“Speak sense, man,” Beobrand yelled over the scream of the storm. “Where are we to fight them?”
“Why, on land, of course,” shouted Ferenbald. The man’s smiling calm angered Beobrand. He could see no way they could avoid the pirate ship, and to fight in this weather would be treacherous indeed. “Tell your men to don their armour and to prepare for battle.” Beobrand looked about him at the sea. All about them was chaos; a tumbling, churning confusion of surf and sleet. To fall overboard in this would be terrible, but to enter this chill water wearing a byrnie of iron would spell certain death.
“Are you moonstruck, man?”
“Perhaps,” replied Ferenbald, with that annoying grin still playing on his face, “but do you trust me?”
Beobrand thought for only a moment. Ferenbald had proven himself over and again to be a man of great sea-skill and had never given Beobrand cause to doubt his sense, or his cunning.
“Yes,” he said.
“Good,” said Ferenbald, “then hurry to arm yourselves. I have a plan.”
Beobrand gave him one last hard look, then nodded.
“I hope it’s a good plan,” he said, and staggered along the deck to his men. Their byrnies, shields and helmets were there, stored underneath sheets of greased leather, alongside their weapons and some of the items they had taken from Mantican, which had not been transferred to Feologild’s warehouse.
“So do I,” said Ferenbald to Beobrand’s back. And then, as he saw the first plumes of spray thrown up by the waves pounding into the dark rocks that loomed before them, he bellowed to his crew. Unlike Beobrand, they did not question their captain for even a heartbeat. Ferenbald grinned with satisfaction as the sailors rushed to do his bidding.
Beobrand forced a look of determination onto his features as he reached Cynan, Bearn, Garr, Attor, Fraomar and sleeping Dreogan. He must not show them his fear, all they needed from him was self-belief and direction.
He glanced back at the skipper, standing resolute and firm-footed, commanding his crewmen with certainty. He still wore his broad grin and his eyes glimmered. Beobrand wondered at what portion of his demeanour came from certainty in his plan and his skills and how much stemmed from his need to show conviction to his men. He supposed it did not matter, as long as the results were the same.
“To arms, my brave gesithas,” he roared, kicking Dreogan’s uninjured leg to awaken him. The warriors all gazed up at him with questioning, pale faces. “Don your byrnies and heft your shields,” he said and smiled when all of them leapt up to obey him.
And so, with the sea boiling around them and the wind howling through the rigging and snapping the sail tight, Beobrand and his gesithas shrugged into their heavy iron-knit shirts and prepared for battle.
And that was the moment when Brimblæd’s hull smashed into a rock that was hidden just beneath the sea’s surface. The ship’s timbers groaned and the deck pitched alarmingly. The jagged rock wrenched and ground along the keel, ripping and rending. The noise of the ship being torn apart was like the gods laughing, thought Beobrand, as he slid down the canted deck and was flung into the churning, freezing foam.
Chapter 58
Cold. So cold.
The freezing water gripped Beobrand in its icy fist as he sank under the churning surface. The current was strong and he could feel the waves tugging at him as he tumbled into the darkness. He would die now, drowned in the depths of the Narrow Sea. How the gods must be laughing.
His world was silent save for the rushing in his ears and the pounding of his heart.
Clearly, through the mists of memory, he thought he heard the shriek of the witch, Nelda, echoing in a cavern far to the north and many years before. This was to be the end she had prophesied then. Dying alone in the icy embrace of the sea.
Foam and bubbles swirled about him. His lungs began to burn. He had fallen into the water with no warning and so had not taken a deep breath before plunging over the side of Brimblæd. As his byrnie weighed him down, pulling him towards his death, he was suddenly filled with rage. Anger at this wasted death, at his failure to protect his men. Ire at what must surely befall the daughter he would never know. A chilling death or a lifetime of abuse at the hands of the pirates that pursued them awaited Ardith.
And then, just as he believed he would not be able to hold the scant air in his lungs any longer, his feet scraped on rock. He kicked against it, heaving himself upwards, or at least what he hoped was upwards. He strove towards the pale light of foam and surf. Towards the cold winter air.
Towards life.
