back on his burning home.
He had turned away from his past and walked down to the coast, to find a ship to carry him northward, to his future.
As his injuries pulled him down into darkness, his mother’s voice whispered in his mind, “You…are…not…your…father’s…son…”
Later, in the stillest, darkest part of the night, a badger passed close by. It sniffed the man curled up by the moss-covered tree and then went upon its way.
No other living thing came close to the wounded warrior until dawn.
CHAPTER 5
It had been a bad day for Coenred. He had first woken to find that he had overslept and missed the Vigils. Abbot Fearghas had made him scrub the chapel floor before Matins as a punishment. After that, the day just seemed to get worse.
At Matins he had forgotten a prayer and Abbot Fearghas had given him one of his looks. Since being orphaned two years before, Coenred had been at the monastery of Engelmynster. He tried hard to learn, but he was not the best of students. He received rather more of Abbot Fearghas’ looks than he would have liked. And the looks were usually followed by strict punishments. This time was no exception, and after Matins Fearghas tottered up to him.
“You will think about the prayer you have forgotten whilst you are fetching firewood. You may return to break your fast when you have forty faggots of a good size.”
Coenred bit back the answer that he wanted to blurt out. He had learnt that his quick retorts to Abbot Fearghas’ reprimands were not welcomed, and only made the penance more severe.
“Yes, Father”, he said meekly, but as he turned away, he could feel the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks. It would take him ages to collect that much wood and he was ravenous.
When he left to head for the forest, his spirits sank even further. It was raining heavily
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