Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  A footfall behind him made him spin around, dragging Nægling from its scabbard. A dark form approached from the hall.

  “Easy there, brave Beobrand,” said a voice. Despite not seeing the face, Beobrand could hear the smile in the tone.

  Oswiu.

  “My king,” Beobrand said. “The night is so still, your approach startled me.” He sheathed Nægling once more.

  The king stepped closer and Beobrand saw that two others followed him. Beobrand could not make them out, but he saw the bulk of their shadowy forms. Oswiu’s hearth-warriors. He had left them out of earshot, but close enough to come to his aid.

  For a while, they stood in silence, each staring out at the night. The vixen screamed again.

  “What is that?” asked Oswiu.

  “My father would tell me that was the call of a she-fox.”

  “By Christ, she sounds like a handful,” chuckled Oswiu. His words were slightly slurred. As he spoke, the scent of mead wafted on his breath. “I’ve bedded a few women in my time, but none that would wail like that.”

  “Perhaps they save that kind of scream for the right man,” said Beobrand, keeping his tone flat, but unable to stop himself from delivering the oblique insult.

  Oswiu tensed beside him. Beobrand held himself still. At last, Oswiu let out a bark of laughter.

  “By Christ’s bones, Beobrand, you are brave. There are not many men who would insult their lord king’s prowess.”

  “You have sired many children, lord,” Beobrand said. “I am sure there is nothing to insult there.” The thought of Oswiu lying with Eanflæd threatened to flood his mind. He would like nothing more than to reach out and grab the king by the throat and shake him, the way a fox would shake a rat.

  Oswiu snorted.

  “Indeed I have many children, and I am sure I will beget many more. Eanflæd is yet young and is willing enough to help me in that regard.”

  Was the man goading him? Did he know of Beobrand’s feelings for the queen? Had someone spoken to him? Had Eanflæd herself admitted her sins to her husband? It was possible that the Christ god demanded it. Beobrand knew that his followers believed they needed to confess their sins. Perhaps this extended to wives and husbands.

  “Children are a blessing,” said Oswiu. “Your boy, Octa, is a good lad. Strong and worthy,” he paused, “just like his father.”

  “Thank you, lord,” replied Beobrand. He felt awkward in the king’s presence. He had been enjoying the peace of the night’s watch, and now he was having to remain alert in a very different way, to avoid any trap Oswiu might set for him. This was the longest they had ever spoken alone together and Beobrand wondered at the meaning of the king coming to him here.

  “All quiet out there?” Oswiu asked.

  “Apart from the foxes and owls, I’ve heard nothing.”

  For a time neither man spoke.

  “You are a lord of men,” Oswiu said, breaking the silence that had settled between them. “You do not need to stand out here in the night.”

  Beobrand turned to look at his king. Oswiu’s face was an unreadable pale blur in the darkness.

  “Neither do you, lord king,” he replied. “And yet here we both are.”

  “I am not a good husband,” Oswiu said, lowering his voice to not much more than a whisper.

  Beobrand held his breath. The king had fallen silent.

  “Lord,” Beobrand said, hesitantly, unsure of his words, “I do not think I am the man to speak to about being a good husband.”

  “Ah, yes. Sorry. My brother called you lucky, but you never had much luck in that regard, did you?”

  Beobrand thought of Sunniva’s golden hair, the touch of her skin. Then he recalled the fragile form of Reaghan pressed against him, always so willing, but forever hiding part of her mind away from him; a part of her he had never tried very hard to find. Both of them were gone now. Nothing more than ash and smoke and memories. He sighed.

  “I was not lying when I said I never thought of myself as having the luck Oswald saw in me.”

  The king seemed not to have heard him.

  “Eanflæd is a marvel, you know?” he said.

  Again, Beobrand wondered if the king was trying to trick him into admitting something that would get him and the queen killed. He bit his lip in the dark.

  Somewhere off to the south an owl hooted.

  Beobrand said nothing.

  “She is beautiful, of course,” Oswiu said. “Any man with eyes can see that.”

  Beobrand pictured her slender form, the curve of her neck, the intelligent eyes.

