Chapter 14
Cynan spurred Mierawin forward, scanning the horizon for sign of any pursuers. He saw no movement behind Attor save for a brace of startled partridges that burst from the long grass growing beside the road. They flapped angrily into the brightening sky before settling down into the gorse and heather of the moorland.
Attor was as good a rider as he was a runner and a scout. In moments he had closed the distance between them. Mierawin nickered in welcome, and Attor’s piebald stallion nuzzled against the bay mare. Cynan could see that the steed had been ridden hard for some time. The stallion trembled and blew.
“Well met, brother,” said Cynan.
“It is good to see you,” replied Attor. His eyes flicked over the gathered horsemen. Cynan noticed a strip of linen wound tightly about Attor’s right forearm. It was stained red. “Though I had hoped you would return with more men.”
Beobrand and Reodstan joined them.
“Attor,” Beobrand said, with a nod of greeting.
“Lord.”
“What tidings?” Beobrand took in the bandage on Attor’s arm. “How do Fraomar and the rest fare?”
Attor’s face was grim.
“Well enough. When I left, none had fallen.”
“You attacked the enemy?” Beobrand asked, his eyes narrowing.
“No, a group of their scouts found us.” Attor spat into the dust.
Cynan, feeling sorry for his friend who looked more tired than he had ever seen him, handed Attor his waterskin. Attor inclined his head in thanks and drank. Cynan liked Attor. He was as vicious as a wolf in combat, dogged in pursuit of his lord’s enemies and had never once belittled Cynan for not having been born of Anglisc parents.
Beobrand waited for Attor to slake his thirst and then prompted him to continue.
“So what happened?”
“We slew most of them, but a couple got away with word of our position. We have been riding ahead of Penda’s host since yesterday. Fraomar is canny and he has managed to avoid open battle, but how long he can hold out, I do not know.”
“And what of you?” Beobrand asked.
“I carry tidings to Bebbanburg. And to you, lord,” he added with a twisted grin, “if you were yet there.”
“Well, I am here, so tell me.”
“Penda has split his force.”
Cynan glanced at Beobrand, who was nodding.
Beobrand told Attor of what they had learnt from the refugees.
“The man spoke true, lord,” said Attor, handing back the waterskin to Cynan. “The men of Powys and Gwynedd headed south and east.”
“To what end?” wondered Beobrand aloud.
Attor shrugged.
“We could not fathom it. Fraomar thought about sending some of the men after the Waelisc, but that would have meant separating the warband and there were few enough Black Shields as it was.”
Beobrand frowned.
“And yet he sent you towards Bebbanburg with tidings.”
“Aye, lord. Fraomar kept the men together to harry Penda as he advanced. He sent me ahead as he said, rightly I would say, that our most important task was to protect you.” He hesitated, before adding, “And the king and his family, of course.”
For a moment, Cynan was unsure, confused, trying to make sense of Attor’s words, picturing Penda’s host marching across the land, the Waelisc warriors splitting from the main force and veering southward.
“You think Penda is marching on Bebbanburg?” he asked at last, for this was the only thing that made sense.
“Yes,” Attor said. “I know it seems like madness, but we could think of no other destination. Penda is advancing quickly, possibly in the hope of reaching Bebbanburg before the king has had time to prepare for battle.”
Cynan’s mind was racing now. He thought of the roads and paths of Bernicia. He had ridden them so often over the years that they were as clear to him in his mind’s eye as the lines on his palm. As he imagined the different groups of men marching and riding over his adopted homeland, a possibility dawned on him.
He opened his mouth, but Beobrand spoke first.
“Attor,” Beobrand said, “where is the fyrd of Bernicia called to arms?” On hearing the question, Cynan knew that he and his lord had reached the same conclusion.
Attor cocked his head quizzically, almost like a hound trying to make sense of his master’s words, thought Cynan.
