Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  The dark shadows of Bebbanburg stretched out across the land to the west. The sun had risen bright into another clear sky and already it was warm on Beobrand’s back and neck.

  Ethelwin ascended the ladder to the ramparts and looked out silently at the smoke-enshrouded distance.

  “Not long now till he shows himself,” the warmaster said at last.

  They had spoken for a long while the night before. Beobrand had recounted how they had ambushed Penda’s outriders, killing many before finally having to turn and retreat to Bebbanburg. No word had come from Cynan, the fyrd or the king. Beobrand had turned over in his mind what might have transpired at Hefenfelth. Could Cynan have been killed? He dismissed the idea. He would not think such a thing. The Waelisc warrior was hale and would return when he was able.

  There was a commotion in the courtyard and Beobrand turned and looked down into the shadowed space. Makeshift tents dotted the area and lean-tos lined the walls. One of the goats, evidently due for slaughter but having other ideas, had butted the thrall who had been holding it. The man, taken by surprise, had tumbled to the ground and the angry animal had set off at a run, weaving its way between the shelters. People stepped into the beast’s path, but it either charged them or veered away. Eventually, wild-eyed and head lowered for another bruising attack, the goat was cornered between two lean-tos and the palisade. It looked about frantically, desperate for escape. It was oblivious of the guards atop the rampart above and behind it. As Beobrand watched, one of the wall wards inverted his spear, leaned over the rampart and, after taking a moment to gauge his aim, he thrust down into the unsuspecting animal’s back. The goat, terrified and in agony, let out a piercing bleating screech, fell to the earth and jerked convulsively as its lifeblood pumped from the wound.

  The onlookers cheered at the guard’s quick action. But Beobrand sighed. The animal had been surrounded and did not see where the killing blow would come from. Would that be the fate of Bebbanburg? Was that his own wyrd?

  Looking away from the dying creature, his eyes met those of Eanflæd. She was staring at him and, for a heartbeat, their gazes locked. Gods, she was beautiful. A moment later, biting her lower lip, she looked away and began directing the thralls to recover the still-twitching goat carcass. The memory of Eanflæd flooded his mind. Her scent, the taste of her lips, the feel of her soft breast, nipple firm against his palm. He shook his head, turning away once more to look out to the west.

  Death was coming. Fraomar might yet succumb to his injury. If Bebbanburg withstood the Mercian storm, there would be time enough to think of Eanflæd. Now, he must turn his mind to the walls, to the men who defended them. To the sharpness of their weapons and the strength of their resolve. He glanced at Ethelwin and saw his own anxiety mirrored in the older man’s features. The weight of responsibility was heavier than any other burden, Beobrand knew. He would help Ethelwin to shoulder it if he could. The thought of the impending battle, the blood and the death, hung over them like a dark cloud. The only piece of good news he had heard since returning to the fortress was that Brinin was on the way to recovery. He was out of his cot and walking. He would not be able to take up arms for some time, but if Bebbanburg stood, he would live to return to Ardith in Ubbanford.

  The thought of Ubbanford further darkened his mood. He had sent Gram with tidings of what was afoot in the land. He had given Bassus instructions to set up a wide perimeter of scouts to the south of his lands. The folk of Ubbanford must not be caught unawares if Penda should send men northward. Beobrand had told Gram to inform the old champion that he must not risk the people. The remainder of his warband must not come south to Bebbanburg, they must stay with the women, children and old folk of Ubbanford and Stagga. He recalled the horrific scenes of burnt timbers jutting into the sky, surrounded by swirling ash and corpses. He would never leave his people unprotected again. He prayed that Bassus would obey him. His son might be safe far away with the king, but Ardith was in Ubbanford beside the slow, wide, meandering Tuidi. He could not bear the thought of anything befalling her.

