Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Around him the others were reining in their animals in a cloud of dust.

  “Shieldwall,” he roared. In moments, the dozen of them had locked shields. To his left stood Attor, to his right Reodstan.

  “It’s been a whole day without a fight,” Reodstan said, grinning. His red face gleamed in the hot sunlight. “I was getting bored in there.”

  Beobrand returned his smile.

  “You may be disappointed,” he replied. “These Mercians must realise they have nothing to gain from attacking us now. We are too close to our walls.”

  “Well, it looks as though that bastard with the moustache doesn’t agree with you.”

  Before them, the Mercian shieldwall took a step forward. They came in good order as their leader shouted commands.

  He was in the centre of their wall, peering over his hide-covered shield at Beobrand. The shield was painted the colour of blood and bore the shape of a raven daubed in black.

  “Time to finish what we started the other day, Beobrand Half-handed,” shouted the man. The Mercian shieldwall took another step forward.

  “When we saw you last, we slew six of your men and you fled like frightened women,” he retorted. “Now we find you trying to ride down women and children. You are not warriors, you are maggots.” Then, in a whisper to Reodstan, he said, “It looks as though you will have your fun after all.”

  A wailing cry came from behind them and Beobrand glanced back. He was pleased to see that the man and woman had pulled their crying children from the edge of the path and were once again hurrying up the slope towards the fortress gates. The boy and the infant were screaming in pain or terror, but they were alive and they were behind the Bernician shieldwall. Beobrand turned back to the Mercian line.

  “All we have to do is hold these bastards for long enough for that family to reach safety,” he said in a low voice. His words sounded muffled and strange from inside his helm, which, despite his fears, had remained on his head.

  “You are my hlaford, Beobrand, and I will obey you in most things,” said Attor with a savage grin. “But know this: when it comes to the fight, I will not merely be holding these pig-swivers at bay.” He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “I am going to bathe in your blood, you Mercian maggots. I will rip out your entrails and feed them to the crows.” Spittle flew from his lips as he brandished his two vicious-looking seaxes and allowed his battle fury to take him. “Come on then, you whoresons. Come and die on my blades!”

  And as if answering Attor’s screamed insults like a command, as one, the Mercians ran forward, spears outstretched, shields held firmly before them.

  “For Bernicia!” roared Beobrand and a moment later, a spear-point came driving towards his face. Ducking, he raised his shield, catching the spear and lifting it over his head. At the same moment he lunged beneath his shield with his sword, hoping to catch an unprotected leg or groin. But the shieldwalls were yet a few paces apart and his blade met with nothing more than air. Sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. The spear pulled back and came again, hard and fast at his face. He caught it once more on his shield, but this time on the flat surface of the board. The steel point bit deep into the hide and wood and Beobrand heaved down in an effort to open up his attacker. The instant he lowered his shield, a Mercian sword-blade flickered towards him, the bright sun flashing on its patterned metal. The spear-man before him was hidden behind his board and it was all Beobrand could do to swing Nægling up and parry the sword strike. The two blades clanged together and the impact jarred his hand and wrist.

  The two lines had touched now and the chaos of battle surrounded him, filling every sense. There was nothing now save the Mercian enemies. The stink of their sour sweat caught in his throat. His ears were filled with the crash and crunch of shield against shield, the clangour of blade against blade and the howling rage of warriors locked in mortal combat. This was the sword-song, and Beobrand and his Black Shields danced to its tune better than any warband in Albion.

  Twisting his wrist, Beobrand sliced into the forearm of the swordsman whose blow he had parried. He felt Nægling’s sharp blade slice into flesh, severing sinews and veins and rasping against bone. The Mercian screamed and fell back, to be replaced by another warrior.

  With a roar, Reodstan deflected a scything seax blow, then, with a well-timed movement of his shield, making space for him to riposte, he opened the throat of the Mercian.

  To Reodstan’s right, one of his gesithas fell, a spear lodged in his mouth. As he toppled backward, eyes staring cross-eyed down the length of the spear-haft, his weight tugged his Mercian killer forward. The Bernicians had formed a single line, so the man’s death opened up a gap in the shieldwall that the Mercians sought to widen. They threw themselves forward into the breach, screaming and hacking left and right.