“At Hefenfelth, lord,” replied the wiry scout. “The fyrd is assembled in the shadow of the rood that Oswald erected.” Beobrand was nodding. Cynan had heard many times of his lord’s involvement in the great battle there. A terrible night battle that had seen Beobrand capture Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd. It had been the end of the Waelisc kingdom’s hopes of conquest, and the beginnings of the reign of Oswald, son of Æthelfrith; a great victory.
“Yes, and it is well known that the fyrd gathers there,” Beobrand said, his voice growing quiet.
Realisation dawned on Reodstan’s flushed face.
“By the wounds of Christ,” he blurted out, “could Penda have envisioned such a thing?”
“I know not,” Beobrand said, his voice empty of emotion, “but he is a wily old wolf. I think he has seen a way to take Bernicia, and to destroy any chance we might have of standing against him.”
The pieces fell into place in Cynan’s mind and he could see the position of the different forces, like pieces on a great tafl board in the deadly game played by kings: “The Waelisc will crush the fyrd before it has fully assembled or had time to join forces with the warriors from Bebbanburg,” Cynan said, describing the situation they were all imagining. “And Penda will cut off the fortress with his main host, besieging it and swelling his ranks with the Waelisc when they are done with the fyrd at Hefenfelth.”
For a moment, none of them spoke.
At last Beobrand said, “But we have some things to our advantage.”
“What would that be?” grumbled Reodstan. He sounded like a man already defeated.
“We know what the bastard plans.” Beobrand turned to Cynan. “You will ride to Hefenfelth and warn the men gathering there. They must not be caught by surprise. I know of no finer rider and you know the paths of this land as well as anyone. Make haste, my friend, and then hurry north to Bebbanburg, for I fear that is where the true fight will be.”
Attor’s horse shook its head and the slender warrior patted its neck.
“And what of me, lord?” he asked.
“You, brave Attor, will ride on to Bebbanburg just as you had planned. You will give the tidings of these events to Ethelwin there.”
“Ethelwin?” Attor said. “What of our lord king?”
“Oswiu is not at Bebbanburg.”
“But does not Fordraed command Bebbanburg in the king’s absence?”
Beobrand glowered and Cynan was pleased to see his lord’s spirit returned. This was not a man befuddled by thoughts of love and lust. This was Beobrand Half-handed, thegn of Bernicia and lord of Ubbanford. This was the warlord of the Black Shields and Penda would rue the day he had marched his men into the land Beobrand called home.
“I care nothing for that fat bastard Fordraed,” Beobrand said. “See to it that you speak to Ethelwin. And warn the people in Penda’s path. Tell them to flee and to take their livestock with them. Any food they cannot carry, they are to burn.”
“And you, lord?” Attor asked.
“We will join Fraomar and together we will retreat back to Bebbanburg, shielding the folk of the land as best we can from Penda and his dogs.”
“And what are the other things?” Attor asked.
“What?”
“You said there were some things that gave us an advantage, lord.”
Beobrand grinned. His eyes glinted like chips of ice in the morning sun.
“Penda is not the only king with allies. Oswine of Deira has ridden to Eoferwic. He too has summoned his fyrd and they will march north to Bernicia’s aid. If we can hold Penda at bay, we will be
able to crush him once and for all with the hammer of Deira against the anvil of Bebbanburg.”
Chapter 15
Eanflæd picked up the basket of freshly baked bread. It was heavier than she had anticipated and she almost dropped it. Resting its weight on one of the tables that the bakers used to knead the dough, she adjusted her grip and heaved the basket up with an effort. She knew that everyone was looking to her. She was the queen and it was not seemly for her to be seen performing such menial tasks.
Fordraed had confronted her about her behaviour earlier in the day. He had intercepted her as she carried two brimming pitchers of ale to some newly arrived families.
“You should not be doing this,” he said.
“What should I not do?” she had enquired. “Help my people? Bring drink to the men who are building shelters for their families? And why should I not do these things?”
“You are the queen.” His voice lost its conviction under her withering stare.
“Yes, I am your queen and you would do well to remember that, lord Fordraed,” she said, her tone scathing. “And it is a queen’s duty to aid her people.”
“Oswiu will not like this,” he said.
