Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  “Would you turn your back on your duty, if you thought it the safer route?” Brinin asked.

  Fraomar, still pallid and weak, frowned, perhaps perceiving some insult in the young man’s words, though Cynan was sure none was intended. It was just the way of headstrong youth and Cynan had not been able to prevent himself from laughing out loud. Dreogan joined in, cursing as his wound opened and trickled blood on his cheek. Soon all of Beobrand’s gesithas were laughing at the prospect of their hlaford ever shying away from danger. Beobrand scowled at them.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “But stay close to me and don’t get yourself killed or you’ll have me to answer to.” The men had laughed again then, and it had felt good after so many days of sombre gloom.

  Despite the mizzle of rain that fell on them, it was good to be gone from Bebbanburg and its oppressive walls. Cynan turned away from the shadowed fortress and looked eastward. There were men in the distance working amongst the remains of the buildings the Mercians had torn down.

  Without a word to Beobrand or any of the other horsemen, Cynan kicked his heels into Mierawin’s flanks and the bay mare took off at an easy canter towards the toiling figures.

  As Cynan reined the mare in, Ingwald put down the shovel he was using to dig new postholes in the moist earth. Stepping past the rubble of the building, he walked to Cynan. He looked up, shielding his eyes against the watery light of the sun behind the Waelisc warrior.

  The rest of the men from Hefenfelth looked in his direction, nodding in greeting and also in farewell, as they knew he was riding south with the king. Fægir, a large part of his face the same colour as the rain-gravid clouds, raised his hand. Cynan returned his wave, holding his reins loosely in his left hand. He thought of Edlyn and the bruises on her delicate features and wondered how long it would be until Fordraed faced a reckoning for his cowardly actions.

  Pushing aside his thoughts, he looked down from the saddle at Ingwald.

  “I will return soon, gods be willing,” said Cynan.

  “I’ll be here waiting, lord,” replied Ingwald with a twisted smirk.

  Cynan ignored the man’s teasing use of the title.

  “I know the king has commanded you to help with the rebuilding,” he said. “But do not tarry longer than you must. You have families to go to, fields to be tended. Work here for a few days and then you have my leave to return to your homes.”

  “Your leave?” asked Ingwald. “I thought you were no lord.” He laughed at the serious look on Cynan’s face.

  “I am not your lord or anyone’s,” he replied, “but if you insist on treating me as such, I give you leave to go back to your home.”

  Ingwald stared at him for several heartbeats, his face serious now.

  “I thank you, Cynan,” he said at last. “But I will be waiting here for you. I cannot speak for the others, but I will be here.”

  “As you wish,” Cynan said. “Take care of yourself and the rest of them, Ingwald.”

  He pulled Mierawin’s head around and galloped back to the column of riders. He did not look round, but he was certain that Ingwald and the others were watching him. He wondered what they were thinking. Would Ingwald truly remain here, waiting for his return? Would any of the others? The gods alone knew. He could scarcely believe he had instilled such loyalty in any man.

  He rejoined the column of riders, falling into step beside Beobrand and Dreogan.

  “All good?” Beobrand asked.

  Cynan hesitated, unsure of his answer. He wondered what good would come of this meeting between Oswiu and Oswine.

  “Are your men well?” Beobrand pressed.

  His men.

  Cynan felt a shiver of secret pride.

  “Yes, lord,” he replied and found himself grinning. “They are well.”

  Beobrand nodded and they rode on in silence into the south, the line of horsemen and the lumbering waggons trailing in their wake.

  Chapter 35

  They reached Fordraed’s hall at Morðpæð shortly before nightfall. The rain had stopped falling and the sun in the west was a crimson orb, licking the dark clouds with flames of red.

  After passing many steadings that had been either completely or partly destroyed, it was strange to ride up to the great hall, its golden thatch glowing in the setting sun, and see it apparently untouched by the recent invaders of the land. The barns, stables and outbuildings were all intact too. The place was silent and had an air of emptiness about it that was unnerving after the many days cooped up with so many behind the walls of Bebbanburg.

