Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  Beobrand inclined his head at Feologild.

  “I thank you for your friendship and I offer you mine in return,” he said.

  “I will drink to that,” Feologild replied in a loud voice. He held out his cup and a thrall refilled it immediately. He maintained Beobrand’s gaze as he raised the cup to his lips and drained the contents. Beobrand matched him and both men slammed their drinking vessels down on the board at the same instant. Despite himself, Beobrand grinned. Feologild laughed and the atmosphere in the hall lifted.

  Still smiling, Beobrand allowed his cup to be filled again. Perhaps he would confide in the merchant after all. As the man said, he had few friends here and Feologild might be able to assist him.

  Beobrand was about to speak when the sound of a new commotion came to them from outside. This time it was from the front of the house. Beobrand heard a banging, as someone hammered on the timber gate to the courtyard. Feologild pursed his lips, frowning slightly and clearly listening intently. This was not a noise to be ignored, this came from within the merchant’s property. Conversations died away in the hall, as the men stilled. For a time there was silence, with nothing but the sound of the city’s streets coming to them on the breeze from the open shutters. And then the door to the dining hall swung open.

  One of Feologild’s door wards stepped into the hall. Behind him came a slender, middle-aged man.

  “A messenger has come, master,” said the door ward. “He demanded to speak to you.”

  Feologild’s brow furrowed, but he beckoned to let the man enter. The messenger stepped into a shaft of the thin afternoon light that spilled through an open window. He walked proudly, head held high, as one accustomed to being listened to. He looked about the room, taking in the men thronging at the boards, the copious amounts of food and drink, the thralls waiting on the diners. His eyes were dark and impassive above his trimmed beard.

  Focusing his attention on Feologild, the messenger spoke a few words in the tongue of the Franks. Feologild turned sharply to gaze at Beobrand. After the merest hint of a hesitation, Feologild replied to the messenger. The man nodded, said something more, and then, bowing, withdrew from the hall.

  Feologild watched him leave, before turning to Beobrand with a quizzical expression.

  “Well, Beobrand,” he said, “it seems tidings of your arrival have already travelled widely.”

  Beobrand was confused.

  “How can this be? What did the messenger say? Who sent him?”

  Beobrand’s head swam and he regretted drinking so freely of Feologild’s ale.

  “A man such as yourself does not pass unnoticed. But perhaps you do not need my friendship quite as much as I thought.”

  “What do you mean? Speak clearly, man.”

  “Well, it would seem you already have at least one friend in Rodomo who is a lot more powerful than I.”

  “I know nobody in Frankia.”

  “Well, if that be true, someone here knows you. And they request that you attend their hall immediately for an audience.”

  Beobrand’s head began to throb. How could this be? Who knew he was in the city? They had not even been moored at the dock for a whole day.

  “But who?” asked Beobrand, wondering what man on middle earth wished to see him.

  “I hope for your sake that the man who has sent for you is a friend and not a foe-man, for he is not an enemy that anyone would wish to have.”

  “Why?” replied Beobrand, a coolness flowing through him as if he had drunk ice water. “Who sent the messenger?”

  Feologild stared at him, perhaps trying to ascertain whether this huge fair-haired thegn was playing him for a fool.

  “The messenger came from the greatest palace of Rodomo, Beobrand,” the merchant said at last. He picked up a small cloth and wiped his lips and hands before scrunching the linen into a ball and tossing it onto the board. “He has come from the hall of Lord Vulmar, cousin of the king himself.”

  Chapter 43

  “I see from your expression,” said Feologild, “that you have heard of Vulmar.”

  Beobrand said nothing. His head was pounding now. He set aside the cup of ale. There would be no more drinking this day. He would need his wits about him.

  “Your business is with him perhaps,” continued Feologild shrewdly, squinting at the thegn as if he could divine whatever secrets he held within his thought-cage by staring into his mind.

  Beobrand ignored him. He turned to the nearest thrall, a slim, swarthy-skinned young man.

