“Do you think your God listens to your prayers?”
Coenred bit his lip and stared out to the horizon.
“I am sure God listens,” he answered.
“But he does not always answer,” retorted Beobrand. He shook his head. “Your god or mine, there is little difference it seems to me.”
Coenred sighed, his breath steaming momentarily before it was snatched away on the wind.
“I am too tired to argue, Beo,” he said. “I will continue to pray for Ardith. It is all I can do.”
At the mention of her name, Beobrand’s mind turned to his daughter once more the way his fingers continually touched the lump on his forehead despite knowing that nothing had changed and that to touch it would only bring renewed pain. He tried to think of something else, and muddled in with his thoughts of Ardith, he saw the face of Udela, sorrowful and stolid. He wondered what would become of her without a husband. Perhaps he should wed her, he pondered. He had no wife, and after all, she was the mother of his daughter. The idea of it filled him with a dread deeper and darker than the fear of standing in any shieldwall. Unbidden and without warning, he thought of Eanflæd, the shining braids of her hair, the intelligent glint in her eye, the smirking twist of her lips when she was making fun of him. He felt a different dread then. Would she yet be waiting for his return? Or would Fordraed and Utta have forced the issue with Eorcenberht? Perhaps she was even now travelling to Northumbria.
To Oswiu.
Again he cursed himself for a fool. What did it matter if the princess had been taken to Oswiu already? She would be wed to the king of Bernicia regardless of Beobrand’s feelings on the subject. Neither he nor Eanflæd could change a thing. Mayhap it would be better if he were not there to witness the wedding.
He pushed all these thoughts away with an effort. Gods, he was mad to think of Eanflæd at all.
To change the direction his mind was taking him, he turned to Coenred and said, “Attor tells me you are quite the brawler.”
Coenred flushed.
“It was a sin,” he said. “I should never have struck that man. He was a fellow brother in Christ.”
“You were angry. And Attor says the priest was an ass.” Attor had been proud of Coenred’s actions when he had recounted the story for the others to hear. He told the tale with a light-hearted pride in his tone, as if Coenred were his younger brother.
“That is no excuse,” answered Coenred, flustered. “I should not have laid a hand on him.”
“Well, I think Utta will be pleased with you. You’ve recovered the casket and that relic.”
Coenred’s face was a picture of misery.
“But when he finds out how I came by the cross…” He gripped Beobrand’s arm. “Oh by the holy rood, what will I do?”
“Don’t tell him and he’ll not hear of it from me.”
Coenred looked thoughtful, as he puzzled over his predicament.
“Besides,” said Beobrand, keeping his face sombre, “won’t you be leaving the brethren of Lindisfarena now?”
Confusion played across Coenred’s angular features.
“What? Why?”
“Well,” said Beobrand, allowing his smirk to show now, “I thought that a fighter such as yourself would be joining my warband. If it comes to a fight, we would have one more doughty warrior to join us in the fray.”
A myriad of emotions vied for supremacy within Coenred, the struggle evident on his face that had once again turned the hue of curdled milk. He settled for a mixture of sorrow and outrage that made him look somewhat comical.
“Coenred will be a fine shield brother,” called out Attor, loud enough for everyone aboard to hear. “Just as long as we only fight priests who have their backs to us.” Laughter rolled across the ship.
Coenred’s cheeks reddened. He opened his mouth to reply, then thought better of it. Pulling his borrowed cloak about him, he made his way to the stern, ignoring the men who called out to him.
The men were in good spirits and the light-hearted mood continued for the rest of that day as Brimblæd sped along the Soluente. On the far westerly tip of the isle of the Wihtwara rose huge shards of rock from the waves, like the teeth of some massive beast. Perhaps a sea serpent, thought Beobrand, though if there were truly a wyrm large enough to have teeth that size, it would be capable of eating most of middle earth. Fleetingly, he imagined he could hear Acennan’s voice in his mind. They’re only rocks, the voice said and Beobrand smiled to himself. He missed his old friend’s sense; his calming influence on him.