  As they walked their horses slowly into the open area of ground before the buildings, several crows that had been hidden amongst the long grass in the meadows flapped noisily into the reddening sky. That lush grass would need to be harvested soon, scythed close to the earth to make hay for the livestock. Judging from the length of the grass and the size of the meadows, Fordraed’s animals would have plenty of fodder to see them through the far-off winter months of cold and gloom.

  The men spoke in hushed tones, not wishing to break the calm of the place. They took the horses down to the stream before leading them quietly back up to the stables. It felt to Beobrand as if they were somehow intruding on such a peaceful place. As if the rest of middle earth had been plunged into battle, flames and darkness and this small corner of Bernicia, nestling in the crook of the Wenspic, with its stand of tall willows whispering in the light breeze, had been forgotten by fame-hungry kings and capricious gods. The arrival of so many horses and people filled the settlement with sound. Even though Beobrand could sense he was not alone in his feelings and all of the men were subdued, threescore horses and their riders were impossible to keep quiet.

  After they had stabled the animals, Ethelwin gave orders for the men to take watches during the night. Beobrand was glad. He was on edge and nervous. The land was peaceful and calm, and yet his skin prickled as if he were being watched. He would drink sparingly and sleep with his sword close.

  When they had finished with the horses and made their way into the hall, the sun had dropped below the horizon and darkness was pulling itself about them. The feeling of silence and abandoned forgetfulness had been shattered. Fordraed’s thralls and bondsmen had returned with the riders from Bebbanburg and they had quickly set about readying the hall for the guests. When Beobrand entered, woodsmoke was billowing up from a hastily lit fire and boards and benches had already been set up.

  Those men not assigned the first watch slumped onto the benches, glad to be out of the saddle. Fordraed’s steward had either brought mead from Bebbanburg, or else he had found some hidden away in the hall’s stores, for a couple of young women briskly bustled about the hall, setting out cups and horns and filling them for the thirsty men.

  Beobrand nodded to Cynan and the rest of his gesithas as he passed. He would have preferred to sit with them, but Oswiu had requested that he dine at the high table. He winced to see Dreogan’s scarred face. The cut must have caused great discomfort, but the man was as strong as an ox and did not complain. Dreogan grinned at him, the healing scar and the soot lines of his tattoos giving him a formidable aspect. Beobrand was glad of his presence, and that of the other men. He did not know what would transpire when Oswiu met Oswine, but he could almost smell the approach of more bloodshed on the air. He thought of the stillness of Fordraed’s hall and how it felt as though the land itself held its breath, waiting. But for what? Still, whatever the night might bring, or the coming days as they rode south for the kings to parley, he could have no better men at his side.

  Brinin glanced up at him, then lowered his gaze quickly, unable to maintain eye contact with his lord and father-in-law.

  Beobrand wished the boy had stayed back at Bebbanburg and that Fraomar had been sufficiently hale to ride with them. Brinin was brave enough, but he was just a boy and Beobrand dreaded him coming to further harm. He did not wish to have to face Ardith with tidings of the boy’s death. The girl doted on Brinin and Beobrand thought it m
ight break her spirit if something were to happen to him. She was a strong girl, but there was a fragility about her that he hoped one day would melt away like winter frosts.

  Seating himself at the high table, beside Ethelwin, Beobrand reached for a cup of mead and smiled to himself. There was no denying the boy’s mettle. The men loved Brinin, treating him as a younger brother. How they had laughed at him standing up to Beobrand! They loved boldness and bravery above all else, and Beobrand grudgingly admitted Brinin had both.

  Fraomar too was fearless. He had also asked to ride with them, but in his case, no matter how much he pushed, Beobrand would not relent. The man was yet pallid and weak. His strength would return, both Coenred and the old healer woman agreed, but neither could be certain about his memory. Fraomar still seemed confused about what had happened and when Beobrand spoke to him, it appeared to him as though part of the young warrior yet slept, lost in a world of dreams within his mind, while the rest of him moved about, ate, drank and spoke. It was as if Fraomar was a shadow of who he had been. Where he had been forceful and decisive, now he was hesitant and nervous, unsure of himself. To see him so weakened, a thin wraith-like reflection of himself, filled Beobrand with regret and sadness.

