Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  She would live. And she would return home.

  The rope thrummed in her grasp and the boards of the ship groaned and grumbled from the sea’s buffeting, as if it sought to engulf the vessel, to smash the puny timber bark and to scatter the pathetic men and one small girl who dared ride upon its ever-moving surface.

  Ardith had been frightened the first time she had stood at the prow, allowing the water and wind to slap her skin, to drench her peplos. But in the days since she had been taken, she had grown to love standing with the ship behind her. Her feet, soaked by the spray, squelched in her shoes. They leaked terribly. She had not worn them for a long while before the morning her father had led her down to the strand in Hithe and the leather had not been properly coated in tallow. Many of the seamen were barefoot, their callused feet gripping the slick planks of the deck better than any shoe. Ardith’s shoes pinched her feet as she made her way forward, past the hungry eyes of the men, but she refused to cast them aside. She had little to remind her of happier times, but she recalled her mother’s smile when she had first spied the fine leather shoes.

  Ardith planted her feet, holding the rope tightly in both hands, and watched the sea rolling towards them. She would remain there for as long as she could bear the chill. Until shivering overcame her and she would totter on legs stiff from cold, back through the whistling and laughing seamen to the relative warmth of the blanket Grimr had tossed to her on her first night aboard.

  She had taken to sleeping wrapped in the coarse woollen cloth at the stern of the ship, on the opposite side to the helmsman. There she had the wooden wale of the ship’s side at her back and beyond that, the endless sea. All the sailors were before her, where she could watch them and be warned if any approached. So far, none had done more than shout obscenities, but she was no fool, and knew well what men wanted. Grimr had told them to leave her be, and the men had obeyed their leader. And yet she felt the men’s eyes roving over her, as they might a laden ceapscip, a trading vessel, that they hoped to plunder. She prayed to the Blessed Virgin that the pirate leader’s hold on his men was strong, and she pushed the thoughts from her mind of what awaited her when they reached their destination and Grimr found the wealthy buyers he had spoken of. Men who would pay handsomely for a young, fair-haired girl.

  It was easier to forget about the men, Grimr and what her wyrd would bring when she stood gazing out at the waves. In those moments she felt alone. Alone with the roar of the ocean, the snap of the sail, the rush of the wind and the creaking of the beams and thwarts. There was seldom any other sign of men on the vast expanse of the sea. The ship that carried her was called Saeslaga, and it was Grimr’s ship. The other ships, Waegmearh and Brimwulf, always followed in Saeslaga’s wake.

  Ignoring the ship behind her, she imagined herself to be alone and free. She watched white fulmars swooping over the waves, dark cormorants and bright gannets diving into the water like spears from the heavens, and brightly coloured puffins streaking low over the water, wings beating furiously as they flew to their rocky homes on the cliffs and rocks on the coast of Albion. Despite herself, she smiled at the sea birds, laughed for joy at their freedom and imagined herself to be one of them, speeding along close to the wave tops.

  Without warning a sleek shape broke the surface of the water and flew through the air in front of the prow. Before it struck the water and darted beneath the waves, she made out the powerfully muscled body, the colour of cold iron, the fin that arched from its smooth back, the snout and the clever eyes that seemed to stare at her. Ardith’s breath caught in her throat. She could still see the creature, powering its body through the water just beneath the surface, keeping itself just before Saeslaga’s bow wave. With a sudden burst of speed, the great fish leapt once more from the sea. For an instant it hung in the bitter air and appeared to smile at her.

  Despite the cold and the misery that threatened to overwhelm her, Ardith let out a laugh. She did not mean to, but the animal was so full of joy at its own energy, seeming to relish the chance to show her its skill and agility.

  Once more it slipped beneath the waves, and then, instantly leapt high before the ship. She laughed again, as the animal jumped and cavorted in the waves as if for her amusement. It easily kept ahead of the ship, but seemed to enjoy the company of the girl who stared down at its play from the prow of the sleek wooden wave-steed. Beyond the playful dolphin, Ardith spied several more. They too shot out of the surf, spinning in the air with abandon. But they did not approach so close to Saeslaga. Fleetingly, Ardith wondered what it was that made this one animal braver, or more curious, than the others of its family. What made some men brave, and some cowards? She thought of her father, and how his feet had crunched into the shingle of the beach as he had walked away from her. He had not turned around, despite her cries for help.

