Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  She had fallen silent again, the words of the prayers withering on her tongue.

  But what of Oswiu? Had he not brought his Hibernian princess, the mother of his firstborn, to Caer Luel, so that he could satisfy his own lust with her? What of his vows before God? Why should the king be allowed to flout his promises but not the queen? She swallowed the bitterness that rose in her throat at the thought of Oswiu with the woman she had never met and whose name was seldom mentioned. It was told that Fín, granddaughter of Colmán Rímid, was a rare beauty of the Cenél nEógain of northern Hibernia. She had sired a son, Aldfrid, for Oswiu long before he had returned with his brother Oswald to Bernicia. It seemed he had never forgotten her and had installed her in a hall far to the west. Every few months Oswiu would assemble his retinue of thegns, gesithas, thralls and servants and travel around the land, visiting his vills where the people would come to him and pay their tribute. Eanflæd had noticed that these journeys seemed to last longer than necessary, particularly when he travelled far into the west. None of his men would tell her what he did there and why he was so keen to travel to Rheged. She had at first thought that he might be visiting Rhieinmelth, the mother of his second son, Alhfrith, and she had been surprised at the anger she felt at the notion and then the relief that had flooded through her when Coenred, who often travelled with the king, had told her this was not the case. In fact, he said, Oswiu never visited the princess of Rheged, who now resided at the new monastery at Magilros, along with Oswald’s widow, Cyneburg.

  It had not taken her long to wheedle the true reason for Oswiu’s lengthy sojourns in the west out of Coenred. When she heard the truth, she had been shocked at the searing jealousy she had felt. If she did not love Oswiu, why should his dalliances cause her any pain? And yet there was no denying that she felt an overwhelming and stabbing pain whenever he headed towards Caer Luel.

  She had never mentioned her feelings to the king. She knew him well enough not to show him this weakness that could be exploited. Instead, she brooded over his unfaithfulness, while the seeds of her own longing for Beobrand grew, watered by her jealousy and Oswiu’s betrayal.

  Looking up at the bejewelled rood that stood atop the plain altar, Eanflæd once again made the sign of the cross. She shook her head. Was she truly the plaything of the Devil? Was she merely using her husband’s infidelity to justify her own?

  She had lain awake much of the night worrying over her feelings, terrified that she would hear Ecgfrith’s pitiful coughs as a testament to her sins. God would punish her, she was sure, and she had prayed over and over that he would spare her son. He was innocent in this. “Punish me,” she had whispered in the darkness of her chamber. “It is I who should be blamed.”

  She had finally fallen into a disturbed sleep, only to be woken shortly after by the sound of men preparing to leave the fortress. Beobrand’s man, Cynan, had led the small force out at dawn, and shortly after, Oswine had gathered his comitatus and they had ridden south, hurrying to call the Deiran fyrd. She had risen and watched her cousin leave. The sight of Oswine and his thegns riding away brought her own concerns into stark relief. War was upon them. She would pray and push away this madness that had threatened to consume her these past months.

  As if in answer to her prayers, Godgyth had brought a smiling Ecgfrith out of her chamber where, she said, he had slept the whole night without once waking. As Eanflæd had hugged him to her, he had coughed a single time, but gone were the hacking, wheezing gasps of recent months. It seemed as though he was truly recovering from the ailment that had so long afflicted his tiny form. His cheeks were pink and his eyes sparkled.

  Eanflæd had been overjoyed. God had listened to her prayers. Despite the pain she had felt at rejecting Beobrand’s advances, she knew she had done what was needed. It was her duty to her husband, her son, and Bernicia.

  Banishing thoughts of Beobrand from her mind, she resumed her recital of the prayer to the holy Maria.

  A heartbeat later, the door of the church swung open. She turned, looking to see who had interrupted her prayer. She expected one of the monks, Coenred perhaps, but the shadowy form in the doorway was tall and broad-shouldered, much larger than any of the brethren of the holy island. She recognised him instantly with a flush of anger. It seemed the Devil was not done tempting her. She gripped the rood pendant that hung from a chain at her neck, a gift from Oswiu.

