Free The Serpent Sword (Bernicia Chronicles Book 1) by Matthew Harffy Page A

yesterday and Alric said that you would probably live, with God’s will. I prayed for you every day, as Abbot Fearghas told me to do.” Coenred seemed pleased with himself.
    “Thank you.”
    “Whose side were you on? In the battle? Edwin’s?”
    “That much should be clear…,” answered Beobrand, feeling weak and empty, the sarcasm jagged in his voice. “Is there anything I can eat?”
    “Of course. Sorry,” stammered Coenred. “I’ll fetch you some broth.”
    Beobrand heard him stand up, move away from him and then pause.
    “What is your name?” Coenred asked from some distance away.
    “Beobrand, son of Grimgundi.”
    There was a pause, and then he heard Coenred leave the room.
    Beobrand lay there. He was unable to look around, so he looked inside himself.
    Where would he go now? Was he blind? A despair as dark as a winter night filled his soul. Why had he not died? To live as a cripple, depending on others’ pity for food and shelter was worse than death. Why had Octa died leaving him alone in this northern kingdom? He thought of his father and the burning house back in Hithe. Had his actions offended the gods so, that they would leave him in a state of living death? Was that his wyrd?
    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