  “Water,” Beobrand snapped. The thrall turned to do his bidding, but Beobrand stopped him, pulling him back by the arm. “Bring water for me and all my men.” He released his grip and the slave scampered off. Beobrand raised his voice for his gesithas, Ferenbald and Brimblæd’s crew to hear. “No more drinking ale, wine or mead. You need your minds straight. Drink some water now to clear your heads.” Some of the men groaned. “There will be time enough for feasting later,” Beobrand went on. “When all this is done, I will see that you have your fill of meat and mead.”

  “Vulmar is not a man to be kept waiting,” said Feologild, fidgeting in his seat. Was his face pale?

  Beobrand frowned and rubbed a hand across his forehead in a vain attempt to reduce the throbbing pain there. Beneath his fingers he made out the now-familiar lump where the Mercian sling shot had almost taken his life.

  Gods, how could Vulmar have known of their arrival? And even if he had heard of Beobrand coming to the city, why was the lord interested in him? They had not even been in Rodomo for a day. Could some of the men they had encountered in Seoles have travelled here before them, warning Grimr that they were on his trail? Beobrand shook his head. They had seemed to have no love for their erstwhile leader, and besides, surely the storm would have kept them in Albion. He thought through their trip along the coast, past the isle of the Wihtwara and then towards Frankia, being beaten back by the sea and wind northward to the rocky cove and Mantican’s hall.

  The skinny thrall returned, labouring under the weight of a great jug. He filled cups for Beobrand and Ferenbald then staggered to where the rest of the recent arrivals from Albion sat.

  Beobrand filled his mouth with the cool liquid, swilling it around to rid himself of the souring taste of ale. Or was it perhaps the flavour of fear and uncertainty he sought to remove? He turned to Ferenbald, who was sipping his own cup and looking at Beobrand with a questioning twitch of his eyebrows.

  “What do you think?” Beobrand asked in a low voice. “Could Thurcytel and Wada have made the crossing to Frankia, if they had left immediately after Brimblæd had departed Seoles?”

  Ferenbald tugged at his beard gently and pondered the question. Beobrand could imagine him mapping the routes and the currents in his mind’s eye. After a few moments he shook his head.

  “I think it is unlikely, lord,” he said, and the use of the title reminded Beobrand of Acennan with a twisting pang of pain. He’d always called Beobrand “lord” when he was worried. By Woden, how he missed his friend.

  “How then does Vulmar come to send a messenger for me to this place?”

  Ferenbald frowned and then his face clouded, downcast.

  “I fear I am to blame,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “It was I who told Gozolon we were on an important journey. He knows where I hail from, and I think he recognised you from the tales and songs. Believe it or not,” he said, with a twisted smirk, “you are not a man to go unnoticed and it seems even in Frankia they know of Beobrand the half-handed.”

  Beobrand sighed.

  “But do you not see?” said Cynan, who had joined them from the lower benches.

  “See what?” asked Beobrand.

  “Until now we have been following the trail we hoped would lead us to Ardith. This gives us proof that she is where we believed.”

  Beobrand indicated for the Waelisc warrior to continue.

  “Surely it must be the fact that both the girl and Brimblæd come
from Hithe that has caused this Vulmar to act. He must have heard from Gozolon the reeve that we had moored and then pieced together the story of what brings us here. By summoning you, he seeks to confront a potential enemy on his terms. In his own hall.”

  Beobrand turned Cynan’s words over in his mind, nodding slowly.

  Feologild had risen from his seat. Gone was his calm control of earlier, replaced with a nervous energy. He licked his lips and sucked his teeth as he moved in close to where Beobrand and the others spoke in hushed tones.

  “It is as they say,” he said. “There are no secrets in Rodomo once Gozolon knows of them. Vulmar pays well and Gozolon reports to him daily all the comings and goings at the port. And Vulmar is no fool. If you come seeking something,” he paused, perhaps weighing his words, “or someone, that he possesses, he will not allow you time to plan or think. He will do his utmost to keep you off balance. And know this, I do not believe you will get what you have come for.”

  “Indeed?” said Beobrand. He could feel his anger swelling within him and forced himself to be calm. This was not something he could solve with the sword. He would need guile if he was to play the game of this noble and to leave Rodomo with his daughter.

  “Vulmar is rich and powerful,” said Feologild. He bit his lip and shook his head. “He did not get that way by being stupid or by backing down and admitting defeat.”

