Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Brimblæd rose up a wave. At its peak, just before the ship slid down into the trough, Fraomar let out a cry, gesturing in the same direction as Beobrand.

  “A light!” he shouted. “It looks close.”

  “More than one light,” shouted Ferenbald. “Those are the beacons of Hastingas. They light them to guide ships in.” He laughed again. “Of course, you need to be close enough to see them on a night like this!” The skipper bellowed orders to the crew, his voice booming like the thunder.

  “Mad or not,” said Dreogan, “he knows how to pilot this wave-steed.”

  Bearn said nothing. He was as pale as whey.

  As Brimblæd crested another wall of water, Beobrand had to agree with Dreogan. They were lucky to have Ferenbald at the helm of the ship. How he had steered them into the very harbour he intended was beyond Beobrand’s ken. All around them lay wind-tossed water and darkness, and yet Hrothgar’s son had guided them to safety.

  Beobrand was about to respond to Dreogan when another shaft of lightning crackled out over the sea, followed an eye-blink later by a cataclysmic crash. It would not do to think of safety when the gods were reminding him that the flimsy vessel and its occupants were still at the mercy of the wind and the tide.

  The harsh brilliance of the lightning picked out details on the beach in stark contrast to the dark sky where the clouds tumbled and rolled. There were three large beacons blazing on the dunes beyond the strand. Men were gathered on the beach, their faces white and staring in the flash of the storm’s light. Beyond the dunes were several buildings. Trees, limbs stripped of leaves, reached up over the settlement with skeletal fingers.

  All this Beobrand saw in a single moment of light. The images burnt into his mind and he could see them still when he blinked. Brimblæd was coming on too fast, pushed by the wind and the waves towards the land. Beobrand clutched the amulet at his throat and clung to the swaying shroud. How had he believed they were safe? He could almost hear Thunor’s laughter in the roar of the tempest. The puny ship would be dashed against the beach, or some hidden rocks, and they would be drowned. Beobrand remembered the terror in Dalston’s eyes as he had disappeared beneath the waves.

  He cast about for a sign of Coenred. He had not seen the monk for some time and now, suddenly, he felt the weight of his friend’s life upon him. He could not let him die as Dalston had. Brimblæd was buffeted by a breaking wave, bitter cold water sluiced into the ship and it listed alarmingly. Gods, they were going to capsize. But then, as if by Ferenbald’s sheer force of will, she righted herself. At the same moment, Beobrand saw Coenred, quaking and huddled against the storm, but safe enough and out of the way of the sailors, who, even now rushed to fulfil their master’s orders.

  Ferenbald no longer laughed. His face had become a mask of concentration. But his voice was firm and carried over the tumult as he bellowed commands. The men responded and Beobrand again marvelled at the captain’s sea-skill. Brimblæd looked to be heading side on for a collision with the land. With the strength of the waves it seemed impossible that she would not be toppled, casting the crew and passengers into the cold water. But then, with a shout from Ferenbald, a couple of the crew heaved on a sheet and he leaned on the steerboard with all his strength and weight and Brimblæd answered by turning towards the shingle, wave-washed beach. In a few heartbeats, the ship had ridden a wave high onto the strand. Its keel ground and rasped against the sand and pebbles of the beach and it had not ceased moving when sailors were leaping over the sides into the churning surf.

  For a heart-clenching instant Beobrand thought they were abandoning the ship, fleeing from its wreck. Just as quickly he saw what they were about. They were not seeking to save themselves, they were saving the ship.

  “Come on,” he shouted. His voice sounded strained and fearful to his own ears. He hoped the men would not notice. He forced himself to relinquish his grip on the shroud. His hands were stiff, aching from cold. The ship lurched suddenly as the water receded from beneath its hull and Beobrand clutched again at the rigging to prevent himself from falling. Taking a deep breath to steady his nerves, he raised his voice over the roaring of the storm. “We must help pull Brimblæd beyond the reach of the sea.” His voice was steadier now. “Come on.”

  Without waiting to see his gesithas’ response, he released his hold on the rigging again and swung himself over the side of the ship.