“Well, I am sure none of us like this,” she replied, indicating the throngs of men, women and children who had flocked to Bebbanburg following Attor’s warnings of the approach of Penda’s warhost. “I also do not like having missed my mother’s funeral.” She swallowed back the bitterness of the words. Her arms were burning from the weight of the overflowing earthenware jugs of ale. “And these people do not like having to flee their homes to seek protection behind the palisades of Bebbanburg. Oswiu might not like any of it,” she pushed past Fordraed and handed the jugs of ale into the eager hands of two women who bowed to her, “but the king is not here.”
Ever since Attor had ridden in the previous afternoon, the refugees had been arriving in their droves. It was likely Penda would destroy all in his path and the only safe haven the folk of Bernicia could imagine was Bebbanburg, the impregnable fortress on the rock.
Hefting the basket of bread, she carried it as quickly as she could to where the largest group of makeshift shelters was being erected. The courtyard was abustle with activity. There was the sound of axe and hammer on timber as men quickly threw up makeshift shelters against the walls. The halls were already filled and all the available floor space had been taken the night before, so the newest arrivals would have to resort to building their own lean-tos.
An elderly woman called Seaxburg helped Eanflæd to set down the basket and then to hand out the food. The old woman had a kindly face, despite the lines of worry wrought there. The bread was taken in moments and a sliver of doubt entered Eanflæd’s mind. If they were to be besieged here, they would need to start rationing the food. The days were warm and dry, and the bustle of families in the courtyard gave the place an air of a festival. Many of the families had brought animals with them and the yard was swarming with cows, sheep, goats, even a noisy gaggle of grey geese. The sight of so many animals gave the impression that there would be enough to feed them all for a long time to come. But just scanning the numbers of dirt-smeared faces and the grubby hands that snatched the warm loaves from her, she knew they would be hungry soon enough, if they had to remain in the fortress for any length of time. She would speak to Brytnere the steward and Ethelwin about it.
When all the bread had been given out, Seaxburg smiled sheepishly.
“May God smile on you and your son, my lady,” she said. “Your father was ever go¯d cyning. I see much of him in you, though you are clearly your mother’s daughter too. And even more beautiful than her.”
Eanflæd thanked the woman and rushed away, lest she see the tears brimming in her eyes. She was an orphan now and she had never felt so alone in all her life. When Edwin had been slain and her family had fled to Cantware, she had Ethelburga, Wuscfrea and Yffi at her side. Now they were all gone. Oswiu was somewhere in the west rutting with his Hibernian whore and Eanflæd had pushed away the only man she wanted. The news of her mother’s death had cut into her like a sword thrust. She had still been reeling from the previous night-time encounter with Beobrand, but to have him there before her in the dark interior of the church, telling her the grave news about Ethelburga, had undone her for a time. She had wailed with grief and, after the slightest hesitation, Beobrand had taken her in his arms and comforted her as if she were a child, smoothing her hair and whispering soft words in her ear.
After a long time, her tears had dried and she had looked up at Beobrand’s stern features. She would have thrown all of her promises to herself and God away in that moment. He had wiped the tears from her cheeks with a rough thumb and a thrill had run through her at his touch.
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said. “Your mother was a great woman.” He sighed. “Now,” he said, his tone apologetic, “I must ride after Cynan. I should be with my men. It is where I can serve Bernicia best.”
A pain gripped her then. It was a physical, nauseating ache in her gut as bad as any monthly cramps. For a moment she wondered if she was ill, but then rage replaced the pain. She shoved Beobrand away and swiped at her tear-streaked cheeks. Smoothing her dress, she took a deep breath.
“Yes, lord Beobrand,” she said with a voice as cold as the hoar frost that formed on the high hills in winter, “you should go. Thank you for bringing me these tidings.”
He looked at her, blinking stupidly in the gloom. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but she wished to hear no more from him.
“That will be all,” she snapped, dismissing him.
He opened his mouth again, then shook his head and strode from the church.
