Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  The wind on his cheeks carried the chill of the sea. His eyes watered and it was all he could do not to let out a whoop of joy at the sensation of speed and freedom as Sceadugenga bore him effortlessly toward the seat of the kings of Bernicia. No sooner had the feeling of happiness come upon him than it was doused with a wave of anger. Not at Brinin for disobeying his order and for slowing their progress. And not at Cynan for his sly, knowing looks and the constant judgement Beobrand could sense in the Waelisc man’s eyes. No. The ire that rolled through him, making his hands tremble with its ferocity, was directed inward.

  He should have sent other riders to the fortress. To do so, and to remain with his warband, would have been the wisest decision. What would he do here while the fyrd was called? His was not a mind best suited to planning and organisation. He was a man of action. He should have stayed with his gesithas and led them. Instead, he had left Fraomar in charge. The young warrior was competent and capable, and Beobrand trusted him. And yet he knew the men, and therefore the kingdom, would have been safer if he had stayed with his warband to watch Penda’s movements.

  Sceadugenga’s hooves thrummed on the hard-packed earth that would quickly turn to a quagmire after the next heavy rain. The fortress loomed above him, the cluster of buildings atop the rock encircled with a stout timber palisade. Figures were visible on the ramparts. Men were pointing. He had been spotted. A black and red banner fluttered in the brisk breeze that seemed always to blow in from the slate-grey expanse of the sea. Squinting at the flapping cloth, Beobrand made out a black horned bull’s head on a field of red. Fordraed’s standard. Beobrand frowned, his mood darkening yet further.

  He scanned the walls of the fortress as he approached, searching for one face in particular. Cursing to himself, he spat sideways into the wind that rushed past his speeding mount.

  Gods, what a fool he was. She was hardly going to be standing on the palisade staring out awaiting his arrival. How had it come to this? He had known Eanflæd since she was a girl. To think that now she filled his mind so completely. It was like a curse. He could not push her from his thoughts and his dreams, no matter how much he tried. Weeks would pass and just when he was beginning to believe he could be done with this obsession, he would find himself riding to Bebbanburg again. Once there, he was always happy to see Octa. The boy had grown tall and strong and would be a man soon. But it was the fleeting moments of conversation with the queen that he cherished; the brief looks over the board in the great hall that he would recall before sleep claimed him at night. Not since he had escorted Eanflæd to the opening of the monastery at Hereteu had they truly been alone, but the memory of the kiss they had shared was a madness. He was like a moonstruck youth and could think of nothing else.

  How the gods must be laughing. To have him so helplessly besotted with one who not only belonged to another man, but to Oswiu no less, his oath-sworn lord and his king. Oswiu took great pleasure in forcing Beobrand to serve him. It was no accident that Octa was under the king’s protection. With Beobrand’s son fostered in his household, Oswiu was able to command Beobrand to do his bidding, and the lord of Ubbanford was a dutiful hound. But if Oswiu should discover the attraction between his queen and Beobrand, he was certain the king’s wrath would be terrible. He had seen the man’s cruelty before.

  And that is why nothing could transpire between them. There had been the briefest of kisses, the occasional flirtatious glance, the brushing of a hand when passing the Waes Hael cup. And there could be no more.

  He rode up to the gates, Sceadugenga’s hooves clattering and echoing from the high walls. Beobrand glanced upward and his stomach lurched. Looking down from the gate rampart was Eanflæd, daughter of Edwin, wife of Oswiu. Queen of Bernicia. Her head was covered in a plain wimple, but a lock of her golden hair had escaped and fluttered about her face. Her skin was the hue of pearls and as smooth. The rosebuds of her lips parted in a broad smile when she saw him. She raised her hand, and Beobrand could think of nothing save how much he desired to feel the touch of that hand against his. To press his mouth to hers, her body against him. He returned her salute, slowing Sceadugenga to a high-stepping trot as they neared the gates, which were swinging open.

  The vision of the queen was lost to him as he passed into the shadow of the fortress.

  She had come to welcome him.

  His mouth grew dry. War would be upon them soon. Fraomar might already be fighting against Penda and his Waelisc allies. By Woden, his men might already be dead. He should have stayed with them. To come here was rash. Stupid.

