Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  “When all is said and done,” he muttered, “it matters not who is to blame. All that matters now is what we do next. I will sit with Fraomar. You will spend time with Eadgard and your shield-brothers. And see that you all get some rest. I will have need for your strength,” he forced a lopsided smile, “and wits tomorrow.”

  Grindan nodded and made to leave.

  Beobrand called him back.

  “One more thing,” he said.

  “Lord?”

  “Tomorrow, things will be hard. If the shieldwall should falter…”

  “We will stand with you, lord. We will hold fast against the Mercian scum.”

  Beobrand held his hand up for silence.

  “If the shieldwall should break, I need you to swear to me that you will go to the queen’s chambers. Eanflæd will be there, with her gemæcce, Ecgfrith, Edlyn and the other women and children.”

  “If the shieldwall breaks, we will fall by your side, lord,” Grindan said. His eyes glittered in the darkness.

  “No!” Beobrand snapped. “If I fall, you must go to the queen and protect her with your life. You, your brother, any of you that yet draws breath. Protect the queen and her son. That is my will and I demand it of you. I am not important. The queen and Ecgfrith are Bernicia. They must not be taken by Penda. Do you understand?”

  Grindan hesitated.

  “I have your oath, do I not?” pressed Beobrand.

  Grindan swallowed.

  “Yes, lord.”

  “And you understand my command?”

  “Yes, lord.”

  Beobrand held him in his frosty gaze for several heartbeats.

  “Good. Now tell the rest of the men my wish. There may not be time for such talk on the morrow.”

  Grindan nodded glumly and slipped into the gathering gloaming.

  The talk of Eanflæd’s possible fate had brought on a terrible sadness in Beobrand. The last he had seen of the queen was when he had climbed down from the walls and made his way across the courtyard behind the new barricades.

  As he walked, he could feel Heremod’s eyes on him all the while. He ignored the man, but deep inside he knew that if they survived the upcoming battle, things could not remain as they were. There would be a reckoning. Beobrand would not allow the man to stand over him with the blade of his secret ready to fall at any moment.

  Eanflæd had moved away from Beircheart and the men who were putting the last baskets of rubble on the barrier. She had stepped towards Beobrand and he had longed to reach for her. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat and her exertions, her eyes bright. She wore the plainest of dresses and her hair was covered by a linen wimple. She was achingly beautiful. The desire to pull her into his embrace was almost too much to bear, but he felt Heremod’s gaze on them and the fortress was thronged with men and women.

  And so he had lowered his gaze as he had approached and muttered, “Good day, my lady.”

  Her eyes had grown wide, but she had offered him a small smile and replied, “Lord Beobrand,” before turning back to her work.

  He had discussed with Ethelwin the idea of placing guards outside the quarters in the great hall where the queen, the womenfolk and the children were to reside during the battle. But the warmaster said they could not spare any fighting men. The injured and the old would remain with them. They would be given spears and shields, but both men knew that they would be no match for Penda’s warriors.

  Looking down at Fraomar, the fragility of their existence gripped at Beobrand’s heart. Dismay flooded through him at the thought of Penda’s ravening wolves hacking their way into the hall. They would cut any defence down and be on the women in moments. He rubbed at his eyes again, in an effort to stop his mind from conjuring up the thoughts that threatened to flood in. Fresh images came to him then. Cathryn’s pleading eyes in a freezing forest clearing. Tata’s bruised and broken body on the altar of Engelmynster. Sunniva’s haunted beauty. Reaghan’s delicate features, wreathed in her unruly auburn mane. Her eyes held a melancholy sadness he had never been able to reach.

  And from the depths of his memory came the horrific screams of anguish that had filled the night at Cair Chaladain. That was the night he had vowed never to allow his men to sully womenfolk or to do battle on the innocent. Such was not the way of the brave, but of the craven.

  At the thought of all the women he had failed over the years, and what would happen to Eanflæd, Edlyn and the others tomorrow if the Bernicians could not hold the Mercians back, tears welled in Beobrand’s eyes.

