Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  He sat, still and solid like a rock surrounded by stormy sea. All about him the feast crashed and roiled. Laughter, song, shouted riddles merged into a dull roar as he emptied his mead horn again and again. The thrall seemed to always know when he would need more, and his vessel was seldom empty. Soon his head spun and his worries felt distant and hazy, as mountains seen through a smirr of rain: still aware of their presence, looming and giant, but indistinct and nebulous in the drizzle.

  He could not recall placing his head upon his forearms on the board before him. But sleep came to him in a spinning rush. The words of the men speaking around him blurred into a thick blanket of noise, like waves rolling across a shingle beach. But as he drifted into sleep, words came to him, as clear and distinct as the moment he had heard them whispered into his ear that afternoon when he had arrived at Bebbanburg.

  Eanflæd had descended the ramparts and rushed to his side as he’d dismounted. And then, before anyone else drew close, she had leaned in. For a stomach-twisting moment he had thought she meant to kiss his cheek. But she did not make contact with his skin.

  He was unable to voice his own feelings for her. He knew that to say the words would somehow give his emotions weight. Truth. And yet it seemed that the queen was either braver, or more foolhardy, than he.

  For her breath had fluttered against his ear like moth wings and he had felt as much as heard her whisper words he was too fearful to say. Words that had echoed in his mind ever since.

  “I missed you. I have longed to see you again.”

  Chapter 7

  By the Lord Jesu Christ and all His saints, what madness gripped her?

  Eanflæd lay in a tangle of linen and blankets. Her hair was wet with sweat. Sleep would not come to her no matter how long she tried to remain still in the stifling warmth of the chamber.

  She could still barely believe what she had done. When Eanflæd had heard one of the wall wards calling out that a fair-haired man approached on a great black steed, her heart had leapt. She had rushed away from the warm corner of the fortress wall where she had been sitting with Godgyth and Ecgfrith. Hurrying up the ladder to the ramparts, she had felt the eyes of the men and women of Bebbanburg on her. This was not seemly. No way for a queen to behave. She could almost hear her own mother’s tone of disdain now, as she lay awake in the stuffy quarters. At the thought of Ethelburga, she felt a terrible sadness. It had been years since last she had seen her. Despite her sharp tongue and quick temper, Ethelburga was her mother and Eanflæd missed her. Though she was glad the old queen of Bernicia had not been present that afternoon to witness her antics.

  She had watched Beobrand ride his great stallion into the shadow of the gates and then clatter into the yard. She had felt a warmth in her belly at seeing him again, and when he had looked at her with his piercing blue eyes, her breath had caught in her chest. Without thinking, or even knowing what she was doing, she had descended the ladder from the wall and run to him like a wife welcoming her husband’s return.

  She sighed. She was a man’s wife. But not Beobrand’s.

  Her face grew hot in the darkness. For a moment she had been oblivious of the watching faces. She had wanted to touch him, to hold him, to breathe in his scent. But a heartbeat later, after whispering in his ear that she had missed him, an hostler had asked Beobrand when his horse had last been fed, and the spell of madness had been broken.

  She had fled as quickly as she had run to the palisade, praying that nobody had noted how close she had come to embracing Beobrand. She had avoided him for the rest of the day, busying herself in overseeing preparations for the feast. When she had returned to where Godgyth was sitting with Ecgfrith, Eanflæd had been flustered. But if Godgyth noticed anything amiss, she said nothing. Ecgfrith seemed a bit better than he had been for some time. Perhaps the warm air of summer would finally shift the cough from his tiny lungs. She had consulted Coenred, who had mixed up a foul-smelling concoction of swails apple, brimstone, expensive imported Frankish incense and wax. This he had bidden her lay upon a hot stone near Ecgfrith while he slept. But apart from making her and Godgyth feel light-headed and nauseous, it did not seem to have any effect on the infant’s wheezing rasp.