  But all he could think of was Eanflæd’s face, her smile, her raised hand. She had come to welcome him to Bebbanburg and Oswiu King was far away.

  It was madness, he knew. And yet, what man could fight against his wyrd? At the glimpse of her, all his doubts and fears burnt away in the flames of her beauty. Wyrd was inexorable and as he leaped from Sceadugenga’s back, throwing the reins to a waiting hostler, he turned and watched Eanflæd descend the steps that led to the gate tower.

  The shape of her slender legs was clear beneath her dress as the wind pressed the linen against her form. She lifted the hem to avoid tripping on the fabric, and Beobrand’s breath caught in his throat as he saw a flash of white ankle. She offered him another smile.

  It was madness. But there was no escaping one’s wyrd, no matter how cruel.

  Beobrand drew in a deep breath of the salty sea air and, with a sigh of resignation, he stepped forward to greet his queen.

  Chapter 5

  “You are certain that the force you saw was Penda’s?”

  Fordraed’s jowls quivered as he spoke. He peered down his nose at Beobrand, his lip curled in disdain. Cynan tensed. The set of his lord’s shoulders told him of Beobrand’s anger and Cynan was worried he would lose control of his emotions. Beobrand loathed Fordraed and had struck him in the past.

  “I did not see the warhost,” replied Beobrand, his voice flat, “but—”

  Fordraed cut him off with a raised hand.

  “Oh yes, so you said. Just like at Maserfelth. One whiff of the enemy and you turn and run.”

  A couple of the men seated at the high table sniggered. Most looked on in silence. Cynan took a step forward. Beobrand’s battle-fame was well-known and undisputed, and for one such as Fordraed to accuse him of cowardice rankled. It might well goad Beobrand into some rash action he would not be able to walk away from. Cynan drew in a deep breath. The air was warm and still. The great hall of Bebbanburg smelt of fresh-cut rushes and the cold ashes on the hearth. The afternoon was hot and the fire would not be lit until the sun was setting. The huge doors of the hall were open, letting in streams of light and a welcome draught that blew through the building. On the breeze wafted the smell of roasting meat and freshly brewed ale. There were many to be fed and Cynan did not envy the servants and thralls labouring inside the swelter of the cookhouses.

  For a moment, Beobrand was silent. He held Fordraed’s gaze without blinking. When he spoke at last, his tone was as cool and sharp as split slate.

  “I have come here to warn the warmaster of Bernicia that Penda is on the march with a host of Mercians and Waelisc. They are already deep within our lands. I do not come to fight with you, Fordraed. But know this,” he lowered his voice to barely a whisper, “if you again call me a craven, you must be ready to back up your words with a sword. Insult me again at your peril.”

  “Ethelwin is the warmaster,” said Fordraed, “but the king has left me in charge of Bebbanburg in his stead. I speak with his voice. Do not threaten me, Beobrand of Ubbanford.”

  “My words to you are no idle threat, Fordraed. If you cross me, I will gut you like a salmon and Bernicia’s fyrd will be no weaker for the loss of the lord of Morðpæð.”

  Fordraed’s face grew crimson and for a moment Cynan thought the fat lord would stand and confront Beobrand. Cynan tensed, readying himself to leap to his lord’s aid. Should it come to it, he knew Beobrand would do what he had said. Fordraed
was a toad and he remembered with pleasure watching Beobrand punching the man. It was Fordraed who had abused Sulis, and he had mistreated many other women in his time. They had heard tell that he beat his wife, Edlyn, too and it was not only Beobrand who itched for the opportunity to strike the brute again.

  Heremod, a burly warrior with plaited beard, began to rise to his feet. He was Fordraed’s man and clearly meant to defend his lord’s honour.

  Cynan could feel the insanity of battle lust creeping into his mind. He was ready for a fight; would welcome the release from this tension. And if he were able to land a blow on Fordraed’s fat face, he would relish it.

  But it was not Fordraed, nor Heremod, who stood, but Ethelwin. Placing a placatory hand on Heremod’s shoulder, Ethelwin pushed himself to his feet. He was a solid man, thick-necked and wide-shouldered. An able man, he was a veteran of many campaigns as attested by a long scar on his forehead and the crisscrossed tracery of blade-memories on his forearms. His nose was twisted and broad where it had been broken and when he opened his mouth to speak, there were several gaps where teeth had been dislodged in brawls.

