Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  She dipped her head.

  “My king.”

  Returning to her seat, she could feel Beobrand’s eyes on her, but she refused to look in his direction. She would obey her husband and God’s will. Ecgfrith was now well and the fortress was safe. God was good and she would do her duty. She thought of the last time Oswiu had come to her bed. It had not been so bad. He was not rough as she had heard some men were. He openly admired her beauty and spoke sweet words to her. Perhaps he would give her another child.

  “Any news from the riders?” Oswiu asked Ethelwin.

  “Not yet, lord. I do not expect tidings so soon.”

  Oswiu nodded.

  “Yes, of course. But I cannot help but worry.”

  Immediately after the battle at the gate, Oswiu and Ethelwin had sent off mounted men to follow the scattered Mercians and to see that they left Bernicia. Most of the riders who had come with the king to Bebbanburg he sent into the west to protect the waggons and carts they had left behind.

  One of the reasons for his ill-temper, Eanflæd knew, was that he was fretting about whether he had done the right thing. Had he sent enough men to harry the retreating Mercian host? Were the riches he had brought back from Caer Luel and the surrounding vills to the west even now in the hands of his enemies?

  “Tell me again,” he said, suddenly turning back to Eanflæd, “what did your cousin say?”

  At the other end of the hall, Cædmon finished one of his tales and the men around him cheered and hammered their cups and knives into the board in a thunder of appreciation. Oswiu frowned. Oswine was another matter of concern to him and another person to blame for what had happened in his absence. It was not Oswine’s fault that Penda had attacked Bebbanburg, nor that Bernicia’s king was far away at the time. But she swallowed down her harsh words of reprobation. They would do no good, only harm. Oswiu had long disliked Oswine and she did not wish to throw fat onto the flames of her husband’s anger. His antipathy could all too easily turn into hatred. She waited for the cheering to subside before replying.

  “As soon as he heard of the approach of Penda’s host, Oswine rode south, my lord. He said he would summon Deira’s fyrd and march to our aid.”

  Oswiu brooded, his brow furrowed and his eyes scowling. He took a deep draught of wine.

  “Well, I do not see your cousin here,” he said. “If not for my return, Bebbanburg might well have fallen.” He reached for a piece of salted beef. There was so much salt meat now, they would be eating it for weeks. He chewed for a while, then spat a gobbet of gristle onto the reeds. Two hounds scrabbled for the morsel, snapping and snarling. “Penda is a wolf,” Oswiu continued. “He would have ravaged the place. And what would have befallen you, my queen? Penda would have taken all that is mine.”

  “If the flock is prey to wolves, perhaps the shepherd should not stray so far from his sheep,” she snapped, suddenly angry. As soon as she had uttered the words, she regretted them.

  For a moment, Oswiu’s face clouded and she feared he would erupt in a blaze of anger. Instead he smiled and reached for her hand.

  “You speak the truth, Eanflæd,” he said, caressing the soft skin of her palm with his fingers. “I should not have travelled so far from you, my lamb. Leaving you and Ecgfrith here was a mistake. I accept your rebuke. It is a husband’s duty to be at his wife’s side. And a king’s to protect his folk.”

  She could feel the warmth of his touch, see the desire in his eyes. She did not know how to respond to his words without causing him offence, so she lowered her gaze.

  To her surprise, Oswiu stood suddenly and raised his hands. Murmurs and whispers rippled across the men and women gathered in the great hall as they turned to look towards their king. From outside, through the open doors, came the sounds of merriment from the ceorls and their families who had sought shelter behind Bebbanburg’s walls. Eanflæd thought of the women and children whom she had come to know these last days. Good people, strong of character and quick to help others. For much of that long terrifying day, with the sounds of battle wafting to them on the hot breeze and the smell of smoke from the great blaze at the gates seeping into the hall, she had huddled at one end of the building with Edlyn and a handful of those God-fearing women and prayed with Coenred and Utta. A titter of feminine laughter drifted in from the courtyard and Eanflæd wished she could be out there, with those women who were simply pleased their men had returned to them. They did not have to be concerned with the anger and jealousy of kings. But, she thought, as the hall grew silent to listen to Oswiu speak, were not all men kings in their own homes?