  “Look after him,” he had whispered to Coenred before they left Bebbanburg. “Make him whole again.”

  The young monk had nodded sombrely.

  “It is not within my power to grant your wish, Beo,” he’d said. “But I will pray that God will bring all of him back.”

  Beobrand supposed there was no more anyone could do now. It was between the gods and Fraomar whether the bright, clever, deadly warrior would ever stand in the shieldwall once more, commanding men, leading them to victory.

  “What say you, Beobrand?”

  The blustering voice encroached on his thoughts. With a sigh of annoyance, Beobrand lowered his cup and turned to the brash speaker.

  It was Fordraed, smiling and obscenely obsequious.

  “About what?” asked Beobrand. His tone was as harsh and hard as a punch.

  Fordraed recoiled, as if he feared Beobrand might indeed strike him.

  “Why, about my hall, of course.” He spread his arms, gesturing at the length and breadth of the building. Beobrand noted that the lady Edlyn was not present at the table. He frowned at the memory of her bruised face when she had hurried into her waggon at Bebbanburg. He had felt Beircheart’s ire and had studiously ignored him, not wishing to give the man any encouragement. It had been all he could do to dissuade him from seeking out Fordraed for a duel. To have both the subject of his desire and his anger with them as they rode south must have tormented Beircheart.

  Beobrand glanced around the hall, taking in its stout, carved pillars and the great blackened chain that hung down above the hearth. Shields, banners and other trophies adorned the walls.

  “It is comfortable enough,” replied Beobrand.

  Fordraed beamed.

  Gods knew how Beircheart had managed to keep his word to Beobrand and not lash out at this fat fool. Beobrand was ashamed to have held him back. But he could not risk the man speaking out, if Heremod had spoken to him of what he had seen.

  “It is,” Fordraed was saying, “comfortable and warm, and my steward brews the best mead in Albion. Criba has had no time to prepare food, but I am sure that soon we will dine like emperors of old Roma. The man is a marvel—”

  “It seems to me,” Beobrand said, interrupting him, “that you are indeed blessed.”

  “I am, I am,” said Fordraed. “Criba is a fine man.”

  “I am sure he is,” replied Beobrand. “But your blessings go further than your steward, Fordraed. Do they not?”

  Fordraed’s jowls quivered and he tilted his head nervously.

  “How so?” he asked.

  Beobrand swallowed a mouthful of mead. It was indeed good. He could not let this bastard harp on about his hall and his mead. Even as he spoke, he knew there was risk in what he was doing. If Fordraed knew of his meeting with Eanflæd, now would be the moment he would speak up. But if he did not, perhaps there was a way of silencing him, or at least making Oswiu less inclined to listen to his voice.

  “I am known as one who has luck,” Beobrand said, “yet I do not believe it to be so. But you, it seems, should accept the title of ‘Fordraed the Lucky’.”

  Oswiu, Ethelwin and the others at the high table were silent now, keenly watching Beobrand and Fordraed. All had been peace and stillness when they had arrived, but suddenly, the hall’s air crackled with the pent-up energy that fills clouds before a thunderstorm. Beobrand’s enmity towards Fordraed was notorious, and since the burning of the gates at Bebbanburg, the fat lord had fallen out of Oswiu’s favour. Fordraed was not popular and the men now watched expectantly to see where Beobrand’s comments would lead.

  The silence of the king, ealdormen and thegns quickly spread to the rest of the hall and soon, all the men gathered there were staring with open interest at the high table.

  “Indeed?” said Fordraed, his voice cracking. “How is it that I am so lucky?”

  “You have a young, pretty wife. Though I am sure she feels less than lucky with her lot.”

  Some of the men laughed. Beobrand ignored them and continued.

  “And despite the great battle before the gates of Bebbanburg, you escaped without a scratch. Some might say this is due to your great battle-skill,” he paused for effect, letting his words sink in. “But no man who knows you would believe it to be so.”

  The men in the hall laughed more loudly. Fordraed’s face grew dark. He pushed his bulk to his feet, seemingly ready to launch himself at Beobrand. Fordraed turned towards Oswiu, perhaps meaning to seek the king’s aid in these attacks on his reputation, but Oswiu was laughing with the rest of them. The king slapped the table and struggled for breath, such was his mirth.