  “Brothers,” he said, his voice as deep as the rumble of distant waves. “Now is a time for unity, not division.” He swept his gaze across Beobrand, Cynan, Fordraed and Heremod. “I may not be lord here, but I am Oswiu’s warmaster and it seems that war is upon us. It is my duty to protect the kingdom. So, you will put aside your petty squabbles as we stand against our old enemy, Penda.”

  Beobrand said nothing. Cynan did not breathe. Fordraed glowered at Ethelwin, then gave a curt nod.

  “Good,” said Ethelwin, seemingly satisfied. “Now, Lord Beobrand, tell us again of the size of the force your men saw, and where they are now.”

  And so Beobrand once more recounted the tale of how they had stumbled upon the Mercians attacking Leofing’s hall, the pursuit and then finding the amassed host.

  “And it was the Waelisc, Cynan here, who saw them?” Ethelwin asked.

  “Aye,” replied Beobrand. “Cynan, tell them what you saw.”

  Cynan stepped forward. He was almost as tall as Beobrand and moved with the natural grace of a warrior. He fixed Fordraed with a defiant stare, willing him to make a comment about his accent or his forebears. But the portly lord did not speak and looked away. Cynan smirked at the small victory.

  “It is as my lord has said.” Cynan was suddenly very aware of all the eyes in the hall on him. The lilting accent of his words sounded more pronounced than normal to his ears. His face grew hot as he spoke. “There were many of them. Several score. Hundreds, I would say. Attor, who was at Maserfelth, said there were fewer than at that great battle, but this was no small warband or raiding party. We saw banners of Powys, Gwynedd and Mercia.”

  Ethelwin sighed. Turning to one of the door wards, he said, “Send out riders to all the thegns and ealdormen of Bernicia. They are to bring their men to the fyrd. We will assemble our host at Hefenfelth five days hence. From there we will march to intercept Penda and his pack of Waelisc curs.”

  Cynan bridled at the insult directed at the people to whom he had been born, but he said nothing.

  “Five days may prove too long,” Beobrand said. Cynan noticed that he glanced over to where Eanflæd sat demurely. Her expression did not change, but was there a slight hesitation in Beobrand’s voice?

  “It is the best we can do, Beobrand,” replied Ethelwin. “But I will send out a small force of riders to meet with your warband. They will be glad of the extra bodies should Penda move and it comes to a fight before the fyrd can be assembled. Would you lead my horsemen to your gesithas?”

  Beobrand opened his mouth to answer, then closed it. Again he flicked a glance at the queen and Cynan could sense the conflict within him. Beobrand had talked to him of his duty. Cynan wondered whether the sight of the young queen from Cantware might not have blinded Beobrand to his own.

  “Cynan is the better rider, Lord Ethelwin,” Beobrand said. “And he knows the exact location of Penda’s host. Cynan should lead your men westward and I will help you to guide the fyrd when it has gathered.”

  Ethelwin raised his eyebrows, evidently not expecting this answer.

  “Very well,” the warmaster said. “Cynan, rest and seek out a fresh mount from the stables. You will lead a dozen of my men at dawn.”

  Cynan bowed his head. He would go to the stables, but he would not take another mount. He would see that Mierawin was well-fed and groomed. With a night’s rest, the mare would be a match for any of the horses in Bebbanburg.

  He glanced at Beobrand, wondering whether the turmoil he felt was clear on his face, but his lord was not looking in his direction. Beobrand’s gaze was fixed on Eanflæd. With a sigh, Cynan turned and strode from the hall.

  The bright sunshine and warmth of the day did nothing to lift his spirits as he walked towards the stables.

  Chapter 6

  After imparting his tidings to Ethelwin and Fordraed, Beobrand visited Brinin. Halinard had come to the great hall and Beobrand followed the Frank out into the heat of the afternoon sun. Together they strode across the courtyard to where Brinin was being tended by one of the womenfolk in a small room near the stables. The clump of the horses’ hooves and the calls of the hostlers and thralls tending the beasts were loud in the still summer air. No sea breeze reached this corner of the fortress and the reek of dung, hay, dust and leather was heavy in their nostrils as they approached the hut where Halinard had left Brinin.