  Beobrand walked quickly into the church, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. She took in his muscular chest, powerful arms and the swagger of his step and she swallowed. Her mouth was dry at the closeness of him, but she kept her face blank, her tone stern.

  “Lord Beobrand,” she said, “it is unlike you to come to the Lord’s house. Do you wish to pray?”

  He shook his head.

  “No, Eanflæd,” he replied, his tone both gruff and soft, like the caress of a callused hand.

  She swallowed again.

  “I am your queen,” she replied, her voice as sharp as a brooch pin. “You will address me as such.”

  Beobrand hesitated, then nodded.

  “As you wish, my queen.”

  “Well?” she snapped. “Why have you come to disturb me?”

  “Eanflæd… My queen…” His voice trailed off and suddenly, staring into his blue eyes in the dim light from the tiny windows and the open door, she felt a prickle of fear.

  “What is it?” she asked, her voice no longer imperious and commanding, but small and unsure. The voice of a frightened child, she thought. For an instant she was certain that something had befallen Ecgfrith and she stammered, “What—? Is my son…? Is Ecgfrith…?”

  “Your son is well,” Beobrand quickly replied.

  Relief washed through Eanflæd, only to be replaced with uncertainty and fear once again at Beobrand’s next words.

  “My queen,” he said, “a messenger has brought tidings.”

  “Is it my husband?” she asked. Her mind spun. Perhaps Penda had met Oswiu in battle somewhere to the west. She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the news of her husband’s death.

  “No, Eanflæd, the news does not concern the king,” Beobrand said, his voice not much more than a whisper, so that she drew closer, looking up at him. She did not comment again on his use of her name.

  “What then?”

  “The messenger sailed from Cantware. I am sorry,” his face looked ashen, but he squared his shoulders and continued. “Your mother is dead.”

  Chapter 12

  Cynan shaded his eyes with his right hand as he crested the rise. He held the mare’s reins loosely in his left, gripping Mierawin’s flanks easily with his thighs. He rode without thinking, as effortlessly as walking. He knew the mare could give him more speed. She could have eaten up the distance, but the men he rode with were mounted on lesser animals. Besides, no point in exhausting the beasts. Their lives might depend on the horses’ stamina soon enough.

  Below him the old path stretched out into the distance. Some way off to the right, a shepherd was sitting in the shade of some oaks. A small flock of scruffy, shorn sheep milled about the hillside. There was no sign of anyone else on the track or the land that rolled away before him to the west. The horizon was clear of smoke and the telltale pall of dust of a warhost on the move. A quick glance over his shoulder told him the dozen men Ethelwin had sent with him were some way behind. He hoped they were better warriors than they were riders. They were making good progress, the day was dry and bright, but he had to curb his mount frequently to allow the warband to catch up. This had done nothing to improve his dark mood.

  Digging his heels into Mierawin’s ribs he sent her cantering towards the lonely shepherd. As Cynan approached, the man stood. His face was lined and weathered, eyes dark within the tanned folds of his skin. He reached for his staff, slowly, deliberately, making an effort not to appear menacing. He was clearly no fool. Cynan was young and strong and his attire and gear left no doubt that he was a warrior of some renown, with sword and helm strapped
to his saddle and his black-daubed shield slung over his back.

  The shepherd’s dog, a shaggy brute with straggly grey, black and white fur, rose up from the grass and growled. A whistle from the shepherd silenced the hound and it slunk to its master’s side, from where it gazed steadily at Cynan, the threat clear in its dark eyes.

  Mierawin tossed her mane and stared back at the dog, nostrils flaring.

  “Good health,” said Cynan, reining in the bay mare.

  “And to you,” replied the shepherd, suspicion evident in his tone. “Friends of yours?” His gaze flicked towards the horizon. Cynan turned in the saddle and the leather creaked. The warband were finally riding into view over the hill.

  “Yes,” he replied. “And yours.”

  “Mine?” enquired the shepherd.

