Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Read online

  BLOOD AND BLADE

  Matthew Harffy

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About Blood and Blade

  635 AD. Anglo-Saxon Britain. A gripping, action-packed historical thriller and third instalment in The Bernicia Chronicles.

  Oswald is now King of Northumbria. However, his plans for further alliances and conquests are quickly thrown into disarray when his wedding to a princess of Wessex is interrupted by news of a Pictish uprising.

  Rushing north, Oswald leaves Beobrand to escort the young queen to her new home. Their path is fraught with danger and uncertainty, Beobrand must try to unravel secrets and lies if they are to survive.

  Meanwhile, old enemies are closing in, seeking brutal revenge. Beobrand will give his blood and blade in service to his king, but will that be enough to avert disaster and save his kith and kin from the evil forces that surround them?

  For Gareth, “I have your friendship. That is enough.”

  Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi

  In the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ

  635

  Contents

  Cover

  Welcome Page

  About Blood and Blade

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Place Names

  Part One: Alliance of Blood

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Part Two: Treachery and Torment

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Three: Siege of Souls

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Matthew Harffy

  About The Bernicia Chronicles

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  Place Names

  Place names in Dark Ages Britain vary according to time, language, dialect and the scribe who was writing. I have not followed a strict convention when choosing what spelling to use for a given place. In most cases, I have chosen the name I believe to be the closest to that used in the early seventh century, but like the scribes of all those centuries ago, I have taken artistic licence at times, and merely selected the one I liked most.

  Afen River Avon

  Albion Great Britain

  Bebbanburg Bamburgh

  Berewic Berwick-upon-Tweed

  Bernicia Northern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Tyne to the Firth of Forth

  Cantware Kent

  Cantwareburh Canterbury

  Dál Riata Gaelic overkingdom, roughly encompassing modern-day Argyll and Bute and Lochaber in Scotland and also County Antrim in Northern Ireland

  Deira Southern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Humber to the Tyne

  Din Eidyn Edinburgh

  Dommoc Dunwich, Suffolk

  Dor Dore, Yorkshire

  Dorcic Dorchester-on-Thames

  Dun River Don

  Elmet Native Briton kingdom, approximately equal to the West Riding of Yorkshire

  Engelmynster Fictional location in Deira

  Eoferwic York

  Frankia France

  Gefrin Yeavering

  Gwynedd Gwynedd, North Wales

  Hefenfelth Heavenfield

  Hibernia Ireland

  Hii Iona

  Hithe Hythe, Kent

  Lindisfarena Lindisfarne

  Mercia Kingdom centred on the valley of the River Trent and its tributaries, in the modern-day English Midlands.

  Muile Mull

  Northumbria Modern-day Yorkshire, Northumberland and south-east Scotland

  Pocel’s Hall Pocklington

  Scheth River Sheaf (border of Mercia and Deira)

  Temes River Thames

  Tuidi River Tweed

  Ubbanford Norham, Northumberland

  Usa River Ouse

  Map of Albion

  Part One

  Alliance of Blood

  Chapter 1

  They attacked at night. Beobrand had known they would. The ragged group of Picts was driven by their desire for blood and death; their hunger for vengeance. And that was something he understood well.

  The Picts descended on them in the stillest part of the night, as silent as the wraiths that haunt the burial mounds of ancient kings. Blades glimmered dully in the cool starlight. Approaching from the south, they were hopeful for the element of surprise. They had traipsed far to the west before crossing the river Tuidi and then circling round to move on Ubbanford from the desolate hills where few men lived.

  The plan was good, but Beobrand was also cunning. Anticipating such a move from his enemies, he had set his men to watch the hills. At sunset, Attor, the most lithe and soft-footed of Beobrand’s warband, had padded into the newly-finished great hall.

  “They are coming,” he’d said, the glint in his eye from the hearth fire speaking of his thirst for battle-fame.

  “How many?” Beobrand had asked, setting aside his horn of mead unfinished. He would need his wits about him this night.

  “A dozen. Mayhap more.”

  Beobrand had scowled. He hoped all the planning was enough. His warband would be outnumbered, it was true, but they would also be prepared, armed and waiting for the attack.

  He had stood, pushing his freshly-carved gift-stool back and looking at each of his warriors, his gesithas, in turn. He nodded, his face grim in the flickering flame light.

  “We have prepared for this. Each take your position and await the signal. Attor, fetch Elmer from where he wards the river and have him get the women and children to safety.”