  The weight of the fortress and the land of Bernicia was crushing down upon him. How could he save them? Gods, who was he? Just a farm boy from Cantware. Men looked up to him as a great warrior, but he knew the truth of it. Here, in the darkness, with the stink of sickness in his nostrils, he could admit to the truth. He was nothing. Oswald had been right. It was just luck. All of it.

  Or mayhap it was his wyrd, whispered a tiny voice deep inside him. If this was his wyrd, he wished he could be done with it. Tomorrow would bring more pain and suffering, fear and frenzy as men killed and died choking on their lifeblood.

  This is what Penda’s sacrifices had brought. It was everything the All-father cared for. More blood and more mayhem. Woden loved chaos. Whether the Mercians won or lost, it made no difference to the gods. How they must be laughing.

  The full burden of the situation pressed down on him like a great rock and, unnoticed, tears streamed down his cheeks.

  “Do not weep, lord,” came a thin rasping voice.

  Broken from his self-pitying sorrow, Beobrand opened his eyes with a start. Wiping at his cheeks with the backs of his hands he looked about, embarrassed at his show of weakness.

  But there was nobody there. The wheezing snores of the old woman still emanated from the rear of the hut. There was no other sound. No-one was there save for him and Fraomar.

  “Do not weep,” the voice repeated, and with a shock, he looked down to see Fraomar’s eyes open. They were liquid and febrile in the gloom, but Beobrand’s heart swelled with joy to see the young man awake. “I am not dead,” Fraomar croaked.

  “I can see that,” Beobrand said, his anguish of moments before evaporating like dew in morning sunshine.

  “But I am thirsty.”

  “Of course,” Beobrand said, his voice cracking into nervous laughter, such was his happiness. He reached for his cup of ale and gently helped Fraomar to drink, lifting his head but being careful not to touch the place where the Mercian warrior’s blow had struck.

  Fraomar took two great swallows of the drink before Beobrand pulled the cup away from his lips.

  “Easy now,” he said. “I don’t want you making yourself sick.”

  Fraomar lay his head back onto the mattress and winced.

  “It would appear too late for that,” he whispered, a faint smile playing on his cracked lips. “I feel as weak as a kitten.”

  “We feared we had lost you.”

  Fraomar smiled again.

  “From the pain in my head, I cannot say I am pleased to have returned to the land of the living. What happened?” He frowned, looking about the darkened room. “And where are we?”

  “Bebbanburg,” Beobrand replied. “You took an almighty blow to the head. Without your helm, you would have been food for the crows.”

  Fraomar looked confused. He closed his eyes for a moment and let out a long, shuddering breath.

  “I remember none of this,” he said at last, a tremble of unease in his voice.

  From the shadowed depths of the hut, the old woman stirred. Rising to her feet with a groan, she hobbled over to look down at Fraomar.

  “When the head takes such a blow it will often forget the moment when it was injured,” she croaked. She leant low over the young man, pulling up his eyelids with her gnarled, arthritic fingers and peering into his eyes. “You almost died, young man.” She pushed herself upright with an effort. “If you should forget a few days from your past, it is a small price to pay for l
ife, I would say. No?”

  She bustled to the back of the hut and began to pull pots and flasks down from a shelf there.

  A sudden terror seemed to grip Fraomar then and his eyes widened. “I had command of the warband. Are they…? Did I…?”

  Beobrand placed a hand upon the young warrior’s shoulder.

  “You did not fail me, or the men. They are well and they are here. See? You have not forgotten everything.”

  He offered a smile of encouragement, but Fraomar ignored it.

  “But why are we in Bebbanburg?” he asked.

  As if in answer to his question, there was the sound of a commotion outside. Shouted voices, followed by the continuous, rhythmic wail of a hunting horn. Beobrand was startled by the sound. So soon? Had Penda decided to attack at night?

  Moments later, the door to the hut swung open. Grindan was framed there and Beobrand saw that it was no longer night – he must have dozed on the stool for longer than he had realised. Gone was the infinite star-dappled dome of the night sky behind Grindan. It was replaced with the flat, grey wolf-light of the dawn. Cool air wafted into the room. Was that smoke Beobrand could smell?