  A grey-haired woman, bent and twisted with age, rose from beside the cot where Brinin lay. Beobrand recognised her. She had saved his life many years before when he had lost his two fingers in the duel with Hengist. At the sight of her, his left hand throbbed and the memory of Sunniva filled his mind suddenly, without warning. For a moment, he could not breathe, such was the force of the vision. It had been a long time since he had dreamed of her, or even remembered her face clearly. But she had sat by his bedside as he had lain, feverish and on the verge of death. And it was Sunniva who had brought this old woman to see if she would be able to draw the poison from his wounds. The healer had worked her magic with poultices and wyrts and Beobrand had lived. He sighed at the memory. He should have died many times over, and yet it was the beautiful Sunniva who had been taken from middle earth.

  The woman stepped forward on spindly unstable legs, shielding her eyes against the glare from the doorway. The vision of Sunniva fled like mist in a wind and her memory was replaced by a deep gnawing sense of loss.

  “Ah, Lord Beobrand,” rasped the woman. “So the boy is one of yours, after all. I had thought so, but you can never trust the likes of him.” She indicated Halinard with a dismissive nod of her wispy-haired head.

  “The likes of him?” enquired Beobrand.

  “A Frank. A stranger. A Waelisc. I could barely understand a word he was saying, and the gods alone know what thoughts are in his black heart.”

  “Enough,” snapped Beobrand. “This man has sworn his oath to me and has proven himself loyal. I will hear no ill spoke of him or any of my gesithas.”

  The woman sniffed, clearly unconvinced by Beobrand’s words.

  “I know you to be a skilled healer,” Beobrand continued, his tone softer now, “and I will pay you handsomely for your care, but say no more against this man, or any other in my warband. To insult them is to insult me, and I am sure you would not mean to do such a thing.”

  He raised himself to his full height, towering over the hunched woman. She seemed unperturbed, merely shaking her head and offering a grin that showed many gaps between her few yellowing teeth.

  “You were ever a proud one,” she chuckled. “And I am sure you no more mean to threaten me than I meant to insult you. Now,” she smiled slyly, “show me that with which you will pay me.”

  Beobrand said nothing as he fished out a chunk of hacksilver as long and thick as his thumb. He weighed it in his palm for a heartbeat, allowing her to see it in the light streaming in from outside. He placed
the silver in her outstretched palm.

  She swallowed, her stringy neck bobbing.

  “The boy will recover, lord,” she said, “but he is weak and tired. I have given him a draught of betony and mandragora and he is already sleeping deeply.” Brinin’s face was pallid but serene, and his chest rose and fell slowly and rhythmically. “Rest is what he needs most of all, lord. Under my care, no further harm will befall him and he will be up and about soon enough.”

  As Beobrand stepped out of the gloom, leaving Brinin to the care of the crone, Bebbanburg’s gates were dragged open with a grating rasp. A moment later many riders clattered into the courtyard. Clenching his fists, Beobrand scanned the faces of the richly dressed horsemen. Could it be that Oswiu had returned already? Beobrand’s stomach churned at the thought. The arrival of Oswiu’s retinue of warriors would be welcome in the coming battle, and yet Beobrand could not hide his disappointment.

  But it would be good to see Octa. Beobrand’s son rode with the king, travelling the land and learning the ways of a thegn. He would be a man soon and Beobrand missed him. He scanned the incoming riders for a glimpse of the boy. The thought of seeing Octa filled him with unease. The few times they met now, it always felt as though his son was a stranger to him. There would be polite conversation between them and little more. Beobrand scowled. Something else he had failed at.

  Halinard, standing beside him and shielding his eyes from the brilliance of the sun, asked, “Who they are?”

  Beobrand hesitated, seeking out the features of the king of Bernicia. But it was not Oswiu’s face he found in the throng of horsemen dismounting noisily in the courtyard. The men all seemed intent on speaking to one rider in particular. He was a tall man, riding a fine white horse, and he smiled broadly to the boy who took his horse’s reins. Beside him, a shorter man, strongly built and bearded, leaped from his saddle. With a start, Beobrand recognised both men. At the same moment, the shorter man noticed Beobrand and raised his hand.