Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  After the horses had drunk from the river, Cynan ordered the men to brush them down. Some of the warriors grumbled, but Cynan had insisted.

  “Keep your mounts’ backs clean and free from sores and you will thank me for it if it comes to a chase. Would you want to be left on foot when Penda’s host comes marching towards us?”

  He didn’t need to say more and the men copied him in unfastening their mounts’ girths and removing their saddles. Then, using handfuls of grass, they brushed them down.

  After they had rested a while, filling their waterskins and drinking from the river and eating some of the rations they carried, Cynan told Reodstan to get the men back on their horses. The red-faced warrior twisted his lips as if he tasted something sour, but he nodded and began barking orders at his men. Soon they were on their way again.

  Cynan had hoped they might reach Fraomar and the men from Ubbanford before dark, but the sun was sinking red and hazy towards the earth when he called a halt to their westward ride. They slid from their saddles in a copse of ash and hazel that had grown around the crumbling grey stone ruins of a collection of long-abandoned buildings. The site was commanding. It overlooked the path and had good views of the land in all directions. It must surely have been built by the men from far-off Roma who had once ruled these lands. Now, only the bones of their buildings remained.

  The men were exhausted, slick with sweat and streaked with dust, but Cynan was quick to tell Reodstan to set watches through the night.

  Most of the men began stripping the saddles from the horses, but a few threw themselves to the earth, too tired to care about their animals.

  “Tend to your horses,” Cynan snapped at the men who had slumped to the ground. “If you leave them standing shaking in their sweat like that, they’ll be no good to any of us in the morning.” Groaning, the men rose and saw to their mounts, tethering them beneath the trees and in the lee of the angular rock walls that seemed to rise from the earth. Cynan ignored the dark glances the men cast his way.

  Once Mierawin had eaten a few handfuls of oats and had drunk from the stream that trickled down from the high moorland, Cynan secured her reins to the bough of a hazel and then, chewing a strip of salt beef, he wandered to where the first of the sentries had been positioned atop what appeared to be an ancient earthwork. Fleetingly, Cynan wondered at what manner of men had laboured to raise the earth and erect the stones in this place. The sentry, a slender, fox-faced man with darting eyes, was staring into the setting sun, squinting at its glare.

  “Do you see anything?” asked Cynan.

  “No. There is nothing moving out to the west.”

  Cynan glanced away from the fiery orb of the sun. The shadows of the trees stretched out long and spindly against the undulating earth, dark fingers pointing into the east. The low sun showed every ripple of the ground, picked out every blade of grass, the leaf of every nettle and the twig on every tree in a ruddy golden glow against stark, black shadows.

  “What about from the east?” he asked.

  The sentry turned and let out a curse as he noticed what Cynan had seen.

  Two riders were approaching along the path. The setting sun glinted from their weapons and battle harness. One of the horses was a huge stallion, as black as the shadows that gave him his name.

  Sceadugenga.

  “Reodstan,” called the sentry, and the florid-faced warrior hurried up to where the two men stood.

  Cynan stepped to greet the two horsemen as they pulled their foaming mounts to a halt. The animals had been ridden hard. They were lathered in sweat, blowing and pawing the ground. Both riders slid from their saddles and Cynan took their reins. He unhooked the leather water flask from where it was attached to Sceadugenga’s saddle. Leading the tired steeds to the sentry, he handed the man the reins.

  “See to Lord Beobrand’s horse and that of his man, Halinard.”

  The sentry opened his mouth as if to refuse. But Reodstan shook his head with a sigh.

  “Ordlaf,” he said, “see to the horses and send Aethelwig to take over the first watch. You seem to have forgotten that you need to keep your wits about you to act as a sentry.”

  “But—” started the sentry, his face paling at the slight.

  “And, Ordlaf,” Reodstan said, cutting off his protests, “tell Aethelwig you will take the second watch. And if I find you sleeping, I will have your balls for a pendant.”

  With a face like thunder, Ordlaf led the horses under the trees.

  Cynan walked back to Beobrand, handing him his water flask.

