Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

“We bring nothing of importance to trade, Gozolon,” Beobrand said, stepping forward and squaring his shoulders.

  Gozolon turned, disdain oozing from him. Beobrand pulled himself up to his full height. His half-hand rested on Hrunting’s pommel and his eyes burnt with a cold fire.

  Gozolon seemed unperturbed by the threatening presence.

  “And you are?”

  “My name is Octa,” said Beobrand.

  Gozolon glanced down at Beobrand’s mutilated hand.

  “Indeed,” he said, his tone flat. “And you bring nothing to trade in Rodomo?”

  “Nothing of interest to you, little man,” Beobrand said. “But we have travelled far and we wish to moor.”

  Gozolon smiled thinly. He turned back to Ferenbald, dismissing Beobrand as though he were a child.

  “You can moor on the Isle of Múgr,” he pointed to a massive sandbank in the middle of the wide river. “And remember, son of Hrothgar, that whatever is brought ashore for trade and whatever you laden into your ship from Rodomo, is subject to payment of the Hlaesting.”

  “Of course,” said Ferenbald, accepting the mention of the loading tax with a flick of his hand, “but could we not dock on the north bank? We would rather be closer to the city than over there surrounded by those slovenly hydscips and ceapscips. They are not fit to moor alongside the likes of Brimblæd.”

  “I am truly sorry,” Gozolon said, not sounding the least bit apologetic, “but the northern moorings are for the richest ships and those lading the heaviest goods.”

  “Listen, you fat toad,” said Beobrand, his voice as sharp as a seax, “we have said we wish to moor on the north bank and if you do not give us your leave, we will tie Brimblæd to the dock with your guts for a rope.”

  The two guards moved to stand protectively before Gozolon. Their hands dropped to the long knives they wore at their sides. The crowded prow of the ship was suddenly full of the threat of death.

  “Lord,” said Ferenbald, in a pleading tone, “please.”

  Beobrand ignored him. He glowered at Gozolon. Most men would cower under the force of that gaze. But not Gozolon. The fat official sighed. He appeared bored with the proceedings. He looked Beobrand up and down.

  “Do you truly believe you can intimidate me?” he said at last. “This is the great city of Rodomo, not some farmstead in Bernicia.” Coenred started at Gozolon’s use of the name of the northern kingdom. “If you threaten me again, or strike me, or even, heaven forbid, slay me, dozens of warriors will descend upon you. This wonderful ship would be forfeit, as would your life, and that of your men, most likely. At best you would all become thralls, niedlings aboard a trade ship, pulling on an oar until death would claim you, offering sweet relief from the pain and suffering. Is that how you wish to depart this life, brave,” he paused for a heartbeat, “Octa?”

  The muscles on Beobrand’s jaw clenched and bunched, but he said nothing.

  “Good,” Gozolon said, when it was clear Beobrand was not going to reply or attack him. “Now, enough of this unpleasantness. From the look of it, you have a lot more to offer me than violence.”

  For a long time nobody spoke. Somewhere on the Isle of Múgr someone laughed. Gulls flew down close to the deck, shrieking and observing them with their empty, dark eyes. Over on the northern dock, there was a sudden commotion. A barrel was dropped with a splintering of wood, followed by shouts and curses. Coenred jumped at the sound. His neck ached from where he was craning round to see Beobrand and Gozolon.

  Beobrand was staring unblinking at the fat Gozolon, violence coming off him like a stink. Coenred’s mouth went dry. He was certain then that his friend would attack, that he would spill blood and in so doing end their quest and quite possibly, their lives.

  As he watched, Beobrand nodded slightly, and beckoned to Gozolon to step closer. The two guards clearly agreed with Coenred’s assessment of the situation for they did not move. They blocked Gozolon’s way. Their eyes were nervous, darting this way and that as they sought to see from where the next threat might emerge.

  “Come,” said Beobrand at last, his voice softer now. “I would make you an offer.”

  Coenred wished to scream out, to shout a warning to Gozolon. He loved Beobrand as a brother, but he was sure that his old friend’s next action would plunge them all into chaos. But he did not utter a sound. Instead, he held his breath as Gozolon pushed his way past his guards and allowed Beobrand, half-hand resting on his seax hilt now, to step in close.