  Another, sudden flash of movement caught her attention. Draca, the one-eyed, red-bearded sailor who had restrained her on the beach at Hithe, was at her side. He held something high above him, his arm outstretched. For a heartbeat Ardith could not make sense of what she saw, then the westering sun glinted from the wicked, barbed tip of the spear the pirate held poised, and she shuddered. Draca drew back his arm and grimaced with concentration, clearly anticipating the movements of the dolphin that sped along just beneath the sea’s surface.

  With the now-familiar surge of power from its tail, the animal once more sprang from the waves into the cold air.

  “No!” Ardith cried out, whether in anger at Draca, or in warning to the dolphin, she was not sure. The single word was filled with all of her pent-up misery and anger and the sound of her own voice shocked her with its intensity. Did the dolphin falter in its headlong flight? Was it possible that it had heard her and attempted to make sense of her cry?

  But even as she thought this, the glimmer of hope was snuffed out as Draca’s arm lashed forward and his lance flew fast and true, trailing a slender line behind it. He let out a roaring bellow of triumph as the iron head of the harpoon buried itself deeply into the sea creature’s flesh. Crimson billowed in the water and the dolphin, once so graceful and full of joy, tumbled clumsily in the waves. Its tail thrashed, churning pink-foamed surf around Saeslaga’s bow.

  “No!” Ardith screamed again. She flung herself at Draca, beating upon his shoulder, left arm and chest with her small fists. The brawny sailor just laughed and began to play in the line, pulling it in and coiling it with expertly practised movements.

  More laughter rolled across the deck, as the other sailors watched Ardith berating Draca.

  All the while Ardith screamed and cried.

  She sobbed, tasting the bitter tang of salt on her lips as her tears streamed down her cheeks. Saeslaga ploughed into another wave, sending a fresh wall of spray over both Ardith and Draca. The water tasted like her tears. Was that the metallic hint of blood on her tongue?

  She scanned the waters around the ship. The dolphins had vanished. Draca cursed as the injured creature pulled itself beneath the hull, threatening to snag or tangle the line.

  The terrible sorrow that had filled Ardith at seeing the joyful animal struck, fled as quickly as it had flooded through her. In its place was an all-encompassing rage. Gone was her fear of these men, or of losing her hold on the rigging and being lost overboard into the icy waters. All of her terror and sadness vanished in an instant, as if the wave had washed it away. She felt her skin grow hot, as though she had bathed in an ocean of fury, and she lunged forward.

  This was no random flailing of weak fists against the huge sailor’s bulky frame. No. Ardith fixed her gaze on the knife that hung at Draca’s belt. It was of simple design, bone handled, with a blade not much longer than a man’s finger, but it would suffice, she was sure. If it had a keen edge.

  Without warning, she grasped the knife and slid it from its leather sheath. For a moment she thought about plunging it into Draca then, into his exposed neck. He was fully focused on reeling in the line, on capturing his prize. No, she must do s
omething first, then she could stab the red-bearded bastard over and over. Her ire broiled and brimmed within her, as rough and huge as the sea.

  Before Draca could react, she snatched the line and, thanking the Virgin that the man kept his blade sharp, she sawed through the hemp cord with two fast slicing cuts. It slithered over the side of the ship and disappeared into the darkness beneath the prow. There was an instant when Draca continued to pull in the loose line, then his eye narrowed and he spun on Ardith.

  She meant to slay him then. Her anger was a living thing within her and she had lost all control of it. But she was no trained killer. She was just a girl, with a tear-streaked face and sodden dress plastering her slender form, quivering with rage before a broad-shouldered sea-thief.

  Ardith screamed and threw herself forward, swinging the wickedly sharp knife at Draca’s face, hoping to take his other eye. The pirate swayed out of the reach of her clumsy attack and caught her wrist. He squeezed, his powerful hands grinding the fragile bones together. Ardith yelped and dropped the knife. Draca lashed out and caught her a thundering blow with the back of his left hand, which sent her staggering away. Her head filled with bright light and she fell to the wet deck, dazed.

  A moment later, Grimr was there. He pushed Draca away from Ardith.

