Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Chapter 36

  In the morning the rain had returned. Despite Beobrand’s misgivings the previous evening, the night had been uneventful and with the first light of dawn they were up and mounting the horses in a thin drizzle that fell from a sullen sky.

  For the rest of the evening Fordraed had chosen to ignore Beobrand, turning his broad back on him and seeking to make lively conversation with the king. Beobrand drank sparingly of the mead and as soon as the benches and boards were pulled to the edges of the hall, he had wrapped himself in his cloak and slept. He was surprised at how quickly he had fallen asleep. The place was loud with the talk of the men, most of whom were more accepting of their host’s hospitality than Beobrand. As the mead flowed, so the noise within the hall grew louder, but Beobrand slept more soundly than he had in days. Perhaps it was the long ride and the sense of freedom that came from being outside the walls of Bebbanburg, or maybe it was the certainty that Fordraed did not know his secret. Heremod was still a risk, but the man appeared content to drink himself into a stupor in the hall that night, and somehow the warrior with his plaited beard seemed at once both more and less dangerous than his hlaford. Heremod was certainly deadlier with a blade, but also, it seemed to Beobrand, less likely to whisper vicious secrets into the king’s ear.

  But he was still a danger to both Beobrand and the queen, and thoughts of how to deal with the problem turned in Beobrand’s mind as he drifted to sleep.

  Leaving Fordraed’s hall, they pushed on south. Now that they had left behind the waggons carrying Edlyn, the thralls and servants, they made better progress. But the roads were muddy and the days miserable as they passed the Great Wall and crossed the river Tine. These paths were well-known to them, but as they travelled south of the Tine, they noticed that the land did not display the scars of a passing warhost. The fields were full of rippling seas of barley and wheat and the ceorls and bondsmen who worked the land seemed less frightened than the men north of the Wall to see mounted warriors. They rode beneath Oswiu’s streaming purple banner, it was true, so perhaps the folk recognised their king. But whatever the reason, where the common folk of the land would usually flee from armed men, now they often spotted clustered groups of people staring at them as they passed.

  In the late afternoon, as they approached Lord Ecgric’s hall, where they hoped to spend the night, they saw a single man by the crumbling road. He was leaning against the gnarled trunk of an old elm. On the hill behind him were scattered a score of sheep. At his side sat a skinny hound. Both man and beast openly stared at the column of riders as they trotted past. Beobrand reined in Sceadugenga and nudged the stallion off the road. Attor, Beircheart, Dreogan and Cynan all followed their lord, their horses crowding around the man. His dog rose up and growled deep in its throat. Sceadugenga’s ears went down and he pawed the damp mossy earth beneath the elm.

  Beobrand patted the horse’s neck.

  “Waes hael,” he said to the man.

  The old man peered up at him, his eyes shadowed pits within the wrinkled, leathery face. He grunted.

  “Have you seen a host of warriors pass this way?” Beobrand asked.

  The man nodded, but did not speak. He eyed Beobrand suspiciously, as if the question were a riddle.

  “When?” Beobrand said, an edge of frustration entering his tone.

  “Now,” said the shepherd. His expression was one of bemusement as he nodded towards the passing riders.

  Beobrand sighed.

  “Not now,” he said. “This is your king, Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith.”

  The old shepherd bowed his head.

  “My lord,” he muttered.

  “No. I am not your king,” said Beobrand, wishing he had not stopped to converse with this fool. Cynan stifled a laugh and Beobrand shot him an angry glance. “Did a host of warriors come this way some days ago? There would have been many more of them than there are of us. They were Waelisc.”

  The man’s face lit up then and he nodded.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his furrowed face cracking into a broad smile. “We saw them, didn’t we, Ræcc? There were as many of them as fleas on old Ræcc here.”

  “When was this?”

  The man removed his woollen cap and scratched at the thinning, greasy grey hair beneath.

  “I don’t rightly know, lord king,” he said. Beobrand did not bother to correct him. Cynan snorted. “It must have been at least a sennight ago…” His voice trailed off as he tried to remember.

  “Did they return?”

