Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand had done his best to ignore the fat thegn, and he had forgotten Beircheart’s words until now. He lay in the darkness and pondered them, listening to the snores of the sleeping men in the hall. Was Beircheart aware of his feelings for the queen? Was everyone? The idea filled him with dread for both of them, but he pushed the fear away. There were more important things at stake.

  After the nine innocents had been murdered and Penda’s priest had finished his invocations to the gods, other men had joined him. Hard-faced men with wicked-looking axes. They had hacked the bodies apart, impaling the limbs and heads upon the waelstengs to serve as a grisly reminder to all the inhabitants of Bebbanburg of the blood-price that Woden had claimed.

  Beobrand had felt the eyes of the people of Bebbanburg upon him as he climbed down from the walls. They blamed him for the gruesome sacrifice, he knew. Gods, he blamed himself. Would things have been different if he had not goaded Penda so? He did not know. He could never know, but as he watched the nine peasants slaughtered like cattle, he winced with every blow, horrified at the possibility that he had unleashed this fate for them. Attor had tried to speak to him, to say it had not been his fault. But Beobrand waved him away angrily. Attor had not been at the meeting with Penda. He did not know.

  Beobrand had paced about Bebbanburg that afternoon, anxiety, anger and self-loathing bubbling within him. His conflict and fury was evident, so no-one sought to speak with him. Instead, people moved out of his way when they saw him coming, his face like thunder and his fists clenched at his sides. They avoided him as one would a bear with a rotten tooth.

  For a time he had sat beside Fraomar. The crone had ushered him in without a word and offered him a stool beside the cot. Beobrand had stared down at the young man for a long time. Beneath Fraomar’s eyes, the skin was taut and dark. His cheeks were sharp and his face wan. If not for Beobrand’s weakness, Fraomar would yet be hale. The young gesith was barely breathing now and looking down at him, Beobrand feared the worst. To see him thus filled him with bitter regret and the torment of his own inadequacy and so he had pushed himself up and stridden from the hut, his mind turning and twisting against all that had befallen them and the role he had played in everything.

  And so it was that he had made his way to the eastern ramparts. There were fewer men positioned on this part of the wall and one look at his glowering face told the few wall wardens that were stationed there that the Lord of Ubbanford was in no mood for conversation. He had leant on the timber wall and stared out to the wide expanse of the Whale Road. Seals bobbed in the dark waters, picked out by the bright light of the late afternoon. Lindisfarena and some of the isles to the south were clear in the light of the lowering sun. Gannets, guillemots, gulls and cormorants all wheeled in the air, diving into the waters for fish and screeching their shrill calls to one another. The lives of these birds of the sea continued unaltered by the events to the west of Bebbanburg.

  Gazing down at the rocks beneath the palisade, Beobrand saw a guillemot perched in a cleft in the stone. The wind that blew from the North Sea ruffled its feathers and after a moment it flapped its wings and flew out low over the water. Beobrand wondered where it was heading and whether it nested there beneath Bebbanburg or somewhere far away. He supposed it nested farther down the coast where the cliffs were higher and its eggs would be safe from the hands of the boys of Bebbanburg who would easily climb down to pluck the delicacy from the nests, should they be laid so close to the walls. Beobrand had often seen young boys clambering down the rocks in search of the prized eggs of the seabirds, using nothing but their wits and skill. It was dangerous, but the eggs were delicious and the wealthy denizens of Bebbanburg would pay well for them.

  As he watched the guillemot speeding away across the rippling surface of the sea, a terrible thought came to him like an icy wind whistling through a stand of trees. He’d remembered another fortress besieged far to the north, in the land of the Picts. At Din Eidyn it had been Oswiu and Oswald who were the besiegers, and it was Beobrand and his gesithas who had turned the tide of the siege.

  Hurrying back down from the ramparts, he rushed across the busy courtyard, ignoring the glares of anger and fear directed at him, and made his way to the great hall. Inside the relative calm, Ethelwin and Fordraed were deep in discussion with their closest advisers.

