Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  “She is not yours to strike now, you drunken toad,” the trader hissed.

  Ardith pushed herself to her feet. Her cheek stung, as did her knees and hands where she had grazed them on the stones. Her father’s face was white. Gone was his rage and he was once more the man she had tried to love. The drunk she despised. The blood from his mouth was bright against his pallid skin. For a heartbeat, Ardith hoped that the sailor would draw the blade of his seax across her father’s throat. She would see him slain, like a pig at Blotmonath for what he had done to her.

  The sailor yanked savagely on her father’s hair, tugging him up onto his feet.

  “Begone, before I gut you and take my silver back.”

  He gave him a rough shove and her father stumbled back up the beach, away from the ships. Away from Ardith.

  She shuddered again. Her hands trembled, clenched into fists at her side. By the Virgin, so help her God, but if she had her own seax now, her father’s blood would be drenching the beach. She glared at his retreating form as he hurried away, willing him to die. He hesitated a moment and for a fleeting instant she thought he might turn and come back, understanding the terrible thing he had done. As sudden as her ire and loathing had come, so it was replaced by a surge of hope and love. He could not bring himself to do this. Surely that was why he had paused. It was the devil in the drink that had made him behave so. Now, he would repent and take her back.

  But he did not turn.

  Pulling his cloak about his shoulders, he lowered his head and hurried on. He did not look back.

  The burly leader of the traders began barking orders. The men snapped into action, kicking out their fires and bundling their bedding and supplies into the ships.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that maggot says we have stolen her,” he said to Draca. “If we tarry here, Lord Folca’s men will be down upon us soon enough, I would wager.” Ardith scowled at his words. The man clearly had her father’s measure.

  In moments the crews had prepared the ships and were heaving them into the waves of the rising tide.

  Ardith did not struggle when one of the men lifted her and placed her into the bow of the largest ship. The fight had fled from her with her father’s utter betrayal. As the men grunted the words of a sea song, with each beat of the words pushing the keel further into the awaiting sea, she felt nothing. The ship righted itself as it reached water deep enough for it to float. The swaying, rolling of the deck made her stagger and she reached out a delicate hand to grasp the sheer strake.

  With practised ease the sailors fell into position on the thwarts and their sea chests and began to pull the ships out into the Narrow Sea with great sweeps of the long oars. The ranks of oars rose and fell like slow beats of a great bird’s wings. And despite the wind blowing landward, trying to push them back onto the beach, the ships flew forward.

  She stared at the settlement she had known as home all her short life. There was the golden thatched roof of Folca’s great hall. There the ash trees that led up to the steading and the small hut she shared with her mother and father. Smoke hazed the early morning air above the buildings. She could make out the shape of the low, sod-turfed roof of Byrhtísen’s forge. She strained to hear the sound of the hammer striking the anvil, but the wind rushed in her ears and all she could hear was the splash of the oars and the chanting of the sailors who sang as they heaved to propel the ships forward. Everything on the land looked familiar and yet strange and different from out here on the Whale Road.

  Her father had vanished from view. But she noticed another figure standing out on the edge of the beach they had just departed. A man stood there, hand shading his eyes as he seemed to stare directly at her. She could not make out his features, and wondered absently who it was, this last person she would ever see from Hithe.

  She shivered. Her face was cold where, unnoticed, tears streamed down her cheeks and neck, staining the neckline of her best peplos until it resembled the dark green of the chill water that surrounded the ships that carried her ever further from home.

  Chapter 4

  Beobrand watched as Bassus strode back and forth like a caged bear. A soft breeze wafted in through the open shutters of the small room they had been allocated by King Eorcenberht’s steward. The old man had served Eorcenberht’s father, Eadbald, and recognised both Beobrand and Bassus from previous visits. He had welcomed them with genuine warmth the previous day when they had arrived. He had sent food to their chamber and had seen that the others from the Northumbrian delegation were given comfortable lodgings. Fordraed and Wynhelm had each been housed in a similar building, while all of their gesithas had been put up at one end of a large barn. They had been supplied with copious amounts of food and drink, so they were happy enough. From time to time sounds of laughter or shouting drifted to Beobrand. The warrior retinues of the Northumbrian thegns seemed to be enjoying their stay in Cantwareburh.