  “Leave her, brother,” he shouted. “It is like throwing gold over the side to strike her and damage what we mean to trade. She can give us back all we have lost!”

  Draca allowed himself to be restrained. Grimr shoved him away and Draca shouted at Ardith as he stalked down the length of the ship.

  “Stupid bitch. You know that fish will die. Better we should eat of its meat than have it go to waste.”

  Ardith pushed herself shakily to her feet. Again she tasted blood. She wiped her hand against her mouth. It came away smeared red. Her hand was trembling, and she realised her whole body shook. She did not answer Draca, but she wondered at his words. She did not know if the ocean creature was capable of thought, but she had seen its eyes, watched it playing and enjoying the connection it had made with her. The sorrow that had so briefly been swept away on a wave of ire, returned, trickling through her shaking body.

  She prayed that the dolphin might live, unlikely as that might be. But if it were to die, she thought it would be better for it to die free, surrounded by its kin and kind.

  Chapter 13

  They left at first light on horses borrowed from Eorcenberht’s stables. It was a crisp, chill morning and their mounts’ breath smoked in the air. The courtyard was filled with the hubbub of riders and horses, hostlers and servants. Beobrand glanced at the horse he would ride, a fine chestnut-coloured mare that reminded him of Acennan’s favourite steed. He sighed, his friend’s loss still cutting keenly when memories surfaced unannounced and unexpected. Cynan led a tall, dappled stallion over to Garr. It trotted daintily on long, slender legs and Beobrand marvelled at the quality of horseflesh Cynan had convinced the steward of the hall to part with. Beobrand gave Cynan a nod but said nothing, not wishing to draw attention to the Waelisc horseman’s keen haggling with the head hostler the previous night. It was not a long journey to Hithe, but Cynan was clearly concerned that the search for Beobrand’s daughter might take them further and did not wish for them to be poorly horsed.

  A powerful voice carried over the throng, making Beobrand turn.

  Bassus strode towards him.

  “May the gods guide you, Beobrand,” he boomed. The giant clapped Beobrand on the shoulder and lowered his voice. “Do not take too long though. I know not how late Fordraed and Utta will delay travelling north.” He said no more on the subject. They both knew that Beobrand was risking Oswiu’s wrath by diverting from his mission.

  It was Eanflæd who had settled matters. She had laid out her plan in the gardens the previous afternoon.

  “Do you doubt this woman, Udela?” she had asked him. “Do you believe she lies?”

  Beobrand looked over now to where the stern, earnest Udela was climbing onto a stocky, gentle horse that Cynan had selected for her. His belief in Udela had not wavered.

  “I do not doubt her,” Beobrand had replied to Eanflæd, as the afternoon sun had dipped beyond the crumbling walls of Cantwareburh.

  Eanflæd had nodded, as if she’d expected this reply.

  “Then this girl child she speaks of is your daughter and there is nothing for it but that you seek her out.”

  “But what of Oswiu?”

  Eanflæd had stared at him then, as if he were simple. He had felt foolish, a stupid child, not a renowned death-dealing thegn.

  “I am to be a peace-weaver between two nations, Beobrand. I will be married to a man from a family that mine has hated for decades.” This was true, but Beobrand did not understand how this served to unravel the tangled threads of his predicament.

  “Oswiu is already married,” Eanflæd had continued, “and has children.”

  Beobrand had squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of Rhieinmelth of Rheged.

  “Yes, my lady. You know this, but he has put Rhieinmelth aside for his marriage to you to take place. Yours will be a powerful alliance.”

  “Indeed,” she’d snapped. “But it seems to me that if Oswiu can so easily leave one wife, what might he do to me in the future? I am in no hurry to head north, Beobrand.”

  “And yet I am oath-sworn to Oswiu, lady,” Beobrand had said; he could still see no way to be free of the obligation to his king.

  Eanflæd had smiled, and it had been as if the sun had once again lit the small corner of the garden, bathing the stone bench in warmth.

  “Ah, but Oswiu is not here,” she’d said. “And he sent you south on my behest. I requested that you be part of the retinue to take me north. And it is now my wish that you do that which is noble and right in the eyes of the Lord.”