She had not seen him since then. And her initial anger at him had been replaced by a yearning to see him again. She felt alone on this crag of rock. Even now, surrounded by hundreds of Bernicians, many of whom remembered her heritage and looked up to her as the daughter of Edwin, she had no real friends here. She could not truly confide in Godgyth. The woman’s tongue flapped like a flag in a strong wind and to tell her any of her deepest thoughts would be to hear them repeated the next day in the hall. There were other women in the fortress, the wives of some of the thegns and warriors, but the only one with whom she had enjoyed any kind of friendship was Edlyn, Fordraed’s long-suffering wife. But she could not confide in poor Edlyn. Being wed to Fordraed brought its own woes.
The news of her mother’s death, coming so soon on the heels of the night-time meeting with Beobrand, threatened to overwhelm Eanflæd. After he had left the church, she had returned to her chamber and clutched little Ecgfrith to her breast, breathing in his scent until he began to squirm and whimper. All that day she had felt the darkness encroaching, her black thoughts swirling about her like a murmuration of autumn starlings.
The only glimmer of light came from Ecgfrith. His coughing had indeed abated and, after so many months of sickness, colour was coming back into his cheeks. She had been right to push Beobrand away, she was sure. The instant she had made her decision, God had lifted the curse that had hung over her son. There was no doubt that the Lord was rewarding her for her righteousness, for turning her back on sinful temptations of the flesh.
But still, she had wept often in her chamber as she thought of the mother she had not seen since leaving Cantware; the stern woman she would never see again in this life.
When, the next evening, she heard shouts announcing the arrival of a messenger followed by the clatter of hooves in the courtyard, she hurried into the hall to hear the news. Attor, slender, grizzle-cheeked and travel-stained, stood before Ethelwin and Fordraed. She approached quietly and quickly across the rushes to stand in the shadows as Attor spoke. She heard most of the tidings he brought and pieced together what she had missed by the flow of the subsequent conversation.
Penda was heading for Bebbanburg. He had sent part of his host, that of his Waelisc allies, south, probably to head off the fyrd at Hefenfelth. Beobrand and his small warband wer
e riding before Penda, hoping to slow his advance to provide time for the folk of Bernicia to seek sanctuary behind Bebbanburg’s walls.
Soon after Attor’s arrival, the first of the refugees began to reach the fortress, carrying what possessions they were able and driving whatever livestock they could before them. On seeing the weary families trudging through the gates, Eanflæd cast aside her own troubles, her grief and broiling emotions. Now was not the time for self-pity. Bernicia was under attack and she would do all in her power to help those who were suffering. She was not able to don battle harness, to take up spear and shield and stand with the gesithas in the shieldwall, so she would do what she could. Eanflæd started by simply lending her hands to the tasks that needed to be done. She carried provisions, entertained children while their mothers helped their men to build shelters, she had even offered to help the servants in the kitchen, but she soon saw that she made them nervous and caused more trouble by being there than if she left them to their work.
Now she saw a way she could truly help and she hurried across the courtyard to the great hall. The door wards dipped their heads to her as she passed into the gloomy interior. Outside, the fortress was a tumult of sounds and smells from countless unwashed bodies. The sheep and goats bleated, the cattle lowed, and the numerous hounds barked their displeasure at the new visitors to their realm. Stepping into the hall, the chaos receded, dimmed by the stout walls to a vague buzzing, easily ignored.
She took a calming breath, smoothing her dress over her thighs. She noticed that the hem of the green dress was mud-spattered, as were her shoes. The dress had been a gift from her mother. For a heartbeat, Eanflæd remained still in the relative peace of the hall. Closing her eyes, she imagined what her mother would have done if she had been there. She let out her breath, opened her eyes, and walked with purpose down the length of the hall.
At the far end of the hall several men stood around a board that had been raised on trestles as if for a meal, but apart from a couple of pitchers, the table was empty of sustenance. Instead, as she approached, Eanflæd saw that the table held several wooden cups and bowls, each turned upside down. The gathered men were grim-faced and sombre, staring at the upturned vessels with great concentration.
Fortress of Fury Page 12