Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Wigelm stuttered into silence.

  Nobody else spoke and the silence in the hall stretched out. Outside, the rain, less ferocious than before, fell in a constant droning downpour.

  Oswiu had made Oswine’s messenger wait while the hall was cleaned and arranged for the king to break his fast. Then Oswiu had eaten slowly, forcing the clearly exhausted and soaked Deiran to wait at the far end of the hall before eventually beckoning him forward to deliver his missive. Beobrand found the king’s actions petty and without honour. He sighed as the hush dragged on. Oswiu allowed the awkwardness to continue, probably imagining that it somehow gave him more power to have Wigelm uncomfortable. But Oswiu was the king and this man a lowly messenger. These antics did nothing but make Oswiu appear vindictive and weak in Beobrand’s eyes.

  When Wigelm could bear the silence no longer, he pulled himself up straight.

  “My lord king Oswiu—”

  “Silence,” snapped Oswiu. Reaching for his cup, he drank slowly from it.

  Beobrand snorted, stifling a chuckle. Gods, why did he not just let the man finish giving his tidings? Surely they all needed to hear what he had to say.

  Fordraed glowered at Beobrand in disapproval. Beobrand ignored him. Fordraed had no comprehension of how close he was to death. If not for Beobrand’s intervention, the fat bastard would even now be stuffing his belly with the scraps from Woden’s table, if the All-father deigned to offer him a place in his hall, something Beobrand doubted. Wherever the man’s spirit would go, without Beobrand’s calming words to Beircheart, Fordraed’s flesh would now be meat for the ravens.

  Beobrand thought back to the night before on the palisade. He wondered for how long Beircheart would hold back and stay his hand. He was a proud man, but Beobrand had his oath and that had saved Fordraed for the time being. But Beobrand recognised the fury in the gesith. He knew not how much longer his words to Beircheart as his hlaford would prevent him from throwing reason and sense away and taking that which he craved: vengeance for one too weak to seek it herself.

  Beobrand understood the man’s anger well. And yet he had been shocked to hear the words that Beircheart had spoken as the rain had begun to pelt Bebbanburg in the darkness. Beobrand had not known Beircheart still held any feelings for Edlyn. He knew they had cosseted each other once, years before when she was not much more than a girl. Since then, she had been married to Fordraed and she seldom visited her mother, Rowena, at Ubbanford. A few times over the years, Beobrand had seen her at Morðpæð or Bebbanburg, but he paid her little attention.

  But it seemed Beircheart paid her closer notice, though quite how much Beobrand was not sure and did not wish to ask.

  “She is a married woman, Beircheart,” he’d said, the cold wind from the North Sea tugging at his hair and cutting through his wet kirtle. He thought of Eanflæd and shivered at his own words.

  Beircheart punched the timber of the rampart again.

  “I know this, lord,” he said. “But by Woden, she is married to a brute.”

  “Many women are.”

  “He beats her,” Beircheart said and his voice was so quiet that Beobrand could barely make out his words as the rain splattered loudly against the timbers of the wall. Droplets hissed in the nearest brazier and the flame flapped and danced in the wind.

  “Fordraed is her husband,” Beobrand said. “It is his right to beat her.” His words tasted bitter; weak.

  “I know this.” Beircheart’s voice cracked as he gulped back a sob. “Gods, I know this. He has struck her before and I have done nothing. But I saw her face tonight and…” He looked at Beobrand and there were tears in his eyes. “Her face…” He swiped at his eyes. “Gods, the man is a nithing. He cannot fight men and so he takes out his failures on her.”

  It was true that a man could beat his wife, but would Beobrand stand by and do nothing if he saw bruises on Eanflæd’s face? For a moment he thought of Udela and Ardith. The wind gusted and the rain fell more heavily. It was on such a night as this that Scrydan had met his end. Beobrand could almost hear his erstwhile friend’s wailing howls of agony in the wind-rent night.

  “I loathe the man too,” Beobrand said. “But we are at war. Now is not the time.”

  This was true, but Beobrand could hear the falsehood in his words even if Beircheart could not. The truth was that he did not know what Heremod would say if his lord were killed in a duel with one of Beobrand’s gesithas. Surely, the warrior would tell the king then of what he had seen and Beobrand and Eanflæd would be lost.