  “It is time,” Grindan said. “The fire has been lit. We must ready ourselves for battle.”

  Beobrand rose. Now was not the moment for pity. He shrugged off his night-time fears and doubts like a man stepping out of a wet cloak. He squared his shoulders and his eyes blazed in the gloom.

  “Welcome back your shield-brother,” Beobrand said, grinning broadly despite the impending battle. “Now we have one more thing to fight for.”

  Grindan dropped to his knees beside the cot and grasped Fraomar’s hand.

  “My friend, I thought we had lost you.”

  “So I hear.”

  “The bastard that did this to you is no more. I saw to it myself.”

  “You must tell me the tale, for I can remember none of it.”

  “Truly? I will do my best, for it was a fight worth remembering.”

  Beobrand pulled Grindan to his feet.

  “The tale will have to wait until we have defeated the Mercians one more time,” he said. “Fetch men to help you carry Fraomar to the great hall. He must wait there with those unable to fight.”

  The old woman looked up from where she was grinding leaves and roots into a foul-smelling paste in a wooden bowl.

  “He cannot be moved. He must yet rest until his head and senses settle,” she said.

  Beobrand looked down at Fraomar. He was as pallid and frail as his uncle Selwyn had been shortly before death claimed him.

  “He cannot stay here,” Beobrand said, his tone as rigid as the rocky crag upon which Bebbanburg sat. “And neither can you. You will both go to the hall. Grindan, get others to help you now. And see that Brinin goes there too. I will go to the gates. Meet me there.”

  Grindan nodded and hurried away.

  The wizened woman began to protest further, but Beobrand silenced her with a glare.

  “I will not argue with you, woman,” he said. “If the shieldwall breaks you would have no chance here. Pack up what you need to see to Fraomar and anything that will aid in treating wounds. I am counting on you to keep him alive.”

  “It seems whether we live or die rests more in the strength of your sword than in the skill of my hands,” she said, shaking her head, but Beobrand was pleased to see she began scooping up pots, utensils and flasks and placing them in a sack. As she started plucking down wyrts that hung from the beams, he turned to leave, satisfied that she would do his bidding.

  “Lord,” croaked Fraomar, “you have not told me what is happening.”

  Beobrand clutched the man’s hand for a moment. It was dry and cold. The smell of smoke, acrid and unpleasant, was stronger now.

  “There is no time,” he said. “Pray that we will be victorious and you can hear the tale tonight in the hall. Otherwise, I will tell you of it in Woden’s corpse-hall.”

  Without waiting for a response, Beobrand rose and strode from the hut into the dim pre-dawn light.

  Chapter 26

  The wind blew the thick smoke into Beobrand’s face. Embers from the conflagration were snatched up by the breeze and flung, stinging and spiteful, into the faces of the men who stood behind the barricade. The sun was high in the sky now, and the summer warmth was added to the searing heat from the fire at the gates, making the men there sweat and curse.

  They had constructed this second line of defence some way back from the gates, to make enough room for the attackers to enter the killing ground they had cleared, but Beobrand had not counted on the strong wind or the sheer ferocity of the blaze. The sky above the gates flickered and swam and the dark plumes of smoke rose high into the pale sky.

  A sudden gust of wind sent a huge shower of sparks and burning debris into the air, to drop amongst the defenders and the rubble barrier. On seeing the size of the fire and how the wind was fanning the blaze towards them, Beobrand had ordered buckets of water to be brought and placed at intervals along the barricade. The sweltering men drank from them and used the water to douse any flames that caught amongst the tinder-dry wall they had constructed from the remains of the guardhouse.

  Beobrand climbed up the ladder to the palisade on the western side of the fortress. He had removed his helmet, but sweat ran down his neck and back and his face and hair were slick. When the gates fell and the battle started, it would be like fighting inside a bread oven.