  She knew she should trust in God, but she could not bear to see her baby boy suffer so. After the Thrimilci feast, when Ecgfrith had been particularly bad, Eanflæd had even asked the old healer woman, Ymma, for help. The crone had supplied her with a paste made of honey, horehound and barley for the boy to eat at night. She spooned a little into his mouth and, for a time, the baby’s breathing had seemed easier. He had slept for a whole night without waking and Eanflæd had been overjoyed. In the morning, though, his cough had seemed worse and the tiny baby had hacked and spluttered pitifully. Eanflæd had been distraught. She had gone to the newly built stone church of Saint Peter and prayed for most of the day. She recited the Ave Maria and the Pater Noster over and over, praying that her son would become well again and all the while frightened that she was the cause of her son’s illness. She was terrified that it was her lack of faith that had caused the worsening of his affliction. For the babe’s cough had started shortly after she had visited the new monastery of Hereteu. And it was there that this madness had started.

  She recalled how she had felt. It was the first time she had left Bebbanburg since Ecgfrith’s birth and the freedom of being outside the walls of the fortress, and away from Oswiu, had lifted her humour. The days they had spent in the newly built monastery had been filled with joy. She had enjoyed spending time with such committed and dedicated women as the abbess, Hieu, and the other nuns. She had stayed up one night long after Compline talking to her kinswoman Hild, a stern woman of towering energy and insight. They had discussed theology and the lessons to be learnt from the book of Esther. When Eanflæd had finally walked to the small cell where she was to sleep, her mind had been abuzz with the pleasure of sharing her thoughts with these powerful women. At Bebbanburg, there was nobody for her to speak to apart from Godgyth and, even though she felt great affection for the woman, she was one to talk about babies, the weather, and which of the king’s thegns were the most attractive, not to debate the finer points of theology and the future of Christ’s mission in Albion.

  Eanflæd had been so pleased when she had convinced Oswiu to allow her to travel to the opening ceremony of the monastery and as she had padded along the darkened corridor, she almost felt like a different person, like the young passionate woman she had been before becoming a peace-weaver. She had been allowed to voice her opinions in the court of Eorcenberht of Cantware. Even her father, Edwin, had seemed more interested in her when she was a child, than her husband did now. Oswiu scarcely spoke to her since she had sired him an heir. Before then, he had come to her chamber often. She had endured his visits, but she had been secretly pleased when her womb had quickened. Once she’d told him she was with child, his nocturnal visits had ceased and she knew he spent his nights with other women. Despite herself, she found the knowledge of his infidelity angered her, which made her own feelings towards Beobrand all the more unsettling.

  That night in Hereteu, she had felt so free. So alive. Far from Bebbanburg and the king. Even the constantly crying Ecgfrith had remained with his wet nurse. It was thus, rested and filled with a sense of purpose and contentment, that she had met Beobrand.

  He had been standing in the shadows, staring out to the moonlit trees that grew near the monastery’s vallum. He had started when she approached, as if she had awoken him from a dream.

  “What were you thinking of?” she asked. The moonlight played upon his face, silvering the scar over his left eye. His features were smothered in shadows, dark and impenetrable.

  He sighed softly.

  “I was thinking of wyrd.”

  “Do you think everything is preordained?”

  “Perhaps,” he replied, “but I think we must all fight against what the Sisters of Wyrd have in store for us. Mayhap we are able to alter the way they weave our threads.�
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  She stepped close to him. He tensed.

  “You think, then, that it was my wyrd to be wed to Oswiu?”

  Beobrand said nothing. A glimmering from the shadows showed her how his gaze was fixed upon her.

  “Should I be able to change my destiny, then?” she continued, reaching out and touching his shoulder lightly.

  He shrugged – or was that a tremble at her touch?

  “I fear it is too late for that now, Eanflæd, Edwin’s daughter.”

  “I am the queen of Bernicia,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Surely if any can change their wyrd, it would be me.”

  Beobrand smiled.

  “If anyone could change the path the gods had set for them, I think it would be you, Eanflæd. You are like the sea, a storm or a raging river. I have never known any woman such as you.”

  A surge of warmth had flooded her at his words. Like Bebbanburg itself, Beobrand was a vision from her past life. A time when she had been the respected and well-loved daughter of the most powerful king of Albion, not the chattel of the scion of an enemy line, serving merely as a brood mare to spawn heirs to continue the line of the house of Ida.

