Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  Perhaps if she spent some time atop the palisade, she would be able to free her mind of this turmoil. Maybe then she could find sleep.

  Unbidden, like a wayward child disobeying its parents, her mind turned again to troubling thoughts: this time of the impending war. Many would not be able to sleep that night, she was sure. Men would be thinking about battle-fame in the shieldwall, or perhaps they would think of their loved ones, the wives and children they would leave behind if they fell. She would be safe here, she was sure. Bebbanburg was impregnable. It had never been taken by force and could withstand any assault. No, Penda would lead his horde elsewhere to fight the fyrds of Bernicia and Deira, and she would be left with the other women of Bebbanburg to fret about what might befall their menfolk. And yet, her husband was not here. And she knew all too well that battles could be lost, even if this fortress remained intact.

  She had only been seven years old when her father had led the men of Northumbria south to face Cadwallon and Penda at Elmet. She had watched the warband ride out. Edwin had looked invincible on his huge horse, bedecked in his battle gear.

  He never returned.

  She remembered clearly the terror of the days that followed. First the waiting and her mother’s pacing and sharp temper. Then Bassus’ arrival with the dire news of her father’s death and the rout of the fyrd. Followed by the headlong rush south to the safety of her uncle Eadbald’s kingdom of Cantware. She had not returned here until her marriage to Oswiu.

  Beobrand had fought in the battle that had cost her father and her brother their lives. She had met him shortly before and she wondered at the ways of wyrd that he spoke about. He had been just a farmhand then, but he had joined Edwin’s warband and now, years later, he was a warlord, veteran of many battles and slayer of countless men. Men whispered that Beobrand of Ubbanford and his Black Shields could not be defeated, but she thought of her father and sighed. All men could be vanquished and all warriors, no matter their prowess, died in the end. A chill ran through her at the thought that Beobrand might be slain in the coming days.

  And then, as she rounded the end of the great hall, making her way towards the steps that would take her up to the east palisade, her breath caught in her throat. Perhaps Beobrand was right when he talked of wyrd; that every man and woman’s life threads were woven by three sisters who make up the tapestry of their lives. For out of the hall doors stepped a tall figure with a shock of fair hair that caught the moonlight, shining like burnished silver.

  She halted, unable to breathe. His back was towards her. If she did not move, he might not see her. Standing still, she made not a sound. And yet, as sure as she knew who it was, she was certain he would turn to her.

  It seemed there was no way to fight against one’s wyrd.

  Slowly, unsteadily as a man who has drunk too much ale, he moved to face her. His ice-chip eyes glimmered from the shadows of his face and she shuddered under that penetrating gaze.

  “Eanflæd,” Beobrand said, his voice coarse and low, like the far-off wave-wash of the sea.

  Chapter 8

  Beobrand’s mind was as blurred as his vision. For a time he was unsure whether he was awake or dreaming. For was this not Eanflæd here before him in the gloom? And had she not also inhabited his dreams? He shook his head in an attempt to halt the feeling of standing on the deck of a listing ship. In the dim light from the stars and the moon, he could just make out the slender line of her neck, the curve of her high cheekbones, the bud of her lips. Surely this was a wishful dream.

  He tried to make sense of what was happening and how he had got here.

  He had found himself slumped over the board. The hall had been dark and quiet, the only sounds the snores of other revellers who had succumbed to the drink. He had lain there for some time, his aching head resting on his arms, wondering whether he should heave himself up and look for somewhere better to spend the night. It had seemed like a huge amount of effort and he had almost decided to remain where he was when a new sound came to him. Somewhere from the shadowed recesses of a far corner of the room came the soft, rhythmic moans of coupling. The sounds stirred his passions but angered him at the same time. By Woden, why could he not find the comfort of a woman who would chase his foolish desires away? Fleetingly, he thought of Udela, back in Ubbanford. The groans from the darkness grew faster and more intense. He could not bear to listen any longer. With a grimace, he pushed himself upright. Almost tripping over the bench, he stumbled, catching his half-hand on a timber column, preventing himself from tumbling to the rush-strewn floor. He hawked and spat into the hearth where the embers from the small fire glowed, giving enough shadowy light for him to pick his way to the doors of the hall.

  He bumped into the carved column to one side of the double doors. Cursing his own clumsiness and his foolishness for ignoring the voice that had told him to drink less, he staggered outside.

  He’d welcomed the cool of the night, breathing deeply of the salt-fresh air that carried a hint of the chill of the Whale Road. For a moment he had stood there, gazing up stupidly at the spray of stars that swam in the blackness of the heavens above him. Through the drunken fug of his senses, he had slowly become aware of someone watching him. Turning, he’d seen Eanflæd standing there in the darkness, unmoving. She was unreal, surely; a spectre, a drunken vision. He blinked, but her form remained. He had half-expected her to vanish like smoke on the wind.

  He whispered her name and she reached out a hand tentatively. Her fingers brushed his wrist. He started at the touch and a shivering thrill ran through him.

  “Beobrand,” she whispered, moving closer.

  He could smell her now. He recognised the scent of her skin and her shimmering hair.

