Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Reodstan laughed.

  “You and your Black Shields have killed more men than I would have believed possible had I not seen it myself, but that is not what I meant. The Mercians are pulling back as a new warhost is come to the field.”

  “What?” asked Beobrand, his mind spinning.

  “A host is approaching from the north and west.”

  “A host? The Waelisc?” Beobrand’s stomach twisted at the thought of yet more enemies before them. If the men of Powys and Gwynedd had returned to bolster Penda’s forces, they were all doomed. He could think of no way they might stand against such a host. The triumph he had believed was theirs turned to ash in his mouth.

  “No, lord,” Reodstan said, the ever-rushing wind threatening to rip the words from his mouth. “Not Waelisc. They ride under the purple banner of Bernicia. Oswiu is returned.”

  Chapter 29

  Cynan hesitated, watching as the threescore horsemen spurred their mounts across the open ground towards the outcrop of rock. The rock, topped with its walled fortress, rose like a clenched fist lifted in defiance to the great Whale Road beyond.

  Bebbanburg.

  Oswiu had returned, his purple banner streaming over the horsemen who were galloping away from Cynan, towards the battle. His place was with them. Mierawin had plenty of wind left and with a squeeze of his heels, she would carry him easily across the flat land to where the unsuspecting Mercian host thronged.

  Looking up from the enemy encampment he could see that the smoke had lessened. It was more of a smudge on the horizon above the fortress now, rather than the huge greasy plumes that had urged them on to greater speed, beckoning them eastward like a great beacon.

  The slope up to Bebbanburg was crowded with men and he could see standards and banners raised above them, snapping and flapping in the wind. The fighting was fierce before the gates. It was too far to make out details, but the stiff breeze brought snatches of the clamour of the battle to where he watched. Beobrand would be there, he was sure. Again he thought of digging in his heels and chasing after Oswiu and the mounted thegns who were racing towards the rear of the Mercian ranks. His place was there, with his lord and his shield-brothers, cutting a bloody swathe through their foe-men.

  And yet he was torn. What of the men behind him who trudged down the slope from the west? Were they not also his shield-brothers? He spat, cursing in his native tongue and pulling Mierawin’s head around. Kicking her flanks, he sent her galloping back towards the approaching men.

  He surveyed them as he rode. They were a mass of drab clothing, tan and brown wool and linen, not the gaudy leather warrior coats, colourful woven belts, arm rings, gold and garnet brooches and paint-daubed shields of thegns and their gesithas. These men carried boar spears and axes, not fine pattern-bladed swords with shining pommels and hilts. These were fyrd-men. Behind him the fate of the kingdom was being settled in a great clash of kings. And Cynan was to trudge to the battle with this motley group of ceorls.

  And yet they were brave. That he could not deny. And they were stalwart and doughty.

  When he had arrived at Hefenfelth they were amongst the last men left standing. The Waelisc host had swept down on the gathering fyrd. The men of Bernicia had been taken by surprise. Still waiting for men to come in from the steadings and villages, they had been sitting around fires, drinking and laughing like men at a Thrimilci feast. They had not expected to be attacked. The Waelisc had cut them down before they had managed to mount any kind of defence. Many had been slain before they truly knew what was happening, and many more had scattered, fleeing into the forests south of the Wall. Cynan had no idea what had happened to them. Perhaps the Waelisc had hunted them down and slaughtered them all later. It seemed that the bulk of the host had travelled south after dispatching the Bernician fyrd.

  A few of the wealthier men – ealdormen, thegns and gesithas who possessed their own heregeat, their war harness and horse – had managed to mount their steeds and escape northward. Some of them now rode towards Bebbanburg alongside King Oswiu, eager to prove themselves worthy subjects, men of bravery rather than the cowards they appeared for fleeing the field at Hefenfelth. Cynan spat again, thinking of how the men who should have been leading the fyrd had run away. Still, at least they were there with the king now. Others had vanished, drifting back to their halls, or riding as far as possible from the Mercian warhost and battle.

  Not so the rabble of men before Cynan. They may not have byrnies and swords, but they had heart.