  Without thinking, she leaned in to Beobrand, rising up onto her toes to reach his face with hers. Their lips met and he did not flinch. For a moment, his body grew rigid and then his strong arms encircled her and the kiss grew deeper.

  Whenever she thought of that moment, her mind reeled. What madness had possessed her? She was the queen, not some milkmaid who could have a dalliance with a cowherd. Should they be discovered, Oswiu would see them both killed, she was sure of it.

  And of course they had been discovered.

  No sooner had their tongues touched than they had been disturbed by the choked shock of Coenred, who had stumbled upon them. He’d mumbled an apology, his voice high- pitched and nervous. With a backward glance at her, Beobrand had led the young monk away. The next day, as he helped her into her waggon for the journey to Eoferwic to visit her cousin Oswine, Beobrand had told her that the monk would be discreet.

  Clearly Beobrand had been right, for nothing more had been said about the incident. For many days afterwards, she had lived in fear that Oswiu would confront her. When she had heard about the attack on Beobrand in Eoferwic, her first thought had been that it must have been ordered by her husband. But surely he could not have heard of what had happened in the monastery so quickly. And, as the days had become weeks, and then months, the king had never mentioned anything to her. In fact, no whispers of scandal had reached her ears and she had noticed no furtive glances from people who might suspect wrongdoing. Once he had recovered from his injuries, Beobrand had visited Bebbanburg on several occasions. He would spend time with his son, and Oswiu would treat him as a valued thegn of his comitatus. There was a coolness between them, but she knew this had been there long before she’d travelled north from Cantware, and their relationship seemed no more strained than it had been before the trip to Hereteu and Eoferwic.

  And yet she would still awaken in the night, terrified of what her actions might have set in motion. Ecgfrith grew sickly, and she was convinced that this was punishment for her sins. For, although it appeared her husband did not know about the kiss she had shared with Beobrand, she remembered it as clearly as if it had happened the day before.

  Worse than the fear of the prospect of her husband finding out about her indiscretion, God knew what she had done. And the Lord knew that, even though her heart twisted with shame at the thought, she longed to feel Beobrand’s lips on hers again; dreamed of his arms pulling her against his muscular chest. Oswiu had started coming to her chamber again recently, seeking another heir no doubt, and though Eanflæd tried to empty her mind as her husband pleasured himself with her body, as he thrust into her, she could not dispel the thought of what it would be like to open herself to Beobrand, to feel his weight on her, his hot breath on her neck.

  Despite her deepest desires, she had been careful. Perhaps it was the Devil himself who sent these thoughts to her and she railed against them. She prayed often and took the Eucharist regularly. She petitioned Oswiu for extra treasure to be spent on the works of the brethren of Lindisfarena. Minsters were now being planned for other sites across Bernicia, in part due to her persuasive words to the king.

  When Beobrand visited the fortress, Eanflæd was aloof but polite and had made a point of never being alone with him. And yet she had often felt his gaze on her when feasting in the great hall, and she had flushed beneath his stare, convinced that everyone would notice.

  She had been so cautious, doing her best to dispel her desires and seeking to help the Lord’s work throughout the land, and then she had thrown it all to the wind when she had rushed to welcome Beobrand through the gates that afternoon. What madness had possessed her?

  She lay for a time in her soft bed, wondering at her actions. She could not push Beobrand’s face from her mind’s eye. At last, resigned that she would not find sleep, she rose. Slipping her feet into a pair of soft calfskin shoes, she pulled a blue woollen cloak from a peg and made her way to the door. It was stifling and stuffy in her quarters, but she knew that outside in the night, the air would be much cooler. She hoped the fresh air would clear her head. She hesitated by the door for a moment, listening to the sounds coming from elsewhere within the fortress. From nearby, just beyond a partition, came Godgyth’s light snores. The servant had helped tend to Ecgfrith earlier when he would not settle and she had drunk several cups of mead. Unless Ecgfrith woke with a bout of coughing, Godgyth would not stir. And Ecgfrith seemed to be breathing more easily this evening. Perhaps the warm sunshine had helped.