  “Men and women of Bernicia,” Oswiu said, his voice clear and carrying throughout the hall. “My brave people. I am sorry for the pain and fear that befell you in my absence. A king’s place is with his people, and I thank God that he brought me back to Bebbanburg in time to see off Penda and his pack of dogs.”

  Some of the men jeered, loudly and drunkenly insulting the Mercians. Oswiu waited for them to quieten.

  “It is not an easy thing to be go¯d cyning. My brother Oswald, may the Lord watch over his immortal soul, was the man I long to be. Holy and just, but swift to take vengeance when crossed.” He paused, perhaps allowing them time to think of the king Oswald had been. “To be a king demands difficult decisions,” he went on. “I must visit all the folk of this great kingdom of Bernicia and pray to God that the men I leave behind will prove brave and strong enough to defend what is ours.” Again he paused, sweeping his dark gaze over all those gathered before him on the mead benches. “And so it was here!”

  He shouted these last words and then the hall echoed with the men’s cheers. The sound rose and washed over Eanflæd like a wave. When it had died down, the king continued.

  “The stout hearts of you men, led by lords Ethelwin and Beobrand, and with the foresight and planning of Brytnere and my beautiful queen, has shown me Bernicians are the best folk in the whole of Albion. By God, in all of middle earth.”

  Again they cheered.

  “Thanks to all of you, and the prayers of the brethren of Lindisfarena and the most holy Bishop Aidan, and of course the power and grace of God, Bebbanburg still stands.” Oswiu nodded in appreciation at Coenred and Utta and the two men who sat with them: a sombre-faced young monk named Wilfrid and his teacher, the grey-haired and dour Cudda. The two of them had trudged across the wet sands from the isle monastery at the first low tide after the battle. They bore tidings of how Aidan had seen the smoke from where he was praying in solitude on one of the lonely Farena islands. The bishop had exhorted the Almighty to send a sacred wind to blow the flames back onto the enemies of the Christ-loving Bernicians. The warriors who had been at the gates spoke of the sudden change in the direction of the wind and already people were whispering that it had been a miracle.

  Eanflæd noticed that the novice monk, Wilfrid, was gazing at her and she offered him a small smile. He had come to Bebbanburg earlier in the year and she had seen the potential in him. He was young and possessed a fiery temper, but there was something about him, an intensity that almost reminded her of Beobrand. It had been her idea to send him to Lindisfarena, where he would be taught by old Cudda. In the way of the monks, Wilfrid’s hair had now been shaved to the crown of his head, altering his handsome features, but doing nothing to diminish the blazing intelligence in those pale eyes.

  “But I will say,” Oswiu continued with a grimace and a wink, snapping Eanflæd’s attention back to the king, “I do wish my queen had not been so thorough. She could have saved some of the meat from salting.” The men laughed and Eanflæd blushed.

  “We have won a great victory today and you must not think I am a mean lord, for there will be a time for the giving of gifts. I will reward every man who fought today, and to every widow, I will likewise give treasure, for their men have given the greatest gift to their lord and king and it shall not be forgotten. And I do not forget those who have done me service. Like you there, Ingwald.” Oswiu pointed to a thin, bald man s
itting at the lower tables next to Beobrand’s man, Cynan, the Waelisc. “I will not forget that you brought me back my banner or that you saved many men from destruction at Hefenfelth with your courage and quick thinking.”

  The men around Ingwald cheered and clapped. The man himself looked abashed to be mentioned by the king. Cynan reached over and gripped Ingwald’s shoulder, grinning with pride, as if the man were his kin.

  “But all of this will be for another day when we have all rested. I have been away a long time and I have missed my lady wife. While I am lord and king to you all, I am husband to her, and I must not neglect her further.”

  The gathered warriors whooped and hollered at their king’s suggestive words. Eanflæd’s face grew hot. Oswiu held out his hand to her and said in a quiet voice, “Well, my lamb. I think it is time you gave the shepherd a proper welcome home.”