His head broke the surface and his world was instantly filled with chaos and noise. He sucked in a great breath before a wave crashed over his head, tumbling him once more. The wave pushed him further ashore and moments later, he was able once again to get his feet under him, this time on pebbly sand. He pushed his head and shoulders into the air.
Another deep, shuddering breath and a second huge wave bore down on him. But Beobrand was ready now, and shoved himself upward to meet it, managing to keep his head above the surface as his feet momentarily left the ground and he floated, adrift like so much flotsam before the wave passed him by and he was once again standing, chest deep in the sea with a beach at his back.
Everything seemed to slow then, and Beobrand recognised the calm that settled on him in battle. Close to his position was Brimblæd. But the ship was no longer the proud vessel it had been, riding the waves like a watery stallion. The ship had capsized. The sail and rigging trailed in the surf like the entrails of a gutted beast. As he watched, a huge wave crashed into the hull, dislodging Brimblæd from the rocks and sending the ship rolling over to show the huge splintered gash in the keel. Figures leapt from the stricken vessel into the freezing maelstrom of the storm-swirled sea.
A third wave, white crested and bitterly cold, broke over Beobrand and he spluttered and cursed. He staggered backward, almost falling. Using the weight of his byrnie to help anchor him against the buffeting force of the sea, he waded towards the beach. It was hard going, but he slogged through the rolling waves and was soon in the shallows. The water sucked and tugged at his legs, but he was safe now.
Safe?
The storm was driving sleet into his face, but he could see clearly that they were far from safe. He realised now what Ferenbald’s plan had been. He had surely meant to repeat the skilful manoeuvre that had seen them beach Brimblæd safely, gliding perilously close to jagged rocks before sliding onto the shingle. Ferenbald was skilled beyond doubt, for he had navigated through the storm to the same stretch of coast. The sea pummelled the black crags of rock that stood up from the waves like rotted, shattered teeth.
Undoubtedly, he had expected their hunter, not knowing this stretch of coastline, to careen into the rocks and be lost. But it seemed there was a limit to Ferenbald’s skills, or his luck had abandoned him. For it was his ship, and not their pursuer’s, that had been wrecked.
Brimblæd caught another wave and was momentarily submerged beneath foam and spray. Beobrand could not see the ship’s captain. Other figures dotted the waves, some swimming, some wading and flailing in shallower water. He hoped everyone aboard had survived. But watching the tumult of the stormy sea, he thought it unlikely the gods would be so kind. Ferenbald had been bold, and the gods liked brave endeavours. But the gods were also fickle and cruel, and they demanded sacrifice.
Beobrand looked beyond Brimblæd’s wreck and knew the gods would get their sacrifice this day. Those who did not drown, might die of the cold itself, he thought, his teeth beginning to clatter together despite his attempts to prevent them from doing so. And if the sea or the cold did not slay them, then Draca and his pirates would.
For on the wind-ravaged waves beyond Brimblæd came the sleek, menacing form of the wave-steed, Saeslaga. Her captain must be even more skilled than Ferenbald, or more reckless, for Saeslaga surged onward under a reefed sail, seemingly unconcerned with the spume-soaked rocks that lined the approach to the cove. The ship wo
uld pass Brimblæd’s wallowing hulk in moments. Beobrand dragged his gaze away from it with difficulty and scanned the beach for survivors. Someway down the beach Fraomar, Attor and Coenred were wading out of the surf. Nearer, a few of the crewmen were pulling themselves from the waves, coughing and spluttering. One of them had a deep cut on his forehead. It bled profusely, painting his face in a mask of crimson in the grey storm light.
Shivering against the cold that seemed to grip his very bones, Beobrand pulled his legs through the shallows, each step made difficult by the pull of the tide and the unsure footing as the gravel was sucked away from beneath his feet. Frantically, he looked along the beach for a sign of Halinard and his family. He did not see them.
