Fortress of Fury

by Matthew Harffy

  They are only birds, he told himself, hearing his old friend Acennan uttering those words in his memory.

  Only birds.

  Perhaps.

  A scratch of unease traced along his spine as he saw where the crows had been perched. They cawed as they circled in the sky above, looking down, as if mocking him.

  His brother’s grave was overgrown now, covered in long grass and plants. But this was Octa’s resting place, of that there was no doubt. He scanned the trees to the west and glanced back at the fortress to the north. Yes, this was the place. In the tangle of sedge, marram grass and saltwort stood a small stone marker, carved with his brother’s name and a few other words. Beobrand could not read, but he well remembered the words he had paid to have carved on the gravestone by a mason who had come all the way from Frankia to work on Bebbanburg’s church. Coenred had helped him with the inscription, scratching out the shapes of the letters into a piece of wood for the mason to copy. The monk had said it needed more words, but Beobrand was pleased with the results.

  Octa.

  Beloved.

  Battle-famed.

  Remembered.

  No. It needed no more words. It was perfect. What more was there that needed to be said?

  The stone had sunk into the ground slightly, and the plants had all but hidden it, but the chiselled marks were still crisp. It had been years since he had last visited Octa’s tomb, he realised with a stab of guilt, but it would take more than a few years of exposure to the harsh elements of Bernicia to dull the engravings on the stone. He did not begrudge the silver he had paid the Frank.

  Reaching down, Beobrand tugged the saltwort and clumped grass away from the stone. As he bent, the pain in his head grew stronger and he grunted as he stood and the throbbing abated somewhat. He frowned, gazing down at the words on the slab of stone. This would be here long after his own death, he was sure. It was hard to believe that this was all that marked Octa’s life. How quickly people are forgotten. He wondered how long it would be before his own name was lost in memories. A generation? Two? Shaking his head at the thought, he looked at the grave. The shape of Octa’s burial was visible in the lusher grass and the slight mounding of the earth. It was a long grave and Beobrand could picture his tall brother lying there, in the darkness, mouldering beneath the earth.

  “It’s been a long time, Octa,” he whispered. The trees in the distance murmured. The crows fluttered down to land on a barrow some way off to the west. They eyed Beobrand balefully. The place always unnerved him. He could not put from his mind the thought of all those corpses, buried in the sandy earth. Did their spirits yet linger here, tied to their rotting flesh and bones?

  Beobrand seldom came here. And yet he had walked from the fortress today in search of someone to talk to. Someone he knew would listen and not offer up his own comments on Beobrand’s behaviour.

  “I have a daughter,” he said, feeling foolish speaking to the wind and the crows. “Ardith. She’s older than Octa. I didn’t know she existed until a couple of years ago. Udela is her mother. Remember her?” He thought that if Octa had lived, he would have scarcely remembered plump, plain Udela. Octa had been older than Beobrand, tall and strong and every part the warrior. When he had left Hithe, Udela had been not much older than Ardith was now. And despite a certain earnest intensity, she was not as striking as her daughter. Ardith had blossomed into a beautiful, if quiet and reserved, young woman.

  He fell silent. The women in his life seemed to control his wyrd; their actions, as much as his own, driving his destiny. His mother’s dying words had helped to push him to flee from Hithe. Sunniva had brought him joy and love when he had believed he would find none. She had given him a son. And, with her death, had caused him immeasurable pain. The auburn-haired thrall, Reaghan, had grounded him, giving him a focus, when all about him was chaos. She had been a good woman, quiet and attentive, and it was not until after her death that he fully appreciated all she had done for him. It was even she who had, along with Bassus, rid them all of the cunning woman, Nelda, whose curse had filled him with fear for so long and, even now, years after her death, still hung over him like a storm cloud.

  Other womenfolk had pulled and twisted at the threads of his life. Cathryn, the stranger who was brutally violated and murdered at the hands of Hengist and his comrades. Her savage death had impelled Beobrand to seek revenge and to vow never to stand by and allow such atrocities to occur again. Cyneburg, Oswald’s queen and Eowa’s lover, whose impetuous love for the atheling of Mercia had led to men dying in the fight over her, to tortured oaths being sworn in a blizzard at Din Eidyn and, eventually, to Eowa’s bloody end at Maserfelth.