  “Look, lord,” Attor said, pointing into the west and bringing Beobrand back to the present. Bassus would have to see to the people of Ubbanford. Beobrand had more pressing matters to attend. He followed Attor’s outstretched arm. Attor was older than Beobrand, but his eyes were still keener. Beobrand could discern nothing more than a vague movement beneath the pall of smoke. “Riders,” Attor expounded. Squinting, he held up his hands, cupping them around his eyes to shield them from the brightness of the morning sky.

  Beobrand waited for the sharp-eyed scout to provide more detail. He knew Attor would see it much sooner than he. After a pause where the men on the wall fell silent, Attor nodded.

  “Mercian horsemen. Outriders for the main host. A score of them.”

  “You are certain?” Beobrand asked, knowing the answer.

  “I recognise the leader,” replied Attor. Beobrand glanced at him. Did he jest? He could barely discern the figures in the distance. But Attor was not smiling. He turned to Beobrand and shrugged. “That big brute with the long moustaches,” he said with no trace of humour in his tone.

  Beobrand let out a breath. He recalled the man well enough. He had led the horsemen in the last skirmish. It had been the moustachioed leader who had struck Eadgard.

  “The main host will be here by sunset, I imagine,” said Ethelwin. His face was stern. “Soon, then, it will begin.”

  Beobrand could make out the riders now. They were coming at an easy canter. As they approached the scattered buildings that surrounded Bebbanburg’s crag, they fanned out into a line and slowed their pace. Perhaps they expected one final ambush from Beobrand and his Black Shields. Beobrand snorted. They would be pleased rather than disappointed when no such attack took place. The steadings, huts and barns were deserted. The inhabitants had long since made their way into the fortress, taking everything of worth with them. Being so close to Bebbanburg’s walls afforded them the ability to return to their homes and make several trips with their carts and barrows. So while the Mercians might suspect an attack, the buildings were utterly empty and as still as burial mounds.

  They would ride to within an arrow shot of Bebbanburg, Beobrand thought, and then return to await Penda and the amassed host. There would be nothing for them to do now that the Bernicians were safe atop the mound of rock, behind stout walls.

  “We should rest while we can,” Beobrand said. “I doubt there will be any fighting until tomorrow.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure, lord,” said Attor, his voice hushed. “By Jesu and all the saints, look!”

  Beobrand followed the scout’s gaze and what he saw made his breath catch in his throat.

  He knew not where they had come from, but on the open ground between the last farmstead and the ramp of earth leading up to Bebbanburg’s gates, a small group of people were running. It looked like a family. A man with two bundles of rags, one under each arm, and a woman, who appeared to be carrying an infant clutched to her chest. They had abandoned a handcart that had overturned on the path some way behind them. They must have seen the riders, for they were lumbering onwards, pushing themselves hard, without a backward glance. They were coming towards Bebbanburg as quickly as they were able, but from Beobrand’s vantage point he could see that the Mercian horsemen would be upon them before they reached safety.

  The riders were yet wary, trotting now and still a long way off. It seemed they had not seen the fleeing family, or if they had, they yet suspected a trap. But calculating the distances, Beobrand knew that if they spurred their mounts on, they would overrun the refugees.

  As he watched, the running man placed one of the bundles he carried on the ground, and it proceeded to run beside him. It was a child! Now Beobrand could see that the object beneath his other arm was another child, fair braids flapping, just as Ardith’s had when he had first seen her in Hithe. The girl child was clearly too small to run and so her father carried her. The burden of both children had prov
en too much and so his son, a boy of not more than four or five summers, did his best to keep up with his parents.

  “Run!” yelled one of the guards on the wall. The call was taken up by others and soon there was a cacophony of encouragement echoing out from the fortress.

  Beobrand turned and half ran, half fell down the ladder to the courtyard below. Attor was behind him.

  “With me, my brave gesithas,” Beobrand yelled. “To the horses!”

  “What are you doing?” called Ethelwin after them.

  “What I must,” Beobrand shouted back and sprinted into the stables, bellowing for the horses to be brought out.