  Beobrand bridled.

  “I am no man’s fool,” he said, wondering silently whether that was true. Too often he feared he had been the plaything of powerful men. “And I also do not back down from a fight.”

  Feologild nodded and raised a hand to placate Beobrand.

  “Of course, lord,” he said. “I do not accuse you of foolishness or cowardice. But this is Vulmar’s land, not yours. You are far from home and Vulmar holds Rodomo in his fist. I have no love for Vulmar, but I must speak true, I cannot afford to make an enemy of him. He knows you have visited me here, which already places my interests in danger should you confront him.”

  Beobrand’s head ached. He closed his eyes and took in a deep steadying breath.

  “It is as you say, Feologild,” he said at last, meeting the merchant’s gaze. “I cannot make an enemy of this Lord Vulmar any more than you can. I will meet with him and hope I can resolve matters with him smoothly.”

  Feologild held his stare for a long while, appraising the veracity of Beobrand’s words as a trader weighs the value of a gemstone. After a time, he nodded.

  “That is wise,” he said. “Might I make a suggestion?”

  Beobrand waved his half-hand impatiently for Feologild to continue.

  “I have a warehouse,” said Feologild, “and armed men, loyal to me, who guard it. Anything you have aboard Brimblæd would be safe there and we can discuss trade when you have more time. It is clear now that you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

  Feologild’s words caught Beobrand off guard. He had not thought of the ship and its contents. Could it be that the vessel was in danger?

  “I thank you for the offer,” he said, “but the ship is not mine. Let me speak with her skipper before making a decision.”

  “Of course.” Feologild had visibly relaxed now. He was back onto firmer land, a path that he understood well. That of trade and alliances, the movement of goods and gold.

  Beobrand drew Ferenbald and Cynan away from the merchant, turning their backs on him.

  “What do you think?” he asked Ferenbald in a hushed tone.

  “The ship is not so easy to defend if that bastard Gozolon plans anything. I have heard tales of ships being raided at night. Perhaps it would be safer to move the goods now, before darkness.”

  Beobrand felt as though he had stumbled into a rats’ nest of treachery and intrigue. The brick walls of the house seemed to close in on him and he longed to be far away, riding Sceadugenga at a gallop over the hills of Bernicia where the air was clean and life was simple. He snorted in quiet amusement at his own thoughts.

  When had his life ever been simple?

  “Do you trust Feologild?” he whispered. He could not make out the trader’s true intentions.

  Ferenbald ran his meaty hand through his long hair, tugged at his thatch of beard.

  “He has been my father’s friend for many years.”

  “That is not what I asked of you, Ferenbald,” Beobrand said, his voice taking on a hard edge of iron. “Do you trust him?”

  Ferenbald hesitated for the merest heartbeat before nodding.

  Beobrand held his gaze for a moment, then turned to Cynan, who shrugged.

  “Very well,” Beobrand said, addressing Ferenbald once more, “make it so. And Ferenbald,” he said, keeping his voice low, “see to it that the ship is ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”

  Ferenbald nodded.

  “Thank you for your hospitality and generous offer, master Feologild,” said Beobrand in a clear voice. “Ferenbald will see to the unlading of the ship. I will follow Vulmar’s messenger, along with my comitatus, and we shall see what he has to say.”

  He made to leave the hall. Cynan fell into step beside him. Fraomar, Bearn, Dreogan and Garr rose and joined them. Brinin suddenly jumped up from where he sat with the crew and rushed to join Beobrand and the warriors. In his hurry, he tripped on a bench, overturning it with a clatter, and stumbling forward into Beobrand’s path. Curses and shouts rang out in his wake as he left others to right the bench and to sort out the mess he had caused.

  The gangly youth stood, flush-faced and wide-eyed before Beobrand.

  Beobrand placed a hand on his shoulder, meaning to push him aside.

  “Go help Ferenbald with the ship, boy,” he said.

  Brinin squared his shoulders and pulled himself up to his full height. His jaw jutted stubbornly but he still needed to gaze upward to look Beobrand in the eye.