  Bassus however, was not taking the waiting well. Beobrand understood his friend’s annoyance. They had travelled far to visit the new king of Cantware, and neither of them had wished to make the journey. And, when compelled to travel by order of the king of Bernicia himself, they had even suffered the attack and loss of Dalston at the hands of pirates. Now they had been made to wait for more than a day.

  Beobrand pushed himself up from the stool where he’d been sitting and joined Bassus by the window. He placed a hand on the huge warrior’s shoulder, stilling his incessant pacing.

  Outside, in the warm light of the lowering sun, a bondsman was burning a great mound of dry leaves. Thick smoke billowed from the fire, bringing with it the scent of autumn. The dying of things. Other smoke, from distant cooking fires, mingled with that of the leaves, adding the pungent smell of roasting meat. Beobrand stared at the flames that hungrily consumed the fallen leaves. For a moment, his vision blurred as his eyes brimmed with tears. He had seen too many fires eating away the last vestiges of lives cut short.

  Unbidden came the vision of Reaghan’s bone-fire. The wound she had received from the thrall, Sulis, had become elf-shot and there had been nothing anyone could do to save her. She had been dead when he had returned from the Great Wall after killing Halga and the Mercian raiding party there. Coenred had tried his best to keep her alive, working his healing magic and praying to his god, but the fever had never left her and she had slipped away the day before Beobrand had come back to Ubbanford. Coenred had begged Beobrand not to burn her, but she had been no follower of the Christ god. No, she had worshipped the all-mother, Danu, and whilst Beobrand did not know the rites she would have wanted spoken over her, he knew that she would wish her spirit to be sent on to the afterlife on the smoke of a pyre, and not mouldering in the dark, beneath worm-crawling loam.

  He cuffed at his eyes, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. Gods, he had done enough crying for a lifetime.

  The man tending the garden outside brought another large load of leaves that he had raked from the paths around the royal enclosure. He lifted them and dumped the lot onto the fire, almost smothering it in the process. Dense smoke oozed from the pile, like the tendrils of smoke wafting from a charcoal mound. Beobrand could have told him not to place so many leaves on at once. The fire needed space to breathe, just like any other living thing. With so many loved ones to burn, he had become skilled at lighting fires. He snorted, amused at his own dark thoughts.

  “By Tiw’s cock,” boomed Bassus, “why does the king make us wait so? Perhaps we should just leave this place. If Eorcenberht is not interested in talking to us about his cousin, then perhaps we should forget the whole thing. The worst that would happen is that Oswiu would be left without his new peace-weaver. And I do not think she would be too upset by that prospect, poor girl.”

  Beobrand sighed. He harboured similar thoughts.

  “Eorcenberht will see us soon, I am sure,” he said. “He is young and does not have his father’s certainty in his power. Kings like to wield power the way a warrior swings a sword.” He t
hought back to another untried monarch. Ecgric of East Angeln had also made him wait. Then battle had been brewing and Ecgric was dead only days later, his host shattered and his kingdom ravaged. This visit was different. They were here to forge an alliance for peace; to unify the kingdoms of Bernicia and Deira by marriage. “Making us wait is just Eorcenberht flexing his muscles.”

  Bassus frowned, but nodded.

  “You are probably right. Eorcenberht is young and needs to make such petty displays. But it does not sit well with me.”

  “Why do you think she asked for us?” asked Beobrand, changing the subject and returning to the question that had been preying on his mind.

  “Well, she knew me as a child. I was her father’s champion.” Bassus gave him a sidelong glance. “The gods alone know why she wants to see you again.”

  Beobrand offered Bassus a thin smile.