  Beobrand strode down the length of the building towards them. Fordraed pointedly ignored him, instead turning to Heremod and whispering something. Heremod chuckled quietly. Ethelwin glanced up at Beobrand.

  “Well?” the warmaster asked, his tone terse.

  “We must set more watches on the walls at night,” said Beobrand.

  “We have already agreed the numbers of wardens at night. You know this. We need to allow the men to rest as much as possible. Placing more men on the walls will just mean we have more tired men the next day. And God alone knows how long this siege might last.”

  Fordraed swung to face Beobrand. His jowls quivered.

  “Why should we listen to you?” he asked. “We have all seen where your actions get us. The blood of those innocents is on your hands, Beobrand.”

  Beobrand took a calming breath before speaking. Fordraed’s words echoed his own thoughts more than he was comfortable with.

  “I would prevent more people dying, if I can.”

  “And you think setting more men on the walls at night will do this?” asked Ethelwin.

  “It might,” said Beobrand. “I cannot tell what Penda is planning, but I found myself thinking of Din Eidyn.”

  “What has that Pictish fortress got to do with us?” said Fordraed.

  Beobrand did not reply. But Ethelwin stroked his beard and stared at him thoughtfully. Beobrand held his gaze, waiting for the warmaster to make a decision.

  “I was there at Din Eidyn,” said Ethelwin.

  “Yes. Many were there to see the great prowess of the mighty Beobrand,” said Fordraed. His voice was slurred. Reaching for a jug on the board before him, Fordraed filled his drinking horn and that of Heremod. The braid-bearded warrior emptied the contents of his horn and let out a loud belch, all the while glaring at Beobrand.

  “I do not think Beobrand is gloating of his battle-skill,” said Ethelwin. “He speaks of how the fortress fell, do you not?”

  Beobrand nodded. He sighed, pleased that Ethelwin was listening.

  “As I say, I do not know what Penda will do, but we all know that Bebbanburg is formidable. Perhaps even more so than that great fortress of Din Eidyn. The walls might well be impenetrable to Penda, even with the great horde he has with him. And the gates are stout and can be easily defended.”

  “Then we are safe behind these walls,” said Fordraed.

  “Nobody is safe facing Penda,” said Beobrand. “He is as wily as he is blood-hungry. And if I were him, I might well send my men to scale the walls in the dead of night. The eastern wall is lightly manned. Determined men might climb the rocks from the beach. With some effort they could make their way over the palisade and then open the gates to the Mercian host.” He paused, sweeping his gaze across all of the men who sat about the board. “Once those gates are open, all will be lost.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Fordraed. “You must always be the one turning men to your will. If folk are not talking about you, you are not happy. But this is not battle-fame, Lord Beobrand.” Fordraed’s voice dripped with sarcastic venom. “No, this is desperation. We are safe behind these walls,” he repeated, perhaps wishing to convince himself. “Penda will not send men to climb them.”

  Beobrand clenched his fists at his side. Part of him, the beast that was chained within, wished to leap across the board and hammer blow after blow into that flabby face. But such an outburst would avail nothing. And so he ignored Fordraed, drew in a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on Ethelwin.

  The warmaster stared at Beobrand for a moment.

  “You cannot be considering this,” blustered Fordraed.

  Ethelwin did not turn to Ford
raed.

  “You would be prepared to risk the fortress falling because of your dislike for Beobrand?” he asked, his tone flat.

  Fordraed hesitated before spitting into the rushes and then drinking deeply from his horn.

  Ethelwin nodded.

  “I thought not. We will do as Beobrand says.”

  *

  Beobrand shook his head in the darkness. He was thankful that Ethelwin had listened to him. Fordraed’s opinion was of no consequence. How the man had risen to prominence, Beobrand could not understand. He was venal and cowardly, with an unhealthy fondness for causing others, particularly women, pain. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to find himself on the inside of any intrigue. Schemes and plots swirled about Oswiu and not for the first time, Beobrand wondered what secrets Fordraed possessed about the king. Or perhaps the man’s slippery ways were of use to Oswiu. Beobrand was certain that Fordraed had been somehow involved in Halga’s attack on Ubbanford, but there was no proof of treachery there, save for the assertions of the Mercian, Halga, who was dead moments after uttering the words.