  “Friends.”

  The man’s dark features creased in a frown.

  “I doubt that very much, lad. I’ve never had any friends who rode horses and carried spears and swords.”

  “We mean you no harm. We ride from Bebbanburg.”

  The shepherd seemed unimpressed.

  “Seen it once. Not as grand as I’d been told.”

  Cynan frowned. It had been a mistake to ride to this man. And yet he was here now, so he might as well impart his tidings and offer him the advice he had given others they had passed that morning.

  “War is coming,” he said, his tone blunt and hard. “Penda of Mercia is marching. If you value your life, take your sheep and head into the hills.”

  “War, you say?” The shepherd appeared uninterested. “There have been many wars. None have bothered me.”

  “Well, if Penda marches this way and you are yet here, they will slaughter your flock to feed their warriors. Likely as not, they will slay you too.”

  The shepherd shrugged. Reaching up one nut-brown hand he scratched at his beard.

  “I don’t think they would kill me. What would be the point in that? I once saw a warhost.” His face softened into an almost wistful expression. “Years ago, it was. Lord Oswald led them. More men than you’ve ever seen.” He cast a derisory glance at the dozen horsemen on the path. “Much more than that lot. He wanted my sheep to feed the men and I sold him some. Paid me in good silver, too, so he did.” He smiled to himself at this memory.

  “Oswald is dead,” Cynan snapped. “The Mercians will not be as generous.”

  The shepherd continued scratching in the tangled thatch of his beard.

  “We’ll see. If these Mercians even come this way,” he added, sounding dubious.

  Cynan sighed. By the gods, why would men not listen to reason? His anger at Beobrand returned to him in a flash. Were all men so stubborn? So sure of their decisions?

  “Remain here at your peril,” he snarled. “You have heard my warning.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Cynan swung Mierawin’s head around to the west and, with a squeeze of his heels, sent her cantering at an angle to the track that would see them join the rest of the riders.

  Glancing over his shoulder he saw that the shepherd had returned to his spot beneath the oaks. Fool. Well, let him ignore the warning. He would regret it when Penda’s horde marched eastward. Cynan could picture their outriders spotting the shapes of the sheep on the hillside, veering off towards them. A warhost was always hungry and fresh meat would not be ignored. As to getting paid for his animals… Cynan shook his head at the man’s stupidity.

  He was almost at the path now. The course he had set had been judged to perfection and Mierawin jumped the ditch easily and bounded up the shallow bank that led to the hardened earth of the ancient pathway. He was just ahead of the men from Bebbanburg. The leader of the band was a gruff, red-faced man called Reodstan. Cynan had known him for years. He suspected Reodstan disliked him. Perhaps because he was Waelisc, or maybe because he was a more famed fighter and rider. Reodstan nodded a welcome to him as Cynan joined the horsemen. Cynan took in the man’s sweaty round face with its tracery of red veins over the cheeks and the flat nose. Reodstan’s thinning hair was receding, and what was left of it grew long and was held at the nape of his neck by a leather thong. Perhaps, he thought, Reodstan did not like him because Cynan’s face was handsome, where Reodstan’s was ugly.

  “We will halt soon,” said Cynan. “There is a river ahead. The horses need a rest.” So do the men, he thought, taking in their vacant stares and slumped shoulders.

  Reodstan grunted. They rode on in silence.

  Cynan knew that many men considered him blessed. He was tall, fair of face, skilled as a warrior and as a rider. He had a ring-giving lord in Beobrand, who was likely the most famous of all the thegns of Bernicia. Cynan should be content with his life, and yet there was something missing. With the battle-fame and riches he had gained over the years, he could have married a woman of worth. He had treasure enough for the handgeld to be paid to a bride’s family and for the morgengifu to be given to a bride on the morning after their handfasting. With his fair hair and his fine features that had fortunately been untouched by battle, he could find many an eager girl to warm him at night. He smiled to himself as he rode. He had bedded a good number of maids around Ubbanford. There was one particular girl, Siflaed, the daughter of a miller in Berewic, whom he had ridden to many times the previous summer. They had spent countless nights in each other’s arms in Siflaed’s father’s barn. Cynan had liked her more than the other girls he had lain with. Siflaed was not only comely, with a curved body no man could ignore, but she was quick-witted and made him laugh. But when one night her father had surprised them, Cynan had run from the barn into the dark, wearing nothing more than his kirtle. Such was his panicked haste, he had left his breeches and shoes behind and galloped into the night. It was not that he was afraid of Siflaed’s father. But she had mentioned handfasting the night before and after her father’s discovery of their trysts, Cynan knew he would have to wed her.