  Reining in Mierawin before them, he pointed into the east. The air was hazed above the fortress and the smell of smoke was on the wind.

  “Our king rides to smite his enemy. Penda is caught between the anvil of Bebbanburg and the hammer of Bernicia. You have walked far these last days. I know you are footsore and tired. But would you stand here and watch as those men who ride with the king forge their battle-fame? Or would you hear your names in the songs of tomorrow?”

  He scanned their faces. They were dirt-smeared, their eyes dark with weariness. But there was something else, a pride he saw in them. One man, perhaps twenty summers old, with unruly curls of fair hair that he’d tied at the nape of his neck, raised his head, jutting his jaw out defiantly.

  “You, Fægir,” Cynan said, “what say you? Would you have the name of Fægir be known to all men after the glorious victory today?”

  “And to all women,” Fægir said. The others laughed. Fægir never ceased talking about his conquests though Cynan had heard Eoppa, one of the older men who came from the same settlement as Fægir, say it was all fantasy. “He is married to his childhood sweetheart,” he’d said. “Never so much as sniffed another woman’s cunny. If he did, Agatha would cut off his sloes.”

  “If we are to help win this day,” shouted Cynan, “we cannot tarry here, waiting for the king’s servants and the thralls.” Behind them, still far away in the hills to the west, came the waggons and carts that carried the king’s goods and the tribute that he had collected from his royal vills.

  “I would dip my blade in Mercian blood,” Cynan continued.

  “I would like to dip something,” said Fægir with a smirk.

  A gust of wind shook the gorse and grass about them, bringing with it the sounds of the distant battle.

  “This is no time for jests,” Cynan said. “Death awaits some of us this day. This is no game.” The smile slipped from Fægir’s face.

  “But you men know the stakes. I have seen your worth. I could have gone with them.” He nodded towards the backs of the horsemen. “But you followed me at Hefenfelth and I would not desert you now. And you all saw what happened when the men of Powys and Gwynedd struck. You can never predict how a battle will end, who will run and who will stand. The king might yet have need for your spears.”

  He could see some of the men nodding agreement. One slender man with balding pate and skin as brown as a nut stepped forward.

  “I have not walked all this way just to let those rich bastards take the glory now,” he said. “Come on, lads. Let’s show those Mercians that they cannot come onto our land without paying a dear price.”

  Cynan grinned at the man. He liked Ingwald. He was direct, intelligent and bold. He had been responsible for rallying the men at Hefenfelth and getting them into their strong position against the Waelisc. It was Ingwald, as much as Cynan, who had seen these men survive that blood-soaked day.

  Cynan recalled the scene he had ridden into that afternoon. It had only been three days ago, and yet it seemed like weeks.

  He had reached the meeting place north of the Great Wall as the sun was low in the sky. It was quickly obvious to him that he had arrived too late. Tents were aflame and corpses were strewn about the encampment. Most of the Bernician force had been killed, or had fled. And then he had seen them: a knot of fyrd-men beneath the huge timber cross that Oswald had erected years before. The rood had been raised on the top of a rise and now a group of men were congregated on the hill, shields locked, spears brist
ling from their defensive wall.

  Cynan had halted Mierawin, taking in the situation in a moment. None of the Powys and Gwynedd warriors had spied him, coming as he did from the west. It seemed to him that most of the Waelisc host had moved on, leaving behind it a ruin of death and devastation. One small group remained. They numbered perhaps three dozen and had encircled the spear-men who stood in the shadow of Oswald’s cross.

  The sun glinted from the Waelisc weapons, their burnished byrnies bright in the afternoon glare. These were warriors of renown, men wearing silver torcs and bearing steel blades. Before them stood what appeared to be farmhands with nothing more than plain willow shields and hunting spears.

  Anger flared within him as he thought what the fate of the men on the hill would be. The Waelisc would toy with them awhile, but against trained killers, there was little chance for the Bernicians, unless the Waelisc warriors tired of their sport and rode on.