Leaving the Wihtwara’s island behind, Brimblæd sailed into the Narrow Sea once more. The men took advantage of the time and fair weather to dry their armour and weapons. They chatted and laughed and Beobrand almost forgot his foreboding anxieties.
There was little room aboard the crowded ship but Cynan had Brinin run through a series of thrusts and swinging attacks with a sword. The boy was getting better, faster and more assured, but he still held his shield too low. As Beobrand thought it, so Cynan rapped Brinin’s shoulder with a stick he had found somewhere. “Hold it up,” he said. Brinin glared at him, but shifted his stance, raising the black-daubed linden board.
“You’ll make a fighter of the boy yet,” said Dreogan, who watched from where he slouched amidships, running a whetstone over the blade of his seax.
Beobrand watched the boy practising for a while longer. He hoped Dreogan was right. But the truth was that no man could tell which way the warp of his wyrd was woven. He feared Brinin would find out all too soon.
They made good progress over tranquil waters and there was still much of the afternoon left when Ferenbald changed course for land.
“How long till we reach Rodomo?” asked Beobrand.
Ferenbald leaned on the rudder, peering into the distance to be sure of his course before replying.
“I am taking us in to land. We will sleep ashore and make the crossing to Frankia tomorrow.”
Beobrand wished they could just turn to the south now and be done with this caution. With each day that slipped by, the chances of finding Ardith unharmed grew slimmer. But he knew better than to question Ferenbald’s judgement on this.
Perhaps Ferenbald saw the disappointment on his face, for he said, “With good weather and a favourable breeze, we’ll make the mouth of the Secoana, the river that flows to Rodomo, before dusk tomorrow.”
*
They beached Brimblæd and camped on the sand. An alder had been washed up in the recent storms, roots and all, so they built a great blaze. As dusk fell Fraomar pointed out a few boys in the distance, their white faces peering down at the men on the shore. Fraomar beckoned to them, but they did not approach and as night came they vanished into the gloom.
Beobrand ordered guards be set around their camp, but they saw nobody else after the boys. They had seen tendrils of smoke rising from behind a stand of elm, but decided not to seek the hospitality of the locals. The fire made from the washed-up alder was warm, and the mood of the men was buoyant. Even Coenred had stopped his sulking and smiled thinly as the men joked with him, understanding, Beobrand hoped, that they would only jest so with a man they liked.
Beobrand took one of the watches and listened to the sounds of the men around the campfire. The night was still and cold, the darkness a thick blanket that provided no warmth. The soft song of the night washed over him. The murmur of the waves from the Narrow Sea and the wind sighing through the branches of the elms, lulling him into a dazed waking-slumber. His thoughts were like dreams. Images and ideas, fears and longings, played in his thought-cage, as jumbled and muddled as the surf tumbling onto itself on the beach. An owl’s shrill call split the quiet and Beobrand came fully awake. He stared into the darkness, the skin on his neck prickling. The bird screeched again and then all was still.
It was only a bird. For the second time that day he heard the echo of Acennan as if his friend’s shade stood beside him in the darkness. He shivered, but was not afraid.
Later
, when he lay down on the sand, wrapped in a blanket and his damp cloak, he was surprised that his mind seemed devoid of worries, as if he had had his fill of dreaming whilst awake. He fell into a deep, untroubled sleep and awoke to the camp being packed away.
Cynan saw him rousing and smiled.
“A quiet night for once,” he said. “It makes a difference from storms.”
Beobrand looked up to the sky. It was a clear, egg-shell blue, with barely a wisp of cloud in the east.
Later, he wondered whether the gods had been listening when Cynan spoke. Or perhaps it had been Ferenbald’s assertions the day before that had reached their ears, for, despite the clear morning, as the day drew on, they had neither good weather nor a favourable breeze.
They set off on the rising tide, thrust southward into the Narrow Sea by a strong northerly wind. There was winter in that wind, and those men who had them, pulled on mittens. The others stuck their hands under their arms when they did not need them to perform some task. Beobrand noticed Cargást taking a thick pair of woollen gloves and trailing them in the frigid water that rushed past the hull. Seeing his quizzical look, Cargást said, “You’d think it would make your hands colder, but you’d be wrong. They’ll be as toasty as a babe by a fire soon enough.”
