Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  “I know not. But if I were Penda, I would ask for tribute.”

  “Tribute?”

  “Yes, gold, silver, treasure,” replied Eanflæd. “Bernicia is rich, but Bebbanburg is too strong to take by force. It would be better for Penda to ask for riches and then take his host back to Mercia.”

  “He would do that?” asked Edlyn, her voice tinged with hope. “Take tribute and then leave without a fight?”

  Eanflæd thought for a moment of the horde of Mercians that had marched from the west. In the darkest part of the night their campfires dotted the land beneath Bebbanburg like so many stars. There were hundreds of them, more warriors than she had ever seen before. And yet, wasn’t Bebbanburg impregnable? Prepared as they were, she thought they would be able to hold out for weeks. Could Penda keep his warhost together for so long? Could he provide his men with supplies enough to feed them?

  “I think he would be a fool not to ask,” she said. “And Penda is no fool. A king does not slay as many men as Penda has if he is foolish.” She thought of her father. Edwin had been a colossal figure. He had seemed unbeatable. Invincible. And yet Penda and Cadwallon had slain him and the land had been ravaged. No, Penda was no fool, but he was as deadly a king as had ever ruled in Albion.

  “Why do you think they destroyed the church?” asked Edlyn, her mind as fast-moving and inconstant as her moods, flitting from one thing to the next like a butterfly.

  Eanflæd frowned and took a long swallow from her cup. Seeing she had emptied it, she held it out to Edlyn.

  “Just one more,” she said with a shrug.

  She had been saddened to hear what had happened to the church. She had been busy with Brytnere going over the lists of provisions – barrels of salted meat, sacks of wheat, smoked fish, hard cheese and all other manner of victuals – when they had heard the buzz of consternation move through the people that thronged Bebbanburg. One of the guards told them that the Mercians had torn down the new church. Eanflæd’s heart had sunk when she had climbed to the ramparts and looked out to the west. It was as the guard had said. The timber structure that she had convinced Oswiu needed to be built so that Aidan and his brethren could preach to the men and women of the surrounding area no longer dominated the view. It had scarcely stood for a year and now Penda’s wolves had pulled it down and in its stead all that remained was a pile of timber and splintered rubble.

  She sighed.

  “I don’t know,” she said after Edlyn had poured more mead into both their cups. “Penda does not worship the true God. He is a sinful pagan. The sight of God’s house must have filled him with fear.”

  Edlyn nodded.

  “But does not pulling down the house of the Lord show that his gods are more powerful?”

  “In his eyes, perhaps. But the false gods he worships have no power over the Almighty. For is it not written: ‘I am the Lord, and there is none else, there is no God beside me’? Penda’s false gods are as weak as they are evil.”

  Eanflæd took a swallow of mead to hide the sudden anxiety that gripped her. Beobrand was also a pagan. Was he also evil? Her hand trembled. She recalled the rush of passion that had washed over her. The heat in her body, her overwhelming desire. She would have given herself to him completely. Could it be that his gods were things of the Devil? Like the Devil, they brought temptation and corruption. She shuddered, but the room was warm.

  “The Mercians have also started pulling down the other buildings,” said Edlyn, dragging her back from her dark thoughts. “Did you see?”

  Eanflæd nodded.

  “I wonder why they do not simply burn them all,” said Edlyn. “It would be much simpler than pulling them down plank by plank.”

  Eanflæd frowned. Edlyn was right, it would be easier. But Penda was no fool, she thought.

  “Penda has many men in his host,” she said. “They will need a lot of firewood for all those campfires.”

  For a time, the two women sat in silence. The night was as quiet as an overcrowded fortress could be. From outside came the distant murmur of the high tide washing the beach and the rocks below the crag of Bebbanburg. There were other sounds that reached them in the gloom of the chamber. The lilting singing of a woman; a chuckling laugh from somewhere on the walls; a crying infant.

  Eanflæd was beginning to doze, her head dropping to her chest, when Edlyn’s voice brought her back with a start.

  “Will Penda ask for us all to surrender?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, not much more than a whisper in the shadows of the room. Her eyes glimmered, catching the light of the dying rush light.

