“Shall we make camp near Gefrin?” Cynan asked.
Beobrand let out a long sigh.
“As you wish,” he said at last, without looking at Cynan.
Cynan frowned. Like the rest of the men, he was worried about Beobrand. He had often before seen him descend into a dark humour following a battle. He was prone to dwelling on what had taken place and what he might have done differently. Such thoughts were pointless, but a man could not change his very nature.
But on each of those occasions, Beobrand’s despair would turn eventually to anger and hatred at the people he blamed for events. His ire would drive him on and soon he would be forging onward once more.
This time it was different. Something had snapped deep within him.
Beobrand had battled for years against men he considered less than him. Men who lied and cheated. Oath-breakers. Nithings. Cravens. He hated such men and used his anger with them to propel him forward, pushing aside any obstacle that stood in his way.
But now, he could not push aside the barrier before him with his anger, thought Cynan. He could not use his hatred against his enemy. For Beobrand had broken his oath and his word had been as iron. Every man knew it. That iron had been sundered and now Beobrand hated himself.
They rode on. Brinin, who rode in the cart with Beircheart, shook the reins. Eadgard’s horse snorted and began to heave the vehicle up the slope. Behind the cart came the rest of the mounted men.
“Are you certain you do not wish to travel with me to Bebbanburg?” Cynan asked.
“There is nothing for me at Bebbanburg,” Beobrand said, his tone bitter.
“Octa is there.”
“Octa cares nothing for me.”
“That is not so, lord,” said Cynan. “Octa looks to you with admiration and love.”
“Perhaps once,” said Beobrand. “Now he has only disdain for me.”
Cynan knew not how to answer and so they rode on in silence until they reached a stand of beech and hazel that grew a spear’s throw from the road. A small stream flowed beside the trees and the warband of Ubbanford had made camp there many times over the years.
The men went about their established duties setting up the camp. Attor lit a fire, while others collected wood, and water from the stream. Halinard, who they all agreed was the best cook, set about preparing the last of the meat that Lord Ecgric had given them when they had stopped at his hall two nights before.
They ate the stew Halinard made and, as ever, Cynan marvelled at how the Frank could make the simplest of fare taste so rich and fulfilling. By then the sun had slipped behind the hills and the sky had turned a deep purple. Soon the men were wrapped in their blankets and cloaks beside the fire.
Cynan had decided to take the first watch, so that when he awoke, he could saddle Mierawin and head for Bebbanburg. His stomach clenched at the thought of returning there. He was not sure whether he was most concerned over the tidings he must impart to the king, or the other task that drew him to the fortress. Would Ingwald and the men have waited for him? Did he really think he could become their lord?
The night was quiet, a light breeze whispered through the leaves above him. The fire crackled and Dreogan snored loudly. The crack of a twig startled Cynan and he dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. A massive shadow loomed up in the darkness. For the briefest of instants, Cynan was filled with terror. He had not been listening carefully and now an enemy was upon them! He began to drag his sword from its scabbard, but a voice halted him.
“Easy there, Cynan.”
Beobrand.
“Lord,” Cynan said, fighting against the breathlessness that had gripped him. “I did not hear your approach. I am sorry.”
“We all make mistakes, do we not?” Beobrand said.
“Aye, lord.” Cynan was surprised that Beobrand should seek him out to talk, but he was glad of it. Perhaps Beobrand could talk of what ailed him and begin to dispel his anguish.
“Be careful at Bebbanburg,” Beobrand said. “Oswiu will not take the news of Heremod and Fordraed’s men well.” He sighed. “I should take the tidings, but it seems I am a coward, as well as an oath-breaker.” Beobrand’s voice was barely a whisper.
“You are no coward,” replied Cynan.
Surprisingly, Beobrand guffawed, a sudden bark in the darkness.
“But I am an oath-breaker,” he said. “That you cannot deny.”
“Whatever you did, lord, you would have broken one oath. You did what you must.”
Beobrand did not reply for a long time.
“Do not tarry in Bebbanburg, Cynan,” he said at last. “If Fraomar is well enough to ride, bring him with you. See which of those men of yours are willing to come too. I feel we will have need for stout hearts and strong arms soon.”
At the mention of the men, Cynan clenched his fists in the dark. If any were still there, what right did he have to ask for their service? He was just a warrior. And yet Beobrand had said he would give him land to build his own hall. The idea of it made him giddy.
“Aye, lord. I will not stay long. I will see if any of the men have waited for me and then return to Ubbanford with all haste.”
“Oh, they will have waited for you,” said Beobrand. “Of that I am sure.”
A night creature shrieked in the distance, sending a shudder down Cynan’s spine.
“But, Cynan,” Beobrand’s voice was flat and cold in the gloom, “to lead men is not easy. Think carefully before you accept their oaths. For a man’s promise to his lord is both a treasure and a burden.”
And with that, Beobrand walked back towards the light of the fire. Cynan watched his lord’s shadowy form retreating. Nothing in his words had helped to quell his fears of what the morrow would bring.