  Chapter 39

  A light touch on her shoulder awoke Ardith. Sleep must have claimed her again as she waited for the woman to return. Her eyes flickered open. A shadow loomed. Fear engulfed her.

  The distant voices of Grimr and his crew were harsh and strident in the dark stillness of the room. Had one of the seamen come for her, creeping into the chamber? Ardith’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to scream, but no sound came. Who would come to her aid anyway? Her mind whirled with terror. There was nobody here to help her. She was alone with nobody to care if she lived or died.

  “Hush, little one,” said a soft lilting voice.

  Ardith’s eyes finally made sense of the shadows she saw in the room. This was no grizzled sailor come to violate her, this was the beautiful woman, black hair framing her delicate face. “You are safe,” she said. “Nobody will harm you here tonight.”

  For a fleeting instant Ardith wondered at the woman’s words. Here? Tonight? What of tomorrow, in another place? But she pushed the dark thoughts away. The woman set down a steaming bowl on a small table and helped Ardith to sit up. Ardith felt as though her body belonged to another. Her hands trembled but she was in no pain.

  “Who are you?” Ardith asked.

  “My name is Erynn,” answered the dark-haired woman.

  She picked up the bowl and, dipping a wooden spoon into its contents, offered a mouthful to Ardith. After a brief hesitation, Ardith opened her mouth, allowing Erynn to feed her as though she had been a babe. The stew was hot and salty and flavoured with a spice Ardith had never tasted before. Warmth trickled into her and her stomach growled. It was as loud as an unhappy hound in the quiet room. Ardith met Erynn’s gaze and they both smiled.

  “Eat, little one,” Erynn said spooning more of the pottage into Ardith’s mouth.

  Ardith chewed and swallowed.

  “My name is Ardith,” she said. She reached out and took the bowl and spoon from Erynn. “I can feed myself.” Erynn’s brow wrinkled at Ardith’s abrupt tone. “Thank you for the food,” Ardith said around a mouthful of meat and vegetables. “For everything.”

  She spooned more of the warm stew into her mouth, chewing quickly, enjoying the rich spiciness. Somewhere within the building a voice was raised in song. She did not recognise the melody but soon those gathered at the feast picked up the tune. The noise grew as the singers took up the beat of the song. Ardith could imagine them beating time in a threnody of stamping feet, crashing fists and knives into boards that groaned with delicacies and rich, bloody cuts of meat. The rhythmic thunder unnerved Ardith.

  “Where is this place?” she asked.

  “This is the palace of Lord Vulmar,” Erynn told her. Seeing Ardith’s blank expression, Erynn continued. “He is a powerful man of Neustria. This is Rodomo. Do you remember nothing of how you came to be here?”

  Ardith shook her head.

  “I remember being at sea. I was sick.” She remembered her father walking away, his feet crunching in the shingle as Grimr’s men had dragged her aboard Saeslaga. She remembered the cold creaking loneliness aboard a ship filled with men with nothing but lust and death in their eyes. “I think someone from the ship carried me here. The one they call Ælmyrca, I think.” She remembered Abrecand, his hard hands bruising; his sour breath, his hot blood. She shuddered. “But I can recall little else.”

  The singing and stamping cacophony ended in a crescendo of laughter and applause, rumbling through the stone walls like waves crashing on distant a beach. Ardith wi
nced. Erynn seemed not to notice the sound.

  “Yes, the black-skinned man brought you here,” she said. “But it was Grimr who asked me to care for you.”

  “He must have been worried that he would not get such a good price for a sick or dead bed-thrall,” Ardith said, her tone as bitter as bile.

  Erynn took the now empty bowl from Ardith. The dim glow from the embers and the single rush light she had brought with her showed the sadness on her face.

  “Little one,” she said, and then, at seeing Ardith’s frown, “Ardith, I see you are no fool.”

  “I am young. Not an idiot.”

  Erynn sighed.

  “I am sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?” Ardith almost spat the words. The anger she felt directed like a blade at the only person who had shown her kindness.