  “I imagine he will,” Eanflæd said. “Before he asks for tribute.” Penda was cunning. If they surrendered Bebbanburg, all their treasure would be his without a fight.

  “I’m sure my husband will not pay him any gold,” Edlyn said. “He loves his treasure. More than anything. Except perhaps meat and mead.” She smirked grimly in the dark. “He’s like a fat wyrm. He would sleep on his hoard if he could.”

  Eanflæd did not reply, but nodded sadly.

  “Will Ethelwin surrender, do you think?” asked Edlyn.

  Now it was Eanflæd’s turn to smirk and shake her head.

  “Look about the fortress, Edlyn.” She thought of the long days of preparations, the slaughtering of the animals, the salting of the meat, the drilling of all the men in the use of shield and spear. “Ethelwin is Oswiu’s warmaster for good reason and he has prepared Bebbanburg well. And Beobrand and his Black Shields are here too,” she continued, managing with an effort to keep her tone neutral at the mention of his name. The sight of Beobrand leading his men in a charge down the slope to protect the family who were at risk of being killed by the Mercian horsemen had lifted the spirits of the Bernicians. Her own heart had swelled with pride at Beobrand’s bravery, as if, due to their closeness, she could take some measure of responsibility for his courage. She snorted at the idea.

  “Do Ethelwin and Beobrand strike you as men who give in easily?”

  Chapter 19

  “He is coming with eight men,” said Attor.

  Beobrand peered into the bright morning, towards the campfire haze of the Mercian encampment. He could see the small group of riders leaving the camp and heading towards Bebbanburg, but once again, he was thankful for Attor’s keen eyesight.

  “They bear the bough of truce,” Attor continued.

  Beobrand knew that Ethelwin had already ordered one of the door wardens to cut a limb from an elm that grew some way down the slope from the doors of Bebbanburg. The man had gone out that morning at first light. There were no Mercians nearby, so he had been quite safe as he’d hacked at the tree. Still, he had evidently not enjoyed the experience of standing alone and unprotected between the two forces, for he had all but run back up to the fortress as soon as he had cut off a leafy branch.

  Beobrand knew how he felt. He could feel the gaze of the defenders upon him as he made his way down from the wall towards the waiting horses. Ethelwin, bedecked in his battle harness and a fine blue cloak, lowered his head in greeting.

  “Penda and eight others,” Beobrand said to him. They had decided to ride out with the same number as Penda brought. Fewer, and they ran the risk of open treachery, more and they would look cowardly.

  Heremod cupped his hands, helping Fordraed to climb up into his saddle, before pulling himself onto his own mount. Ethelwin had attempted to halt Fordraed from joining them, saying he was the lord of Bebbanburg in the king’s absence and therefore he must remain to lead in case Penda should prove treacherous and anything should befall those who rode to speak with him. Fordraed had insisted that, as the lord of the fortress, it was his place to speak with the voice of the king. He would not be left behind. Judging from the paleness of his cheeks and the glazed fear in his eyes, Beobrand wondered if he regretted that decision in the bright light of the morning.

  Beobrand would have liked to have taken Fraomar with him to the parley. His mind was sharp and quick and he would miss nothing,
but he had not awoken and still lay, pallid and somewhere between life and death, on the pallet on which Brinin had rested until recently.

  Swinging himself up onto Sceadugenga’s back, Beobrand signalled to Grindan and Dreogan to mount their horses. Grindan was quiet and thoughtful; stalwart, fast and deadly if it came to a fight, but Beobrand knew he could trust him to keep his head when the insults began to fly. The young man spent much of his time maintaining the peace between others and his axe-wielding giant of a brother, Eadgard. Eadgard was quick to anger and slow to forgive, and when in combat he seemed deaf to pleas of surrender. This made Eadgard a deadly addition to Beobrand’s gesithas, but when not in open warfare, his character had made his brother skilled with placatory words. The older warrior, Dreogan, with his bulk, bald pate and soot-scarred face, would be a brooding presence that spoke of violence and death. If it came to a fight, Beobrand knew Dreogan would deal death as quickly and with as little thought as a flash of lightning from a clear sky.