Historical Note
As usual with all of the Bernicia Chronicles, Beobrand’s tale is fiction, but it wends through real historical events, and his life intertwines with those of real personalities.
In Fortress of Fury, the main events are the siege of Bebbanburg and the start of the war between Oswiu of Bernicia and Oswine of Deira. The dates of both of these events are unknown, but there is a window of a few years when they must have occurred. We know this because the death dates of certain characters are known and they are involved in some way in these stories. I won’t give more away here, as it might spoil future stories. But if you are really interested and cannot wait till future novels, you can of course investigate further.
The oldest sources are Bede’s History of the English Church and People and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. If you would prefer a more modern read, you could do much worse than Max Adams’ wonderful book, The King in the North, which is ostensibly a biography of King Oswald, but as its subtitle, “The Life and Times of Oswald of Northumbria”, indicates, the book covers the whole of the seventh century, all the kings of Northumbria and their interaction with the other kingdoms of the period.
It is not only the date for the commencement of the war between Oswine and Oswiu that is not known with any certitude. We also have no explanation of what triggered it. Clearly Oswiu wanted to be king of all Northumbria, just as his brother, Oswald, and their enemy, King Edwin, had been, and so I have settled on Oswiu pushing for conflict when there is already tension between the two kingdoms. In this way, he shows himself to be an opportunistic leader, but, as so often in history, it is the ability to strike when an opportunity presents itself that leads to ultimate victory.
Oswiu’s jaunts to Caer Luel to visit one of his previous wives are purely fictional, but the fact that he had a son before he married Rhieinmelth or Eanflæd is true. Genealogical tradition has it that the mother of Aldfrid was a Hibernian princess called Fín, the granddaughter (or perhaps daughter) of Colmán Rímid, an Irish king. Details of when the liaison between Oswiu and Fín and the subsequent birth of Aldfrid occurred are missing from the historical record, but it seems likely they would have met during the exile of the sons of Æthelfrith in which they fought in Ireland on the side of
their Dál Riatan hosts.
The description of Oswine and the tale of the horse that he gifted to Aidan, only for the bishop to then give it away to a beggar, come straight out of Bede’s History. He describes the king of Deira as “a man of handsome appearance and great stature, pleasant in speech and courteous in manner”. He was beloved of “everyone by his regal qualities of mind and body” and his “singular blessing of humility” was such that Aidan held him in high esteem. Bede recounts the story of the horse as a special example of how humble the king was and how he would never again question the manner in which his wealth was given away “to God’s children”. Bede also has Aidan weep and predict that the king’s humility would be his undoing.
The novel starts shortly after the opening of the monastery at Hartlepool (Hereteu). It is a time of expansion of the Church across the north, with minsters and churches being founded all over Bernicia and Deira. Despite having different kings, both kingdoms saw their spiritual father as Aidan, bishop of Lindisfarne.
Eanflæd was a devout Christian and became increasingly heavily involved in the relationship between the royal house of Bernicia and the Church. So it seems entirely possible that she would attend the opening ceremony at one of the monasteries, particularly given that one of her kinswomen was there.
Hild was Edwin’s great-niece, a woman of influence and formidable strength of character who would soon take over the running of the community at Hartlepool and who would later become the Abbess at the now famous Whitby Abbey. Such was the complexity of the relationships in the ruling families of Northumbria that Eanflæd was also kinswoman to Oswine, who was her second cousin.
Even more surprisingly, an investigation of the royal family trees shows Eanflæd and Oswiu to be cousins; Oswiu’s mother was Acha, Edwin’s sister, and therefore Eanflæd’s aunt. Bede makes no mention of this, however. The marriage took place before the time of Theodore, the Archbishop of Canterbury who reformed the British church at the end of the seventh century, in particular with regards to marriage and consanguinity. I imagine that Bede was not comfortable with these blood relatives marrying, but as with so many other disquieting facts, he chose to ignore it. After all, he could not rewrite the past, but he could turn a blind eye. If there were any concerns about the marriage at the time, it seems that the need to unify the Deiran and Bernician dynasties outweighed them.
In the years following Oswald’s defeat at Maserfield (Maserfelth), Penda continued to pose a significant threat to the other kingdoms of Britain. Of course, apart from slaying Oswiu’s brother, Penda had already killed several other kings and in 645 he drove Cenwealh of Wessex into exile in East Anglia. And yet it appears that, for a few years at least, he did not choose to continue his aggression towards Bernicia. Perhaps a pact had been struck with Oswiu, or maybe he was just busy with Wessex and East Anglia. But whatever the reason for the relative peace, we know it was broken sometime in the late 640s when Bede recounts the siege of Bebbanburg and the great fire that Penda employs to attempt razing the fortress.
In 2015, in one of the trenches of the Bamburgh Research Project, archaeologists found discoloured subsoil that points to intense burning. This evidence of burning lies very close to St Oswald’s Gate, the oldest entrance to the castle, and dates back to the early medieval period. It is speculation, but it is tempting to believe the discoloured subsoil they found is a remnant of the fire that Bede describes.