  And now, once again, he had allowed a woman to rule his mind. His lust for Eanflæd had all but blinded him. It was as if she had whispered instructions to the Sisters of Wyrd to weave his life threads to her bidding. He shook his head and sighed. No, that was unfair. He recalled clearly her trembling form against him in the night, the taste of her, the smell of her hair. She was as powerless as he to ignore the urges they felt. And yet had she not pulled away? Was it not Eanflæd who had insisted they should not be together?

  She was right. She was right and she was stronger than he.

  Gods, he had been a fool.

  “I should never have come here,” he said aloud, looking down at his brother’s grave. He did not mean he should not have visited Octa’s tomb. He should not have come to Bebbanburg. He shook his head and spat. The taste of bile was still acrid and sour in his throat.

  The crows called out. Were they laughing at him? Did Woden look on through their black eyes, chortling at the stupidity of his decisions?

  The gods love chaos.

  He reached up and clutched the Thunor’s hammer amulet he wore round his neck.

  He knew what he had to do; what he should have known all along. It was as though the morning sun had burnt away the fog of confusion that had clouded his thoughts. It was all clear to him now, and it had taken Eanflæd to break the spell of madness and to show him the way.

  “Rest easy, Octa,” he whispered.

  Perhaps there was yet time. Cynan had left with the men promised by Ethelwin at first light. Beobrand had heard them preparing the mounts in the courtyard and had thought about going out to bid them farewell. But he had not. Instead he had lain on the floor of the hall and listened to the jangle of harness, the stamp of hooves and men’s voices. Now he understood why: he had been ashamed to face the Waelisc warrior. Cynan knew what Beobrand’s duty was, and it was certainly not to remain in Bebbanburg while the fyrd gathered. The lord of Ubbanford’s place was with his men, harrying Penda’s force, defending the land.

  He spat again, furious at himself. Turning, he rushed back towards the crag of Bebbanburg. The sun was not yet high. He could saddle Sceadugenga quickly and ride after Cynan. With luck he could catch up with them when they halted for a midday rest, or failing that, when they rested at night.

  Cursing his foolishness, he broke into a sprint, lumbering away from the graves and into the dunes with their swishing marram grass. With each step, his feet sank into the soft sand. It pulled him down, slowing him, holding him back.

  In the distance, the crows croaked in his wake. For a heartbeat it sounded to Beobrand as if they were crying derisively after him, “Too late! Too late!”

  Chapter 10

  Sweat poured from Beobrand by the time he reached the top of the steps that led up to Bebbanburg’s main gate from the sands below. The door wards allowed him entry with nothing more than quizzically raised eyebrows. They must have watched his progress as he ran across the beach beneath Bebbanburg. And though they no doubt were interested in the reason for his haste, he was thankful not to be questioned. He did not wish to explain to these men why he was running as if pursued by wraiths risen from the barrows. He was also so short of breath that he did not believe he would be able to speak.

  Gasping for air, he paused and leaned on the palisade. Slowly, his breathing re
turned to normal. The sun did not reach here, behind the timber wall, and Beobrand’s sweat rapidly cooled on his skin. Suppressing a shudder, he pushed himself away from the wall, swiping his arm across his forehead. His long fair hair was slick.

  A cart, pulled by an ox and piled high with sacks of grain, trundled to a halt in the open area before the gates. The cart’s owner approached the door wards, where they began to talk loudly over some dispute. Beobrand ignored them and made his way around the cart.

  “By the Christ and all his angels, Beobrand, you look fit to collapse,” said a voice Beobrand recognised instantly.

  Fordraed was leaning against a storage hut. He wore a gaudy shirt of the finest red silk and his belt was tipped with an ornate golden buckle encrusted with garnets. Beside him, Heremod watched on, his left hand stroking the plaits of his beard. Despite his apparently relaxed pose, Beobrand noted how the stocky warrior stood straight, his eyes alert. Heremod’s hand rested on his worked leather belt, within easy reach of the wicked-looking seax that hung in a silver-bedecked sheath.