  Now, in the pre-dawn gloom of the summer night Beobrand watched as the shadows of men flitted between the buildings. They made their way towards the hill where the new hall commanded the valley. He straightened his right leg, tensing his calf muscle, testing it. He cursed silently. The arrow wound was still stiff, not fully healed. He could not run. He would have to spring the ambush sooner than he would have liked, or else he feared he would not be able to close with the enemy. Beobrand felt the throb of the leg wound and wondered whether Torran was amongst the Picts who crept through his settlement. Torran, son of Nathair, had loosed the arrow that had skewered Beobrand’s leg. But not before Beobrand had slain his brother. He flexed his left arm, wincing. The skin pulled at recent scabbing where Broden’s axe had bit deeply into his flesh. He bared his teeth in the blackness. The pain and memories of the battle at Nathair’s hall only weeks before brought whispers of the battle fury into his thoughts. He had felt little these last few weeks. His lack of feelings frightened him more than the thought of bloodshed.

  He signalled to Acennan who stood in the star-shadow of the smithy’s forge. He could barely make out his friend’s form in the darkness, but there was the slightest of movements
in the gloom and then a piercing blast on a horn, as Acennan announced the moment of the ambush to the defenders who hid in the night.

  Light flared suddenly as men uncovered torches and thrust them into prepared piles of kindling. Beobrand’s gesithas burst from the shadows, their weapons and armour shining red in the sudden firelight. Beobrand too leapt forward, drawing his fine sword, Hrunting, from its fur-lined scabbard. He hurried towards one intruder, whose back was turned to him. He limped forward as quickly as he could, clumsy on the wounded leg. His arm felt naked without a shield, but he had decided before the fight that a linden board would hinder him in his current state. Both his arm and leg would heal, in time, but for now, he would need to fight without a shield, and hope that the Picts did not run away before they could be slaughtered.

  The man who was the focus of his attention turned towards him at the last moment. His face was pallid. He was young, probably less than twenty years, perhaps the same age as Beobrand himself. But he was no warrior. He held a long knife, but had barely raised it to defend himself when Hrunting’s blade sliced into his throat, splashing warmth over Beobrand’s forearm and face. The young Pict fell back silently, his eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a beached salmon.

  With the first kill of the night, battle lust descended upon Beobrand. After the weeks of inaction, the numbness after Sunniva’s death and the events at Dor, Beobrand embraced the battle-ire, welcoming the familiar rush of power as a cold man clutches to a warm cloak in a blizzard.

  Casting around for another adversary, Beobrand saw that he had indeed sprung the trap too soon. The night was a chaos of dancing shadows. Men rushed between buildings. It was hard to discern friend from foe in the confusion. As he watched, one man sprinted away from the settlement on the valley floor, heading towards the new hall on the knap of the hill. Beobrand made a start to follow him, but instantly knew he would never be able to catch the Pict who was running fast. The light from the fires picked out the running man’s form for a moment and Beobrand recognised him. Torran. So he had come, seeking the revenge he had sworn before his father’s burning hall.

  Another Pict, this one older, with full beard, screamed and threw himself at Beobrand. He wielded a broad-bladed sword, marking him as a warrior of some standing. He drove Beobrand back a couple of steps, leading with his shield. Beobrand gritted his teeth against the throbbing in his leg. He sidestepped as the man lunged forward. Taking advantage of his opponent’s momentum, Beobrand dropped to one knee, grunting at the pain, and struck a terrible blow to the Pict’s shin. Hrunting’s steel shattered bone and severed sinews. The man stumbled forward once more, not yet realising his right leg had been destroyed below the knee. His limb buckled and he fell forward, eyes shocked, unable to understand what had happened. The agony hit him then and he squealed, writhing on the ground as his lifeblood gushed from the stump where moments before his leg had been. Beobrand did not allow him to suffer for long. He sliced down once, piercing the warrior’s heart before flicking his attention back to Torran.

  “Torran!” he screamed, his voice loud enough to carry over the tumult of clashing weapons.

  “Torran, you goat-swiving son of a leprous whore! Fight me!”

  Torran stopped and turned, his face aglow from the fires.

  “Beobrand, your life is mine. I claim your blood as payment for my kin.”

  Beobrand threw open his arms, the blood from his kills already cooling on his skin.

  “Come then, you maggot. Come and face me. Take what blood you can.”

  To Beobrand’s left came a scream of pain. Beobrand recognised the voice and tore his gaze from Torran. Acennan had also been forced to fight without a shield. His shoulder had been smashed by Broden’s great war axe. He did not yet have full use of the arm, but it had been healing well. Until now. A burly Pict, eyes white with fear or rage, was laying about him with a great club. The huge cudgel had connected with Acennan’s shoulder and the stocky warrior was in trouble. The Pict swung his weapon again and Acennan deftly parried the blow. But the way he carried himself told Beobrand the story of how his shoulder fared.

  Turning his back on Torran, Beobrand hobbled towards the fighting pair. Acennan was defending himself, but he was making no headway against the brute with the club. Beobrand drew close, but a heartbeat before he was able to reach the man with his blade, the Pict sensed the threat and spun round, flailing with his stout branch. Beobrand took a step back, avoiding the swing.