They were well out of sight of the coast of Albion when the sky began to darken and the wind turned. Ferenbald did not seem concerned, taking the shift in the weather with a wide grin and a shrug.
“It looks like we’re going to have to do some real sailing again, lassies,” he shouted, reminding Beobrand once again of Hrothgar.
The sailors knew what they were about, and they followed their captain’s orders without hesitation. Beobrand was pleased to see Brinin following in Cargást’s shadow, pulling on ropes and tying knots with increasing confidence.
For a while they tacked southward, but the wind continued to swing until eventually they were attempting to beat into the very jaws of the increasingly powerful breeze. The sky before them had grown an ugly bruised hue and the waves around them were white-peaked, their crests snatched away by the quickening wind. The men continued to do Ferenbald’s bidding, but Beobrand could see that they were tiring, and despite not being a seasoned seaman, even he could tell Brimblæd had ceased to make any headway.
“It’s no good,” shouted Ferenbald, over the growing roar of the wind, “we’ll never make Frankia in this.” For the first time his smile had faded and beneath the shaggy mane of hair and beard, Beobrand thought Ferenbald looked pale.
“Then what?” Beobrand yelled.
“We must run before this storm,” Ferenbald said. “And, Coenred,” he said, turning his attention to the thin monk who clung to a stay, “pray that we find a safe harbour.”
Beobrand’s heart sunk to think of another day wasted, but one glance at the louring sky told him there was nothing for it.
Ferenbald swung Brimblæd back towards the north and for the rest of that day they raced before the rising gale. At sunset, great flakes of snow, thick and wet, began to fall, engulfing them in a swirling world of white. The cold bit at their faces with jagged, spiteful teeth, and their beards frosted from their breath. As darkness surrounded them and with the snow already thick on the wales and the rigging, Beobrand staggered and slipped across the pitching deck to Ferenbald. He clung to a rope, his hands so cold it felt as though his fingers might snap off like icicles.
“How can you see where we are going?”
Ferenbald’s teeth flashed in his familiar grin. Gone was the pale fear of earlier, replaced by a savage intensity that made Beobrand wonder if the man was moonstruck.
“I cannot see anything!” he roared. “But we will reach land soon enough, by my reckoning.”
“And then what?”
“Let’s hope that monk of yours is praying and that his God is listening.”
Beobrand moved back to where his gesithas huddled under a hide awning. It provided some shelter, but the wind still probed beneath it with its icy claws, and when Brimblæd crashed through a wave, the spray washed over those who hunkered there.
“How bad is it?” asked Dreogan.
“Bad,” said Beobrand.
Bearn didn’t even acknowledge them, instead retching noisily over the side. Fraomar held onto Bearn’s belt, just in case he should lose his balance or be struck by a wave.
Garr opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, a cry went up from the lookout posted at the prow.
“A light!” he cried. Then, after a pause, “No, two lights!”
“Where?” shouted Ferenbald.
The man signalled where he had spotted the lights and everyone who was able peered into the snow-riven night. Beobrand could make out nothing beyond the crashing surf and the blizzard, but after a few heartbeats, Ferenbald let out a whoop.
He barked out some commands and leaned on the steerboard. With a groaning of timbers, the ship began to turn.
“It seems the monk’s prayers are answered,” yelled Ferenbald, his gaze never leaving the teeming gloom. He leaned forward, seeking out details of the coast. And then Beobrand heard a new sound, something different in the voice of the stormy sea. A crashing roar boomed to starboard, and suddenly, in the thin light of the night Beobrand saw the waves breaking in great white torrents over jagged rocks as big as the teeth he had seen on the isle of the Wihtwara. A wall of water crashed over Brimblæd, soaking them all. Beobrand watched aghast as the slick, black, jutting shards of rock slid past, a mere arm’s length away from the hull.
Looking forward, the points of light of the fires that the lookout had spotted were clear to him now.
“Hold on!” bellowed Ferenbald. “Ready, men.”
