Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  “I give you my thanks. Perhaps your god will listen to you, Coenred. But it will not be the nailed Christ who will bring my daughter back. And it will not be your god who slays the men who have taken her. Now,” he said, clapping Coenred on the shoulder harder than he needed to, “I need another drink.”

  Before Coenred could respond, Beobrand pushed his way back into the smoke-filled hall.

  Chapter 23

  The storm raged for a whole day and two nights before blowing itself out. In its wake it left uprooted trees, fallen branches, flattened fences and damaged buildings. But on the morning of the third day in Hastingas the sky was clear and the land looked fresh and new, scoured clean by the force of the elements.

  On the first night in Dudoc’s hall, Beobrand had continued to drink heavily until he at last wrapped himself in a coarse woollen blanket by the hearth. Some of Ferenbald’s crew, exhausted from the trials of the day at sea and full of Dudoc’s meat and mead were already asleep. Others were still talking and drinking. His gesithas sat at one end of the board and shared a pitcher of strong mead with Brimblæd’s sailors. From time to time a voice would be raised in jest, but Beobrand had no patience for humour.

  He felt eyes on him as he lay down, hopeful of the welcome release of sleep. He half expected an offer of a sleeping chamber from Dudoc or Aelfgyth, but nobody spoke up. Beobrand grunted as he made himself comfortable. His thoughts and movements were fuzzy, blurred and dulled by drink, but he knew he had been a poor guest, cantankerous and surly. On the morrow he would seek to repay Dudoc’s hospitality at least with a smile and some kind words. He was a lord of Bernicia now, not a farm boy. He must learn to curb his temper and frustrations and act the part of a thegn. Sleep overtook him without warning as he berated himself for his churlish behaviour.

  Reaghan came to him in his dreams. It was warm by the embers on the hearth stone and her small hands were cold against his skin as she lifted the blanket and pushed her body against him. Her cool fingers gently caressed his neck and chest. He groaned softly. An animal sound. He had missed her. His body thrilled at her touch and he felt himself hardening in an instant. He moaned as her soft lips fluttered against his and he tasted mead on her tongue as it probed his mouth. The sensation was so real. He clung to the dream, pressing his eyes closed, not wishing to let it vanish into the night. His groin throbbed. He ached for Reaghan. It had been over a year since he had last lain with her.

  She raised the blanket, allowing the night-cool air of the hall to waft underneath. For a moment he was chilled, but in an instant she had straddled him, her body-warmth engulfing him, the weight of her hips pressing against him. Long hair fell over his face and her slim fingers pulled his strong callused hands up to her breasts. He squeezed her flesh gently, feeling her nipples stiffen. The breasts were full and heavy, unlike Reaghan’s slender, fragile form.

  His eyes flickered open. This was no dream.

  And this was not Reaghan.

  By the dim light of the dying embers he recognised the woman atop him as one of those who had been serving at the feast. She was comely, and had smiled when he had looked her way during the evening. He had thought no more of her, instead focusing on the ale and mead until the welcome escape of sleep had come.

  It seemed she had plans of her own for him.

  “What are you—” he whispered, but she smothered his mouth in another kiss. Despite himself he moaned again at the taste of her and the grinding of her hips against him.

  Breaking off from the kiss, she said, “Hush, my hero,” her breath hot and sweet.

  “I am no hero,” he whispered, but she silenced him again with her mouth and her hands reached down to free his manhood.

  Beobrand’s heart hammered in his chest. He had been so long without a woman. She guided him, grunting deep in the back of her throat as he pushed inside her. His passion mounted as quickly as his anger had earlier that evening. He grasped her hips and thrust into her. She continued to kiss him, their tongues exploring, lips pressed so forcefully together that they were bruised the next morning. With each heave of his hips she let out a small moan, hidden and muffled within their locked mouths.

  Only a few heartbeats later, Beobrand thrust inside her for the final time, his body jerking and shaking. For a short while afterwards, they clung to each other, panting and trembling despite the warmth of their bodies. And then, she rose and vanished into the gloom of the hall without another word.