  “So, you decided to join us in the end, lord?”

  Beobrand took a long swallow of water, then handed the flask to Halinard.

  For a moment Beobrand met Cynan’s gaze, but did not speak. At last, he nodded.

  “My place is with you, not with the likes of Fordraed, cowering in Bebbanburg.”

  Cynan smiled. That was as close to an apology as he could expect. They followed Reodstan back towards the rest of the men and the tethered horses. Cynan wondered what had occurred back in Bebbanburg.

  “And your place is not with women? Not with the queen?” he whispered.

  Beobrand stopped short. Anger flashed in his eyes. Cynan swallowed. Had he gone too far? Again, he wondered what had happened.

  Then, after a moment, Beobrand slapped him on the shoulder and offered him a rueful smile.

  “No, not with her either,” he said, and they walked into the camp together.

  Chapter 13

  Beobrand looked about as the men roused themselves with the first glimmers of dawn. The night had passed uneventfully. These were steadfast warriors, many of whom he knew by name and a few, such as Reodstan, by reputation also. The camp had been subdued, the men exhausted from the day of hard riding, but also unsure of what the dawn would bring. They were riding into the unknown, but certainly into danger. They were not craven, of that Beobrand was sure. Several of these men had stood atop the hill at Maserfelth. Any warrior who had survived that blood-letting knew what Penda was capable of, so to ride towards a host of Mercian and Waelisc invaders took courage. No, these men were not cowards, but they were quiet and nervous as they harnessed their horses in the cool light of the early morning. No man liked to ride towards an unseen foe. Uncertainty eroded strength and resolve, the way waves gouged at the rocks of a cliff.

  Looking at the small number of men, Beobrand began to question the wisdom of what they were doing. What did they hope to achieve? Cynan and Attor had said that the host arrayed against them was huge. What could a dozen more men do, even when added to the score Beobrand had left watching the horde? Thirty warriors against hundreds? Beobrand was doubtful they would be able to do anything apart from keeping ahead of the advance, and then warning Ethelwin and those to the east of their enemies’ whereabouts and movements. Still, this was useful enough and being forewarned could be key in the coming battle, spelling the difference between defeat and victory.

  Beobrand pulled himself up onto Sceadugenga’s broad back, keeping the unease and worry from his face. These men were being led by the mighty Beobrand, Lord of Ubbanford, and he knew he had to play the part of the invincible warlord.

  “Keep your eyes open and your hands close to your weapons,” he shouted to the mounted men. “Today we will surely meet with my gesithas, but we know not what the day will bring. We are close to Penda’s warhost and so must ride with care. And remember, we are not coming to attack the Mercian bastards. Not yet! There will be time enough soon to soak the land with their slaughter-sweat. But not today. We are coming to add our numbers to those of my men. We are to watch Penda’s host, to see where he is heading. If he moves, we will follow – and, if possible, we will buy time for Ethelwin and Oswine, that they may assemble the fyrds of Northumbria. And when those fyrds of our countrymen are brought together, there will be such a battle that Penda will regret leaving Mercia. The wolves and ravens of Bernicia will be fat from the feeding we will give them.”

  The m
en were all staring at him. He could feel the weight of their gaze on him as much as see them in the dawn-dark under the trees. He reached up to the whale tooth hammer amulet at his neck. He felt as nervous and unsure as the men around him, but he fixed his features in a grim mask of determination and confidence. He prayed that Fraomar and his men yet lived.

  “If we see the enemy today, I want no heroic deeds for the scops to sing of,” he bellowed, making some of the horses shy away from his voice. Halinard was looking at him and he knew they were both thinking of Brinin, lying pale and sweating in a pallet in Bebbanburg, watched over by an old crone. “Listen to Reodstan and me, and obey us without question. I know you are all men of mettle and my Black Shields and I will be proud to ride with you. To fight alongside you, if it comes to it.” He met the gaze of some of the men in the gloom beneath the ash and hazel trees. Did they raise themselves up straighter in their saddles under his glower? “Now, enough of words. Let us ride! For Bernicia!”