  Chapter 17

  “Just the bridles,” Beobrand shouted.

  The two young hostlers blinked stupidly. He had disturbed them in a game of dice and at the sight of him bursting into the quiet of the stables, they had leaped up, overturning a jug of ale with a curse. Beobrand did not hesitate, he moved quickly to the men and grabbed them roughly by their kirtles. One of them, a sallow-faced boy with a wall eye, whimpered. Beobrand dragged them both towards the stalls and, shoving them forward, he repeated, “Just the bridles. There is no time for saddles.”

  Quickly, he pulled Sceadugenga’s harness down from a peg, and threw it over the stallion’s huge head. Sceadugenga flinched and rolled his eyes at him, but the horse did not struggle. He took the bit easily in his mouth and remained still as Beobrand fastened the leather strap behind his jaw. As he worked, Beobrand saw the hostlers had begun to follow his actions and were harnessing the horses nearest to the stable door.

  “Faster,” he yelled, making the horses stamp and snort.

  Attor ran into the stable carrying Beobrand’s helm, a black shield and Nægling in its scabbard. Beobrand slung the sword-belt over his shoulder and the shield onto his back. He slammed the helm onto his head. There was no time to fasten the ties beneath the helmet. It would surely fall off, he thought, and as he led Sceadugenga out into the light, the image of Fraomar, senseless and pale, with blood seeping from his ear, flashed into his mind. Beobrand’s head ached dully in memory of the blow he had received years before at the great ditch. His helm had saved him then.

  He swung up onto Sceadugenga’s back. It was easier than usual despite there being no saddle. He was much lighter without his iron-knit byrnie. No armour, no saddle and a helm that would surely slip from his head in moments. He gripped the reins and turned Sceadugenga’s great head towards the gates. This was madness. They would surely be killed in the shadows of the wall. And for what? If they did not die, they would be too late to rescue the family.

  And yet he could not shake the image of the girl’s fair braids bobbing as her father laboured to run to safety. He could not allow them to be slaughtered. And even if he had been able to leave them to their grisly end at the hands of the Mercians, with the defenders of Bebbanburg watching from the walls, it would do more damage to their chances of survival than two hundred more warriors bolstering Penda’s horde.

  Others of his gesithas were jumping up onto their hastily bridled mounts. He saw Beircheart, Dreogan, Garr, Ulf and Grindan all join him in the courtyard. He was surprised to see a couple of Reodstan’s men and the red-faced thegn himself heaving himself up onto the back of a mud-brown mare. None of them was fully armoured and only a couple of the horses were saddled, but in moments, there were a dozen mounted warriors trotting towards the gates.

  Beobrand’s mind raced. He was trying to imagine how far the family might have advanced. Had the Mercian horsemen seen them? Had they pushed their horses forward into a gallop? Would Beobrand and the other Bernicians be too late to help them? It would be close. They had mounted their steeds quickly and had not tarried to don battle gear, but valuable time had passed.

  “Open the gates!” he bellowed in his battle voice. This was the tone he had learnt from Scand, his first lord, a voice that could cut through the clash of blades and shields and the screams of the dying.

  The door ward stepped forward, but did not move to open the gates. His face was pale as he looked up at Beobrand.

  “Open the gates!” Beobrand repeated, his voice even louder than before.

  The man flinched as if stung by a bee, but he did not turn to the gates. He swallowed.

  “Fordraed gave the order for the gates not to be opened,” he said. “We are safe behind the walls.”

  Beobrand nudged Sceadugenga forward with a squeeze of his heels. His ice blue stare burnt from beneath his great helm.

  “The people out there are not safe,” he said, his voice low now, as deadly as a knife under the shieldwall. “They have no time for this.” In his mind he could see the horsemen almost upon the struggling family. The Mercian swords glimmering in the sun, the red blood fountaining. “Open the doors,” he growled, “or I will open your bowels and then open the gates myself. We’ll see how safe you feel then.”