  *

  The next morning she served him porridge. She smiled, but made no display of what had happened in the night. He recalled the warmth of her body against his and felt his face grow hot. He glanced about at the men seated around him, but there was no knowing look, or lewd comment. If anyone had witnessed their coupling, nobody spoke of it.

  The day passed slowly. The men riddled and played tafl. Beobrand sipped ale and talked to Ferenbald about where he thought Grimr might be headed and what they could expect as they sailed further down the coast. The skipper said he had spoken to Dudoc the night before and Grimr’s three ships had stopped there not a sennight earlier. They had arrived at sundown, traded the following day and then set off at the turn of the tide the next morning. That meant they were only a few days ahead of them, said Ferenbald. And he seemed happy with that. If Grimr continued the pattern of halting at each wic and harbour, Ferenbald was certain they would close with the pirates soon enough.

  “And if they have crossed the Narrow Sea?” Beobrand asked.

  Ferenbald grinned, seemingly undaunted by the prospect.

  “It is just more water for Brimblæd to cut through. I have sailed to Frankia many times. Do not fear. We will catch up with them.”

  Beobrand looked into the flames of the hearth fire. Outside the rain beat against the hall, falling from a slate-grey sky. The wind gusted and moaned in the eaves.

  And when they catch them, he thought, what then? And what of Ardith? What horrors might she be enduring?

  He took a draught of ale, gripping the cup so tightly that the willow wood creaked.

  At the far end of the hall, near the double doors, his gesithas had cleared away the tables and benches and now Cynan and Dreogan set about teaching Brinin the rudiments of weapon-skill. The boy was earnest and solemn, biting his lip in concentration as the warriors shouted encouragement. All of the men, sailors and warriors alike, seemed to look upon the boy fondly, and whilst Beobrand was still concerned over what might happen when they caught up with their quarry, he was pleased with the decision to let Brinin join them.

  Bearn came and sat near Beobrand, filling a drinking horn with ale and leaning back, stretching out his feet to the fire with a grunt of pleasure. He had recovered quickly once they were on land and Beobrand was sure that he was pleased of the chance to eat and drink without the fear of emptying his guts the moment the food touched his stomach.

  Bearn indicated with his chin at where Cynan was showing Brinin how to hold his shield arm and sword for the best chance at defence and counter attack.

  “What do you think?” Bearn asked. “Will we make a Black Shield of him?”

  Beobrand studied Brinin for a while before replying.

  “He’s no natural fighter, that’s for certain.” Cynan gave the boy an order and Brinin leapt forward, clattering his blade down hard on Cynan’s black-painted shield. “But he is strong,” said Beobrand, “and willing to learn. I think we’ll make a warrior of him yet.”

  They watched in silence as the boy continued to beat his borrowed blade against Cynan’s shield. The Waelisc warrior parried each blow easily, stepping lightly to the left and right until he tired of taking the brunt of Brinin’s clumsy attacks. Without warning, Cynan stepped inside Brinin’s over-reaching swing and placed the edge of his sword gently against the boy’s throat. There was a moment of silence, before Cynan stepped away.

  “Reminds me of Eadgard with those great swings,” Cynan said, laughing. Eadgard was one of Beobrand’s warband who had remained in the north, guardi
ng Ubbanford. He was a huge brute of a man, who wielded an axe in battle, cleaving through his enemies as if he were chopping timber.

  Beobrand rose and made his way over to them.

  “Brinin,” he said, “all those days spent helping your father at the forge have given you great strength. That is good. But just as when you are forging a blade, you need skill and finesse too. Practise, and listen to Cynan and Dreogan. And when the time comes, perhaps you will be ready to stand with us.”

  “Thank you, lord,” said Brinin.

  Beobrand frowned.

  “Do not thank me. This is no gift I am giving you. But if it comes to it, I would rather you knew which end of a sword to stick into our foe.”