  “If you go to where Ardith is,” he said, his voice thin with anxiety, but resolute nonetheless, “I am coming with you.”

  Beobrand took a step forward, applying pressure to his shoulder and all the while holding the boy in his cold blue stare. Brinin leaned against Beobrand’s hand and did not budge. Despite himself, Beobrand smiled. Gods, but he liked the boy. He was brave and steadfast.

  “Very well,” he said, “but you will keep silent and you will do as I say. Understand?”

  Brinin returned his smile, nodding.

  “Yes, lord.”

  Beobrand reached the doors and the wardens moved to open them for him and his companions. Just before the doors swung open, Feologild called to him.

  “I do not know what trouble you have with Vulmar,” the trader said, “but be very careful, Beobrand. The man is a snake.”

  Beobrand did not reply. If only it would be as simple as dealing with a single serpent. A quick slice of a blade would sever the head, removing any danger. But, as he swept from the room, Beobrand could not shake the cold feeling that he was about to step into a pit filled with writhing, venomous vipers.

  Chapter 44

  Coenred shivered as he entered the darkness of the church. Like many of the buildings in Rodomo it was made of stone; grey and sombre. The solidity and height of the huge structure made him think of the power of the Almighty. He gazed up at the shadowed ceiling as he and Attor were ushered in by a young clergyman. Candles dotted the darkness and cunningly carved statues nestled in niches. They seemed to watch Coenred as he passed. He could sense their eyes upon him. The flickering flames of the candles made the shadows cavort. The statues’ faces frowned, menacing and angry at the intrusion into their domain. Coenred held back another shudder with difficulty. They were but stone. Perhaps what he felt was the pressure of the eyes of the Lord on him. Ever since the incident at Seoles, Coenred had been racked with guilt. He had struck a brother priest! And stolen from a church! No matter how many times he told himself the relic was not the priest’s to keep, he could not dispel the truth that he had sinned. He had prayed endlessly, offering up to God silent words of
contrition and sorrow, but the heavy feeling was still draped on him like a physical weight.

  He hoped that if he were able to confess his sins to the bishop of Rodomo, he might find some peace. When he had heard Feologild speak of the church here, his heart had leapt and Attor and he had eagerly followed the merchant’s servant, Gadd, through the crowded streets to the small open area before the imposing stone edifice.

  The previous day, while aboard Brimblæd, Coenred had approached Attor. He wondered whether the warrior too felt anything like the guilt that pressed down upon him, but Attor had smiled thinly and said, “You know we did what we needed to do. I am proud of you, Coenred.” There was more warrior of the old ways in him than follower of Christ, and he seemed to relish the spontaneous savagery of Coenred’s attack on the priest. But Coenred noted how quickly Attor had jumped up and offered to join him when he voiced his desire to go to the church. Perhaps the wiry gesith understood sin better than he made out. Perhaps. Despite the feeling of overpowering foreboding that was upon him, Coenred smiled at the idea of Attor expressing feelings of guilt. Whatever the warrior felt, he would never admit weakness. That was not his way; not the way of a lord’s spear-man.

  When they had arrived at the church of Our Lady of the Assumption, the sun had been low in the sky, and the streets were shadowed and cold. In spite of the lateness of the day, the square of cobbles that stood before the church’s great oak doors was thronged with a multitude of people.

  “It is Saint Hruomann’s day,” Gadd had said. “Pilgrims come from afar in the hope of touching the relics of Hruomann. The saint often heals the sick. It will be difficult for you to obtain an audience with Bishop Audoen today, I fear.”

  Dismayed and awed, Coenred had nodded, taking in the heaving mass of humanity that seethed before the church like a many-coloured roiling ocean. A cripple on twisted crutches of wood was shoved aside by two burly men carrying cudgels and using them liberally on the packed crowds. They were clearing the way for two other stout men, carrying a man atop a board. The cripple stumbled and Coenred reached out to prevent him from falling. The invalid would surely have been trampled beneath the feet of so many worshippers had he fallen. The man on the timber board looked dead, his mouth lolling, eyes unseeing, and yet the two brutes cried out urgently, kicking and pushing their way through the crowd and wielding their staves savagely when someone was slow to move.