  His eyes glinted with lust and Eanflæd’s mouth was suddenly dry. She could sense all the people of the hall staring at her, waiting for her response. For a moment she was unable to breathe. She did not take her eyes from Oswiu’s, but she knew beyond all doubt that Beobrand’s gaze was fixed on her, ready to gauge her reaction.

  She took a deep breath. She was a wife and a queen. Her life was not her own. She knew her duty.

  Reaching out, she grasped Oswiu’s hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Leaning in close to him, she could smell his sweat and the lingering scent of dust, smoke and blood.

  “I will have water brought to our chambers. Let me bathe you, my lord,” she whispered, “and then we shall see if you are strong enough for the welcome you wish for.”

  His eyes widened and he licked his lips.

  She led him from the hall to the sounds of whistles and lascivious shouts from the warriors. Edlyn nodded at her, offering a faint smile as they passed. Eanflæd straightened her back as she walked past Beobrand, not looking at him but feeling his gaze on her like heat from a flame.

  Chapter 31

  Beobrand stared out over the roiling darkness of the North Sea. Below him, the waves growled and hissed as they hit the rocks. Far off, a flicker of lightning lit the world for an instant before the night slammed back, darker than ever. He waited for the sound of thunder, but the distant rumble was lost in the crash of the waves. He took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. That evening, clouds had rolled in on the strong wind and a storm had raged above Bebbanburg. The downpour had put out the final remnants of the fire, leaving behind steaming, blackened timbers and corpses draped in sodden clothes, eyes staring into the night sky, awaiting the arrival of foxes and wolves.

  The stench of fire and death was strong near the gates and Beobrand was glad that the wind had continued to blow in from the sea, bringing with it nothing more than the tang of salt and the memory of endless horizons.

  Another flash of Thunor’s fire came and went in an eye-blink, leaving a ghost image glowing in his vision. He rubbed at his eyes. He was weary. His hand throbbed where it had been burnt and his arms and shoulders ached. Reaching his hands behind his head, he interlaced his fingers and pulled his head forward. His neck gave a satisfying crack and he grunted. Gods, he needed to sleep. But he knew sleep would not come easily. The faces of the men he had killed that day flickered in his mind’s eye, as if his thought-cage was lit by its own lightning and with each flash a new face was revealed, black with blood, eyes staring, mouths screaming. No, sleep would be slow to arrive and when he was finally too tired to remain awake, he was fearful of the dreams that would come with slumber.

  Would Eanflæd be in his dreams?

  Thinking of her brought back the tumult of battle as his emotions fought one another for supremacy. He desired her, he could not deny that, but to see her beside her husband, serving him wine as a good wife should, had filled Beobrand with conflicting feelings of sadness, envy and – strangely, he thought – even a tinge of pride. Surely she did what was right for herself, her son and her people. Begrudgingly, he realised she was also doing what was best for him. If they had continued with the madness they had courted so recklessly, Oswiu would have had him killed, of that he was in no doubt.

  And yet, as they had stared into each other’s eyes briefly at the feast, and when she had passed so close to where he sat that he could make out her scent, he had been almost overwhelmed by his lust.

  He cursed and spat over the palisade into the night.

  Watching her leave the hall with Oswiu had been nearly unbearable. But bear it, he must. Oswiu was his king, his oath-sworn lord, and Eanflæd his queen. There was nothing else to be said or done.

  Gods, how he wished he had brought some mead or wine up onto the ramparts. Perhaps the drink would help to ease the troubles that tumbled in his mind. If he drank enough, sleep would finally find him.

  To the east, lightning lit the clouds and sea again.

  Up here, above the noise of the men who still revelled in the hall, and far from the stench of fire and battle at the gates, he could imagine he would be able to drink and forget for a time. But he knew that no matter how much he drank, how befuddled his mind became with mead, his problems would still be there in the stark light of morning. And the faces of the men he had killed would still haunt his nightmares.

