Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  These men were sailors all. Good, earnest seamen. Fishermen and traders. Not the warriors he was accustomed to share a board with. For this was no lord’s hall. This was the home of Hrothgar, son of Hebeca, the richest shipman in Hithe. He had once shown kindness to Beobrand, giving him passage from Cantware to Bernicia. He hoped Hrothgar would be generous to him again.

  Beobrand accepted the cup of mead Hrothgar poured for him. Hrothgar gestured for the young man to his right to squeeze along the bench and patted the wooden seat nearest to him. Beobrand sat.

  “I need a ship,” Beobrand repeated.

  “So you said, lassie,” Hrothgar replied. “I see age and wealth have not improved your manners. You come asking for something from me. I would drink and talk a while. I would hear of the deeds of the great Beobrand who slays night beasts with his bare hands and slices the heads from treacherous kings before he breaks his fast of a morning.”

  For a moment Beobrand simply stared at the old man. This was foolish. Surely he did not believe the songs and tales he’d heard. At his expression, Hrothgar guffawed, his laughter rumbling up from within him to shake his whole body like a sail billowing in a stiff breeze. Some of the other men joined in and soon the hall echoed with the throb of laughter. Despite himself, Beobrand felt his rage lessen, drifting away just as the waves receded on the beach outside.

  After a time, Hrothgar wiped his eyes with the backs his of gnarled, weathered hands. Reaching for the horn before him, he took a long draught.

  “By the gods, Beobrand, you ever were a sombre one. I see you have no time to listen to an old sailor’s tales or to spin your own yarns of the lands you now call home. What is it you want from me?”

  “A ship,” Beobrand said for a third time. His simple response set Hrothgar chortling once again.

  After stifling his mirth, Hrothgar said, “Why?”

  Beobrand looked about the room. All of the men returned his gaze. They were listening intently. Some had to crane their necks to see past the smoked herring, strips of meat, turnips and onions that dangled from the roof beams.

  “You know that Ardith, daughter of Udela, has been taken by strangers?”

  Hrothgar nodded.

  “Of course, though they were not strangers. It was Grimr and his crew of pig-swivers and that one-eyed bastard brother of his. They stop here every so often in search of trade. But Folca has their measure and never lets them into his hall. As vile a band of ruffians as sail the Whale Road.”

  Beobrand fixed him with a cold glare. Hrothgar swallowed.

  “I mean to seek out Ardith. I will bring her back safely if I can. But for that, I need a ship. And a crew.”

  Hrothgar stared at him for a time. He poured himself more mead and sipped from the horn before replying. The room was utterly still now. None of the men spoke. The only sounds came from the fire and two hounds who were gnawing on pieces of antler beneath the table.

  “Why would you do such a thing? I know you were once friends with Scrydan, but this…”

  “I am no friend of Scrydan’s,” Beobrand said. “He sold Ardith to Grimr.”

  A murmur ran through the room. A couple of the men grumbled. One of the dogs growled, snapping its teeth at the other that had crept too close to what it was chewing.

  Hrothgar sighed.

  “This is a bad business, Beobrand. For sure. She was a sweet girl. But Scrydan is her father and it is not unheard of for a man down on his luck to sell his kin thus. Surely you have more important errands to run for your king than to go in search of a child who has been sold as a house thrall. It saddens me to say it, for she was but young, too young for this bitter fate, but she may already have been sullied. She is lost.”

  Beobrand slammed his fist into the board with such force that the cups and plates rattled. Hrothgar’s decorated drinking horn toppled over, spilling its contents over the rough timber where it trickled over the edge onto the old man’s leg. He stood quickly, cursing and overturning his stool.

  “Do not speak so!” shouted Beobrand. His hand had fallen to the handle of his seax, for this was no lord’s hall where weapons were left at the door. There were no door wards here.

  Nobody spoke.

  The gathered seafarers seemed to hold their breath. Death was in the air and suddenly they all recalled the tales they had heard of Beobrand’s victories. How the ravens had gorged themselves on his fallen foe-men. And, seeing him now, his eyes burning with an icy fire, his corded neck muscles bulging and his hand gripping menacingly the short but deadly blade at his belt, they believed all of the stories. Many had known Beobrand as a boy, but this was no boy who stood before them now. No, this was no farmer or sailor from Hithe. This was a death-dealing thegn, a man who would snuff the life from his enemies without a thought.