  “Oh no, we would have seen such a host of men if they had come back up the road. We’ve not seen any Waelisc hosts since then. Reminded me of the old days of Edwin, it did,” mused the man. “When Cadwallon brought his great hosts into Northumbria. Terrible days. Terrible. Brigands and ruffians stalked the land that winter. Nowhere was safe.”

  Beobrand nodded, his mind suddenly filled with distant, dark memories of ice and blood.

  “Do you think we will be returning to such days again?” the man asked, looking nervously at Dreogan. The warrior’s scar was a raw, vivid red, his tattoos black and menacing.

  “No,” said Beobrand. “We have heard tell that Oswine of Deira defeated the Waelisc at Catrice. If they have not returned this way, they have been slain or routed and have rushed back westward, I imagine.” Beobrand hoped the message about the defeat of the men of Powys and Gwynedd was true.

  The man looked set to say more, but the horsemen had already passed and Beobrand did not wish to tarry further, so with a nod, he swung Sceadugenga’s head to the south and cantered after Oswiu and his retinue. His gesithas followed him.

  They stayed that night in the hall of Ecgric, son of Eacgric. The lord of the hall was old and had always been large, but now he was huge. His barrel of a belly must have been at least twice the girth of Fordraed’s. Ecgric struggled to squeeze his bulk into his finely carved chair, where he sat with the king. He had no news of note, having decided to remain in his hall when the summons for the fyrd came.

  “Three good men, I sent,” he said, shaking his head and wiping his greasy fingers on his fine kirtle. “Not a one returned to me. It is always thus when I send men to the fyrd, lord. I sometimes wonder if they don’t just decide to follow another man, rather than dying with dignity for their king and country.”

  Beobrand thought of the men who had followed Cynan from Hefenfelth and wondered whether Ecgric might not have the truth of it. He chose not to sit at the high table that night, and enjoyed his men’s company. One of them – Cynan, most likely – had told them all about the old shepherd mistaking Beobrand for the king and they had all laughed. Beobrand sighed, but smiled happily enough, despite the nagging feeling that they were riding towards danger. The thought from earlier that day tugged at his mind. Could it be that the tidings they had been sent by Oswine were false? Perhaps the Waelisc host yet remained in wait for them in the south.

  A sudden cheering drew Beobrand’s attention. One of the men further down the table had won a pile of hacksilver at knucklebones and was hollering and laughing at his good fortune. At the far end of the hall sat Fordraed’s men. One of them was staring at him. Peering through the smoky haze and the flame flicker from the hearth and rush lights, Beobrand was not surprised to recognise the bearded face of Heremod. The warrior returned his gaze for several heartbeats before raising his drinking horn to Beobrand with a mocking grin.

  That night Ethelwin once more placed guards around the hall. Beobrand took one of the watches, glad of the peace in the cool darkness. There were no sounds in the night but the whisper of the trees and the calls of night animals. At one point in the darkest part of the night, when the rain had stopped and the air was cold and moist, redolent of loam and leaf, a rustling brought Beobrand crashing from a doze into alert wakefulness. His heart hammered and he dropped his hand to Nægling’s pommel. A moment later, the shadowy shape of a badger snuffled into view, its white-striped face dimly lit by the moon and the stars dotting the now largely clo
udless sky.

  There was no further disturbance, and Beobrand began to wonder whether he was not being overly nervous. And yet, as they rode into the clear morning, the land steaming gently about them as the warm sun rose into the duck-egg-blue sky, he could not dispel the sensation that every step they travelled south brought them closer to something terrible. Could Oswiu truly wish to plunge them into a war with their closest neighbour and ally? Oswiu’s ambition was every bit as powerful as his brother Oswald’s. Both had wished to become Bretwalda, ruler of all the kingdoms of Albion. Perhaps Oswiu saw this as a way to begin making his dream a reality.

  At the end of the third day, as they rode down a long slope towards the Sualuae, they saw several horsemen arrayed across the road. The lowering sun shone on the distant water of the river and glinted from their battle gear and their horses’ harness.

  Beobrand held up his hand to halt the column and moments later Ethelwin and Oswiu rode up to where he set astride Sceadugenga, looking down into the valley.