In his History, Bede says that when unable to enter Bebbanburg “by force or after a siege”, Penda ordered all the neighbouring villages to be pulled down and carried to Bebbanburg where “vast quantities of beams, rafters, partitions, brushwood, and thatch” were piled high on the landward side of the settlement. It seems unlikely that Penda would have just hoped that a random spark would blow into the castle, or that he would expect the palisades high up on the crag to burn, and so I have described him attempting to destroy the gates by fire. With the archaeological discovery in the subsoil there, perhaps my account of the Mercians’ actions is not too far from what actually happened.
It is impossible to know for certain what the layout of the castle was in the seventh century. In later years, there was a second entrance to the south, which in time became the main gate. However, it seems probable that at the time of the Bernicia Chronicles there was only one way in and out of Bebbanburg – what would later become known as St Oswald’s Gate. Steps from that gate would have led down to a harbour that is no longer present. I have decided that there must also have been a slope of earth and rubble leading down to the landward side of the rock and the settlement and church there. This would make it possible for horses and vehicles to reach the fortress. It also makes for a great location for the Black Shields to burst forth from the flames and embers to launch their counterattack on Penda’s forces!
The tale of the wind changing direction after Aidan noticed the fire and prayed is again described by Bede. On seeing the column of smoke, Aidan is said to have raised his hands and eyes to heaven and exhorted, “Lord, see what evil Penda does!” Apparently, no sooner had he uttered these words than the wind shifted away from the fortress and “drove back flames onto those who had kindled them”. This is supposed to have so unnerved Penda’s men that they abandoned the assault, seeing that Bebbanburg was clearly under God’s protection. Now, this says a lot about the superstitious nature of the people of the time, but I thought it more likely they would be dissuaded from their attack by sharp steel and stout linden boards wielded by the brave defenders of Bernicia.
The tales of miracles attributed to Oswald come straight from Bede’s accounts. He also writes that Oswald’s head was interred on Lindisfarne, and his arms and hands were kept at Bebbanburg. I have chosen for the head to remain in a reliquary in the fortress. Eanflæd and Oswiu praying to his limbs just doesn’t have the same emotional clout as them petitioning directly to his saintly – though decaying – face.
There is no historical evidence of Waelisc (Welsh) forces being involved in the assault on Bernicia with Penda, but as they had been allies in previous battles, it is credible.
The Roman ruins, where Cynan and Reodstan make camp on their way westward from Bebbanburg, are the remnants of the Roman fort at High Rochester (Bremenium). It was built to defend the important communication artery that ran north from Corbridge to the Antonine Wall and beyond.
By the end of this book Beobrand has had his allegiances tested to the limit. His famous word of iron has been pushed beyond breaking point and his feelings for his queen have put his, and her, life in jeopardy. He might have earned favour with Oswiu for his part in the defence of Bebbanburg and saving the king’s life from assassins’ blades, but whatever advantage he has will be short-lived if the king should get any indication of Beobrand’s indiscretions with Eanflæd.
And what of his powerful enemy in Frankia? It seems unlikely that Vulmar will give up trying to exact vengeance on the Lord of Ubbanford.
The future looks uncertain, with intrigues and danger lurking over every hill and in every shadow. But with Penda once more plotting against Bernicia, and a war between Oswiu and Oswine brewing, there will surely soon be need for Beobrand’s blade and his black-shielded gesithas.
But that is for another day, and other books.
Acknowledgements
Thanks must go first and foremost to you, dear reader. I am indebted to everyone who has bought my books and, hopefully, enjoyed them enough to recommend them to others.
As with each book, my trusty cadre of beta readers helped me polish the manuscript before submitting it to my editor. Thanks to Simon Blunsdon, Gareth Jones, Shane Smart, Rich Ward, James Faulkner and Alex Forbes for reading that early draft and helping me to make it better than it would be without their keen eyes.
Extra special thanks to Jon McAfee, Anna Bucci, Simon Kent and Roger Dyer for their generous patronage. To find out more about becoming a patron, and what rewards you can receive for doing so, please visit www.matthewharffy.com.
Speci
al thanks to Paul Buxton for seeking out and sending me maps and pictures of Bamburgh Castle through the ages.
Thanks to Paul Lennon for the chats about early medieval marriages and the interrelated nature of the different royal lines of Northumbria. And thanks to Max Adams for helping to clarify things.
Thanks to all my online friends, readers and writers alike. The Internet is often maligned, but it is a wonderful resource and for someone who works at home alone, the ability to reach out to like-minded people and receive nearly instantaneous responses is priceless.
Extra special thanks to Nicolas Cheetham and all the staff at Aries and Head of Zeus for their continued support and belief in me.
And finally, thank you to my family, especially my lovely wife, Maite. Your support means everything.
About the author
MATTHEW HARFFY grew up in Northumberland where the rugged terrain, ruined castles and rocky coastline had a huge impact on him. He now lives in Wiltshire, England, with his wife and their two daughters.
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