  Beobrand yelled a warning to Reodstan but he needn’t have worried. Beircheart stepped into the gap, leaving behind the fallen Bernician staring up, unseeing, at the spear that yet quivered, jutting from his face. Dreogan roared and moved to Beircheart’s aid. In moments, two more Mercians had fallen and the risk to the shieldwall had been averted.

  “Forward,” Beobrand bellowed, sensing that the Mercian morale was cracking. “For Bernicia!”

  The Bernicians yelled their defiance and shoved forward. For a heartbeat, the Mercians slid back a step, but then, with a barked order from their leader, they redoubled their efforts. Their line held and did not falter further.

  The shifting of the lines of men had brought Beobrand directly in front of the Mercian leader.

  “Ready to die now, Half-hand?” he jeered.

  “I’m always ready to die, Mercian cur,” growled Beobrand. “It is why I am so hard to kill.”

  For a moment, Beobrand held the man’s gaze. The Mercian’s eyes were bloodshot and hot with fury. But was there something else there? Fear, perhaps?

  Without thought or warning, Beobrand let himself fall to one knee, raising his shield as he did so to protect his head and torso. With the speed of a striking serpent, he lashed out with Nægling at the Mercian leader’s right foot. The blade found its mark and cut easily through the leather shoe. The man howled as the steel severed his toes and a large chunk of his foot. Blood gushed and the leader collapsed. His eyes were white-rimmed in terror now. Beobrand did not hesitate. He trusted that Reodstan and Attor would protect his flanks and he sprang forward. Kicking aside the moustachioed man’s shield, he thrust Nægling into one of his terrified eyes.

  Attor flicked his langseax forward, catching the axe-bearing hand of a Mercian. The axe had been aimed at Beobrand’s helm, but fell harmlessly onto the trembling corpse of the Mercian leader.

  Beobrand flashed a grin at Attor.

  “Forward!” he shouted again, and the Bernician shieldwall pushed onward with a stamping step. But this time, there was no resistance. With the death of their leader, their appetite for battle had fled, it seemed. Two more Mercians were cut down as they ran to their horses. The Bernicians stood, panting and slicked in sweat, and watched the rest of them mount quickly and ride away. Some, in their haste, had dropped their weapons and shields.

  “Shall we go after them?” asked Attor. His face was splattered with bright droplets of blood and his breath was coming short, his mouth open, tongue red. He looked more wolf than man, thought Beobrand.

  “No,” he said, glancing up towards the fortress. Several shielded men were running down the slope from the gates to their aid. He watched the Mercians gallop away back past the abandoned buildings. Into the west they went, as fast as their steeds could carry them towards Penda’s warhost. They left behind the corpses of their fallen and two horses they had not managed to recapture. “We’ve given Reodstan here enough excitement for one morning.”

  Reodstan gave him a thin smile, but shook his head as he looked down at his fallen man.

  “More excitement than I needed, truth be told,” Reodstan said with a sigh.

  Beobrand patted
his shoulder.

  “I am sorry.”

  “He died protecting people of the land,” Reodstan said, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He would have wanted it no other way.”

  Beobrand nodded and a terrible sadness came over him. His hands began to tremble as they always did after battle. Walking to Sceadugenga, he caught hold of the stallion’s trailing reins. Gripping a handful of the horse’s coarse mane, he swung himself up onto the animal’s broad back.

  The warriors who had come on foot from the fortress reached them now and Beobrand ordered them to collect the fallen weapons and to strip the Mercians of any armour. Reodstan was seeing to his man’s body. His comrades lifted him onto his shield to bear him sombrely from battle.

  Sighing, Beobrand slowly made his way back up the slope towards Bebbanburg.

  The family was shuffling forward, exhaustion, shock and terror plain on their faces. The children snivelled now, perhaps too tired or frightened to scream any longer. The boy stumbled and fell to the dusty earth. His mother reached for him, then turned at the sound of Sceadugenga’s hooves.

  “Thank you, lord,” the woman stammered, lowering her gaze.