  He was as unsure as his friend as to why Eanflæd had demanded that he be among those who came to bring her back to Northumbria. He had only seen the girl twice before, once on the day he had arrived at Bebbanburg and then later, after fleeing the destruction of Ecgric’s warhost in East Angeln. That had been some seven years ago and he remembered Eanflæd as a sombre, willow-like child, with hair of burnished gold and skin as pale as ewe’s milk. Her father had believed in Beobrand, allowing him, as an unproven youth, to join his warband. That was when he had met Bassus and the path of his life had been that of a warrior ever since. Now, despite having served her father’s enemies for many years, it seemed that Beobrand’s wyrd was once more entwined with Eanflæd’s life thread.

  “Who knows why she asked for us,” Beobrand said. “But I wish I had not come. There can be no good reason for us to be here. There is much to do yet in Ubbanford. We should be there.”

  Much of the settlement had been rebuilt following the savage raid by the Mercian, Halga, but there was still a lot of work to do. Beobrand was determined that the great hall would be even grander than before and he had used up much of his hoard of treasure paying craftsmen from Eoferwic and even further afield to help in its construction.

  “Gram will oversee things well. You need not worry on that front. And besides,” Bassus grinned, “Rowena will see to it that everything progresses faster than if the king himself was there ordering the men to build.”

  Beobrand smiled. It was true that Bassus’ woman, the lady Rowena, would ensure that none of the thralls or craftsmen would waste a moment. Gram too, he knew, was loyal and a safe pair of hands, not to mention a strong warrior. Most of his warband remained at Ubbanford. Following the attack by Halga, he would never leave his people so poorly defended again.

  “I just wish I had stayed in the north.”

  “It little matters what you wish,” Bassus said, staring out of the window at the setting sun hazing in the smoky air. “We had no choice.”

  Beobrand clenched his hands into fists at his side. The muscles of his jaw bunched. Bassus had the right of it. Oswiu had summoned him to Bebbanburg, and he had run to do his lord’s bidding. The thought of being oath-sworn to such a man filled him with dismay. But there was nothing for it. He had given his word that upon Oswald’s death he would swear his allegiance to the king’s brother, Oswiu, and so it had been.

  “I had no choice,” Beobrand said. “That is for sure.”

  As if the bond of his oath had not been enough, Oswiu had further ensured Beobrand’s loyalty and service when he had called him to Bebbanburg. Beobrand had feared the worst when the messenger had ordered him to bring his son, Octa, with him to meet the king. He had promised himself he would never send his son away again. But he could not deny his king.

  Bassus looked at him askance, sensing the shift in his lord’s mood. Beobrand reached for the jug of good Frankish wine that a servant had brought for them some time before. He poured himself a cup and took a long draught. The liquid was deeply satisfying and rich. It warmed his throat.

  “If only I had sent Octa with Cynethryth,” he said.

  “You were not to know what would happen,” said Bassus. The impatient anger had gone from his voice now and was replaced by a tenderness that was at odds with his grizzled appearance.

  “I should have seen that Oswiu would do this thing.” Beobrand sighed. “Octa would have been safe on Hii.”

  Fearing that Penda of Mercia would seek to destroy anyone who could make a claim on his kingdom, Beobrand had sent Cynethryth, Penda’s brother’s widow, and her sons into the north-west, to the lands of Dál Riata, to the sacred isle of Hii. There he hoped her sons would find sanctuary from Penda, just as Æthelfrith’s sons had been safe from King Edwin’s reach when they had been exiled. He felt he owed it to his friend, Eowa, to protect his kin. He had failed to protect Eowa at Maserfelth and the burden of Penda’s brother’s death lay heavy upon Beobrand.

  “Octa will be safe enough with Oswiu,” Bassus said. “And remember what Rowena said. It is a great honour that the king himself offers to foster your child.”

  Beobrand snorted.

  “An honour?” He shook his head and looked sidelong at Bassus. The giant warrior could not meet his gaze. “You know as well as I that this is no honour. Oswiu holds my son as hostage. He does not trust me.”

  “Oswiu must know you better than that. You have given him your oath.”

