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

risk moving the bandage from his right eye. Coenred had said he may go blind, but he had probed with his fingers through the night and it didn’t hurt at all, whereas the left eye was a constant dull throb. He reasoned that if he had been able to see with the right eye when he left the battlefield, he should still be able to do so. And he certainly didn’t want to face a day of uncertainty and danger as a blind man being led by the young monk.
    In the dark of the bole of the huge hollow tree where they hid, Beobrand reached up and carefully pulled up the bandage where it covered his right eye. There was a brief flare of pain in his left eye as the bandage tightened against it, and then the dull ache returned. He opened his good eye. For a hideous moment, he thought he was truly blind, just as Coenred had warned. Then he noticed a slightly lighter area in the darkness that surrounded him. It was still night, but the moonlight that filtered into the forest made the opening in the tree’s trunk a grey swathe in the black wall. He let out a sigh of relief. He was unsure whether he could see perfectly, but his eye was definitely working. That knowledge lifted his spirits more than he would have thought possible.
    Later, as the grey patch grew paler, Beobrand risked a whisper.
    “I can see out of my right eye.”
    Coenred jolted fully alert. He had been dozing and the sound of speech startled him awake.
    “What?” he hissed.
    “I can see,” repeated Beobrand. “I’ve taken the bandage off of my right eye.”
    Coenred shook his head at the foolhardiness. He could have made himself blind for life. But it would be better to have a companion who could see for himself.
    “God be praised,” he whispered. Just what Abbot Fearghas would have said.
     
    They spent that day cowering in the tree. The day was cold and foggy and the two young men only had one blanket between them. Both wore only light sleeping tunics, so they squeezed as close together as they could and wrapped the blanket about them.
    The sun rose slowly in the sky, casting dim light into their hiding place. There were cobwebs strewn in the upper reaches of the hollow tree. Beobrand studied his rescuer as the gloom lifted. Coenred was three or four years younger than him with mousy brown, short-cropped hair. He was slender and Beobrand noticed that where he clutched the blanket, his fingers were long and thin and stained with some dark substance. Beobrand felt weak with relief at being able to see these details. Whatever happened to his other eye, he did not need to face the future as a blind man.
    There was no sound of anyone coming near to the tree, so Beobrand risked a whisper.
    “What is this place? Engelmynster you called it? What sort of name is that?”
    Coenred again started at the sound of Beobrand’s voice. “It is a monastery. Abbot Fearghas named it after the angel he found on the floor of the building he turned into the chapel.”
    This made little sense to Beobrand. “What is a monastery?” he asked.
    “It is where monks train. Holy men. I am studying to be a monk. I learn about the one true God and his son, Christ. I learn prayers and how to read and write.”
    Praying and letters sounded terribly boring. There had been a priest of the Christ in Hithe. A sour, sombre man, who always spoke of sacrifice, love and turning the other cheek. Whilst people attended the priest’s sermons by the newly-erected cross in the village, most still prayed to the old gods in private. They wore hammer amulets in honour of Thunor, gave mead and meat at feasts in offering to Woden and buried bread in the fields so that Frige would bring plenty.
    “How did you come to be learning about the gods?”
    “Not gods, the one true God. Abbot Fearghas says there are no other gods.” Coenred smiled. “I know it is hard to understand.”
    Beobrand didn’t think it was difficult at all. Just stupid. But he said nothing. He thought there were enough people on middle earth