  “Why you… you…” Fordraed stammered, turning his attention back to his tormentor.

  Beobrand held up his hand for silence and slowly the sounds of merriment abated. Everyone leaned forward to hear what he was going to say next.

  “But the thing that truly separates our luck and our wyrd, it seems to me, is that when war was far away in the west at Maserfelth, with no danger to the halls and farms of Bernicia, it was my hall of Ubbanford, and my hall alone, that was attacked by a warband of Mercians. Halga led his men through Bernicia, risking attack all the way, and struck at my home when I was sent south to retrieve the body of our lord king’s brother.”

  “That had nothing to do with me,” said Fordraed, his voice high.

  “I did not say that it did,” replied Beobrand, his voice as quiet and sharp as a blade being dragged across a whetstone. “And yet it was my hall that was burnt!” He raised his voice, barking out the words as if he were shouting over the din of battle. “My people slain! My treasure stolen! My woman murdered!” With each statement, Beobrand slammed his fist into the board with a crash.

  “Lord king,” spluttered Fordraed, “you cannot allow Beobrand to say these things.”

  Oswiu narrowed his eyes, frowning.

  “Do you presume to tell me what I can and cannot allow, Fordraed?” Oswiu’s tone was heavy with threats. Fordraed shook his head. “And does Beobrand speak false? He has done no more than speak the truth.”

  “But lord—” Fordraed whined.

  Oswiu silenced him with a glare.

  “Tell us, lord Beobrand,” Oswiu went on. “How does your ill fortune separate you from Fordraed here? Much as I enjoy seeing him squirm, I am tired and I would eat some of the wondrous food he has promised us.”

  “It seems passing strange to me that my hall should be destroyed and my people killed when war was far away, and yet Fordraed’s hall should be untouched, when Penda leads his warhost to the very gates of Bebbanburg, destroying all in his path, and sending your people scurrying for shelter to the fortress.” Beobrand hesitated for a heartbeat. Now was the moment that Fordraed would speak out against him. If he knew of his
secret with the queen, he would use that knowledge now. Taking a deep breath, Beobrand continued, “One could almost imagine that the lord Fordraed might have sent a message to Penda, to ask him to leave his home undamaged.”

  Fordraed stepped towards Beobrand, dropping his hand to the seax that hung from his belt.

  “Why, you whoreson,” he growled.

  Beobrand ignored him, instead directing his words at the king.

  “Of course, such a thing is impossible,” he said. “Fordraed is your trusted man and a lord of Bernicia; he would never enter into an alliance with your enemy. And therefore, looking upon the stable, storerooms, barns and this great hall, all standing intact and unsullied by the passing horde of Mercians, I say that from this day forth, Fordraed, and not I, should be known as the lucky one.”

  Fordraed fell silent. He glowered at Beobrand. The fat man was breathless and red-faced. Beobrand was certain he would have liked nothing more than to lash out at him. Beobrand had not openly accused him of anything, though surely his words had sown seeds of doubt in Oswiu’s mind as certainly as if he had said that Fordraed was Penda’s man. Fordraed stood there, gasping and shaking and doing nothing.

  In that moment, Beobrand was certain that Fordraed did not know of his night-time meeting with Eanflæd. If he had, he would surely have used that knowledge to deflect the king’s suspicions away from him.

  For a moment he wondered whether the man would attack him, but just as quickly, Beobrand dismissed the thought. Whatever else was true of the man, Beobrand knew Fordraed to be a coward. If he meant to strike out at Beobrand, it would never be face-to-face in a hall, it would be with a knife slipped between his ribs in the darkness. And more than likely, it would be a blade in the hand of another.

  Oswiu held Beobrand’s gaze for a long time, stroking his chin in thought. Evidently, the lord of Ubbanford’s words had set him thinking. After a time, he nodded at Beobrand.

  “Sit down,” he said to the furious Fordraed, “you look ridiculous standing there. Be seated,” Oswiu smirked at Beobrand, “Fordraed the Lucky.”