  He thought of the night he had found Heremod up here, breath foul with the sour stink of drink. Did Fordraed’s man drink to forget? Even if he did, Heremod would not forget what he had seen one night in the darkness between Bebbanburg’s buildings, of that Beobrand was sure. A quiet, dark part of him had hoped that the accursed man might be slain in the battle, taking their secret to the afterlife with him. But Beobrand had seen the warrior in the courtyard as the sun dipped into the west. The man had been swigging from a flask of ale. When he saw Beobrand he’d grinned, his teeth white against the face and beard that were slicked with blood. Unlike Fordraed, Heremod seemed to have managed to find his way into the thick of the fighting and Beobrand felt a grudging respect for that.

  Of course, Heremod had survived. The gods would not allow him to die without wreaking mischief by revealing his secret. And was it truly a secret? Was it possible he had not spoken to Fordraed or anyone else of the tryst he had observed?

  The sound of a woman’s moaning drifted up from below. Beobrand glanced down into the courtyard. In the shadows beneath the wall, he could just make out the figures of a man and a woman. She was leaning against the timbers of the palisade, her dress hitched up around her waist. The indistinct form of a man writhed and grunted behind her. Beobrand’s face grew hot and he looked away, over the courtyard. Men and women still laughed and talked down there. And no doubt others coupled in darkened corners. It was a strange night of celebration and mourning. But Beobrand had seen it before, after a battle. After so much death and horror, people wished to wallow in the things that brought them pleasure. Many a woman would be with child come morning. With a pang of jealousy, he wondered whether Eanflæd would give Oswiu another heir. Was she even now lying with the king, taking him into her? Crying out with pleasure as he thrust inside her?

  With difficulty, Beobrand pushed the thoughts away. Again he wished he had brought some drink up here to dull his senses and his thoughts.

  In the courtyard, children shrieked and ran about in the darkness. A mother shouted at them that it was time to sleep. They laughed and disappeared into the shadows. The children had picked up on the feeling of festivity and were enjoying the night of freedom after so many days of gloom and impending doom where all of the adult folk had walked about with frowns and scowls upon their faces.

  He recalled his own sudden surge of joy that afternoon when he had seen Octa. At first he had not recognised his son. The boy had grown tall, though he still looked slender beside the burly thegns and gesithas who sat at the boards alongside him. As Beobrand had walked the length of the hall towards the high table, Octa had turned to speak to the young man beside him. It was Alhfrith, Oswiu’s son. They laughed and Beobrand saw who it was talking to the atheling. He was shocke
d that he had almost walked right past his own son. Still, it had been months since he had last seen the boy.

  “Octa,” he said, beckoning his son over to speak with him.

  Reluctantly, Octa rose and joined his father, but when Beobrand asked how he fared, the boy did little more than shrug and say he was well enough.

  Beobrand had pressed for more information. Where had they ridden? Had he been in the fighting before the fortress?

  Octa spoke in terse phrases and Beobrand found out little apart from learning that the king had led them as far west as Caer Luel and that he had ordered the atheling and some of the other warriors to hang back from the fighting. Beobrand had been thankful to his king for that, but the encounter had done little more than sadden him. His son was as a stranger to him and soon he had let Octa return to Alhfrith and the other warriors of Oswiu’s retinue.

  As he’d stood there, contemplating whether it was every man’s wyrd to see his sons grow to despise him, a hand had clapped him on the shoulder. It was Cynan and that meeting was happier by far. The Waelisc man was headstrong and oftentimes angered Beobrand, but he was steadfast and loyal and Beobrand had been overjoyed to see him return safely to Bebbanburg.

  “They grow up quickly, lord,” Cynan said.

  Beobrand nodded and sighed.

  “They do that.”

  “He is not much younger than I was when you and Acennan brought me out of Mercia,” Cynan said.

  “Truly? Gods, it seems like yesterday.” Beobrand thought of all that had happened in the years since then. The time had passed more quickly than he could believe. So much pain and suffering. So much loss. He tried to picture Cynan as he had first seen him, a scrawny thrall, beaten almost to death by Wybert and his friends. The man who stood before him in the great hall of Bebbanburg was hard to recognise as that weakling youth who could barely stay seated on a donkey’s back. Cynan was now a warrior of renown, tall and strong, skilled with blade and the best horseman in Bernicia.