  The silence drew on. At last, Beobrand let out a ragged breath.

  “Do not speak so,” he repeated. He rubbed his hands over his face, then took a swig from his cup. “Ardith is my daughter.”

  Hrothgar sat down again, slowly.

  The room was as still and silent as a barrow now. Even the hounds fell silent, perhaps sensing the mood of the men. Beobrand glanced about him. None of them would meet his gaze.

  Carefully, Hrothgar righted his horn, refilled it from the pitcher of mead and drank deeply.

  “I am sorry, Beobrand,” he said, wiping droplets of liquid from his moustache with the back of his hand. Gone was his light humour. His lips pulled down into a frown. “Kin is no laughing matter.”

  Beobrand waved a hand vaguely, dismissing the apology.

  “You knew not,” he said. “So, now you know the truth of it, can you help me?”

  Hrothgar’s frown deepened.

  “This is a quest for a younger man than I. My bones are weary, and the claws of winter are already scratching at the door. The seas are treacherous at this time of year. You should wait till the turning of the year. After Geola. After Solmonath the winds will be softer, the waves less prone to swallow ships whole.”

  “I cannot wait till spring. Even if I could, Ardith surely cannot.”

  “Would that Swidhelm were here,” Hrothgar said with a sigh. “He was never one to turn away from a challenge, and his ship was the fleetest wave-swan any man has captained.”

  “I remember him. His ship was fine indeed and you always said he had the luck of the gods.”

  “It seems even the luckiest of men run out of fortune in the end.”

  Beobrand nodded. He scarcely felt lucky, despite what men said about him. Still, he yet lived.

  “What happened to him?”

  “I do not know. He sailed from here bound for Hibernia last Hreðmonath. He never returned.”

  “His ship was lost?”

  “None of us has seen any sign of the ship or any of the crew. As I said, it seems Swidhelm’s luck ran out.”

  “But there are more ships in Hithe than that of Swidhelm. Surely one of you men has a ship and a crew that can serve.” Beobrand scanned the faces around the hall. A couple of the older men met his gaze but shook their heads. Most of the seamen avoided his eyes. “I am not a poor man,” he said. “I will pay silver.”

  A murmur ran though the room, but nobody stepped forward.

  “It is a fool’s errand, Beobrand,” said Hrothgar. “The winter storms will come and even if you track these men across the sea road…” He hesitated, then raised his hand to placate Beobrand before another outburst. “You must accept that it may be too late.”

  Beneath the board Beobrand clenched his fists. His head had begun to throb. He was tired.

  “I must try,” he said, a wave of exhaustion washing over him. “But I need a ship.”

  “I could go.”

  Beobrand turned at the sound of the new voice. It was the young man beside him, the man Hrothgar had moved along the bench to allow Beobrand to sit. He was thickset, with the brawny arms and shoulders of one used to pulling at the oars. His beard and hair were an unkempt and unruly muddle of curl
s and tangles, as if he had never cut either. The man’s eyes were intelligent and bright and the green of a summer sea. Despite his throbbing head and the tiredness that had come upon him, Beobrand liked the man instinctively.

  “Indeed?” said Hrothgar. “And whose ship do you presume to command?”

  The young man pushed his mane of hair out of his face and grinned, his teeth flashing in the thicket of his beard.

  “Why, yours, of course, father,” he said.

  Hrothgar fixed his son with a stare that reminded Beobrand of when he had sailed with Hrothgar all those years before. The old sailor had been intimidating then. The years had not diminished the power of his glare.

  The young man met his father’s eyes and neither spoke for several heartbeats, locked in a silent battle of wills. Eventually, having reached his own conclusions as to his son’s worthiness, Hrothgar smiled and offered him a small nod.

  “Beobrand,” Hrothgar said, “this is my son, Ferenbald.”

  The name conjured up distant memories in Beobrand. Images flitted in his mind of a child, laughing and swinging from the branches of trees that none of the other children had dared to climb.