  “But she is more than that,” continued Oswiu. “She has a strength about her. And her mind is as sharp as any man’s.”

  “She is her father’s daughter,” said Beobrand.

  “Of course. You knew her as a child, did you not? Was she always thus?”

  Beobrand thought of the tiny girl he had met in the stables at Bebbanburg a lifetime ago.

  “I knew her but briefly, lord,” he said. “She was smaller then.”

  Oswiu laughed.

  “But she was always one who commanded a room,” Beobrand went on. “Even when she was a child. And she knew no fear.”

  “Ha! Her father’s daughter indeed.” Oswiu fell silent for a time and Beobrand let out a long breath. He hoped the king would tire of this talk soon and head back inside. But Oswiu did not leave.

  “She is still afraid of nothing,” he said. “I have never known any woman like her. She is strict and unbending in her faith. And yet I cannot dispel her from my thoughts.”

  Beobrand almost laughed. It seemed Eanflæd had captivated them both. But Oswiu had an important advantage over Beobrand.

  “She is your wife, lord,” Beobrand said. “It is no bad thing that you think of her.”

  “It is when I travel to Caer Luel to see Aldfrid’s mother, Fín. By Christ’s thorny crown, that Hibernian vixen can do things no royal woman should know of, let alone do.” He ran his fingers through his hair and looked out into the darkness, perhaps imagining the feats his Hibernian woman performed. “I have always gone back to her, you know,” Oswiu said, “no matter who I needed to bed for the good of the kingdom. But this time, no matter how much Fín tried to convince me otherwise, I could not get Eanflæd out of my mind.”

  Beobrand said nothing. Again, the irony of the situation was not lost on him. He was now convinced that Oswiu did not mean to entrap him with his words. The king was seeking to unburden himself, perhaps to free himself of these worries before facing Oswine on the morrow. Had he come here to speak to Beobrand, or would any thegn have done; any ear? Perhaps it was the very fact that they were not friends that had led Oswiu to be so open. Beobrand wondered how the king would feel when the effects of the mead wore off and in the stark light of day he recalled what he had said to this thegn whom he usually despised. One thing was for certain, it would not go well for Beobrand when the king realised he had given his secrets to him.

  “When I saw the fortress aflame…” Oswiu said. His voice, barely audible, caught in his throat. “And Penda’s host before the gates. I did not think of myself or Bernicia. Do you know what I thought of?”

  Beobrand shook his head, but did not speak.

  “All I could think of was Eanflæd and Ecgfrith,” Oswiu said.

  The owl, closer now, called again in the stillness of the night.

  “I will not forget the great service you have done me, Beobrand,” the king said. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “I know there is no love between us. There never has been and I doubt there ever will be. But I respect your bravery. Your loyalty. And your honour.”

  Beobrand’s mouth was dry. So this was why the king had sought him out: to thank him for saving his queen and their son. Oswiu was right, Beobrand did not love his king, but he had always been true to his oath. His word was iron and no man could say otherwise. But Beobrand’s oath to Oswiu was dust in his mouth. He would have lain with Eanflæd in an instant,
no matter the consequences or the broken vows.

  “My sword is yours, lord,” he said. “With it I will protect your kingdom and your kin. I would give my life for the queen.”

  He did not turn to look at the king, but he could sense Oswiu’s gaze on him. After a time, he clapped Beobrand on the back.

  “Some years ago I might have wished for such an outcome; to be rid of you. But now I know the worth of loyal men. I am glad it did not come to that.”

  Beobrand lowered his head. Oswiu must have thought it a sign of subservient gratitude. Beobrand, face hot with guilt, knew it was shame that meant he could not face his king.

  Silence stretched out between them and the moment of intimacy was gone. Awkward now beside the thegn who for so long he had disliked, Oswiu turned to head back to the hall.

  “I will not forget,” he repeated.

  Beobrand nodded his thanks, but said no more. He would be glad when Oswiu had gone, leaving him alone with his turmoil of thoughts and the tranquillity of the night.