  She opened the door and a peal of laughter somewhere far in the distance echoed in the night. Then there was silence apart from the far-off whisper of the waves washing on the beach and rocks beneath the walls.

  She stepped out into the night and took in a deep breath. The tang of the sea refreshed her immediately and she paused a moment to look about her at the shapes of the palisades and buildings that made up Bebbanburg. On the walkways she could make out the forms of guards, silhouetted against the star- strewn sky. The wind picked up and tugged at her cloak. She wrapped it about her shoulders and walked silently across the courtyard. It was dark here, but she trod with ease, sure that the bondsmen and hostlers would have seen to it that any manure left by the horses had been cleared away.

  How familiar this fortress was to her. When she had returned here, some three years before, she had felt a wrenching sense of returning home. Every part of the place brought back memories of her childhood. No day passed without something conjuring up a memory from a different time. In the great hall she half-expected to see her father, as she had last seen him, sitting proudly on the gift-stool and addressing his people with his overwhelming charisma. Here in the courtyard the presence of her older brothers was tangible. She had watched them leaping into the saddles of their horses here, full of the excitement of the hunt. Oswine reminded her of her brothers. He had the same earnest energy about him. There, on the steps leading to the great hall, was where her mother would often stand, face resolute, hard and beautiful, overseeing the menfolk readying themselves to leave for the hunt.

  Or for war.

  Had Ethelburga enjoyed living in this windswept crag of a fortress? She had never contemplated that her mother might not have been content. She had always seemed perfectly in control and it was not until now, having become a mother herself, that she had begun to wonder. Had her mother ever harboured thoughts of desire for any man other than her father? Eanflæd wished she could ask her.

  A moment later, she snorted at the thought. No, she was glad her mother was far away in the monastery of Liminge. The austere Ethelburga would never approve of what Eanflæd had done. And she would not understand her daughter’s feelings for Beobrand. Why should she? Eanflæd shook her head in the gloom. It was sinful and it was wrong.

  The thought of her mother saddened her. She was
suddenly aware of how isolated and lonely she felt in Bebbanburg. Every corner held the memories of her kin’s ghosts.

  Walking in the darkness of the moon-shadow beside the hall, Eanflæd bit her lip.

  She had avoided Beobrand’s gaze all that evening in the feast. She had surreptitiously glanced his way a few times, but he had not seen her. But from the corner of her vision she had noted him turning to look at her often. It was her fault. She regretted running to the gate and, even more, she was appalled at the memory of her brazen behaviour in going to him and whispering close to his ear.

  As she had sat there, talking to Oswine at the high table, her emotions had churned inside her. She could not shake the memory of Beobrand’s cold eyes on her as she had descended the ladder from the wall. There was a hunger there that she recognised. As she had reached up to whisper to him, his manly scent of sweat, horses, woodsmoke and leather had filled her nostrils and a wave of yearning had washed through her. She should never have approached him again. If it was her lot to live with this torment, so be it. She had a duty far beyond her personal desires.

  How she regretted whispering to him. She should have continued to pretend that the kiss had meant nothing to her; that he meant nothing to her. Instead, she had inflamed his lust with a susurrus of soft words.

  When she had seen Beobrand rise from the mead bench and walk out into the night with Coenred, she had taken the opportunity to leave also. She had told Oswine that she needed to check on Ecgfrith. In truth she had been desperate to be free from the desire and the guilt that battled within her. Yet the conflict had continued to rage and she had scarcely slept, lying instead in the sweaty heat of her quarters, twisting and turning over her thoughts even as her body tangled itself in her blankets.

  She was pleased for the cooler air out here. The day had been so hot that she could feel the warmth of it coming from the timbers of the hall. Atop the walls would be cooler. She would climb up on the east side of the fortress overlooking the sea. There was always a breeze there. It was her favourite place within the citadel. In the light of day she loved to look out to Lindisfarena, and the distant Farena islands. The sea would be flecked with gannets, guillemots and puffins, and many times she would witness the dark shapes of seals bobbing in the slate waves far below Bebbanburg. On a clear night such as this, she loved to fill her eyes with the dark majesty of God’s middle earth and her lungs with the cool salt air.