  Without being aware of making a decision, Cynan spurred Mierawin towards the gathered Waelisc. As he cantered across the scattered remains of the camp, he checked his sword was loose in its scabbard. Crows and magpies, gorging themselves on the still-warm flesh of the fallen, flapped angrily into the air as he passed. They croaked at him, furious at having their feast interrupted.

  He approached the gathered Waelisc men at a trot, making no pretence of concealing his identity. The men carried shields bearing the image of a black stag on a white field. He cursed. He did not know to which lord the sigil belonged. Most of the men seemed bored. They leaned on spears, apparently content to hold the Bernicians on the hillock with their presence. One man, stockier than the rest, with hair that was greying at the temples, sat astride a dappled horse. He shifted his position at Cynan’s approach. He opened his mouth, but Cynan cut him off before he could speak.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Cynan snapped, using the Waelisc tongue.

  The mounted man sat more upright in his saddle.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  Cynan ignored the question.

  “Do you lead here?”

  “These are my men.” The man puffed out his chest. “I am Madawg, do you not recognise me?”

  “Of course,” Cynan lied, nudging Mierawin close to Madawg’s steed. “You are to take your men from here and follow the others. You are not to tarry further.”

  Madawg frowned and Cynan was suddenly aware of the number of enemy warriors who were within striking distance of him. What had he been thinking? He should have ridden far from Hefenfelth when he saw that the fyrd had been destroyed. This was madness. And yet, here he was.

  Madawg’s eyes narrowed.

  “I was told to finish this lot before following the host,” he said. “Why the change?” He hesitated, peering at Cynan, who felt his face grow hot in the afternoon sun. “Who are you?” repeated the Waelisc lord.

  Cynan’s mind was blank. He could think of no answer that would convince the man. As he hesitated, Madawg’s suspicions grew. His hand dropped towards his sword-hilt. There was no more time to think.

  Cynan urged Mierawin forward and at the same instant drew his seax from its sheath and plunged its sharp blade into the stocky lord’s neck. Madawg jerked and twisted, wrenching the seax from Cynan’s grasp. Even as the man’s twitching body tumbled from the horse, his blood splattering the animal’s dappled flanks, Cynan swung his leg over Mierawin’s neck and slid to the ground.

  The time for talking was over. He had thrown the dice and now must see where they landed.

  Slapping Mierawin on the rump, sending her away from danger at a run, he unslung his black shield from where it hung over his back. The Waelisc warriors around him were wide-eyed in shock, but already they were moving, raising weapons and spears. He would not last for more than a few heartbeats alone here, surrounded by enemies.

  “For Bernicia,” he bellowed, his voice as loud as his lord Beobrand’s in battle. “Would you stand on that hill and watch me die, brothers?” His desperation ripped at his throat. The five Waelisc who were nearest to him had lifted their shields and were circling warily. They would rush him soon, and then all would be lost.

  Without warning, a tall man with black hair and clean-shaven, smooth cheeks leapt towards him. He was a handsome man, perhaps a year or two younger than Cynan.

  “You have slain my father!” he screamed as he flew towards Cynan.

  One of the older Waelisc warriors tried to hold the young man back, but he shrugged him off, swinging his sword furiously at Cynan. Instantly, Cynan could see that the man was strong, but no killer. His swiping cuts were savage and filled with fury, but whatever training he had with the blade had vanished, replaced with his anger at his father’s murder.

  Cynan caught one of the man’s powerful swings on the rim of his shield, then stepped inside his reach, punching him hard in the face with the pommel of his sword. The man fell back and Cynan finished him with a cut that severed the arteries in his throat. Blood arced hot and strong into the warm air. Cynan jumped back, risking a quick glance behind him. There were no enemies there. But the rest of the Waelisc had been stirred into action at seeing their lord and his son cut down.

  They seemed to have forgotten the men on the hill, instead turning and congregating before Cynan. He was but one man, but he had slain two of their number in moments and his sword was slick with gore. This must have given them pause, for they formed a shieldwall before him.

  “By the gods,” shouted Cynan using the Anglisc tongue of the Bernicians, “these Waelisc whoresons are scared of one man!”