  “You have nothing to thank me for,” Beobrand replied. Then, leaning down, he held out his hand to the boy. The child’s face was tear-streaked and dirty, his cheeks flushed with the heat and terror of the morning. “Take my hand, boy,” he said. The boy did not move. “You can ride with me up to Bebbanburg. You will be safe with me.” The child reminded Beobrand of Octa, as he had been not so many summers before. The mother pushed the boy forward and Beobrand took his tiny hand and lifted him easily to sit before him atop Sceadugenga.

  “See. Quite safe. Would you like to take the reins?”

  The boy did not speak, but nodded and held out his pudgy hands to grip the leather straps.

  Beobrand smiled. There was comfort in the warm weight of the child against him.

  Walking Sceadugenga slowly, Beobrand climbed the rest of the way beside the family. They were silent in his presence.

  When they reached the gates, he slid the boy down to his father’s waiting arms.

  “You are all safe now,” he said. He wondered for how long that would be true.

  They thanked him again and he shook his head, ushering them through the gates.

  He waited astride Sceadugenga in the shadow of the wall until the last of the Bernicians, the stone-faced warriors carrying the body of their fallen brother on his shield, had entered the fortress. Then, with a glance at the western horizon, where a pall of dust and smoke hung like a low-lying fog over the land, he followed them through the gateway.

  He had heard the folk of Bebbanburg cheering as the family entered and the warriors returned, but by the time he rode into the courtyard, the celebrations had dwindled and people were returning to their chores and preparations for what they knew would come next. His and Reodstan’s gesithas were leading their mounts back to the stables. Beobrand swung his gaze over the few people who were yet watching the gates and his breath caught. Eanflæd was staring back at him. She looked pale and as radiant as ever. For a moment, she held his gaze and then turned away.

  He sighed.

  “Now you can close those accursed gates,” he growled at the door wards.

  Without a word, they swung the great timber gates shut and then lifted the huge locking bar into place. It thudded home with finality.

  Beobrand turned and led Sceadugenga across the courtyard.

  And so it begins, he thought.

  PART TWO

  SACRED WIND

  Chapter 18

  Eanflæd looked down at Ecgfrith’s sleeping face. He was still and peaceful and, despite the sense of foreboding that hung over her, she smiled to see him thus, quiet and calm, his tiny mouth open, arms thrown out wide. He had gurgled in his sleep and she had rushed to him, fear stabbing at her heart that the sickness had returned. She needn’t have been concerned. He had barely coughed now for days and the nights of his constant hacking and crying seemed almost like a nightmare. Perhaps one day the memories would fade enough to lose their sting, but for now, the endless nights of illness were still recent and raw.

  “Come, have another cup of mead,” said Edlyn, beckoning her back to the stools where they had been sitting before Ecgfrith had let out the spluttering snore that had caused Eanflæd to leap up and go to him. Would she ever be done with this fear for her child? She thought not. With one last look at his chubby face, she returned to Edlyn’s side.

  “Just one more cup,” she said, lowering herself onto the stool.

  Edlyn, half a dozen years her senior, smiled, her teeth bright and shining in the rush light’s flame. Edlyn was a pretty woman, though often prone to sadness. It seemed strange to Eanflæd to see her grinning now, as the older woman passed her a wooden cup she had filled with mead. She seldom smiled and was usually surrounded by a cloak of sorrow it was hard to penetrate. Only when she played with Ecgfrith or any other child did she seem truly happy, but even at such times, Eanflæd knew that her sadness lurked close beneath her smiles. Edlyn’s first babe, a girl, had died three months after birth, and then she had lost another baby before she reached her time. Eanflæd liked her, but her sadness was sometimes overbearing. Eanflæd could not resent Edlyn her sorrow. The thought of losing Ecgfrith gripped at her heart, so she could only imagine the pain Edlyn felt. But to be with her when her woe overcame her was not easy. At such times, Eanflæd longed to be called away, or to have to attend Mass. Anything to distract them from the all-consuming anguish that clawed at Edlyn’s soul. And yet, despite Edlyn’s company being tedious during her bouts of depression, Eanflæd always did her best to visit her at Morðpæð. Eanflæd knew that Fordraed’s patience had long worn out with regards to Edlyn’s sadness. When he was not away with the king, or on some royal errand, Fordraed would beat her if she wept too loudly, or if she was surly in her responses to him. Eanflæd had seen the bruises, and helped to wash the cuts on Edlyn’s lips caused by Fordraed’s fat fists. He cared nothing for Edlyn, and yet she would shake off these assaults.