  The rest of the group was made up of Ethelwin’s chosen thegns, one of whom held aloft the leafy elm branch.

  All of the men who were riding to the parley wore polished byrnies of iron and their finest adornments. Golden buckles, bejewelled cloak brooches, blood red garnets on sword-hilts, all glimmered in the rapidly warming summer sun. Beircheart handed Beobrand his great helm and he placed it upon his head, taking a moment to secure the leather thongs beneath the cheek guards. Immediately, the day grew muffled and subdued.

  As the gates were opened, Beobrand listened to his own breathing and the muted clatter of the horses’ hooves. He urged Sceadugenga forward to ride beside Ethelwin and Fordraed.

  “I will do the talking,” said Ethelwin, his voice deadened from behind the finely-made grimhelm he wore. The shining metal of the faceplate was embossed with images of warriors and intertwined animals.

  Beobrand said nothing.

  “I am lord of Bebbanburg,” said Fordraed, his tone shrill. “I speak with the voice of the king.”

  They trotted down the slope, past the point where a couple of days previously, Beobrand had stood in the shieldwall against the Mercian riders. There were signs of the fight. A discarded shoe, a dark stain in the dust, a belt buckle. The corpses had gone, taken away by Mercians during the night after the host had arrived.

  Ethelwin turned the carven faceplate of his helm towards Fordraed. The helm glimmered and flashed in the sunlight. The eye sockets were black pits.

  “I will do the talking,” rumbled Ethelwin’s voice once more.

  Fordraed opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again. Beobrand had the sudden urge to push the fat lord from his saddle. He chuckled at the thought, gripping his reins tightly and riding forward in stride with Ethelwin.

  Ethelwin glanced in his direction, having to turn in the saddle due to the limited vision from within the great helm. The dark eye holes stared at Beobrand for a heartbeat, but Ethelwin did not speak.

  They rode on towards the approaching Mercians.

  Penda was close enough for Beobrand to recognise him now. He did not wear a helm, but his thick hair was held back with a golden band. His hair and forked beard were streaked with grey, but he was still a man to reckon with. He was hugely strong, tall and broad of chest. Despite the warmth of the day, a great wolf pelt was wrapped about his shoulders, adding to his already considerable bulk. He rode the largest horse Beobrand had ever seen, and still it seemed somehow small beneath the king of Mercia. The men who accompanied the king were covered in their finest harness. Their iron-knit shirts were burnished and gleaming. The rising sun glared against their shield bosses, arm rings, sword-hilts and helms. Many carried brightly painted spears from which dangled emblems and trinkets.

  When they were some fifty paces from the Mercians, Ethelwin reined in his steed and signalled for the rest of the Bernicians to do likewise.

  “I will do the talking,” he said for a third time, his voice low. Beobrand wondered whether he was speaking to them or to give himself courage.

  The Mercians came on, walking their horses without urgency. The sun was hot on Beobrand’s back and he regretted donning his helm. It would be sweltering soon and if the parley lasted for more than a few moments, he would be forced to remove the helmet, which might look to the Mercians like weakness, or subservience.

  Beobrand scanned the rest of the men in Penda’s retinue. He thought he recognised some of the helms and shield emblems from previous battles, but he could not be certain. Then, with a start, he saw that he did indeed know the man who rode beside the king of Mercia. The man was almost as broad as Penda himself, and like the king, his beard bore the grey of age. He was hale and strong, but must be several years older than the king. This was Grimbold, father of Halga and Edmonda. Beobrand had rescued the man’s daughter and killed his son. He did not imagine Grimbold would think that an even trade.

  The Mercians halted a few paces before the gathered Bernicians. A light wind rustled the leaves in the green boughs that were held above both parties. The ornaments that hung from the spears’ crossbars rattled against the painted ash hafts. The horses stamped and snorted. One of the Bernician mounts, a brown mare, whinnied in greeting, and a Mercian stallion nickered in reply, earning itself a slap from its rider.

  Penda scanned the group of Bernicians with a frown. Beobrand took in the thickness of his arms and the criss-crossed scars that patterned his forearms.