  He instantly plunged into water so cold that his breath was snatched from his lungs. A wave broke, cascading water over his head. He spluttered and coughed, spitting out a mouthful of brine. The water receded, leaving the sea washing about his chest. Gods, it was deeper here than he had thought. More figures splashed into the waves near him and rose out of the murk like beasts of the deep. A hand reached out to him, gripping his arm and tugging him towards the beach, into the shallows.

  “Follow me, lord.”

  A crackle of distant lightning showed Beobrand the man’s face. Cynan. Another wave crashed over them, momentarily submerging both men. Cynan did not release his grip on Beobrand’s arm. Beobrand nodded, unable to talk, his mouth and nose full of water.

  Together, they waded up the sloping beach to where the sailors now stood. In the time it had taken Beobrand and his gesithas to reach them through the foam and surf, Brimblæd’s crew had marshalled themselves. Ropes had been thrown down to them and now they set about hauling the ship up the beach.

  What had appeared so light on the surface of the sea, tossed by the waves and wind like a leaf in a stream, was cumbersome indeed on land. Men came down from the dunes and picked up the ropes, lending their weight to the crew’s efforts. Beobrand spat out more seawater and shouldered his way into the group of men tugging at the closest rope. By the occasional flicker of Thunor’s fire and the flames from the beacons on the dunes, he saw the rest of his men take places at the ropes. Even Bearn, who had to stop momentarily, doubling over to empty his stomach, grasped the hempen cord and added his strength to the task of bringing the ship high above the tide line, where it could rest safely while the storm raged.

  It took only moments to drag Brimblæd up the beach to where marram grass grew and the sea never reached. The men dropped the ropes to the shingle, their talk strident and boisterous. They slapped each other on the back and joked loudly. Beobrand recognised the brash tone of their jests. He had heard the same after countless battles when men would boast of their exploits. They were full of the joy of surviving when moments before death had seemed so certain.

  Someone said something amusing and laughter rang out. It was a good sound. And they were right to be happy. They yet lived and, unlike after a clash of shieldwalls, none of them had lost friends or family this day.

  Beobrand turned away from the gathered men and shivered. He dragged in great lungfuls of the salty air. It had not taken long to pull the ship to safety, but the terror of the storm, the freezing water and the exertion had exacted their toll on him. He wished for a dry cloak and a warm fire. His hands shook at his sides and he clenched them into fists, willing them to be still.

  Absently, he noted that Cynan was close beside him. Beobrand frowned. Together they watched as more men clambered from the ship. With a sigh of relief Beobrand saw the pale face of Coenred peering over the wale. He raised a hand, but wasn’t sure that the young monk saw him.

  Beyond Brimblæd, the sea was a chaos of foamy peaks. Lightning streaked the sky far out to sea. The ire of the storm seemed to have dissipated as soon as they had found shelter on the beach. It was as if Thunor had tired of his sport now.

  Beobrand spat and shuddered again. It was foolish to think such things. His mind turned to Octa far away in Northumbria. Was his son well? How was he being treated by Oswiu and his household? The image of Ardith as he had last seen her came to him then; a small child, fair hair framing a delicate face. Was she out there even now on that storm-savaged sea?

  The gods cared nought for mortals. They would not protect his offspring. They left that for children’s
fathers. Beobrand gripped the Thunor’s hammer amulet at his throat. He offered up a silent challenge to the god of thunder, his unuttered words as bitter as the salt in his mouth.

  “Go on then, Thunor,” he thought, “blow and rage! Call up gales and storms to stop me. There is nothing you can place before me that will prevent me from fulfilling my wyrd. I have set myself on this path and I will bring the girl back, or I will die in the attempt.”

  Wind gusted hard, tugging at his sodden kirtle, making him shiver. In the distance, sparks of lightning lit the clouds. He held his breath, waiting to hear the sound of Thunor’s laughter, but he heard nothing over the crash of the waves and the howl of the wind.

  Chapter 22

  The lightning grew ever more distant during the night, until the thunder was the merest of grumbles from afar, barely heard over the tumult of the wind and rain that battered the hall where Brimblæd’s crew had sought shelter. Beobrand wondered whether Thunor had heard his silent challenge. With each far-off rumble he shivered and took another swig of ale. The drink was good and strong, and soon Beobrand was drunk. Thoughts of gods drifted from his mind. But the drink did nothing to brighten his mood.