  “Bide your time, Beircheart,” he said, gripping his shoulder. “You must swallow your anger until we are certain of peace. Then I will stand by your side as you challenge the fat bag of turds.”

  Beircheart sighed and lowered his gaze. Beobrand said no more, allowing him to wrestle with his emotions. Eventually, Beircheart gave a terse nod of agreement.

  Looking at Fordraed’s pink-cheeked face now, Beobrand felt ashamed. Who was he to prevent Beircheart seeking retribution for Fordraed’s brutality towards a woman he evidently harboured feelings for? He did this for Eanflæd, Beobrand told himself, but he could not shake the feeling of guilt that clung to him the way his wet kirtle had the night before.

  “So, Wigelm,” Oswiu said at last, glowering at the messenger, “you say that Oswine met the Waelisc in battle.”

  “Yes, lord king.” Wigelm had already told them how Oswine of Deira had gathered the fyrd of his kingdom and was bringing them north to Bernicia’s aid when they had met the great host of men from Powys and Gwynedd near the River Sualuae. However, he seemed content to repeat himself and was clearly relieved that Oswiu had chosen to break the uncomfortable silence. “Our fyrd met the great host of Waelisc at Catrice and there was great slaughter. May God be praised for our victory.”

  Utta and Coenred, who were standing at the edge of the gathered throng of thegns and ealdorman around the king, both made the sign of the Christ cross. Oswiu did not move.

  “And now you say they are marching north.” His tone was cold and flat. “Into Bernicia.”

  “Yes, lord king,” said Wigelm. “They march with all haste to offer their aid in the defence of Bebbanburg from the Mercian host.”

  “Well, Oswine is too late!” Oswiu shouted, splintering the calm of the hall. “Did you see the gates? Did you spy the corpses that litter the land before the fortress?”

  Wigelm swallowed. Beobrand felt sorry for the man. He merely bore the message and it seemed that Oswine had done all that he could to assist Bernicia.

  “Yes, lord king. But know that the Deirans too lost many in the battle at Catrice. I am sure that my lord Oswine King will be filled with sorrow to hear of your losses.”

  The man was brave, thought Beobrand. For a moment, it seemed as though Oswiu might unleash his fury at Wigelm. He took in a deep breath and his face darkened with anger.

  “Will he?” he asked at last, his voice strangely calm. “Will he indeed? We shall see. But he will not see the damage for himself.”

  “Lord king?”

  “Ride south with all haste and tell your king that he is not to lead his fyrd into my kingdom. I will not have another enemy warhost on my land.”

  “But lord king,” spluttered Wigelm, “Deira is not your enemy.” He looked about him for support, but none came. The men around the king did not meet the Deiran’s eyes.

  “Is it not?” Oswiu said, taking a sip from his cup. “We shall see.”

  Beobrand glanced at Eanflæd. She was staring at her husband in confusion. Her face had turned as pale as curds.

  For a time nobody spoke. There was a chill in the air of the hall now, and Wigelm scanned the faces around him, unsure of himself. Oswiu glowered, but spoke no further.

  After a moment, Wigelm raised his head and pushed out his chest. Beobrand found himself liking the man instinctively.

  “Do you have a message for me to take to my lord Oswine beyond not leading the fyrd into Bernicia?”

  Ethelwin stepp
ed forward then. Oswiu glared at him as he spoke, but did not interrupt his warmaster.

  “Tell Oswine that we will meet him under the branch of truce. We will ride south and speak at Catrice,” he paused, thinking for a moment, “on the eve of the next quarter moon. And, Wigelm, tell him we do not come to fight but to speak together to understand how best we are to face the threat of Penda and his allies.”

  Wigelm listened to Ethelwin and nodded. He then turned back to Oswiu.

  “Does the lord Ethelwin speak for you, lord king?”

  Oswiu’s face was scarlet. Again Beobrand was tempted to laugh. He wanted to step forward and clap Wigelm on the back for his courage.