  When Dudoc joined them shortly after, Beobrand found the man’s company more agreeable than the night before. He thanked him for welcoming them into his hall and the old man beamed, Beobrand’s poor humour seemingly forgotten. They talked at length and Beobrand found himself speaking of Ubbanford, of Sunniva and Reaghan and Octa. Dudoc grew sombre, nodding gravely at hearing of Beobrand’s misfortunes and smiling at his successes. He did not push for more than Beobrand was willing to tell, and so the day wore on pleasantly enough as the storm continued to bluster outside. The rushes on the floor near the door became sodden and squelched underfoot from all the coming and going of the men to the midden, but the hall was warm and dry and they were all glad not to be out on the Narrow Sea on such a day.

  Dudoc wished to play tafl and brought out a fine board of oak and pieces fashioned from bone and antler. Beobrand cared little for the game, but there was nothing better to occupy his time, so he moved his pieces around the board dutifully attempting to ensnare the king. His thoughts turned to Oswiu and the pieces that shifted position around the king of Bernicia ever since Oswald’s death. He wondered how long Oswiu could play the game and whether the stakes were too high now. His heart wasn’t in it, as he imagined the pieces on the board to be the players in the great game of kings and thrones. Which piece was he? Was Oswine on the board? And Eanflæd? They played all through that long afternoon, Beobrand losing more than he won, while the lord of the hall grinned and clapped his hands at his good fortune.

  When the women came to serve them food and to replenish the pitchers of ale, Beobrand caught himself watching out for his buxom night-time visitor. He was disappointed not to see her during the day, but as evening drew in and the hall was prepared once more for a feast, she was there again. She went about her business, carrying platters of mutton and salted fish, bringing a great tray of freshly baked loaves and then refilling the jugs. Beobrand listened to Dudoc, nodding absently, but his eyes followed the woman’s movements. Her clothes were well made, but simple enough. A cream under-dress beneath a green peplos. She was perhaps a few years older than Beobrand, with an alluring swing to her hips and a bounce to her bosom that attracted the gaze of several of the men. At her waist she wore a girdle of woven linen, and iron keys hung from the belt. Was she widowed perhaps? He thought about asking Dudoc, or perhaps Aelfgyth, but he did not know how without inviting them to question his interest. So he merely watched her as she poured ale and served food, smiling demurely as she went. He thanked her when she filled his drinking horn. She did not look him in the eye, but dipped her gaze.

  The mood in the hall on that second night was more convivial than the first. The men were rested and were no longer strangers to the hall’s inhabitants. The wind had lessened, the storm giving way to straight sheets of rain that slicked the thatch and cascaded from the eaves. The board was again plentiful. The greasy mutton and salty herring was filling and tasty and the ale was yet fresh. Beobrand wondered for how long Dudoc could continue to host them in such a fashion, but the old lord smiled and appeared happy enough.

  When the fire had burnt down and men were nodding over their cups, Fraomar stood and began to tell the tale of Maserfelth. He had a clear voice and though he was no scop, his telling was good. Fraomar told of the clash of shieldwalls atop the hill overlooking the wide expanse of the Maerse. To hear the tale from his lips, it sounded as though Beobrand and his black-shielded warriors were the only ones with mettle who had been brave enough to stand with their king. For a moment, Beobrand was embarrassed. Many were the men who had stood strong that day, and many had fallen in defence of the land and their king. But he heard the pride in Fraomar’s tone, saw the glint of memories in the eyes of his gesithas and the rapt expressions on the faces of Dudoc and the men of his retinue. Who was he to stand in the way of his men recounting their well-earned battle-fame? They were his sworn men, shield-brothers, steadfast and doughty and had every right to be proud. He was their hlaford and gave them gifts as was his duty. In return he expected their loyalty and their service. Their fame-hoard was theirs to do with as they wished.

  Just as the flames of the hearth fire died away into glowing embers, so the noise of the feast slowly ebbed away and was replaced by snores and murmured, drunken conversations in shadowed corners of the hall. Beobrand’s head ached where he had been hit by a sling shot in the battle of the great ditch in East Angeln. It troubled him thus whenever he was tired or drank too much mead. But despite the throb in his forehead, he was content. He found a place further from the fire and far from the draughts that came from the doors. Wrapping himself in his blanket, he lay down. The dry rushes crackled beneath him and high above, out of sight in the darkness, the rain hammered against the roof, creating a muffled, rolling drone. He thought of the previous night and how his sleep had been interrupted. He smiled to himself in the gloom. Listening to the sounds of the night, he waited in anticipation, hoping she would come to him again.