  Beobrand had always loathed Fordraed. Ever since Cair Chaladain. He climbed to his feet, careful not to disturb the men sleeping around him in the dark hall.

  Picking his way through the cavernous building, stepping over cloak-wrapped bodies, Beobrand made his way to the doors. The nightmare and his worries had dispelled sleep for good and he knew he would find no further rest before the sun rose.

  The door wards nodded at him silently as he stepped out into the night. Judging from the moon, and the blackness of the eastern horizon, there was yet a long while until dawn. He must not have slept for long at all, for the nights were short in the Bernician summer.

  He walked away from the hall, heading towards the sea-facing ramparts. He was pleased to see there were more braziers burning there than there had been on previous nights. Ethelwin was a good man. Again the thoughts of the conversation in the hall and Fordraed’s open disdain riled him. With any luck, he thought, Fordraed would be slain in the upcoming fighting with Penda’s host.

  He reached the ladder. It was as black as a tomb here, no light from the braziers or the moon reached the base of the wall. He made his way up the familiar ladder, finding the rungs more from memory than from the use of his eyes.

  Bernicia would be a more pleasant kingdom without Fordraed. Beobrand snorted at the thought. Trapped as they were, what would remain of Bernicia in a few weeks?

  Ethelwin had sent a messenger to Oswiu to tell him of their plight. That had been three days ago now, but even if the rider reached the king, what could he do? His retinue was not large. Travelling in his own lands, he had only taken a score of warriors with him. They could hardly turn the tide of battle against Penda and his horde.

  And what of the fyrd? There had been no tidings of Cynan. Each day Beobrand looked to the south expectantly, hoping to see the Waelisc warrior riding at the head of the fyrd, but each day nobody had come. Penda’s Waelisc allies were absent too, and where the defenders lived in hope of seeing their fyrd come marching north to relieve them, they dreaded seeing the men of Powys and Gwynedd coming to join the Mercian host.

  No tidings had come from the south and they had all begun to fear the worst: that the fyrd had been destroyed and that Oswine would not risk bringing his own warband north to their aid. They would be alone here, besieged and beleaguered, surrounded by a host of enemies.

  Reaching the rampart, Beobrand moved towards the nearest fire. Despite it being high summer, the wind that blew from the sea was cold and he wrapped his cloak about his shoulders. Images from his dream fluttered in his mind’s eye, and he shook his head to clear it of the remnants of the nightmare and the terror he had felt.

  The night was quiet.

  Beobrand had spoken to nobody the previous evening, instead sitting morose and unapproachable until the boards were cleared away for men to sleep. Now he found that he was in need of conversation. Anything to free his mind of his worries and the fears that beat about his mind like the cloud of ravens in his dream.

  Beside the fire, barely lit by its flickering flames, slumped one of the wall wardens. Sudden anger surged within Beobrand. It seemed Fordraed was not the only one who believed they were in no danger from a night attack. This man was sleeping on duty!

  Beobrand lashed out, kicking the man’s outstretched legs hard. He expected the guard to leap up groggily, to splutter his apologies. Beobrand was willing to forgive the man this once. He had no desire to make the man’s life a misery. He would make him sorry for his laziness, but then he would stand with the man for a while and look out over the moonlit waves. He wanted company, not a fight.

  But instead of jumping to his feet, the wall warden’s head lolled to the side and his torso slumped over, sliding against the timber of the palisade. Was he drunk? Beobrand dropped to his side. His hand slipped into a puddle of warm liquid. Looking down, he saw it was black in the gloom.

  Blood.

  As quickly as if he had leapt into the cold waters of the North Sea, Beobrand was instantly alert. The dead man had a seax at his belt and a shield was propped against the rampart. Beobrand was unarmed, so he snatched both up and stood.

  Stepping away from the brazier, he peered along the wall. As he watched, a shadowy figure slipped over the rampart and dropped quietly to the walkway. There were other men there, grouped together in the darkness. Steel glimmered in the night from the naked blades in their hands.