  They were comfortable enough in the great hall of Hastingas. It was a clean, well-run place and Lord Dudoc and his wife, Aelfgyth, a portly grey-haired couple who looked enough alike to be siblings, were hospitable and friendly. They knew Ferenbald, who had often visited them when trading with Hrothgar, and Lord Dudoc was overjoyed to entertain the famed Beobrand from songs and tales in his humble hall. The heavy-jowled lord had ordered a feast to be prepared and a beaming Lady Aelfgyth had offered Beobrand the Waes Hael cup. He had taken a long draught of the sweet mead. It was good and he’d nodded his thanks. When the food was served it was sumptuous and hearty and the men had laughed to be fed such delicacies as roast goose, its flesh dripping with fat, and a rich black pudding that had been boiled along with the pottage. All of this had been served with some of the softest bread Beobrand had ever tasted.

  Despite the warm welcome, the rich food and the fine ale and mead, and no matter how much Dudoc cajoled him, Beobrand would not be drawn into telling tales of his exploits. After a time, the old man had frowned, sucking on his moustaches grumpily, and stopped asking. And yet he seemed incapable of being quiet and he quickly continued to prattle on about all manner of things. For the most part Beobrand allowed the man’s words to wash over him as he ate and drank his fill. The food was well-prepared, wholesome and fulfilling and from time to time Beobrand mumbled his thanks for the selection of meats and fish on the board. He knew they would be eating into Dudoc’s winter stores and would not have been surprised to detect resentment at the number of mouths he needed to feed. But to his credit, Dudoc seemed genuinely pleased of the diversion presented by his surprise guests. Beobrand felt a prickle of guilt at not giving the man what he wanted, but he could not bring himself to talk of the glories of battle. He had long since accepted that part of him craved the madness of battle; the clang and clash of sword on shield. But he had never felt at ease making light of the spear-din and horror of the shieldwall. The screams and stink and terror were not worthy of songs.

  “You were there, were you not, Lord Beobrand?” Dudoc asked.

  Beobrand had not been listening. He turned now to the plump lord at his side. Dudoc’s eyes glittered expectantly in the firelight. With a wrench, Beobrand was suddenly aware that this portly, elderly man reminded him of Tondberct. He had the same eagerness, the same babbling exuberance. But Tondberct was long since dead. Beobrand took a great swallow of ale. Is this what Tondberct would have become, had he lived? He pushed the thoughts away. Tondberct was dead. Hanged by Beobrand for savage crimes. He had not deserved to live.

  Fleetingly, he recalled the boy who had tumbled into the North Sea during the storm. Had he too deserved death? He had offered Woden the boy’s life in payment for sparing Háligsteorra. But the boy’s end had not been his doing. He knew this to be true, so why then did he feel guilty at the thought of him? Beobrand drank more ale.

  “Where?” he asked, his voice only slightly slurred.

  “Why, at Maserfelth, of course,” replied Dudoc. “They say it was the greatest battle ever seen in Albion. The scops speak of the majesty of the two warhosts. And the magnificence of the two kings who commanded them. You served Oswald, did you not?” Dudoc seemed to scarcely need to breathe, his words came as fast as hailstones.

  Beobrand sighed and held the old man in his gaze until his words dried up. Thinking of Tondberct and the young sailor had only further soured his mood.

  “I was there,” he said.

  Dudoc plucked a slice of goose breast from the trencher before him and popped it into his fleshy mouth.

  “What was it like?” he asked, spitting globules of meat as he spoke.

  Anger flared within Beobrand. He remembered the corpses strewn on the hill. The ravens and wolves had gorged themselves at Maserfelth. He recalled Renweard’s blood-splattered corpse. Seeing Eowa’s red-and-black boar banner dip and fall, trampled beneath a tide of Waelisc warriors. Oswald’s limbs and head atop the waelstengs where Penda’s priest had placed them. And then his mind turned unbidden to the face of his friend, Acennan, as he had last seen it. Brave, faithful Acennan, eyes unseeing, tongue-lolling from mottled pallid flesh.