His heart twisted, his anxiety gripping him. Where was Ardith? There was no sign of his daughter and he felt an emotion unfamiliar to him: panic. More men laboured out of the sea along the beach. Dreogan and Bearn. Cargást, looking more morose than ever, was half carrying another seaman. Oars and broken timbers washed onto the strand where they had spilled from Brimblæd’s belly. A sea chest tumbled end over end as the waves heaved it onto the sand. Its lid fell open spewing its contents. Another wave swamped the chest and whatever treasures it had held, washing over them and hiding them from view, burying them in the sand. Beobrand cared nothing for what was left of the hoard they had taken from Mantican. All he wanted now was to see Ardith, alive and out of the deadly clutches of the sea.
Glancing out to the wind-whipped waves, Beobrand saw that Saeslaga’s helmsman had expertly guided the ship past both the rocks and Brimblæd’s timber corpse. Saeslaga was coming on fast, and looked set to ride the waves up the beach, just as Ferenbald had delighted in doing. Tracking its path Beobrand saw it would come ashore quite a distance down the beach further eastward. As he marked where Saeslaga would run aground, Beobrand’s heart swelled and a great relief flooded him.
There, climbing out of the churning breakers was Ardith, bedraggled and alone. But alive.
It was as though Beobrand had drunk from a cup of warm mead, such was the effect on him. The panic fled, replaced by an iron resolve. Draca would not take his daughter away again. By Woden and all the gods, Beobrand swore he would see Ardith safely home to her mother. Or his blood would be price enough to sate the All-father’s greed for sacrifice.
His hand fell to his sword belt and with a shock he found that Hrunting still nestled in its scabbard. He cast about for a shield, but he saw none amongst the jetsam from the wreck.
Beyond Ardith, Saeslaga rose on a breaking wave, white foam boiling under its keel as it was carried onto the beach. It shuddered to a halt, but Beobrand could not hear the grinding rasp of the shingle beneath its hull. The air was full of the chaotic cacophony of sea and storm. Men were leaping from the pirate vessel even before it had ceased moving. They were closer to Ardith than Beobrand.
He broke into a lumbering run. It was difficult. The shallow water clung to his footfalls, his clothes were sodden, weighing him down. His byrnie was as ice, freezing him and slowing his progress with its heft. And still he pushed on.
From somewhere, Cynan was at his side, seeming to run more easily than his lord. In his hand, the Waelisc man held his own sword. In his left he held a black shield, though how he had managed to keep hold of one, Beobrand could not tell. Beobrand drew Hrunting from its scabbard. The sopping wool that lined it sucked against the blade, making him curse.
“Gesithas of Bernicia,” Beobrand bellowed as he ran, wondering whether any would hear him. Even with his battle-voice, he could not be sure his words carried over the tumult of the tempest. “To me! To me!”
Cynan and he reached Attor and Fraomar. The two of them fell into stride beside them, splashing through the shallow surf, feet sinking into the sand and shingle as they pounded down the strand towards Saeslaga and the men it was disgorging. Attor pulled two seaxes from his belt, Fraomar seemed to have lost his sword and seax, but had found a short axe from somewhere, perhaps floating amongst Brimblæd’s debris.
Beobrand flicked a look over his shoulder. Dreogan and Bearn were some distance away, but they had seen their hlaford and were already chasing after them. He saw no sign of Garr.
Ahead of them, Ardith was out of the water. She looked so small and fragile standing there, surrounded by warriors and sailors and the crashing of huge waves. She gaped, staring about her as one in a dream, dazed and shocked to still be alive. Beobrand ran forward. But before he could reach her, the massive bulk of a man from the beached ship loomed up behind her. There was a dull gleam of steel in the grey, sleet-smeared air, as the man unsheathed his sword. He pulled Ardith to him roughly, holding her savagely, his meaty left hand encircling her tiny neck. He glowered at Beobrand and the approaching men, his one eye burning with fury and passion from between the great tusks of his brother’s beast helm.
“You thought you could kill my brother and then flee?” Draca spat. “Thought you could steal this choice treat from me?” He shook Ardith. Her head lolled, her eyes wide with terror. “I will spill your guts, like you spilt Grimr’s and then I will fuck the girl while you are dying. And then,” he said with a leer, “I will let all my men have her until she is used up and begging for death.”
With a roar of rage, Beobrand surged forward. He had to reach Draca before the rest of the pirates joined him and formed a shieldwall. If he could get to the man before that, he might be able to save Ardith. But as he sprinted forward, Draca shook her again like a child’s toy and snarled.
