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

imagine himself in the battles of Leofwine’s stories, wearing bright metal armour and wielding a patterned sword that glittered as it slashed through his enemies.
    He had tasted battle, and as Bassus had said, some people found they revelled in it. The pain of defeat and loss had been awful. But as his wounds healed, the pain became remote, difficult to remember.
    He had gloried in the battle play. He relived the battle in his mind's eye, and he found he relished the moment when his spear had hit home, the instant his seax had sliced flesh. He wondered whether it was simply the ale and mead talking to him. But the next day, in the chill sunshine of late autumn, he watched Alric and his sons going about their chores – cutting wood, mending thatch, carrying water - and he could not see himself doing those menial tasks again.
    He had been a warrior, albeit only for a few days. He had carried spear and shield for a lord and had defeated foes in battle. He could not return to the life of a farmer that he had once known.
    When he was strong enough, Beobrand took the spear and shield that Coenred had found him with and went out to the edge of the clearing. There, by the river, shivering under the bite of a cold north wind, he began practising what Bassus had taught him. He pictured the huge warrior standing in front of him, as he had on the beach at Bebbanburg, urging him to push himself harder. Uncle Selwyn had never driven him so hard when teaching him with wooden blades. It had always seemed like a game. But Bassus had been adamant that he learn the ways of the spear; his life would depend on it in the shieldwall. But there had been little time to hone his skills. Now Beobrand was determined to strengthen the muscles he would need in future battles, and to improve the speed with which he could bring spear and shield to bear. He soon realised that no matter how much he wanted to train himself and build up his muscles, his wounds were nowhere close to fully-healed. His ribs began to hurt as soon as he lifted the shield and when he tried to raise it to block an imaginary foe, the pain was so acute that his vision blurred.
    He refused to be deterred. He unslung the shield and practised lunging with the spear. Each thrust caused him excruciating pain, but he did not give in. He carried on in this way for some time, before he heard someone approaching from the monastery. He turned, the sweat cooling on his face in the cutting breeze that shook the trees on the far side of the river.
    Coenred stood on the shingle beach. “Do you think you are strong enough to kill already?” he asked. His tone was harsh. He was clearly furious.
    Beobrand was out of breath. His panting caused his chest to burn with each intake of air. “I cannot afford not to be strong. I have been weak and I do not like the feeling.”
    “Well, I think you'd better leave off the training for today,” Coenred's voice softened. “Alric has tried to save that eye of yours, and I don't think he'll be too happy that you've made it bleed again!”
    Beobrand raised his hand to the bandage on his head. It was wet and when he looked at his fingertips, they were smudged red.
    Beobrand sighed. He was exhausted. Coenred was right. Losing his eye because he was angry at the world was pointless. He began to bend to pick up the shield, wincing from the pain.
    “I'll get it,” said Coenred. “You'll end up breaking your ribs again.” There was no ire or recrimination left in his voice, and he smiled as he retrieved the shield from the stony bank.
    Together, they made their way back to the buildings.
     
    That night, after Vespers, Coenred left the chapel and came to Alric’s house.
    Abbot Fearghas had been lenient with him since Tata’s death, allowing him to visit Beobrand frequently. He recognised that each young man's healing was aided by the company of the other. One night Coenred had even missed Compline, having been too engrossed in a debate about the merits of