  Erynn shrugged. Her eyes glimmered, but her face was in darkness.

  “That you are here. That you were born pretty. That your breasts mark you as a woman when perhaps your years do not.”

  Ardith’s mind reeled at Erynn’s words. She had known what fate awaited her in Frankia, had heard Grimr talking to the others. Gods, if there had been any doubts, Abrecand had made it all too clear. And yet somehow, she had never truly believed. Now, Erynn speaking of her body so frankly, made it real for the first time. She had prayed to the Blessed Virgin over and over and yet here she was, a gift to the lord of this hall. Tears stung her eyes. She scrubbed at her cheeks angrily.

  “Gods,” said Erynn, lowering her gaze. Her black hair fell over her face.

  For a long time neither of them spoke. Ardith could feel the warmth of the pottage oozing into her limbs. The embers in the brazier hissed. The sounds of laughter and singing were quieter now, muted and dull like rainfall thrumming in a dense forest. Despite the fear that gripped her, Ardith felt her eyes grow heavy. She willed herself not to succumb to sleep. Not yet. Forcing her eyes open she stared at Erynn.

  “What is to become of me?” She was sure that she knew the answer but she needed to hear it from Erynn. If the dark-haired beauty said the words it would make them true. She didn’t want to hear the words; she needed to.

  Erynn met her burning stare. For a long while she said nothing. Then she drew in a deep breath.

  “I think you know,” she said, her voice flat.

  “I think so too. I’m afraid.” As Ardith said the words fresh tears spilt down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away this time.

  “Don’t be afraid, little one. Lord Vulmar will not be wanting you if you are ill, will he?”

  “But the fever has gone,” Ardith said.

  “If I were you,” Erynn said, “I would be ill for a few more days. I will say it is so.”

  “How bad will it be?” Ardith asked, her voice catching in a sob. The terror that had been hidden deep within was now rushing out of her. There was no stemming the tide of the tears now, her face was slick with them.

  “Let us not talk of that now,” said Erynn. Leaning forward, she reached for Ardith and embraced her. Her fragrance was sweet, her skin the perfumed scent of roses. Her dark hair covered Ardith’s face as the girl allowed her grief and fear to consume her. Ardith’s body was wracked with sobs as her anguish poured forth. She had long prayed to the Blessed Virgin Maria that she would be rescued, that she could return to the safety of her mother’s arms. The Virgin had not set her free from her tribulations and, as far as Ardith knew, her mother was still back in Hithe.

  And yet perhaps the mother of Jesus had answered her prayer by putting her into the care of this woman who held her, giving her comfort where before she had none. Ardith wept, her body trembling and shaking while Erynn stroked her back and whispered soft words to console her.

  After a long time, when the sounds of feasting had vanished into the silent darkness of the night, Ardith pushed herself away from Erynn’s embrace. Her eyes were puffy and she sniffed. Her head throbbed but she felt as though the tears had washed some of the dark stain of fear from within her; from her very soul.

  A sudden thought came to her then in the darkness.

  “Erynn, when you undressed me did you find…”

  Erynn placed a finger on Ardith’s lips to silence her.

  “Hush,” she whispered. “I found your secret. It is safely hidden.”

  “I must have it.”

  “In the morning,” said Erynn. “Sleep now, little one. I will watch over you and keep you safe.”

  Ardith lay back down with a sigh. Her tears cooled on her face in the gloom. She closed her eyes and in her mind’s eye she saw Abrecand’s final moments, saw the ruin on his throat, sliced deeply with his own blade. In the darkness of her memory she once more felt the burning splash of his lifeblood covering her.

  Tomorrow she would reclaim the sharp knife. Her claw. Perhaps the Blessed Virgin had answered her prayers by providing her the means of her own salvation, she pondered, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter 40

  “And then he said, ‘I want to make you an offer.’”

  Those gathered around the boards listened intently to Ferenbald as he recounted the story of how Brimblæd came to be docked at the choicest mooring spot on the northern bank of the Secoana.

  “I thought Beobrand was going to gut the port reeve like a mackerel,” Ferenbald continued with a toothy grin.