  And so it was that in the hall that evening, Eanflæd had told her cousin and the men of Northumbria that Beobrand was to ride in search of his lost kin and that until he returned, she would remain at Cantwareburh. Fordraed had spluttered and fumed, furious at the turn of events.

  “By all that is holy,” he had cried, spitting half-chewed gobbets of meat across the board, “you are to be brought forthwith to Bebbanburg, to Oswiu King. It has been agreed.”

  Eanflæd had stared at the portly thegn calmly, unmoved by his outburst.

  “Is Oswiu a good follower of Christ?” she had asked.

  Utta had intervened then, lowering his cup to the table and raising his hand.

  “Oswiu is the most holy of kings. He is a true brother in Christ, giving joy to the Lord and adhering to all his sacred teachings.”

  Eanflæd smiled.

  “Just so,” she said. “And therefore I know that the lord Oswiu would agree with me, for surely Jesu would not have a man turn away from one of his flock that had been taken by wolves. If there was any chance of rescue, both Christ and my soon-to-be husband would seek to bring the stolen lamb back to the fold. And so Beobrand will seek out Udela’s daughter. Not because he wishes to break his oath to his lord. He does not! His word is iron and let no man say that Beobrand of Ubbanford would ever break faith with his sworn lord. No. Beobrand will do this thing because it is what I command, and what God and Oswiu, as a true follower of the one true Lord God would want.”

  Utta had opened his mouth to respond, but then, seemingly unable to find words, had closed it again.

  Fordraed’s face had clouded, thunderous and filled with rage.

  Wynhelm had offered Beobrand a thin smile and a nod. He appeared to appreciate how smoothly the princess had cornered the Northumbrians.

  The warmth of the hall seemed distant now, with the horses stamping and blowing all around. Bassus offered his hand and Beobrand grasped his forearm in the warrior grip.

  “You sure you won’t come?” Beobrand asked.

  Bassus shook his head.

  “I’d only slow you down. Besides, it is the lady Eanflæd’s wish that I remain here.” His mouth twisted i
n a sardonic smile. “It would seem she is the one who plays the tune now, and we merely dance.”

  Beobrand said nothing.

  He took the reins of the chestnut mare from a bondsman and swung himself into the saddle, shifting his weight to get comfortable.

  One of the horses whinnied and stamped angrily, unhappy with its rider. Someone cried out in dismay. Others laughed, the sound raucous in the early morning mist. The angry horse kicked a couple of times, its unlucky rider clinging to the saddle and the beast’s mane. It was Coenred, his face flushed, his robes flapping about his pale, slim ankles. The monk had never been a natural rider and the brethren of Lindisfarena usually walked from place to place. But Beobrand could not hold his gesithas back to wait for Coenred, and so he was mounted like the rest of them.

  Beobrand spurred forwards and caught Coenred’s mount’s reins. The horse, a small, hitherto docile-looking pony that Cynan had said was sure to pose no problems, rolled its eyes at Beobrand, but it quietened with a final shake of its head and a snort. Beobrand handed the reins to Coenred.

  “Are you sure about this?” Beobrand asked.

  “It is the lady Eanflæd’s wish, and bishop Utta’s too.” He patted the horse’s neck nervously, and the animal flicked its ears. “I just pray that God will see that this beast is calm on the journey.”

  Beobrand smiled at his friend. Coenred often seemed timid, but Beobrand knew his worth. He met Coenred’s gaze and saw the anxiety there. And yet there was something else. A flicker, a spark. Could it be excitement? Some of the men had grumbled at the monk accompanying them, but not those who knew him well. Eanflæd had suggested he travel with Beobrand, but at first Utta had refused. Once again, she had deftly convinced him to do her bidding. She had heard that Coenred was skilled in the arts of leechcraft, she’d said. It was possible that Ardith might need healing if she had been treated harshly, and, she had gone on, wouldn’t the child be in need of spiritual guidance after her ordeal? Utta had been unconvinced until Eanflæd had pointed out that the description of the men who had taken Udela’s daughter from Hithe seemed to match that of the men who had attacked Háligsteorra, killing Dalston and stealing the precious gift meant for her from her future husband. This had swayed Utta, who had taken Coenred to one side and whispered frantic instructions about what to do if they should find the casket.