  “No man speaks for me,” Oswiu said through gritted teeth, his words sibilant and sharp. “But Ethelwin is my warmaster, and he speaks with wisdom. We will ride south and meet Oswine under truce. Tell him to be prepared for our arrival.”

  Oswiu waved his hand and two of the hall wardens led Wigelm away. When he had left the hall, Oswiu rose and paced away from the board where he had sat for the audience with the Deiran messenger.

  “You forgot yourself, Ethelwin,” he said. “Do not presume to speak with my voice.”

  “Forgive me, lord,” replied Ethelwin. “I am tired and I should not have spoken before consulting with you. But I am your warmaster—”

  “Yes,” snapped Oswiu, cutting him off, “and it is your duty to help me in war.”

  Ethelwin nodded and Beobrand could see that he was searching for the right words to say to the king.

  “I see it as my duty to protect you and the realm, lord king. Do you agree?”

  “Yes,” answered Oswiu, still angry, his cheeks flushed, his eyes dark. “But these are just words. It is all the same. You fight my enemies.”

  “That I will always do,” Ethelwin said.

  Oswiu’s eyes narrowed and he halted his pacing.

  “You think I am wrong to doubt Oswine’s good faith?”

  “I think it would be rash to start another war if there is no other enemy save one we make for ourselves.”

  Oswiu frowned.

  “And you think talking would be better than fighting?”

  “There will always be time enough for killing,” replied Ethelwin. “I think words kill fewer men.”

  Oswiu stroked at the morning bristles on his cheeks.

  “We shall see,” he said. “We shall see.”

  Chapter 34

  Cynan looked back at the looming presence of Bebbanburg as they rode down the slope and swung around to the left, heading south. The corpses had all been removed and there was little on the muddy track to show where so many men had perished just four days earlier. The long period of hot weather had truly ended with the storm that followed the battle and now the skies were leaden, the fortress a dark, brooding presence against the eastern sky where the sun fought to shine through thick banks of cloud.

  The atmosphere within Bebbanburg seemed to have been dampened with the onset of the rain. For the three days since Wigelm had arrived with word of Oswine’s defeat of the Waelisc, and Oswiu’s response to the news, a pall of quiet tension had draped itself over the fortress. The people busied themselves with the repairs to the gates and walls, and they set about rebuilding the guardhouse. They worked hard, but spoke little and never with cheer. At night the men got drunk and there had been several fights.

  On the day after Oswine’s messenger had been sent south once more, the mood had lifted somewhat with the arrival of the royal waggons and carts from the west. Cynan had half expected them to have been plundered by the fleeing Mercians, but they rolled into sight in the early afternoon, surrounded by the horsemen Oswiu had sent. It was good news. The train of vehicles brought the tribute from the halls and farms to the west. To lose those treasures and goods would have been a hard blow. That night Oswiu had smiled and ordered Cædmon to tell tales and riddles. For a time it seemed that the sorrowful torpor that had engulfed Bebbanburg had lifted. But the peace was soon shattered when one of Fordraed’s gesithas beat Fægir senseless.

  Cynan had to intervene, barging through the men surrounding Fægir. The young man, who moments before had been laughing and singing drunkenly with the rest of them, now lay in the wet rushes of the hall, barely able to defend himself while Fordraed’s men laughed and jeered, kicking and spitting on him.

  “The next man to touch him will feel my steel in his belly,” Cynan had shouted and the men halted. They glowered at him and one of them, a rat-faced man named Pusa, spat onto Fægir’s bleeding face.

  “Sheep-swiving Waelisc scum,” he said, looking Cynan in the eye.

  Cynan ignored him, but he would not forget the insult. He added Pusa to the long list of men who would one day regret crossing him.

  When Fægir came round, he could not recall what had started the fight, or who had landed the first blow. His face was a blotchy mess of bruises, with his right eye swollen shut and one of his front teeth knocked out.

  “Well,” Ingwald said, trying to cheer the boy up, “at least you have Agatha back home. Now that you’ve been uglied up, your days of having all the cunny you wish for might be over.” The men had laughed and even Fægir had managed a pained smile as they poured more mead for him. But Cynan felt a burning fury at the abuse of his man.

  His man.