“Halt, mighty Beobrand,” he shouted, “or I will snap the pretty little thing’s neck like a chicken bone.”
The animal skull helm made Draca monstrous and Beobrand saw there was no give in his one glaring eye. Beobrand stopped running. His gesithas followed his lead and they all stood panting, sleet, rain and sea spray pelting them. Waves broke and crashed, sending sheets of foam sliding up the beach. The icy water washed around Beobrand’s ankles.
“Let the girl go,” Beobrand said in a voice as cold as the Narrow Sea and as jagged as the rocks that had wrecked Brimblæd.
“And why would I do that?” Draca laughed. He raised his sword and for an instant Beobrand believed the whoreson planned to slay Ardith there and then. Behind Draca, Saeslaga’s crew and warriors were amassing. There were many more of them than Beobrand’s small warband.
Beobrand trembled with pent-up rage. Every sinew of his being screamed at him to leap forward, to hack and hew until all his enemies were bloody corpses. But Draca held Ardith and he would surely kill her if Beobrand attacked. Beobrand tried to think of some ruse, some clever retort that might throw Draca off his guard. But no inspiration came to him. The wind bit at their salt-rimed skin. The waves rolled in, crashing and shredding on the rocks. Spiteful sleet spattered them, adding to their cold misery. And still Beobrand stood, speechless and unsure.
Behind Draca, the pirates pulled themselves into something that resembled a shieldwall. Without paying them much heed, Beobrand could tell at once that the motley bunch of men were not trained warriors. They were strong, and eager enough to kill, but he recalled the attack on the North Sea and how he and Cynan had wreaked havoc on the pirates once they had clambered aboard their vessel. And yet, even without the years of experience and endless drills Beobrand and his gesithas were accustomed to, there were many pirates. Most had shields, and all had weapons.
And their leader, single eye agleam with loathing from within the shadows of the beast-skull, clutched Beobrand’s daughter by the throat.
Beobrand noticed men joining his warriors. Turning, he saw Ferenbald, his shaggy hair and beard now plastered to his skull. Brimblæd’s captain had blood trickling from his nose, but he seemed well enough. Beside him came Cargást, his eyes sorrowful, but blazing with some inner fire. More seamen staggered along the beach and added their numbers to Beobrand’s band.
“You are well come,” said Beobrand. He spoke the words without humour, but Ferenbald let out a bark of laughter.
; “It seems my plan did not go as I had expected,” he said.
Despite himself, Beobrand felt a smile tugging at his lips.
“What plan ever does?”
Beobrand was surprised to see Sigulf pushing his stocky frame between Dreogan and Fraomar. The young sailor brandished a vicious-looking langseax.
“Glad you could join us,” Beobrand said.
“Someone has to keep you alive, lord,” said Sigulf. “Otherwise, how will you pay us the riches you promised?”
Beobrand grunted, but did not reply.
“You have run like a frightened fox before hounds,” shouted Draca. “But the time has come for the hunter to take his prize. I will enjoy killing you, you Anglisc bastard, and then I will enjoy fucking this tight Anglisc cunny before your body is cold.”
The blood seared in Beobrand’s veins. His heart thundered and without knowing what he was doing, he took a step forward. This whoreson must die. But how?
The pirates were moving forward now, trudging through the surf. Soon they would join their leader and no doubt attack. Still, with Ardith in the one-eyed brute’s grasp, Beobrand could see no way to enable him to press the battle to Draca.
A sudden movement caught his attention. One of the pirates shouted a warning, but their leader did not hear, or ignored them. Beobrand realised the man could not see the approaching danger, coming as it did from his blind side.
“I am not such an easy man to kill, Draca Grimr’s brother,” said Beobrand, pulling Draca’s attention to him. “Killing your brother was as easy as eating pottage, and his belly as soft. It seems your mother only whelped fools and weaklings.”
One of the pirates called another, desperate warning, but it was too late.
Out of the surging surf came Brinin. He bore a splintered stave of wood, some broken remnant of Brimblæd’s demise. Springing up from the waves in a shower of spray, he slammed the timber into Draca’s helmeted head.
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