  “Where is the king?” Penda asked at last, his voice a deep growl of annoyance. “I do not speak with servants.”

  Ethelwin rose up in his saddle to address the king of Mercia.

  “I am—” he said, but was cut off as Beobrand nudged Sceadugenga forward and spoke in a loud, brash voice.

  “Oswiu, King of Bernicia and Lord of Bebbanburg, does not speak to dogs. So he sent us to talk to you.” Sweat trickled down his neck beneath his helm. “Whatever you would say, speak your piece and begone, back to the rest of your hounds and bitches.”

  The Mercians shuffled. Beobrand heard a sword being drawn somewhere within their ranks, followed by a growled order for calm.

  Penda grew very still and he fixed Beobrand with a menacing glare.

  “You,” he said. “I should have known we would find you here, Half-hand. It seems you are always present when we Mercians decide it is time to slaughter some of the sheep that live beyond our lands.”

  Ethelwin grabbed at Beobrand’s arm.

  “Beobrand,” he hissed. “Silence.”

  Beobrand shrugged him off and ignored the warmaster’s order.

  “Aye, many a time I have faced you in battle, Penda,” he snarled. “I have lost count of how many of your Mercian curs I have sent to the afterlife.”

  Penda grinned, showing a mouthful of unusually white teeth.

  “But I have not forgotten how many of your lords and kings I have slain. Have you forgotten that number? Have you forgotten that those who have stood before me have all died and I yet live?”

  The image of Sigeberht came to Beobrand then, the one-time king of the East Angelfolc’s white robes soaked in his lifeblood at the great ditch. Beobrand thought of Oswald’s sightless eyes above the torn flesh of his neck, his severed head staring down at the defeat of his people from the sharpened stake upon which it had been placed.

  A bead of sweat ran into his eye. He blinked against the sting but did not reach up to wipe it away. He could show Penda no weakness.

  “It is true that you have slain many, Penda,” Beobrand said. “I too have killed many men. But you are old now and your time is past. If you dare face me in battle, man against man, you will find out why I have survived all this time when others have died.”

  “You live because you worship the true gods,” Penda said, pointing a thick finger at the Thunor’s hammer amulet that hung at Beobrand’s throat. “But you have chosen to ally yourself with the weak. With the followers of the nailed god. The Christ is a weakling and Woden will crush him.”

  “So you are
craven?” scoffed Beobrand. “You refuse to accept my challenge? I would fight with you, Penda, and then we would see who is weak and who is strong.”

  Penda spat. He seemed more amused than angry at Beobrand’s outbursts.

  “I do not wish to speak or fight with lesser men than I. Tell Oswiu to come out and I will fight him man to man. We can make the square and fight to the death. It is not I who is craven, Beobrand Half-hand, but your king who hides behind the walls of Bebbanburg.”

  “Oswiu does not speak or fight with dogs,” Beobrand reiterated, and by the flush of colour in Penda’s cheeks he could see his words had angered him, even though the king kept his expression flat.

  “I swear to the All-father,” Penda said, his voice as sharp as a sword-blade, “Oswiu will regret insulting me thus.” He swung his horse’s head around and shouted over his shoulder. “And so will you, Half-hand.”

  Grimbold stared at Beobrand for several heartbeats before turning his horse to follow his king. A runnel of sweat traced a line down Beobrand’s spine and he shuddered. The invocation of Woden’s name filled him with dread. He had witnessed the power of the dark magic at Maserfelth. Then he remembered his own whispered promises to the All-father, and the slaughter of the men beside the Great Wall. The memory of the ravens that had watched on as the men had been slain sent another shudder down his back. To mask it, he tugged at Sceadugenga’s head, turning the animal back towards at Bebbanburg.

  A moment later, Ethelwin and Fordraed pulled their mounts around. The retinue of warriors followed them.

  “Did I not say that I would speak for us?” Ethelwin snarled from within the muffled darkness of his grimhelm. His voice rasped and cracked with barely controlled fury. “You should not have said those things, Beobrand.”

  Awkwardly, Beobrand teased open the knot that held his helm in place. He did not remove the helmet, but the cool air that wafted in as the cheek guards parted was welcome and refreshing.