  A further man clambered over the wall to join the group. They must have secured a rope. Beobrand leaned over the rampart and stared into the darkness. Many men were congregated on the rocks beneath the fortress. The foam of the breaking waves seemed to light them from below with a faint iridescence. Two more men were already climbing up the rope.

  Gods, his dream had come to pass and the Mercians were already inside Bebbanburg.

  “To arms!” he screamed in his huge battle voice. The men on the battlements turned to face him.

  “To arms!” he bellowed again and ran towards them, shield held high.

  Chapter 22

  Beobrand charged forward. His only thoughts were to alert the people of Bebbanburg to the threat and to stop more Mercians from reaching the ramparts.

  “Death!” he screamed and rushed at the men who had gathered on the walkway.

  He shoved with all his weight and strength on the shield, oblivious to the fact that he wore no byrnie. The Mercians carried their shields slung over their backs and so were powerless to stop his advance unless they landed a lucky blow.

  He barged into them with the crashing force of a wave hitting a cliff. The men tried to defend themselves from Beobrand’s onslaught, holding out their hands to halt the oncoming shield. But they were pushed back. One lost his footing, tripping another, who fell with a scream and sickening thud to the hard ground beneath the walkway.

  A hand gripped the rim of Beobrand’s shield and he raked the seax blade across it, severing fingers. The owner of the hand shrieked and staggered back, losing his balance and tumbling after his comrade to the courtyard below.

  Only three Mercians remained on the wall now.

  “To arms!” yelled Beobrand again, his voice loud enough to even rouse the spirits of those buried beyond the dunes to the south.

  His opponents retreated momentarily, and a fourth man climbed over the wall to join them. In the dim light from the braziers and the moon Beobrand could see that a hemp rope had been tied to one of the supporting timbers of the palisade. He could not allow any more Mercians onto the wall. He must reach that rope and cut it.

  Without warning, he surged forward, punching with the shield boss at the faces of the men before him. At the same instant, he lashed out with the seax. The nearest Mercian was unarmoured and the blade bit deep into his groin. Beobrand wrenched it free and hot blood washed over his hand. The man groaned and collapsed on the walkway.

  Beobrand stamped forward, smashing the rim of the shield down onto th
e man’s head.

  A sword flicked towards Beobrand’s face. He parried it with the seax and sparks flew, illuminating the pale faces of the three men before him.

  The rope was close, but the Mercians were defending it ferociously, knowing that their only hope of survival was to buy time for more of their warband to climb to their aid.

  “You die now!” Beobrand shouted at them, the joy of battle and victory washing through him. For in that briefest of flashes from the metal sparks, he had seen another face; grim and blunt features over a dark, plaited beard.

  Heremod.

  Beobrand had no time to wonder why he was on the ramparts, instead he welcomed the man’s presence and leapt forward. Whatever he thought of Heremod, he knew him to be a good warrior; a killer with a sure hand.

  The man before Beobrand had now managed to unsling his shield and the two iron bosses collided with a resounding clang. His opponent grunted and tried to slice into Beobrand’s thigh. But Beobrand was in his element now, and he knew what his enemy intended almost before he moved. Twisting his shield, he deflected the Mercian’s strike and hacked into his unprotected outstretched sword-arm. The seax he had taken from the wall ward was not overly sharp, but it was heavy. It did not sever the man’s hand as a sharper weapon might have done, but its weighty blade opened up a deep gash and smashed the bones of the forearm. The man’s sword dropped uselessly over the edge of the walkway. The Mercian, frightened now, the fear evident in his wide eyes, backed away.

  Heremod had dispatched the other two Mercians with savage blows from behind in the moments it had taken Beobrand to defeat his opponent. Now Heremod sliced his sword in a glittering, blood-spattering arc that took the last man’s head from his shoulders. More blood fountained in the cool night air as the headless corpse toppled into the yard.

  Beobrand rushed to the rope that was taut, sawing from left to right and creaking as another Mercian climbed up. Beobrand hacked into the woven hemp, but the blunt seax did little damage to the thick rope. Looking over the edge, he could see two men climbing hand over hand. The topmost man was almost at the palisade.