  Acennan may have been injured, but he was a killer and he was still quick. Seizing the moment of his adversary’s distraction, Acennan leapt forward and drove the point of his sword deep into the Pict’s back. The man stopped and looked down in surprise at the gore-slick steel jutting from his chest. He lifted his gaze towards Beobrand, his mouth round in amazement, then fell forward.

  Acennan, stepped over the corpse. He nodded his thanks at Beobrand.

  “I could have done with a few more weeks to recover,” he said, grinning.

  “You’ll be wanting them to kill themselves next,” replied Beobrand. The aches of his body had receded as the battle fury took him. Now he wanted more blood. More killing. Perhaps blood could wash away his pain, as they said Christ’s blood washed away sin. Yet all around them the Picts were falling. The fight was almost over.

  But what of Torran? He searched for the son of Nathair on the darkening hillside. Behind the slope, the eastern sky was tinged with the grey of dawn. A flash of white caught his eye and he spotted the young Pict some way off. At the same instant he realised what the white was – the fletchings of an arrow. Torran had shot him before. He was a skilled archer; Beobrand’s leg bore the witness to that. At this distance, Torran could not miss.

  And neither Beobrand nor Acennan had shields.

  Feeling hopelessly exposed Beobrand cast about for something to hide behind, but the nearest building was too far for him to reach before Torran could loose. He wondered whether the iron-knit shirt he wore would stop an arrow. He had heard tell of such shirts being pierced. At this close range, he fully expected an arrow to punch through the rings. He squared his shoulders. Well, if he could not hide from the bowman, he could give him less time to think. Less time to aim.

  Stiff-legged, his right calf screaming, Beobrand walked purposefully towards Torran. Acennan walked at his side.

  “Too scared to fight me are you? Pissing your breeches at the idea of facing a real man?”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Seaxon scum,” Torran shouted, lowering his bow slightly. He nocked the arrow to the string, lifted it and pulled back the yew bow with great strength in one fluid motion.

  For a heartbeat Beobrand saw the firelight glisten on the wicked iron point of the arrow. Torran aimed and held the arrow there momentarily. They were still too far away to attack. With every step though, his chance of missing, or of their byrnies protecting them, lessened.

  “If you are not afraid, then lower your child’s toy and face me with sword or spear.”

  Torran did not answer. His right hand let loose the bow string and the arrow thrummed towards Beobrand. It flew straight and true. Beobrand watched its flight, a blur of white in the dawn. He saw the arrow come but did not react. He closed his eyes and accepted his wyrd.

  There was a crash and a clatter, but no impact. No searing pain as the arrow split through metal rings and the soft flesh beneath.

  Beobrand opened his eyes. For a moment the scene was confusing in the dawn-shadow of the hill. Someone was sprawled on the earth before him. Was it Acennan? No, the short warrior was still at his side. Then the figure groaned and rose up. Teeth flashed in the dark as the face broke into a savage grin. It was Attor. He held a shield in his left hand. From its hide-covered boards protruded the arrow that had been meant for Beobrand.

  “Seemed you needed saving, lord,” he said, the glee of battle lending his tone a shrill edge.

  Beobrand flashed him a smile and continued up the hill. Torran would waste no time and there was still
a way to go.

  Torran was preparing another arrow. It was nocked and he was drawing back the bowstring again as Attor rushed past Beobrand and Acennan, dropping the shield at their feet as he passed.

  “You won’t get away this time, you Pictish bastard,” he yelled.

  “No, I don’t reckon he will,” said a new voice, booming and strong.

  Torran hesitated.

  The voice came from behind, further up the hill.

  Beobrand glanced at Acennan in surprise. Acennan shrugged. The voice did not fit any of Beobrand’s gesithas.

  Attor did not falter, speeding up the rise.

  “Run or die, little Pict,” the new voice said.

  Torran glanced over his shoulder. A giant strode towards him from the gloom. Silhouetted against the paling dawn sky came a warrior from legend. Tall and broad, burnished helm reflecting the light from the dying fires in the settlement. The boss of the shield at his side shone. The warrior drew a sword and swung it as if it weighed no more than a twig.

  Attor was close now, letting out a scream of battle-rage as he prepared to slice Torran open with his deadly seax.

  The giant from the hill would be on the Pict in a moment, but Attor would reach him first.

  Quickly making his decision, Torran pulled the bowstring anew, but did not have time for a full draw before loosing the arrow. The shot was rushed, his aim poor. It was not a death shot. The arrow clipped Attor’s shoulder, throwing him off balance and slowing him.

  The huge warrior was almost on Torran, sword blade red in the fires’ glow.

  Torran did not allow the man to use his weapon. The Pict turned and fled into the darkness of the valley that was still in shadow, even as the sun began to paint the eastern sky.

  “Tiw’s cock!” Attor screamed. “I will kill you, Torran. You can’t run and hide forever.” No answer came from the darkness but the sound of splashing as Torran forded the river.

  The fight was over. A few other surviving Picts broke away from where they had been battling with Beobrand’s warriors and disappeared into the morning gloom.