  As the king stepped away from him, a strange sound came to Beobrand. It was like a muffled cough and it was close by. His waking thoughts did not tell him what the sound was, but some part of him, the deep instinct of the animal, the natural killer within that made him such a formidable warrior, screamed silently that the night was suddenly full of danger.

  Without thought, he spun, grabbing the king’s cloak and heaving him back. In the dim light of the moon Beobrand made out that where there had been two hearth-warriors to protect the king, now there were three figures. As he watched, steel flashed cold in the night and one of the shadows groaned and fell to the earth to lie beside the first slain hearth-guard.

  “Treachery!” Beobrand bellowed, sliding Nægling out of its scabbard.

  Before them, two men wrapped in dark cloaks with soot-blackened faces stepped stealthily towards them. Beobrand sensed, rather than heard, movement behind them. Looking over his shoulder he saw the shadows of three more attackers. They had slipped out of the forest, as silent as spirits; as ethereal as dreams. But their swords were real and their blades glimmered, lambent and cold in the starlight.

  The men did not speak, but it was clear they came with only one purpose: death in the darkness.

  Chapter 38

  The five assailants rushed towards them. There was no time for thought. Beobrand was a mighty warrior, but here in the open, alone and surrounded by five attackers, he could not hope to prevail.

  But Beobrand was not alone. His conversation with Oswiu had sent his mind reeling. He did not like the man, but the king was a fighter and no coward. Beobrand had seen him standing in the front ranks of shieldwalls, splattered with gore, his sword red with the blood of his enemies. The men of Bernicia did not follow Oswiu solely because of the blood that flowed in his veins, they followed a great warrior king.

  Yet Oswiu had not come here to fight. He bore no byrnie and no weapon.

  Beobrand thrust Nægling’s grip into Oswiu’s hand.

  “Back to back,” he said. “You take those two.”

  Beobrand pushed the king behind him so that he faced the men who had slain his guards. Oswiu grunted and Beobrand could sense him dropping into the warrior stance behind him.

  Beobrand slid his seax from its leather sheath and faced the three shadowy forms that came towards him. They came on fast. The sounds of combat and Beobrand’s shouts would bring defenders to them in moments. These murderers would need to be quick about their work.

  “To arms!” bellowed Beobrand, and, without waiting for the men to reach him, he threw himself forward with a roar.

  They had not expected him to bring the fight to them and the central figure hesitated momentarily. Ignoring the other two men, trusting to his speed and the iron links of his byrnie, Beobrand batted the middle man’s sword away the instant before colliding with him. Dropping his shoulder, Beobrand hit the swordsman hard beneath the sternum. Such was the force of the assault that the man was lifted from his feet and flung backward. He went down like a man hit by a charging bull. Beobrand did not slow. A weak blow from one of the others scratched against his ironclad back, but the sword’s blade did no damage.

  As the man before him crashed to the earth, Beobrand allowed his full bulk to land on him, one knee smashing into his midriff. Turning his seax blade downward, Beobrand hammered it into the man’s eye, and then, tugging it free of the skull, he rose in a fluid motion and turned on the others.

  In the darkness, he could just make out the solid form of the king defending himself against the two attackers. Sparks flew as blades met, but Beobrand could not tell whether the king or either of the men had been injured.

  A blade came singing towards his face and he had no more time to look to the king. With the speed that had made him famed throughout the kingdoms of Albion, Beobrand dodged backward, allowing the flashing blade to pass a finger’s length from his face. Lashing out with his left half-hand, Beobrand grasped the wrist of the blade-wielder. Off-balance, the man staggered forward and Beobrand pulled him on, snapping his forehead into the man’s nose with savage force. Cartilage crunched and the man sagged. Dropping his seax, Beobrand grabbed the man’s kirtle, holding him upright and spinning him into the path of the third attacker. The scything sword strike that had been meant for Beobrand hacked into the neck of the dazed man. Fresh blood gushed, adding a black torrent to the trickle that flowed from his smashed nose.

  Beobrand shoved the now dying man at the remaining swordsman. The attacker retreated with a muffled curse. Beobrand did not understand the man’s words, but something in them sparked a memory of another such night-time attack.

