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

Christ over the old gods. When Coenred realised his fault, he was distraught, terrified of the punishment Abbot Fearghas would mete out. But when he had gone to the old monk, head hung in shame and penitence at his transgression, Fearghas simply told him to be more careful in future and bade him go to his bed. Coenred could hardly believe he had not been chastised. He wondered how long Abbot Fearghas would remain so tolerant towards him.
    He entered Alric’s house quietly and sat by Beobrand for some time, quietly listening to Leofwine recounting a story of a beast that came in the night and killed warriors in their beds. Outside, it had begun to rain, and Coenred was not looking forward to returning to his dormitory. He would get drenched and muddy on the way back. And the trees around the village loomed and quivered like the unholy monsters from Leofwine’s tale. If he had braved the elements simply to hear Leofwine, it would not have been worth it, but Coenred wanted to be near Beobrand. He knew his friend was getting restless but didn’t want him to leave. He had no family now. But this young, strong, quiet Cantware man was the only thing that partly filled the gap left by Tata’s death. Thinking of her brought the sting of tears to his eyes and he quickly blinked them away. Beobrand seemed tense. His jaw was set, and his blue eye was piercing in the smoky gloom. He had changed, as if he had made a decision.
    “Why do you want to kill?” Coenred asked suddenly, in a voice that only Beobrand could hear.
    Beobrand turned towards him. He didn’t seem surprised at the question. Coenred and he had become close and it was hard for them to hide their feelings from each other. “I do not want to rely on the gods or my wyrd to protect me or my own, so I must learn to fight. If I have to kill, then so be it.” He tensed, his hands balling into fists. “There are some who deserve death. If you could kill the men that -- ,” he hesitated, as if not wanting to say the words. They rarely spoke of Coenred’s sister; talk of her hurt him so. But Beobrand needed to explain how he felt and so forged ahead.
    “If you could kill the ones who killed her,” Beobrand continued, still not bringing himself to say her name, “wouldn't you do it?”
    Coenred sat in silence for a long time. He thought about his lovely sister and how she had looked after him when their mother had been unable to work and they had been turned out into the wilds. How she had laughed at his jokes, how they had cooked together, how she had done whatever was needed — unspeakable things with strangers that he had never asked about — so that her little brother had something to fill his belly. Later, once they had been rescued from that life and come to Engelmynster, she had joined him in learning about Christ. She had believed in the one God absolutely and loved the stories of Jesu, the Christ. She would often regale Coenred late into the night with tales from the Bible that she had heard told by the monks. He could not stop the tears now and he let them wash over his cheeks freely.
    Finally, Coenred turned his tear-streaked face towards his friend. “No, I wouldn’t.” And it was the truth. Tata would not have wanted more death, for that is not what Christ would have wanted.
    “That is the difference between you and me, Beo. I wasn't made for killing.”
    Coenred stood up quickly, and before Beobrand had a chance to reply, he left the house, disappearing into the dark, no longer afraid of what might lurk outside.
    The driving rain that soaked Coenred to the skin on the short walk back to his sleeping quarters made him wonder if God was crying too.
     
    After all the visitors had left, Leofwine wrapped his lyre carefully in a linen cloth and placed it in a leather-covered box. Once the instrument was safely hanging in its box from a peg above his cot, he returned to the fire and sat beside Beobrand.
    “What happened with Coenred?” Leofwine