  “Ferenbald?” he said. “Gods, I remember you as nothing more than a whelp. You were but a child when I left Cantware.”

  “We have both grown since then, lord,” Ferenbald answered.

  Despite himself, Beobrand smiled. Ferenbald was a few years his junior, and he had never paid him much heed when he had lived in Hithe, but there was an easy confidence to him that spoke to Beobrand.

  “Your beard has certainly grown,” Beobrand said.

  Ferenbald laughed.

  Hrothgar placed his drinking horn on the board and said, “Why is it that you think you are ready to skipper Brimblæd, son? She is that which I value above all else, save for your mother, brothers and you. It fills me with dread to send my eldest son into winter seas aboard my fine vessel, on a quest that may well end up in a fight, if any of the tales of Beobrand are truthful. What say you? Why should I allow such a thing?”

  Ferenbald stood and made his way to his father’s side. He placed his hand on Hrothgar’s shoulder.

  “It is as you have said, father. You are young no longer, but I am older than you were when first you took a ship of your own onto the Whale Road. I have stood on the deck of Brimblæd since I could walk. I have sailed and rowed and guided her through heavy seas. How many long nights have you allowed me to stand at the steerboard while you slept? I am prepared for this, father. You have taught me all of my life. Besides,” he squeezed his father’s shoulder, “Beobrand seeks to do that which is right. What would you do if one of my brothers had been taken by Grimr?”

  “Your mother will never allow it,” Hrothgar said. “She will say you are too young yet to go to sea alone.”

  “Nonsense, husband. Those are your words, not mine.”

  A stout woman had entered the fug-filled hall from a doorway at the rear. The dim red light from the hearth picked out her round, heavy-jowled face. A fine brooch and necklace glimmered in the firelight.

  “By the gods, woman,” said Hrothgar, “I thought you abed long since.”

  “Well, it seems you were wrong about that too,” she said.

  A smattering of chuckling in the ill-lit room. Hrothgar frowned.

  “But the boy is yet young,” he said, a tone of pleading entering his voice.

  “Young, yes. But also strong and able, husband.” She walked to Hrothgar and Ferenbald, placing a hand on each man’s shoulder. “Our son speaks true. It is time. And it is right. Think of the poor girl.”

  Hrothgar looked up at his wife. He was furious, taut as a mainstay in high winds, and Beobrand wondered if, like a stay rope that is cut loose, the old sailor would lash out. But after a few moments, the anger drained out of Hrothgar and his shoulders slumped in defeat. His wife smiled and patted his back.

  “Very well, Beobrand,” Hrothgar said, “you have yourself a ship, and a fine captain.” Ferenbald beamed at his father’s words. “I have two conditions.”

  “Of course, Hrothgar,” Beobrand said, “speak your terms.”

  “The first is for Ferenbald,” he turned to face his son. “Bring back Brimblæd to me in one piece. She is the finest ship I have ever owned and she is very dear to me.”

  “Of course, father. I swear I will bring Brimblæd back to you.”

  Hrothgar smiled, but Beobrand felt a prickling of unease at Ferenbald’s quick oath. Hrothgar turned his attention to Beobrand.

  “For you I have a different request.”

  Beobrand said nothing.

  Hrothgar said, “Bring back my son to me.”

  The weight of the words hung in the air. Hrothgar’s eyes flashed red, reflecting the embers of the hearth fire. Beobrand held his gaze; did not look away. The silence dragged out awkwardly. Part of Beobrand wished to blurt out his consent to Hrothgar’s wish as Ferenbald had done, but he held back. In his mind’s eye he saw Eowa’s handsome, scarred face, as he had last seen him before the battle of Maserfelth. Eowa had sons and a wife, but Beobrand had no more been able to keep him safe than he could halt snow from thawing in the sun.

  “Well?” Hrothgar asked at last.

  “I cannot give you my word on this. I have seen too many good men fall, lost too many brave friends to make you a promise I may not be able to keep. But I give you my oath that I will do all that is within my power to see that your son returns to you safely. I cannot control a man’s wyrd, but I will do my best to see that no harm comes to him. On that you have my word.”