  Kicking his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks, he set off at a canter towards the steel-grey sky of the west. A few of the men echoed his last words in a ragged cheer and with a rumble like thunder, the mounted warband fell in behind him, hooves drumming against the summer-dry earth.

  Beobrand had sent Cynan out just before dawn to scout ahead of them and they had not been riding long when he saw a rider coming towards them along the road. The sun had only just topped the eastern horizon, but the day was going to be clear again and it was already warm on Beobrand’s back. He did not have the keenest eyes, but with the sun shining full in the face of the oncoming rider, Beobrand could make out the tawny-coloured mare Cynan rode. Beobrand and Reodstan galloped ahead to meet the scout.

  “Have you seen Fraomar?” Beobrand asked as they reined in close to one another in the middle of the wide road. “Or Penda?”

  Cynan shook his head. Reaching out absently, he patted his mare’s neck.

  “I have seen neither, lord.”

  “Then why return so soon?”

  “There are folk fleeing from the warhost.”

  Beobrand frowned.

  “So Penda is on the move. I do not blame sheep for running before the wolves.”

  “But that is why I have come to you,” replied Cynan, his expression one of confusion. “The people I have seen did not speak of Mercians, but of Waelisc. Men riding under the banners of Powys and Gwynedd.”

  “And what of it? We know that the Waelisc have allied with Penda once more.”

  “Yes, lord, but you don’t understand. We know Penda to be west of here. But the families fleeing the men of Powys and Gwynedd I met at a crossroad, where Deira Stræt meets this path.”

  It was Beobrand’s turn to look confused.

  He was suddenly aware of the men gathered behind him. They had ridden up in a cloud of dust, reining in and now listening intently to what the Waelisc scout was saying. A horse whinnied. A man hawked and spat. None of them spoke.

  “What are you saying, Cynan?” Beobrand asked.

  “These refugees are fleeing from the south. They say that their steading near Hefenfelth was burnt.”

  This made no sense. Could Penda have decided to lead his host southward from where Attor and Cynan had found their encampment? But to what end? To strike Eoferwic, perhaps? But why then lead his force so far into Bernicia, only to send them back south to Deira? No, that could not be right. Had Fraomar engaged the enemy, perhaps forcing Penda to change his course?

  “Take me to the folk you spoke to,” Beobrand said. “I would hear their tale for myself.”

  Cynan obediently led Beobrand and Reodstan, followed by the rest of the warband, back along the path. Soon they reached the crossroads he had mentioned. To the right, starkly lit against the brow of a hill, was a cart and a small group of people and animals.

  Leaving instructions to Reodstan to hold the men on the track, Beobrand followed Cynan up the slope.

  There were nine of them in all. A stout man, his wife, five children and a skinny thrall. The goodwife, thrall and three of the children were doing their best to drive several pigs and geese along the road. It was not easy, though, and Beobrand could see they would be tired soon and would make slow going chasing the animals this way and that. This was clearly a family of some standing. They owned a wide-horned ox that pulled a sturdy cart. The cart was heavily laden with all manner of goods. Beobrand spied a carved stool, a griddle and what looked like the frame of a box bed jutting from the pile of things on the vehicle. The ninth member of the family was sat atop the jumble of goods on the waggon. He was a wizened, bald man, who sucked at his gums and looked at Beobrand with the vacant stare of an idiot.

  The cart was overladen and the ox lowed pitiably as the head of the family goaded it with a birch switch. Two of the man’s boys, both little older than Beobrand’s son, were leaning their shoulders against the cart, pushing with every sinew of their skinny frames. It would not budge.

  Without a word, Beobrand dropped from his saddle. Cynan did the same and they both stepped in behind the cart, lending their considerable strength and bulk. With a heave, the cart began to slowly move up the last part of the rise. Moments later it was over the crest of the hill and the boys and the two warriors leaned over, hands on their knees, panting from the exertion.

  “I thank you, lord,” said the man.

  “It is no matter,” said Beobrand, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I pray that you can keep your family safe. But tell me, are you sure that none of the men in the host you saw were Mercian? My man here says you saw only Waelisc.”