  It was true that Oswiu had his oath, as had his brother before him. Beobrand had sworn his pledge to Oswiu in Caer Luel. He was Oswiu’s man now. He had given his word, first to Oswald, and then to Oswiu, and he did not give his word lightly. And yet, Beobrand knew that Oswiu was cunning to hold Octa. For any promise could be tested. His word was iron, but, even the best wrought iron could be broken. Just as a blade might bend or snap in combat, so an oath could shatter, if enough pressure were applied.

  Beobrand watched the flames licking at the leaves. The ceorl was returning with yet more fuel for the fire. The wind shifted, blowing the smoke in a great cloud towards the bondsman, engulfing him. The man began to cough uncontrollably, a dry hacking bark that bent him double. For a moment Beobrand thought the man would drop his armful of leaves, but after a moment he spat, straightened himself and made his way through the fog of smoke to the fire, where once more he tossed a thick blanket of leaves onto the flames.

  Again, the flames were smothered. But the fire was hot now, and would soon burn again. It would take more than leaves to extinguish it. Beobrand looked beyond the smoking bonfire at the buildings across the courtyard. They were well maintained, and several were still roofed with the red tiles favoured by the erstwhile rulers of Albion. The men of Roma had long left these shores, but the memories of them were everywhere to be seen. From these buildings in Cantware, to the paved roads of Earninga Stræt and Deira Stræt, to the Great Wall that divided the island from east to west across Bernicia. The buildings reminded him of those that remained in Eoferwic. Much of Deira’s capital lingered intact from the days of those giants among men who had conquered this whole island many generations before. The city walls were crumbling in places now, but they were yet formidable.

  “You have gone very quiet,” said Bassus. “I worry when you become so still. It usually means you are thinking of killing someone.”

  Beobrand took another swig of wine and shook his head.

  “I am not plotting anyone’s death. But I do not doubt that Oswiu is.” He filled the other cup that rested on the table and handed it to Bassus. The one-armed giant hesitated, before lifting the cup and taking a sip. He was looking at Beobrand inquisitively. “I was thinking of Eoferwic,” said Beobrand, as if this was answer enough.

  Bassus frowned, but nodded. He drank more wine.

  “You think he would seek to slay Oswine?”

  Beobrand smiled without mirth. He thought of what he knew of Oswiu. How he had sent men all the way to Frankia to slay children who might pose a threat to his brother’s reign. But Oswine was no defenceless child. Beobrand recalled Oswiu’s ire when he had summoned them to Bebbanburg. As Bassus and Beobra
nd had strode into the great hall of the fortress, Oswiu’s voice had reached them from where he addressed his closest ealdormen and thegns. Unlike his brother, who had always talked with a quiet confidence, Oswiu’s voice had been strident and full of rage.

  Beobrand and Bassus had exchanged a glance and Beobrand had told Fraomar to keep Octa with him and the rest of the men. Leaving his gesithas and son to find refreshment, Beobrand and Bassus had continued the length of the hall, past the smouldering hearth fire, all the while feeling the eyes of the gathered warriors upon them.

  As Oswiu caught sight of them, he had turned the full glare of his anger upon them.

  “By all that is holy, what took you so long? I sent for you days ago.”

  Beobrand had swallowed the retort that had threatened to burst from his mouth.

  “We came with all haste.”

  Oswiu had glared at him for a long while. Behind the king, most of the other men had glowered at Beobrand. Fordraed had scowled, his podgy face twisted with open hostility.

  “What are you staring at?” Fordraed had asked, disdain dripping from his words.

  “I was recalling what it felt like to punch your ugly face,” Beobrand replied, unable to control his contempt for the man.

  Fordraed had blinked. Bassus had chuckled, causing Fordraed’s scowl to deepen.

  “You paid handsomely for that if I recall,” Fordraed had blustered, reaching up to caress the thick gold ring that he now wore squeezed over the flesh of his upper arm. Beobrand had given him the arm ring as weregild for striking him. It was much more than such a crime warranted.

  “I have never regretted the cost,” Beobrand had said. “And I have plenty more treasure still if the urge to strike you again becomes unbearable.” Beobrand was certain that Fordraed had played a part in Halga’s raid on Ubbanford. There was a tight web of plots and lies around the new king and the plump thegn was as tangled in them as anyone.