  Hrothgar held his gaze for what seemed an eternity. Men began to fidget. One of the hounds whimpered. A log shifted in the fire, sending up sparks around the dried herring that hung from the soot-draped beams. Beobrand could only imagine what thoughts were going through the old man’s mind, but eventually Hrothgar nodded.

  “Very well,” he said. “It is all I can ask. We all know that the sea is a dangerous mistress and even the luckiest of sailors and ships do not always return from voyaging on the Whale Road. But, Beobrand,” he said, reaching out and gripping Beobrand’s arm with the strength that came from years of working the rigging and steerboard, “see to it that your best is good enough and bring my boy back.”

  Chapter 18

  Coenred pulled his robes about him. Living in the monastery on Lindisfarena had made him used to cold, but the chill breeze that blew off the Narrow Sea, whilst not carrying the same icy bite as a winter storm in Northumbria, still managed to cut through his woollen garment. The wind tugged at the hem of his robe and swirled his hair into his eyes. In the manner of the Christ’s holy men, the front of Coenred’s head was shaved, but the hair from the crown of his head and behind his ears fell, long and luxuriant, to his shoulders. Watching the men preparing the ship to sail, he shivered. Coenred wasn’t sure whether he shuddered from the cold or trepidation at the prospect of the quest on which he found himself. Perhaps both.

  On the strand, the ship, Brimblæd wallowed in shallow surf. Around the vessel, men heaved barrels and bales. Ropes were thrown from one man to another, each seeming to know exactly what was required of him. Ferenbald, his beard and hair blowing about his head like a forest caught in the grip of a great storm, shouted orders, occasionally pointing to reinforce his meaning. He was young, but calm and ever-smiling. He missed nothing from where he stood aboard Brimblæd.

  Coenred shivered again.

  He hunched his shoulders, pulling his robe closer in against the cold. And yet, perhaps there was something else besides the weather that made him tremble. Smiling to himself, he remembered wise men, men who now rested in heaven at the side of the Lord. Fearghas and Gothfraidh had always told him he was one who sought out adventure. Coenred had denied it. He merely wanted to help his brethren, to study the word of God, to tend to His flock, to heal the sick. Quests and excitement were for warriors like Beobrand. He smiled now at his own blindness and at the older men’s wisdom. It seemed they knew
him better than he knew himself.

  As the ship was laden with supplies and the crew and Beobrand’s gesithas clambered aboard with their chests, sacks and gear, Coenred recognised the fluttering feeling in his belly. He was not overly cold, he was excited. The unknown terrified him and intrigued him in equal measure. The thought of riding this fragile ship in pursuit of the men who had taken Ardith made him tremble.

  He did not know the girl, but he hoped she could be saved. Ever since hearing the news of Ardith’s capture Beobrand had been so dour, more sombre than usual, if such a thing were possible.

  And if he were truthful, if he were to gaze deep into the darkest corners of his being, there was another reason Coenred wished to travel with Beobrand. Something beyond the excitement of journeying further afield than he ever had before, seeing more of the Lord’s great creation of middle earth. He scarce wished to think of it, but the image of Dalston would not leave him. His dreams were filled with Dalston’s last moments, throat ripped crimson, his horrified eyes staring at Coenred as he had slipped beneath the dark waves. He had prayed long on this, asking the Lord to take away the memories that haunted his nightmares. But rather than see the images fade, they had become starker in his mind, and deep within his heart a dark seed of vengeance had taken root.

  He sighed and began to recite the paternoster under his breath to clear his mind of such evil thoughts. He had felt the same after Gothfraidh’s killing at the hands of Mercian raiders the year before. Then he had told Beobrand to avenge his mentor’s death. When Beobrand had returned with the news that he had slain Halga and all his men, Coenred had for a fleeting moment felt a rush of joy. But then, he had needed to tell Beobrand of Reaghan’s death. His friend’s face had crumpled and Coenred had thought he might see him cry, as he had years before when they had first met. But the boy Beobrand had been was gone and as quickly as the pain had shown on his face, so Beobrand had set his features and he had stridden out of the hall, to walk alone with his thoughts and his grief.