  And the thought of that filled him with dread.

  What fools women made of men, he thought. Beobrand was probably even now sitting in the great hall of Bebbanburg, sipping mead and making eyes at the queen. And here he was, remembering a girl who had made him happy. A lively, intelligent young woman who would have made him a good wife. And he had spurned her. And for what? The memory of a Mercian thrall he would never see again?

  He saw the River Cocueda ahead of them. There were sallows and alders growing along its banks a short way off to the north. It would make a good spot to water the horses and for the men to sit a while in the shade before they continued into the west.

  “We will rest there,” he called to Reodstan, pointing to the trees.

  Not waiting for a reply, he veered Mierawin off to the right. He heard the sound of the horses’ hooves change as the rest of the men steered their mounts from the packed earth of the track to the dry grassland.

  He sighed. Beobrand was no more a fool than he. The woman his lord lusted for was forbidden to him, it was true, but at least she was there, alive and tangible. Cynan pined for a woman who was little more than a distant dream of a memory.

  Gods, he was such a fool. A couple of weeks after the incident at the barn, he had talked to Bassus about Siflaed. Bassus had laughed, deep and sonorous guffaws filling the hall as Cynan had recounted how he had ridden back to Ubbanford with nothing on save for his kirtle.

  When at last he had managed to contain his mirth, Bassus had asked him how he felt about the girl.

  “I think of her all the time,” Cynan said. “When I am with her I am happy.”

  “Well, it seems to me then, boy,” Bassus said, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes, “that you had best go back and beg her forgiveness for running. Perhaps you should speak to her father too. There are worse reasons to wed a girl than happiness.”

  Cynan cantered into the shade beneath the alders. The river flowed slow and silent, the sun glittering from its surface. He lifted his leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. Leading the bay mare to the water’s edge,
he let her drink.

  He spat into the river.

  The miller would not let him see his daughter when he returned to Berewic. Looking back now, he thought he could have persisted, pressing his case. Did Siflaed even know he had come looking for her? He hadn’t seen her, and the miller, all bluster and outrage, had turned him away.

  “To think I would allow a daughter of mine to marry a Waelisc dog,” he’d shouted after him. For an instant, then, Cynan had turned to the man, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. Fear had drained the colour from the miller’s face and he had stepped back, subdued by the deadly anger in Cynan’s eyes. But after a moment, Cynan had turned Mierawin away and ridden off, never to return. What had he thought he could do? Slay the father of the girl he wished to marry?

  The dozen riders led by Reodstan arrived at the stand of trees and dismounted. Some groaned and stretched, evidently less used to riding than their Waelisc guide. Cynan pulled Mierawin away from the water and led her back under the trees.

  Siflaed married the son of a fisherman that Eostremonath. Bassus had heard the news from Aart, the pedlar who regularly visited Ubbanford and plied his wares all over the north of Albion. Bassus had patted Cynan on the back when he had told him the tidings, pushing a cup of mead into his hand.

  “No use in crying over a woman,” he’d said. But when Cynan had met the grizzled man’s eye, he saw the understanding there. Warriors such as them cried for little, but women had power over even the fiercest of fighters.

  They rested for a short while beside the river. None of the men spoke to Cynan but it did not concern him. These men were not his friends, not the family of shield-brothers he had stood beside in battles all along the borderlands of Bernicia. Besides, he was content to brood in silence over the influence that womenfolk exerted over his, and all men’s, lives.