The lights drew closer, but they were off to the port side of the vessel now. The wind howled, throwing Brimblæd towards the rocks. For what seemed a long time, there was no sound save the rush of the water and the wind, and the rumble of the waves smashing into the craggy shore. Beobrand thought he saw another rock, jagged and deadly, slip past, but he could not be certain. Nobody spoke. Beobrand’s lungs began to burn and he realised he was holding his breath. His hands were locked frozen and unfeeling on the taut backstay that thrummed with the pressures of the storm.
With a sudden shouted command from Ferenbald, the crew burst into action as the skipper heaved on the rudder. The ship slewed to port. Beobrand was thrown to one side. Bearn, so sick he was oblivious, almost tumbled over the edge. With a grunt, Fraomar hauled him back, away from the dark, hungry, roiling sea.
For a heartbeat, all was still, as if the storm itself took a breath, and then they were flung forward as the keel struck rock with a terrible grinding crunch.
Chapter 32
The world was a chaos of biting wind, swirling snow and freezing surf. Men rushed all about Beobrand and he was momentarily confused. Pushing himself upright, he watched as Cargást and several other sailors ran to the prow and leapt over the side. With each incoming wave, Brimblæd heaved, rocking and wallowing on whatever rock had split its keel.
Ferenbald was at Beobrand’s side in a moment.
“Come on!” he yelled over the roar of the waves and the storm. “Get your men over the edge and help to secure the ship.”
Beobrand did not understand.
“How long until she goes down?”
For a merest instant, Ferenbald stared at him open-mouthed. Then he let out a barking laugh.
“Brimblæd is not going anywhere, if we can get her up the beach.” He laughed again at Beobrand’s confusion. “She has not been holed. At least I hope not, by God! Did you truly doubt my skills? With the prayers of our young monk, how could I have failed to make land?” He slapped Beobrand on the back and bounded forward, as sure-footed as if he had been taking a stroll on a summer beach. At the prow men were throwing ropes over the side.
Beobrand looked around him, still not fully comprehending what had happened. Another wave hit the stern of the ship, causing it to slew around and he almos
t lost his footing on the ice-rimed deck. Staggering to the wale, he gazed out into the night and finally, by the dim light of the moon and the flickering light from the fires on the shore, he understood. Despite the storm, the darkness and the heavy seas, Ferenbald had brought them ashore. The hull had ground over pebbles, not rocks, and even now those sailors who had already thrown themselves into the frigid waters were tugging hard on ropes to bring Brimblæd up onto the beach out of the clutches of the turbulent sea.
Beobrand shook his head. How the man had steered them to safety, he had no idea. Perhaps Coenred’s god truly had listened and answered his prayers, for this seemed to be the work of gods. A miracle.
The waves pounded the small beach and Brimblæd, still mostly afloat, canted to one side dangerously. Close by to the cove Beobrand discerned the shadows of rocks rearing up out of the surf; their locations clear by the white foam and spray thrown up from the waves breaking upon them. Brimblæd had evaded those rocky teeth, but Beobrand imagined they were yet hungry and would revel in ripping gaping gashes in her timbers.
“My gesithas!” Beobrand bellowed in his battle-voice, loud enough to slice through a shieldwall’s crash and a storm’s roar alike. “To the prow and over the side. If we do not get the ship out of these waves soon, she will be smashed to kindling and Ferenbald’s sea-skill will have been for nought. Up! Up!”
The men responded to his command. Even Bearn, as pallid as the snow that flurried all about them, surged to his feet and half-ran, half-fell towards the prow. Beobrand smiled grimly at their loyalty and faith in him. The prow was crowded with men clambering over the side and he was forced to wait until the way was clear. As he watched, he saw movement on the cliffs that loomed over them. Men were scrambling down the escarpments that surrounded the cove. Was that the glimmer of steel?
The dark figures from the cliffs climbed down the snow-lined faces of rock and then ran across the sand and shingle towards the toiling crew who heaved on Brimblæd’s ropes. Beobrand shouted out a warning, but none of the men on the beach heard him. The attackers would be on them in a heartbeat. Beobrand shouldered his way past Dreogan and pointed.
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