  “I almost did,” said Beobrand, smiling grimly at the memory. Woden knew he had been tempted. The officious toad of a man had tested his patience and it had taken all Beobrand’s strength of will to avoid striking him.

  The room bubbled with laughter. Despite the anxiety that gnawed at his innards, twisting and growing like a tumour as each day passed, Beobrand found himself chuckling with them.

  “That preening cockerel, Gozolon, would try the patience of Saint Hruomann,” said the silver-haired man sitting at the head of the table. He spoke Anglisc without a trace of a Frankish accent. In fact, his voice could have belonged to any of the inhabitants of Cantware. For he was originally from Addelam in Cantware. Ferenbald had introduced him as Feologild, an old trading partner of Hrothgar’s.

  Leaving most of the crew on board to guard the plunder from Mantican’s hall, Ferenbald had led them through the twisting, noisy and noisome streets of Rodomo. The streets thronged with people and Beobrand was giddy with the twists and turns of the route they had taken, the cries of the vendors and the smells of food on offer mingled with the ordure that ran in a thick, stomach-churning sludge through the streets. He had never known such a place. The buildings were packed in almost as densely as the inhabitants, and even though it was a fine day, in places the alleyways they traversed were gloomy. Little light could filter past the jumbled huts, shacks and houses. Beobrand longed for open spaces, hills, moors and fields. And clear air. Not this thick miasma of too many people crammed into tight proximity. Even the open sea would be preferable to Rodomo and its stink. Ferenbald seemed unperturbed by the busy streets and he walked determinedly, unerringly leading them with an almost uncanny sense of direction into an area of the city where the buildings were grander and the streets were cobbled with stone. They had arrived at a large brick house which nestled safely behind a wall and a stout timber gate.

  It was not yet midday by the time they’d arrived at Feologild’s villa. Ferenbald had told the door ward who they were and they had not had to wait long before the master of the house himself had come to the courtyard to greet them. Feologild had embraced Ferenbald as if he had been a long lost son and quickly offered them lodging in his house. He had insisted that they stay to eat before they went about organising to have their goods brought to his warehouse.

  Beobrand liked the man instinctively. He was direct and forthright, with a twinkle in his eye that spoke of a fine sense of humour. Ferenbald had introduced Beobrand to Feologild as Octa, but after the merchant had taken in Beobrand’s stature, scarred face and the missing fingers on his left hand, he had laughed. “Octa, is it?” He had grinned. “What
with the black shields of your companions and your half-hand, I would have thought you were one whose brother had been called Octa.”

  They had dropped the pretence after that. Feologild had set them at their ease, offering them warm water to wash and then having them ushered into his main hall, where the boards were laid out as if for a feast.

  Feologild had asked for news of Albion and had listened quietly, nodding as Ferenbald spoke of recent events, of rival merchants, the price of wool and the cost of good wine. Feologild seemed impressed that they had a monk with them and bowed his head solemnly when, at his behest, Coenred blessed the food.

  “You know that today is the feast of Saint Hruomann?” Feologild had asked Coenred, when he had finished praying.

  “Alas, I have not heard of this saint,” answered Coenred. “Is he local?”

  “Indeed he was,” replied Feologild, taking a bite of glistening, succulent pork that he had skewered on the tip of his eating knife. “They call him a saint, but I don’t really understand these things. He was the bishop of Rodomo.” He took a swig of wine to wash down the pork. “He only died a few years ago. A nice enough man, but now they say to touch the hem of his habit will cure the blind.”

  “The Lord works His miracles in many and varied ways,” said Coenred. “And you say that today is Hruomann’s holy day?”

  “Yes. The poor will flock to the church. There is a procession and an awful lot of praying.”

  Coenred was wide-eyed.

  “I would most like to see this,” he said. “I may never be in Rodomo on the day of Saint Hruomann again.”

  Beobrand gave Coenred a long look.

  “Very well,” he said at last. “But you will not go alone. Take Attor with you, and perhaps our host could provide you with a guide.”

  Feologild nodded and signalled to a lean, pale man.

  “Gadd,” the merchant said, “take our friend the monk to the church of Our Lady of the Assumption.”

  The servant bowed, but seemed less than pleased to have been assigned this task.