  The man, a head shorter than Beobrand and perhaps twenty years older, paused, squinting up at the thegn of Ubbanford.

  “Well, I did not stay to ask them their names, lord,” he said, his face grim. “But I have eyes in my head that see well enough, and I stood in the shieldwall at Elmet. I know my Mercian from my Waelisc man.” He flicked a glance at Cynan when he said this. “And I say these men were riding under the banners of Powys and Gwynedd. The black lion and the white eagle. There was no wolf tail standard or any other from Mercia that I have seen or heard tell of. If I were a wagering man, I would bet you an ounce of silver there were only Waelisc in the host that moved along the road.”

  “Host, you say? How many men? Could they have been outriders for Penda’s warhost?”

  “I do not know how many men Penda has marching with him, but this was no small band. There must have been over a hundred men, perhaps two hundred. Waelisc men all.”

  “How is it that you were able to see them so well?” asked Cynan, speaking for the first time. Beobrand noted that his lilting musical accent seemed more noticeable than normal.

  “Old Eawig had sent word that warriors were coming. He lives to the west of me, near Gillisland. But Eawig has always been a worrier, and sees warbands where there are only a bunch of brigands in search of a soft farm to plunder. Still, I do not like to take chances, so we packed up the cart and I sent my eldest son here,” he nodded at one of the boys, “with the family up the path. I waited back in the woods to the north of our land. That mob of Waelisc bastards rushed along the road.” He shook his head, his eyebrows arched in incredulity. “Eawig was right. There was a host of them. Like the plague of locusts they were, in that story the Christ priests tell. They swarmed over our house.” His voice choked in his throat as he recalled what he had seen. “The stables and the barn. We only finished building the new barn last Blotmonath. They took what we had left behind and then burnt our home.” He hesitated, then, as if a thought had just struck him, he said, “They must have seen the tracks of our cart, but they didn’t follow us. In a hurry to go further east, they must have been, for none of them set off after us.”

  “That was lucky for you,” Cynan said.

  The man glowered at him.

  “I wouldn’t call seeing your home burnt and your fields trampled lucky.”

  The family’s grief hung in the air like a cloud of flies over manure. One of the gi
rls who was chasing the geese along had halted and was staring at the two warriors. Her eyes were wide and dark, her cheeks smeared with dirt and the tracks of tears. The man sighed and turned to continue leading his kin northward.

  “When did you see the Waelisc host?” Beobrand asked.

  “Yesterday,” he replied, not looking back.

  Without another word, Beobrand swung up into the saddle. Cynan leaped up nimbly onto Mierawin’s back. They rode back in silence to the warriors waiting on the path. Reodstan nudged his horse forward to meet them.

  “Well?” he said.

  They relayed the news. Reodstan listened and then hoomed deep in the back of his throat.

  “I can think of only two possibilities,” he said. When Beobrand did not speak, Reodstan continued. “Either the man is mistaken…”

  “I think he knows what he saw,” replied Beobrand.

  “Or,” said Reodstan, his face grim, “Penda and his allies have split the host.”

  Beobrand had been thinking the same.

  “But why?” he asked, as much to himself as to Reodstan.

  “I know not,” Reodstan replied.

  A sudden shouted warning snapped Beobrand’s attention away from Reodstan. A man had spurred his horse forward and was now gesturing to the west. Beobrand recognised Ordlaf. Evidently the man had learnt his lesson about keeping watch.

  Beobrand followed the man’s pointing finger and saw a rider coming fast along the track. Men tugged weapons from scabbards. The horses fidgeted, jostling and stamping.

  Beobrand peered at the oncoming horseman, but he was yet too far away to identify.

  Cynan, though, smiled.

  “Perhaps he will be able to tell us what the king of Mercia is doing,” he said.

  Beobrand squinted, but still could not be sure of the rider’s identity.

  “You recognise him?” he asked.

  “Of course, lord,” replied Cynan, his tone incredulous that anyone would not be able to pick out the face of the horseman at that distance. “It is Attor.”