  Gods, how he missed Acennan.

  “What was it like?” he snapped, and his voice held the steel edge of murder. Dudoc’s chewing slowed and he swallowed with an effort. The older man nodded, quiet and uncertain now in the face of the rage that washed off Beobrand.

  “I’ll tell you what it was like,” Beobrand went on, his voice growing in volume as his anger pulled him with it. All eyes in the hall turned to him then. Conversations faltered. “It was terror and death, blood and shit. Have you ever stood in the shieldwall, Dudoc?” The man shook his head slowly. “Then you have no right to ask those who have done so what it was like. Just thank whatever gods you pray to that you have grown old and fat without having to see your shield-brothers cut down beside you. To hear the screams of dying boys wailing for their mothers.” He placed his hands upon the board, holding them still and taking a deep, shuddering breath. As quickly as it had flared up, so his ire dissipated. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I sometimes awake at night to the sound of screams from boys who will never grow into men.” He sighed and reached once more for his ale.

  Before he lifted the horn to drink, Dudoc placed his hand on Beobrand’s outstretched arm.

  “I am sorry,” the old man said. Tears welled in his eyes.

  Beobrand drained the horn of ale and pushed himself up from the table.

  “No, it is I who should be sorry,” he said. He was suddenly filled with shame. His face burnt hot. “I am poor company tonight.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he strode from the hall. The door wards swung the doors open and he stepped out into the wind-blown night. The birch trees that towered over the hall creaked and rattled, the sound of breaking bones. From the black distance beyond the shadows of the dunes came the churning roll of the waves breaking on the beach. Laughter echoed loud from inside the hall.

  Beobrand took a deep breath. The air was cold and clear after the smoke-thick atmosphere of the hall. Stepping out from the porch, he lifted his face to the sky, welcoming the rain, allowing it to wash over him. A presence behind him made him half-turn before he realised it was Cynan. Whatever the man’s failings, there was no denying that he took his role as Beobrand’s protector seriously.

  Beobrand shook his head, again wishing that Acennan yet lived. When he was alive, Beobrand had never truly understood how much he had confided in his friend, but since his death, he felt more alone than ever.

  “I can take a piss without you watching over me, Cynan,” he said, forcing any frustration from his voice. Cynan was a good man. None of this was his doing.

  “I will wait here,” Cynan replied and stepped back under the shelter of the small porch that co
vered the hall’s double doors.

  When Beobrand returned from relieving himself, he found Cynan to be as good as his word. He stood in the shadows, alert and poised. Beobrand noticed how the tension went out of Cynan as he saw him coming back out of the rain. There was another figure in the porch with him now.

  “Coenred,” said Beobrand, “are you well?”

  The monk stepped from the shadows of the door and pulled his robes about him against the chill of the night.

  “Yes, I am well,” he replied. “Are you?”

  The spark of his anger threatened to rekindle, but Beobrand suppressed his ire with an effort of will.

  “I am well,” he said. “I just wish this storm would blow over and we could be on our way. I hate being closed in here in the warmth and comfort of Dudoc’s hall when Ardith… my daughter…” His voice caught in his throat and the force of his emotion surprised him. “When she is out there.” He waved his mutilated left hand at the stormy darkness.

  Cynan pressed his back to the doors and pretended not to be listening. Coenred placed a slender hand on Beobrand’s shoulder.

  “No ships can be abroad on such a night. Our quarry will not be making any headway tonight.”

  Beobrand nodded. He knew it was true, but still his frustration burnt within him. There was nothing they could do but to wait out the storm, but he could feel the pressure of their inaction building up within him.

  “What if they were caught out on the sea when the storm struck?” he asked. He thought of the night they had been driven from the shore into the teeth of a storm aboard Háligsteorra; the face of the boy who had looked like Tondberct. The rest of them had been lucky to survive.

  “Try not to think such things, Beo,” said Coenred, his tone comforting and soft. “I have been praying for Ardith’s safety every day since we heard of her plight. God will keep her safe.”

  Beobrand snorted. He offered Coenred a thin smile. Though he found the monk’s blind faith in his god galling, he could not be angry with his friend.