  He kept his eyes firmly on the warriors in the shieldwall before him, but from the edges of his vision, he saw movement from the hill. He smiled grimly to himself. Well, he had thrown the dice. He would soon see whether luck was with him this day.

  The Waelisc in the shieldwall felt a tremor of fear at seeing the lone warrior before them. The man’s shield was black as death, his byrnie glinted in the sun and his sword was dripping with the blood of one of their number. But it was the grin on his face that slid a sliver of uncertainty into their minds. For one man to stand before so many and smile, he was clearly moonstruck. And a mad adversary can be the most deadly of all.

  Cynan let out a roar of defiance and charged at the shieldwall. The Waelisc flinched at the sound of his bellowing cry. A heartbeat later, another sound came to them: the howling scream of anger from the fyrd-men who had watched their friends and countrymen slaughtered by the Waelisc host.

  The fyrd-men, invigorated at seeing Cynan’s actions – and, Cynan learnt later, rallied by rousing words from Ingwald – surged down the slope and hammered into the rear of the Waelisc line at the same moment that Cynan struck the front.

  It was chaos for a time. The afternoon air was misted with blood and throbbed with the clash of weapons and the wails of the dying. Cynan fought like a warrior from a scop’s tale. His blade flashed and sang, glittering in the bright sunshine as it cut through flesh and sinews. Later, Eoppa said that none of them could believe what they had witnessed. The fight was over in moments, but in that time, Cynan had taken the lives of five more men and all he had to show for it was a thin cut to his right arm and a bruise on his cheek where a shield boss had struck him.

  The fyrd-men had unleashed their pent-up fury and fear and had laid about them with savage abandon. Ingwald had killed three men himself, and Cynan discovered later that the man was a veteran of Maserfelth. He was as brave as he was intelligent and strong. A natural leader of men in battle.

  Within a few bloody heartbeats, over half of the Waelisc were dead or dying and the rest were fleeing. Some managed to break away from the fighting and catch hold of their mounts. They galloped away to the south. Fearing they would return with reinforcements, Cynan urged the Bernicians to grab whatever weapons they could carry and to follow him.

  That night they camped in the hills north of the Wall and Ingwald told him that seven of the fyrd-men had lost their lives in the fight beneath the cross.
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br />   Cynan had sighed.

  “I am sorry,” he said, feeling a dreadful tiredness enveloping him like a cloak.

  “Do not be sorry, lord,” Ingwald said. Cynan had told him he was no lord, but the men refused to listen. “We would surely all have perished if you had not ridden to our aid.”

  Cynan had thought much about it as they had made their way north, past the empty shells of halls and the signs of the passing of the great Mercian host. In the end he had decided that Ingwald was right. He had saved the fyrd-men. But whenever he thought of what he had done, or when the men spoke of his battle-skill and boldness, he felt hollow and cold. He could scarcely believe his actions. Did he value his life so little? Then he thought of Beobrand; his scarred face and the ice cold eyes. The single-handed attack on the Waelisc warband was something his lord might have done, Cynan thought, and he was unsure whether to be proud or saddened.

  He had led the men northward at first, thinking to put as much distance as possible between them and the Waelisc host. But after the first day it seemed they were not being pursued and he decided to head towards Bebbanburg by a roundabout route that would take them through the hills towards Ubbanford and then south-east. In this way he hoped to avoid Penda’s warhost. What he would do when they reached Bebbanburg, he had not decided. He needed to see how things were when they arrived. Perhaps they might be able to slip past the Mercians and make their way into the fortress. But why sneak into a besieged citadel?

  In the end, the decision was taken from him.

  That morning the day had dawned clear and bright once more, but a wind had picked up from the east. They had set out at first light, but as soon as they had crested the first hill, a dark stain of smoke had risen into the sky, high from where Cynan judged Bebbanburg to be. They pressed on, still unsure what they would do when they got there, but unable now to turn away. Perhaps, thought Cynan, he should lead the men to safety. If the fortress burnt, that would mean Penda had won. Beobrand and the Black Shields would be dead.