  He knew they were not truly his men, they were but ceorls who had turned to a warrior with a horse, helm and sword in a moment of need. They had not sworn oaths to him and, as he often reminded Ingwald, he was no lord. And yet he felt responsible for them. That Fordraed’s men should treat one of them so harshly filled him with a searing anger he could barely contain.

  He had gone to Beobrand, hoping he would address Fordraed about it, but like the rest of the folk in Bebbanburg, Beobrand seemed oddly subdued and had dismissed Cynan’s ire with a shrug.

  “Men fight, Cynan. It’s what they do. No use pushing this any further.” Beobrand had sipped absently at his ale, his mind clearly elsewhere. “You stopped it getting out of hand. Let it go now.” Emptying his drinking horn, he’d wiped his moustache with his half-hand. “We’ll need all the fighting men hale. I fear we might soon be at war again, if Oswiu has his way.”

  And there it was, the reason for the cloak of despondency over Bebbanburg. Word of Oswiu’s belligerent response to Wigelm had spread quickly and the people worried that their king had barely led them out of one conflict merely to plunge them into another.

  The afternoon of the following day saw the return of the horsemen who had been sent to harry the Mercian retreat. They had ridden, slumped in their saddles, exhausted and bedraggled, through the drizzle. They too brought glad tidings. They had slain several more Mercians and the others had scattered into smaller groups. They had followed Penda and the main force of mounted Mercians all the way into the east until they had crossed the Great Wall near Caer Luel. It would be some time before Penda would again be able to amass enough men to attack Bernicia.

  This news brought with it a ripple of positivity, but the prospect of Oswiu once again leaving Bebbanburg to confront Oswine for some perceived slight prevented the people from rejoicing. The rain continued to fall from the slate grey clouds, washing away the gore from the site of the carnage before the gates, but also dampening the spirits of the victors.

  Cynan turned in the saddle to survey the line of riders heading southward. The column was stretched out behind him, moving slowly, having to maintain the speed of the waggon that housed Lady Edlyn. They were escorting her back to Morðpæð. Oswiu and his eighty riders would overnight there, before continuing on to the parley with Oswine.

  The waggon was covered and Edlyn had hurried across the muddy courtyard with her maid and climbed inside, drawing the leather curtain behind her, but Cynan had caught a glimpse of her slim, usually comely face and had been shocked to see it blotched and bruised. Her left eye was darkened from a blow and one of her high, angular cheeks was mottled and dark as a thundercloud. Cynan had always considered
Edlyn a spoilt, foolish thing. He seldom gave her much thought, but the sight of her battered face filled him with dismay. Surely it had been that fat bastard of a husband of hers who had done this. Again he thought of Fægir and how Fordraed’s men had beaten him when he could no longer defend himself. Beobrand hated the man, Cynan knew, so he’d turned to see the thegn’s reaction to Edlyn’s injuries. Beobrand was swinging up onto Sceadugenga’s back and appeared not to have noticed. If any of the others had seen her, none of them seemed to care. They prepared their mounts and readied themselves for the ride south. Only one man caught Cynan’s eye.

  Beircheart was staring at the closed curtain of the covered waggon and his face was thunderous and dark. When he noted Cynan looking at him, he fixed him with a glare, the meaning of which Cynan could not interpret.

  Beobrand and his retinue rode alongside Reodstan and his men near the front of the line. Beobrand was mounted on his sleek black stallion, Sceadugenga. Beside him rode Dreogan, his tattooed face now bearing a long, jagged scar that Coenred had cleaned and sewn together with horsehair. It gave Dreogan an even more ferocious appearance than before. The wound was still scabbed and cracked open and bled whenever he spoke. It must have pained him greatly, but the burly bald warrior seemed unaffected by it. Brinin too rode with them, though Beobrand had tried to convince him to stay behind.

  He was still pale and his arm was clearly stiff and painful, but the youth had stood before Beobrand in the hall that morning and told him he was coming.

  “Would you have the man married to your daughter be thought of as a coward?” he had asked, when Beobrand had sought to deter him.

  “I would have my daughter’s husband return to her alive,” Beobrand said. “There is no dishonour in resting to recover from a wound. Fraomar too must remain here, as his body is not yet strong enough for the ride.”