  “Eanflæd,” he repeated, his voice muffled with drink, but loud in the night.

  “Hush,” she whispered, her tone urgent. “We must not be seen here. Come.”

  He felt her hand take his. His cheeks grew hot and again he shook his head to clear it. She pulled his hand and he followed her. She led him into the lee of a building. The stable, he thought, and he remembered when they had first met there, all those years before. She had been a child then, and he had barely been a man. As they walked into the moon-shadow of the stable, he smiled to himself in the dark. So much had changed. And yet even then, as a tiny wisp of a girl, he had felt that she had the better of him, that she was mocking him, deciding his path for him. If it had not been for her, he might never have come to the attention of King Edwin. And then what? What would have befallen him if he had not travelled with the king and stood in the blood and filth of the shieldwall at Elmet? He might never have discovered his talent for killing. Might his life have been one of peace? Would he have ever met Hengist? And what of his friend, Bassus? His love, Sunniva? It did not do to think such things. The tapestry of the past could not be unwoven. His thoughts spiralled away from him and he could not grasp the thread of them.

  “I am sorry that I came to you at the gate today,” she said, her voice sibilant in the gloom. He could not see her face, but she stood so close to him that her breath brushed his cheek. The smell of her intoxicated him.

  “Sorry? Why?” he slurred.

  For a time she did not reply. He was beginning to wonder whether she would answer when she spoke in a small voice, tinged with sadness.

  “I should never have kissed you, Beobrand. That night in Hereteu. It was sinful.” She hesitated. “The flesh is weak.”

  “Where is the sin in a kiss?”

  “I am the queen,” she hissed. “You are not such a fool that you believe no wrong would come from this.”

  “This?”

  “We cannot meet this way. We must never see each other again. Not alone. I am not a free woman.” She hesitated. Did her voice catch in her throat? “I am Oswiu’s.”

  A flame of anger flared within him at the mention of the king.

  “Being wed does not stop the king from taking his pleasure elsewhere,” Beobrand said, his voice gruff. He co
uld hear the harshness of his words even as he spoke them. Eanflæd tensed. Feeling guilty for hurting her, he said, “Though why any man would want anything more than you, I cannot comprehend.”

  A silence fell between them. She sniffed and he realised she was weeping.

  “Do not cry, Eanflæd,” he murmured.

  “Why should I not?” she hissed, angry suddenly. “Do not tell me what I should or shouldn’t do, Beobrand!”

  He stepped away from her fury, unsure of what to say. His head throbbed, but her proximity filled him with a passionate urge to reach for her.

  As if she had heard his thoughts, without warning she moved in close and wrapped her slender arms about him. Despite the heat of the night, they both trembled as their bodies touched. She leaned her head into his chest and whispered, “We cannot be together. God will punish us.”

  Beobrand could scarcely think of anything apart from the softness of her body and the heady fragrance of her hair. His breath became laboured, his body responding to her closeness. He thought of Eowa and Cyneburg. Their love had almost destroyed them. This lust was a deadly madness.

  “God cares nothing for what we mortals do,” he whispered.

  “Do not say such a thing,” she moaned against him. “God sees all and He knows that I am a sinner. After Hereteu, Ecgfrith fell ill. That is God’s punishment.”

  “Your son is getting better, is he not? I heard as much today from Godgyth.”

  “If he is, it is because we have not fallen to temptation again these past months.”

  Inside the stable a horse stamped, the sound loud and echoing in the still of the night. Beobrand held his breath and when he spoke again, he lowered his voice to the merest whisper. The mead-haze was lifting and in one thing at least, Eanflæd spoke true: if they were caught together, word would reach Oswiu’s ears and things would not go well for them. Eanflæd was the queen, and the mother of an heir of Bernicia, but Beobrand was sure that his own usefulness as a fighter and leader of men would be worth little if Oswiu suspected him of bedding his wife.

  The horse in the stable quietened and the night was calm again. No footsteps came towards them. And here in the shadows they were invisible to the wardens on the palisade.

  “Do you truly believe that your God would harm your child over a kiss?” Beobrand whispered.

  “It is a sin. I am married.” She hesitated, searching for other reasons they could not be together. “And what of your woman, back in Ubbanford?”

  Beobrand thought for a moment about Udela. She lived in his hall now and helped him to manage the land. She was hard-working and grateful to him for having rescued Ardith from Frankia, but he felt little for her beyond a cool affection. With a stab of guilt he remembered the night she had come to his bed a couple of months after he had brought her north from Hithe. She had crept into his chamber without a word. He had sated himself with her, and she had given him the impression that she had enjoyed the coupling, but in the morning she had been gone from his chamber and they had never spoken of it. She had not returned to his bed since that night.

  “Udela is not my wife,” he said. “I want no woman but you. You have filled my head this past year. I can scarcely think of anything but that kiss. It is as if you have bewitched me.”

  She made the sign of the Christ rood over her chest.

  “I am no witch,” she murmured, “but perhaps we have both been cursed.” He thought of Nelda’s screeching howls from the cave deep within the earth. Was this part of her evil magic? “But we cannot be together,” Eanflæd continued, dragging Beobrand’s befuddled thoughts back to this warm night and the shivering beauty in his arms. “I am terrified of what might happen.”