  But there was no time to dwell on that. Behind the man, Beobrand could see that Oswiu had dispatched one of his assailants and was battling furiously with the other man. In the distance, men were shouting. The dogs in the hall were barking and light poured out into the night as men came from the warmth of the building into the darkness, holding torches aloft. It was only a matter of moments now before the defenders would be upon them and then the last two attackers could not hope to survive.

  Clearly coming to the same conclusion, the man before Beobrand roared and leaped forward with renewed vigour. Beobrand snatched up the sword that had fallen from the second man’s hand and parried the first wild blow. Sparks glinted in the gloom, lighting momentarily the soot-stained, snarling features of his opponent. With a start, Beobrand realised he recognised the man. It was the Frank who had escaped him in Eoferwic.

  The Frankish man spat insults at Beobrand that he could not understand and sent a flurry of blows at him. Beobrand parried the attacks easily. The man was strong and had some skill, but he was no match for Beobrand. The attacker grew ever more frenzied as the sounds of the men from the hall drew nearer.

  Beobrand stepped back, deflecting yet another powerful strike that would have taken his head from his shoulders.

  Oswiu’s voice rang out, breathless and high.

  “To me! To me!”

  The sounds of fighting there had ceased, allowing Beobrand to focus his attention fully on this last attacker; a man who had attacked him once before and fled. He would not escape again. Beobrand watched him in the dim flickering light that came from the approaching torches. The Frank was swinging his blade in great arcs, his movements predictable. Beobrand was sure that he would be able to disarm the man without striking a killing blow. He would question him and find out how many more killers Vulmar had sent after him.

  He was dimly aware of the cries of the men who had reached the king. Voices were raised in dismay and disbelief, but Beobrand could not take his eyes from his furious attacker. The torch light was bright after the cool glimmer of the moon and stars and Beobrand blinked. Men loomed behind his assailant, blades gleaming red from the flames.

  Too late, Beobrand saw the raised spear in Cynan’s hand.

  “Hold!” he cried.

  But Cynan either did not hear him in time, or chose to ignore his hlaford. The
sharp spear-blade plunged deep into the man’s throat, pushing him towards Beobrand with an almost comical expression of surprise on his face. Cynan twisted the spear and tugged it free. The Frank staggered forward, still reaching out with his sword for Beobrand. Beobrand stepped back, swatting the man’s blade away from his weakening grasp. He fell to his knees, hand outstretched to Beobrand as if in entreaty. But there was nothing the Cantware thegn could do for him. Blood gurgled, dark and bubbling from his open mouth. He slumped forward, shuddered and then was still.

  Beobrand spat onto the earth and cursed. Dead men tell no secrets.

  “Lord,” said Cynan, “are you well?” He indicated Beobrand’s forehead. Beobrand reached up with his mutilated left hand. His head was tender to the touch and his fingers came away dark with blood.

  “Not my blood,” he said.

  A new sound that he had not noticed before reached him then. A man, weeping with grief. For a chilling instant of mixed emotions, Beobrand thought that perhaps Oswiu had been slain in the attack.

  Striding forward, he shouldered the gathered men aside. Ethelwin nodded to him in grim-faced greeting before commencing to bark orders for the men to search the trees and to be extra vigilant. This might have been a diversion, to distract from a larger assault. Men dashed off into the night and their shouts could be heard echoing in the woods around Hunwald’s hall. If there were any more enemies out there, they would certainly hear the Bernicians coming.

  The wails of grief continued and Beobrand moved closer to where Oswiu had fought the two attackers. For a moment, the shapes sprawled on the ground confused him. There were four bodies here, not the two that Beobrand had expected. Grindan moved close, holding aloft a burning brand, and the shadowy forms suddenly made sense. Here were the corpses of two men with faces daubed black with soot. Of the other two bodies, one was in fact alive.

  It was the king, on his knees, tears tracing lines of anguish down his cheeks. On his lap he cradled the head of the fourth figure. This man’s belly was huge, his arms flabby. The face was pallid, eyes wide and unseeing. The dead man’s jowls were heavy slabs of flesh, pulling his lips down into a scowl in death.