  The palisade here was busy with bowmen, ready to unleash their arrows down upon the Mercians when the gates finally fell. Something else he had not predicted was how long the gates, stout oaken slabs reinforced with iron, would take to catch and burn. But now, after a long while of waiting as the sun rose and the heat from the fire grew, the doors were smouldering. From his vantage point, he could see that the Mercian host must also have noticed the development, for the armoured line of warriors had moved closer to Bebbanburg’s entrance. Their priest leapt and screamed before them, but Beobrand could not make out the words from this distance. The fire’s roaring voice swallowed all others, lending its rushing howl to the wind.

  Beobrand glanced to the left and saw the bird-picked remains of the unfortunate sacrifices still hanging like scraps of smoked meat dangling from a hall’s beams. It seemed that Woden had answered the priest’s calls. The wind had blown constantly and hard all that morning towards the fortress’s gates, pushing the flames into the piled timber and against the oak doors, and funnelling the scorching heat into the courtyard, forcing the Bernicians to retreat, soot-stained and sweating in the face of the fire’s ferocity.

  Far away, towards Gefrin in the west and Ubbanford and Berewic in the north, clouds were forming on the horizon. Could they bring rain? But they were far off and the gate would be destroyed well before any possible rain reached them.

  “Not long now,” he said to the nearest archer. “Those gates will crumble soon, and then you know what to do.”

  The man nodded, his face sombre and pale beneath the dark smudges of soot. Up here, the heat was less terrible, but the men had not rested. Buckets had been passed up hand over hand from the well below and the water had been sluiced against the palisade and walkway as close to the gates as they could reach. The Mercians must be prevented from destroying the wall too. If they could be trapped within the courtyard killing ground, there was a chance. If they were able to swarm over a broken wall, all would be lost.

  “We will not fail you, lord,” the archer said. “We’ll make those bastard Mercians regret coming to Bebbanburg.”

  “Good man,” Beobrand said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  He glanced once more at the gates, trying to gauge how long until they fell. Earlier he had come up here with Attor, and the sharp-sighted scout had told him he could see that some of the Mercians bore hooks attached to long poles. They had used these to pull down the buildings around Bebbanburg and now it seemed they would help the gates to topple when they were weakened enough by fire.
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  “Be ready,” Beobrand said, raising his voice so that all the men gathered on the ramparts could hear him. “The gates will soon fall. After that, let your arrows fly true.”

  The men did not respond with a cheer and he could think of no more rousing words for them. Looking over at the far wall on the seaward side of the fortress, he saw that Ethelwin was also addressing the men there. He knew that the warmaster had been worried about the enemy scaling the walls once more, and so had set guards around the palisade at regular intervals. If they saw any Mercians seeking to take advantage of the distraction at the gates, they were to sound their horns and a group of warriors from the second rank of the shieldwall was under orders to rush to their defence. Beobrand thought it unlikely that Penda would try the trick again. He had rolled the dice and lost and he would know the defenders would not be caught unawares. But Beobrand could not deny that it was a possible place for an attack and so the men needed to be vigilant.

  Ethelwin began to climb down the ladder from the east wall. No cheer came from the men there either. Looking at the gates which were now fully robed in throbbing, pulsating flames, Beobrand could understand that they did not feel that victory was within their reach. This was the impregnable seat of power of the kings of Bernicia. But the king was not here with his people, and the fortress was about to be breached, its gates consumed by a ravenous fire that the men saw as the pyre of the kingdom.

  “Stand strong and make your arrows count,” he said, before climbing down to the courtyard.

  He glanced over at the buildings of Bebbanburg. The stables, the halls and storage huts, the new stone church and the great hall. How strange it was to see the buildings so peaceful while across the summit of the rock, a great fire raged and warriors bristled with spear and sword, ready to kill and maim.

  He thought of all of the people in that hall. Fraomar, weak and confused from his injury, would lie in his pallet surrounded by women, children and grey-beards. He would listen to the clash of weapons outside and feel a terrible helplessness and shame at not standing with his brothers. And what of Eanflæd? The thought of her, slender and beautiful, fierce but powerless against Penda’s warriors, brought a lump to his throat.