  For a heartbeat, the man tried to meet Beobrand’s glower. But after a moment he withered and turned to the gates.

  “Open the gates,” he shouted to the other guards. They obeyed without comment, dragging the doors open.

  Without hesitation, Beobrand spurred Sceadugenga through the gap as soon as it was wide enough. His back ached as he was jolted against the horse’s spine, but he clung on to the stallion and they burst out into the warm morning sunshine outside of Bebbanburg. Beobrand’s shield and scabbarded sword slapped against his back as he urged Sceadugenga into a gallop. Behind him he heard the thrum of the other horses’ hooves and in a ragged group they careened down the slope.

  The first thing Beobrand saw was that the family yet lived. The small group had almost reached the base of the earthen ramp that led up to the fortress’s gates. His heart soared at the sight of the five of them stumbling towards him. An instant later, his mood darkened as if a cloud had scudded before the sun. Bearing down on them at a gallop came the mounted Mercians. They were close enough now for Beobrand to make out their scowling faces, the sheen of sweat on their horses’ flanks, the glint of sunlight from the wicked spear-points that were lowered towards the backs of the running Bernicians.

  Kicking his heels into Sceadugenga’s flanks, he urged the stallion on.

  “Fly! Fly!” he encouraged the horse. With a whinny, Sceadugenga responded and surged forward.

  It would be a close thing. He watched the approaching Mercians intently, anticipating how far they would travel before the Bernician gesithas were able to intercept them. If they did not slow their charge, he could see no way that the family would avoid being slaughtered or crushed beneath the horses’ hooves.

  “Get off the path!” he screamed, his voice tearing at his throat. The woman stared up at him, eyes wide, mouth open. He waved his arm, indicating they should move to the side. “Get off the path!” he repeated. If they did not move soon, he would have to slow his gallop to avoid crashing into them. The Mercians would have no such qualms. They came on fast, their blades flashing in the morning sun.

  For a heartbeat, the woman stared at him with an expression of such overwhelming terror that he was certain she would not be able to understand him. This was going to be a disaster. They would have to halt just short of the family, allowing the Mercians time to kill them and then to turn and ride away. Beobrand’s men had no saddles, armour or provisions. They could not hope to pursue the Mercians towards Penda’s warhost.

  He twitched on the reins, preparing to pull Sceadugenga up short. He raised his left hand to indicate to the men behind that they were stopping. The stallion’s pace began to slow.

  With a sudden roar of “For Bernicia!” Beobrand dropped his left hand down and spurred Sceadugenga onwards once more. For at the last possible moment, the woman had understood and pushed her husband from the path, snatching up their son as she did so. They fell into the tangle of bushes and nettles that grew beside the slope, but Beobrand scarcely noticed as he thundered past.

  At the same instant, the Mercians, seeing they would not reach the family before
the Bernician riders, reined in their steeds. There were a score of them, and their leader, the big man with the flowing moustache, must have thought he could yet win a victory here, before the walls of Bebbanburg. He shouted a command and the Mercians jumped to the ground, and with the speed and precision of seasoned warriors, they formed a shieldwall across the path, ten men across and two deep.

  For a heartbeat, Beobrand considered galloping headlong into that wall of linden boards, iron bosses and glittering spears. If he could urge Sceadugenga on, the bulk of the beast would smash through the men like a rock through the hull of a ship in a storm. But even as the thought formed, so he was tugging on the stallion’s reins. The horse would almost certainly baulk at the obstacle and besides, the spears would surely kill him and maybe Beobrand too. He was suddenly, acutely aware that he was not wearing his byrnie. Why send his steed to its death and risk his own life needlessly? The family was behind him. Time was now on the side of the Bernicians.

  Beobrand slipped from Sceadugenga’s back, unslinging his shield and sword-belt. He pushed his arm into the straps that compensated for his weaker left-hand grip and held his shield secure. He drew Nægling and flung the belt and scabbard aside.