  “Terrified?” he asked, pulling her gently towards him. “Is this so bad? So terrible?”

  He bent down towards her, wondering absently whether she might try to pull away. But he found her face upturned to meet his and an instant later their lips were locked together in a frenzied kiss of such passion that when they parted, they were breathless. Beobrand slid his right hand towards her breast. Beneath her cloak he felt the hardness of her nipple through the linen of her nightgown. She moaned at his touch and with his left hand he pulled her hips against him.

  For a heartbeat, she clove to him, her own hands urgently exploring his body, but then she tensed. Pushing his hands away, she distanced herself.

  “I am so weak!” she groaned. “This cannot be.”

  Beobrand, his lust burning now, reached for her. Catching her shoulders he pulled her back towards him. Gone were his worries of discovery. His mind was filled with the thought of her. His body yearned for hers. His tongue was slick with her sweet taste. How many months had he dreamed of this and now she was here, soft and tremulous in his rough grasp. He wanted her. And by Frige, he would have her.

  She slapped at his hands, the report ringing out in the night.

  “No,” she snapped. Was there fear in her voice, or only rage? “Unhand me at once.”

  Her words cut through the mist of desire and he released his grip on her. She stepped quickly away, pulling the cloak she wore tightly about her, covering the plain linen gown beneath.

  Ashamed, he dropped his hands to his sides.

  “I am sorry,” he mumbled. He wanted to tell her that she filled his mind with a rushing torrent of thoughts and desires. He lusted for her. Needed her. Wanted nothing else but to lie with her and forget that the rest of middle earth existed. But he said nothing. Her face was a pale blur in the darkness, but he could tell from the way she held herself, standing stiffly, arms wrapped about the cloak, that even if she had, she no longer felt any of those things. He was a brute and he had frightened her.

  He stepped away, colliding with the timber of the stable with a clatter.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated, his words tasting like ash. “I—”

  “This was wrong,” she said, her voice strangely calm now. “We must not meet again. It is sinful and we must not give in to the wiles of the Devil.”

  “But—”

  “No, Beobrand,” she said, her tone quiet but forceful. “We both know this is madness. We have been lucky not to have been discovered. It must stop now.”

  Beobrand’s head spun. He understood the sense in her words. They echoed his own belief that this was dangerous and mad. And yet he knew that he did not want to be done with this insanity. His mind was a jumble of desperate lust and terrible shame. The thought that his own desire had driven her away dismayed him. He had witnessed too many times the horror of the violence men inflicted on women in the name of sating their yearnings and he had vowed he would never stoop to forcing himself on any woman. He forbid his gesithas from doing so and while the likes of Fordraed scoffed at the perceived squeamish nature of his men, Beobrand knew his warriors respected him for it. The knowledge that he had almost allowed the power of his own urges to overcome him turned his stomach.

  “I am sorry,” he repeated for the third time. The words were not enough, but he could muster no others.

  For a long moment, Eanflæd stared at him in silence. Perhaps she was waiting for him to say something else, but he just swayed on his feet, fighting down the bile that threatened to rush into his mouth.

  “As am I,” she said at last. And with that, she turned and walked quietly back into the night.

  Beobrand watched her go. His mind reeled and finally, the mead and his self-loathing twisting within him, he bent over and vomited.

  Chapter 9

  Beobrand trudged through the long grass, searching for a particular marker amongst the canted stones and slouching mounds where the men and women of Bebbanburg had been buried for generations. The dew soaked into his leg bindings. The sun was bright in the pale sky behind him, but the day was not yet hot. Beobrand’s head was pounding. He had slept little and fitfully, finding himself a place on the floor of the hall near the doors. He had wrapped himself in his cloak, but his mind had been full of dark thoughts, his shame writhing with his sense
of loss and failure in a constantly twisting morass of darkness inside him.

  Shortly after dawn, thralls and servants had begun to bustle about the hall, repositioning the benches and boards, cleaning up spilt food and spreading fresh rushes on dark, damp patches where drinks had been overturned, or men had relieved themselves or voided their guts. Beobrand had heaved himself up with a groan, and, after sending one of the thralls for a jug of water which he’d emptied in one long draught, he had set out southward. The door wardens had let him slip out of the gates without comment when he had told them his destination. He was a thegn, a lord of Bernicia, and all knew of his history and that of his warrior brother who had come before him. Beobrand wanted to be far from Bebbanburg. He could not stand the thought of seeing the judgement and disappointment on Eanflæd’s face. He felt enough shame already.

  He’d walked alone over the dunes as the sun rose above the sea. Gentle waves sighed up the sands of the beach and the marram grass whispered in the light breeze that rolled off the water. The sea-cool and the breeze went a long way towards reviving him, and by the time he reached the ancient burial place, his mind was clear, even if his head still felt as though it had been struck by Thunor’s hammer.

  Two huge crows, disturbed by his passing, suddenly flapped into the morning sky, croaking angrily. He shivered at the sight of them, and then smiled to himself.