  He did not know for how long he had slept when she slid beneath his blanket, but the fire-glow was gone and the hum of the rain was different, lighter and less constant. Beobrand was instantly awake and could feel himself grinning in the darkness. Gods, he had not realised until the previous night how much he had missed having a woman.

  As on her first visit, she did not speak, instead awakening his body with her hands, her lips and her tongue. He would have liked to savour the moment, to draw it out and enjoy each touch, every caress. But there was an urgency to her, and in what seemed like only a moment, she had lifted up her skirts and taken him inside her. She kissed him furiously, as she heaved and rocked atop him and any thoughts Beobrand had of slowing down were forgotten. He pushed into her, revelling at the slick tightness, feeling the building pressure within him.

  Without warning, she broke from the deep kiss and whispered close to his ear, “I would have the seed of a hero in me.”

  Beobrand halted his rhythm with difficulty. Her words were jarring, threatening to extinguish the fire of his passion. By all the gods, his seed?

  “I am no hero,” he whispered to her for the second time.

  But she kissed him again, silencing his words. She rolled her hips with increasing speed, with each motion taking him deep inside her. He grunted. By Woden, there was no holding back now. If she wanted his seed, she would have it.

  Moments later, gasping and panting, he gave her what she craved.

  When he awoke, she was gone and it was morning. The storm had blown over and the day was clear.

  Chapter 24

  They left Dudoc’s hall on the morning tide. Beobrand had searched the faces of the women who served them when they had broken their fast, but she was nowhere to be seen. He felt an unexpected pang of regret as they trudged down to the beach.

  A line of flotsam and debris showed where the storm tide had reached, but beneath that point, the sand and shingle was pristine, clean and smooth. Waves lapped up the beach, the vehemence of the storm a distant dream.

  Ferenbald and his crew busied themselves about Brimblæd, checking her rigging and hull for damage. Beobrand and his gesithas carried the sea chests and other stores down from the hall where they had been secured against the rain and wind. And then, as soon as Ferenbald had declared the ship seaworthy, they helped to heave Brimblæd
into the surf. The water was icy cold on their legs, making them gasp. Beobrand clambered aboard, his breeches clinging wet and cold to his legs. He already missed the warm smoky hall of Hastingas.

  Dudoc’s people came down to the sea’s edge to bid them farewell. Beobrand again searched the crowd, but there was no sign of his nocturnal visitor.

  “Thank you for your welcome and your hospitality,” Beobrand called out from the stern of the ship, where he stood near Ferenbald. “The name of Dudoc will forever be woven into the tale of Beobrand of Ubbanford and you will always find a warm welcome in my lands.” Dudoc’s round face broke into a broad grin and he hugged Aelfgyth to him. Beobrand could not help but return the man’s smile, such was his infectious happiness. As the oars bit into the water, pulling them out to sea, Beobrand raised his hand and shouted, “Farewell!”

  Dudoc waved back for a long while until the figures on the beach were hard to discern. All the while, Beobrand watched the gathered throng beneath the dunes and swaying marram grass until they were lost in the distance.

  Ferenbald ordered the sail to be unfurled and with a crack the cloth billowed and the ship picked up speed, leaving Hastingas behind them.

  “Well, Lord Beobrand,” Ferenbald said in a loud voice, “it is just as well we left when we did.”

  “You think we will catch up with Grimr soon?”

  “Well, yes,” Ferenbald replied, a smile tugging at his mouth, “we must not waste time if we are to catch our quarry. But that is not what I meant.”

  “No?” enquired Beobrand, unease prickling at the back of his neck. “What was your meaning?”

  “Just that if we had stayed any longer I am not sure you would have had the strength to continue.”

  “What?” Beobrand’s face grew hot, despite the cool wind from the sea.

  “And even if you had the stamina,” Ferenbald continued, his grin broadening, “I don’t think Wilnoth would have been too pleased when he returned from hunting on the downs. He was due to return when the storm hit. Probably holed up in the forest somewhere, but now the weather has turned…”