  “It is my fault,” she said the last time Eanflæd travelled to the hall at Morðpæð and found Edlyn with a swollen, darkly bruised eye. “I fell.”

  “You did not fall, Edlyn,” Eanflæd replied with a sigh. “We both know the truth of this. Do not lie to your queen.” She hesitated, and placed her hand gently on Edlyn’s. “Or to your friend.”

  Eanflæd thought back to that time in the spring. Edlyn told her what had happened, admitting that Fordraed had come to her bed and found her weeping. He had been aroused and drunk. She had made the mistake of telling him she did not wish to lie with him. He had been furious, lashing out and punching her, over and over. Eventually he had left her bleeding and bruised and had taken his pleasure from one of the Waelisc house thralls. He had hurt the young girl so badly she could not work for nearly a sennight.

  “The man is a brute,” Eanflæd said. “If he were my husband, I would kill him in his sleep.” She despised much about Oswiu. He was a bully and cared more for power and himself than for his children or his wife, and he certainly did not love her, preferring the company of that Hibernian whore in Caer Luel. But he had never struck her.

  “Do not say such a thing,” Edlyn sobbed. “He is my husband. It is his right to discipline me. After all, I am a terrible wife. I have given him no heir.” She had cried for a long time then and Eanflæd cradled her in her arms. She wondered whether she meant what she had said. Would she truly slay a man who beat her so? Murder was a terrible sin. Besides, anyone can be brave and bold when they only wield words and not a weapon.

  Eanflæd took a sip of the mead, wondering how long the siege might last. Soon there would be no more mead, just the brackish water from Waltheof’s Well. She let out a long breath and stretched her back. She was tired and her muscles ached. Over the last days she had thrown herself into the task of preparing the people of Bebbanburg. It kept her mind occupied and it was o
nly in the brief moments of calm when she awoke, or when she lay in her bed at night before sleep took her, that she found her thoughts returning to Beobrand.

  A muffled snoring came from the adjoining room. Godgyth slept there. Eanflæd stifled a yawn. Edlyn smiled.

  “I know you are tired,” she said. “I will let you go to your bed soon. But I just wanted to share a drink with my queen.” She paused. “And my friend.”

  Eanflæd returned her smile and took another sip of the sweet liquid, wondering at the change in Edlyn. A thought came to her. She is with child again. It can be nothing else. What other thing could fill her with such cheer when outside the walls of the fortress was camped a host of Mercians intent on their destruction?

  “I am weary,” Eanflæd said, setting aside her cup and unpinning her wimple. Removing it, she ran her fingers through her long tresses. “But I always have time for my friends.” She would not speak of her thought of Edlyn’s pregnancy. Edlyn’s moods swung from day to night in a heartbeat and Eanflæd did not wish to upset her. They often spoke of Ecgfrith and his health, but Eanflæd had long since decided only to broach the subject of children and babies if Edlyn brought it up.

  Now, in the gloom, Edlyn seemed happier than she had ever seen her. Again, she was struck by the strangeness of the situation, but she supposed the quickening of the woman’s womb would always be cause for celebration, and Edlyn so desired a baby, she would find it impossible to keep her elation hidden, no matter what else was occurring around her.

  “What do you think will happen tomorrow?” asked Edlyn, her expression changing abruptly to earnest concern.

  Eanflæd shook her head slightly at her friend’s mercurial moods. She presumed Edlyn was speaking of the messenger who had ridden up to Bebbanburg’s gate that afternoon as the sun was setting. He had shouted up to the wardens that Penda of Mercia would come to parley in the morning. He would speak terms with Oswiu, king of Bernicia. The messenger had not awaited a reply and had wheeled his horse around and ridden back towards the Mercian encampment.