  Oswiu glanced at the gathered warriors.

  “They are Oswine’s men,” he said. “They bear his standard.”

  They were too far away for Beobrand to make this out, but he saw a smudge of red and gold above the men, which must have been the banner atop a spear. Attor, knowing his lord’s eyesight was not as keen as his, nodded in agreement with the king.

  “Aye,” he said. “I make out a dozen of them. I think one of them is Wulfstan.”

  Oswiu spat into the weeds that grew in a tangle beside the old road.

  “By Christ’s bones,” he said. “I detest that man. I’ll never understand what Oswine sees in him.”

  Beobrand looked sidelong at Oswiu, wondering at how close Fordraed had been to him all these years. He would much sooner spend time with Wulfstan than with that fat worm.

  “We will stay here,” the king continued. “Ethelwin, Beobrand, take a dozen men and see what they want.”

  They cantered down the slope, the sun warm on the right side of their faces. There was no hint of rain in the sky now, and the day was hot and still, the only memory of the rain coming from the humidity that made their garments stick to their sweaty skin.

  Halting their band of horsemen before Wulfstan and the Deirans, Ethelwin and Beobrand kicked their mounts forward, ahead of the dozen gesithas who followed them. Wulfstan and another man Beobrand did not recognise did the same, nudging their horses a few paces forward.

  “Well met, Beobrand, lord of Ubbanford,” said Wulfstan with an open smile. “You are well come to Deira.”

  Beobrand nodded in greeting.

  “We have been awaiting your arrival,” continued Wulfstan. “My lord king Oswine has given me the task of leading you to meet him.”

  “Where is he?” asked Ethelwin.

  “Oswine is awaiting your king at Catrice.”

  Ethelwin nodded.

  “We will not follow you there,” he said.

  Wulfstan frowned. The other man who sat beside him astride a white mare bristled with annoyance. He was fresh-faced and young with handsome features. His byrnie was of the finest quality and his shield was newly painted with a bright red star on a black background.

  “What is the meaning of this?” he snapped. “Our lord king extends the hand of friendship and you spit on it.”

  Wulfstan held up a hand. The younger man fell silent.

  “What do you propose?” Wulfstan asked, keeping his tone light.

  “Our king, Oswiu, son of Æthelfrith, lord of all Bernicia, would meet under the roof of one who both men trust. He will ride for Hunwald’s hall at Ingetlingum. Oswine King is to come there with no more than threescore men. Hunwald is known to them both. There will be no mischief there and our kings can parley in peace.”

  “Does your king not trust Oswine?” blurted out the young Deiran. Wulfstan placed a hand upon his arm.

  “It matters not, Odda,” he said. “We are no more kings than we are fish in the sea and therefore it is not for us to determine the ways of those men who are our betters.”

  Odda scowled, but clamped his mouth shut.

  “You will take this message to Oswine?” asked Ethelwin.

  “We will,” replied Wulfstan.

  “Very well.” Ethelwin turned his horse back towards the men on the hill. “Until tomorrow then,” he said, and kicked his steed back up the slope. Beobrand raised his eyebrows at Wulfstan, who chuckled briefly.

  “Till tomorrow,” he said. And the two groups rode off in separate directions.

  Chapter 37

  Beobrand stood silently listening to the quiet of the night. From the distant hall came the murmur of voices and laughter. He was glad to be away from the fug of the hall and the press of people surrounding him. He sighed, wishing he were back at Ubbanford, standing outside his own hall, beneath the looming presence of Sunniva’s oak, gazing down the hill to the light of the moon playing on the waters of the Tuidi. It had been too long since he had been home and in all those weeks, he had never truly been able to relax. He had slept well these last nights, the rhythm of the road somehow conveying a unique tiredness to his body that allowed slumber to come easily. And he was glad for the nights of dreamless sleep. And yet his mind was still exhausted. He craved rest and time away from the worries of kings and kingdoms.

  He smiled grimly in the darkness. Such was not his wyrd, he knew. He had given his oath to Oswiu and so he would follow where the king commanded. Still, he was amazed by the intrigues of the king and those surrounding him. When Beobrand thought of problems, he saw straight lines, direct paths to follow that would lead to their solution. Not so Oswiu.

  Beobrand had been surprised when they had arrived at Ingetlingum to find the lord of the hall, Hunwald, already expecting their arrival. Hunwald had introduced them all to his wife, a serious woman called Frythegith. She had welcomed them and offered the Waes Hael cup, but she was obviously already known to Ethelwin, for she greeted the warmaster with an embrace and tender kiss on the cheek. It transpired that the lady Frythegith was Ethelwin’s sister, and suddenly how the decision had been taken to meet Oswine there became evident. The hall was clean and tidy and there was food and drink aplenty. Clearly word had been sent ahead that the king and his comitatus would be staying and it was quickly apparent that the preparations for the King of Deira’s visit the next day were well underway too.

  Beobrand sniffed the cool night air. There was a faint scent of cooking meat and woodsmoke lingering over the fragrance of damp earth and the verdant, fertile land around Ingetlingum. Oak and ash grew in great thickets along the beck that ran through the settlement and Beobrand thought again of the king’s astute decision to meet Oswine here. The path that led to the hall passed through dense woodland, with hills on both sides. It could be easily watched and a large force could not approach unnoticed.

  Beobrand’s thoughts spun in his mind like so many bats caught in a cavern. They swarmed and flapped but could find no escape and nowhere to settle.

  How much of all of this had been planned in advance by Oswiu? Beobrand began to even wonder whether the king had timed his absence from Bebbanburg in some way to give him an advantage over Oswine. But he could not see how that could be. What benefit was there in Oswiu not being at the fortress when Penda struck? Beobrand could think of none, but such was Oswiu’s cunning, he would not discount the idea. For a long time, ever since Halga’s attack on Ubbanford, Beobrand had believed Oswiu to have been involved somehow. The red-headed giant had implicated the man who had been about to take the throne from his brother, Oswald. What reason did Halga have to lie? He’d believed he was victorious over Beobrand. Perhaps it was as Halga had said and Oswiu had allowed him to attack Ubbanford, but there was no way to accuse a king of such duplicity and certainly no way to prove it. As Beobrand had uttered the words in Fordraed’s hall that implied the fat thegn was in league with Penda in some way, the idea had coalesced and hardened in his mind. Perhaps Oswiu had not been involved in the Mercian raid on
Ubbanford after all. Maybe it had been Fordraed who had enabled Halga to pass through the lands of Bernicia unhindered. He certainly hated Beobrand enough to want to see his wealth stolen and his home destroyed. Beobrand had never voiced any of his fears about the attack on his hall. How could he? What good would it do? Octa was fostered in Oswiu’s household. If Beobrand should speak out against the king, not only would his life be over, but the threat to his only son was all too real.

  But in Fordraed’s hall something had snapped within him and the words had come tumbling out. Words he had barely dared think before he heard them spoken in his own voice. The suspicion that he voiced at seeing Fordraed’s steading untouched when so much destruction had been wrought on the land was clearly in other men’s minds too. Ever since that night, the king himself had taken to calling the fat lord Fordraed the Lucky, sarcasm dripping from his tone like venom from a viper’s fangs. Now, thinking about how Oswiu had planned ahead to come to Hunwald’s hall, Beobrand wondered whether Fordraed was truly guilty of what Beobrand had accused him of. Could it not also be true that Oswiu was done with Fordraed, that he had become tired of him and saw this as a way of distancing himself from the man who had previously been his closest companion? After all, ever since his return to Bebbanburg the king had not ceased to criticise the man.

  A vixen shrieked, the sound loud and otherworldly in the darkness. Beobrand shivered, but it was not cold. He peered into the gloom, trying not to imagine the denizens of the forest, goblins and elves, stalking the shadows in search of prey.

  Ethelwin had again ordered the men to watch throughout the night. Oswiu, it seemed, was fearful of treachery, but Beobrand thought it unlikely. Oswine was a man of honour. He would face his enemies head-on, not skulking about the forests at night to strike from the shadows. It said much about Oswiu, thought Beobrand, that he believed the king of Deira might attack at night, without warning.