  Beobrand glanced back at the palisade. The two men were close to the base of one of the ladders that gave access to the walkway. Had they been watching his approach too? It seemed likely. Why else would they be standing here as if awaiting his arrival?

  He had no time for Fordraed and his taunts. He made to step past him, but Heremod shifted his position, blocking his path. The raised voices of the carter and the door wards reached him. With the position of the cart, he could not see the men or the gates.

  “I cannot tarry here,” Beobrand said. “Stand aside, Heremod.”

  The burly man did not move.

  Beobrand turned to Fordraed.

  “Tell your man to get out of my way.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Beobrand sighed.

  “We need all the fighting men we have,” he said. “I do not wish to reduce our number. Nobody would miss you in the shieldwall, Fordraed, but Heremod has some worth. However, I am in a hurry and if he does not move, I will move him.” He let the threat hang in the air for a moment. “Come now,” he continued, forcing his voice to remain calm, “I have urgent business. Tell him to let me pass.”

  Fordraed’s eyes narrowed.

  “Are you threatening my man?” he asked, feigning surprise. “Are we not all on the same side here?”

  Beobrand sighed again. His breathing was deep and even once more, but his head ached and he could feel a cold anger building within him.

  “Let me past, man,” he snapped.

  Still Heremod did not move. But he clearly noticed something in Beobrand’s posture or tone that warned him of imminent violence, for Beobrand saw that his hand had moved to the seax, his fingers gripping the handle lightly, ready to tug the blade free from its leather home.

  “I have to admit,” said Fordraed, his tone sickly and honeyed, “I am surprised to find you so active after your antics last night.”

  Beobrand was suddenly cold, but his face grew hot. What did Fordraed know? Had someone seen him with Eanflæd in the night?

  “What do you mean?” he snapped at the fat thegn. “What are you accusing me of?”

  Fordraed’s eyes narrowed and he shoved himself away from the hut. He was interested now and Beobrand cursed his own stupidity for snatching at the bait Fordraed had dangled before him.

  “Why, Lord Beobrand,” Fordraed said, “I was accusing you of nothing. But you look like a man who is stretched as taut as a bowstring. Perhaps what you need is a good rut, but maybe there are no furrows available here, eh?”

  Beobrand said nothing. He fixed Fordraed with his icy stare, searching for any sign of how much the man knew.

  “Or maybe,” Fordraed went on, smiling as if they were old friends and conspirators, “you are a man who has something to hide. Or perhaps both.” He let the words linger in the air, his piggy eyes searching Beobrand’s face for any hint of what was worrying him. “I know you do not hold much store in the Christ God, but you might like to consider speaking to Bishop Aidan while he is here. He is soon to set off for the Farena Islands, I believe. To pray and to be holy. Whatever it is that holy men do alone on lumps of rock in the middle of the sea. But before he goes I am sure he would hear your confession. It really does wonders for the soul to admit all of the sins you have committed. I don’t think I could live with myself without confessing regularly.” He laughed. “And the best thing is, the priest will never tell another soul. How he manages to keep himself holy after hearing my sins, I will never know.” He laughed, a high-pitched, ugly sound that skewered Beobrand’s head like a lance. “Mayhap that is why the man needs to spend time alone with God on his island,” Fordraed giggled. “To cleanse his being after hearing of all the things I have done.”

  Fordraed’s laughter died on his lips and his eyes suddenly widened. The plump thegn grew very still. Beobrand’s sharp seax blade pressed into his groin. Beobrand had moved without warning. His speed was legendary, and he had drawn the seax from its scabbard and closed with Fordraed before Heremod had barely moved. Now, the dark-bearded warrior was jumping forward, his seax blade clearing its sheath as he came.

  “Hold still,” Beobrand snapped, his voice as hard as iron.

  Fordraed let out a whimper and Heremod came to a halt. He was close enough for Beobrand to smell him.

  “If you strike me, Heremod, Fordraed here will lose his manhood first, and then, soon after, his life.”

  Fordraed moaned as Beobrand prodded the tip of his blade into his inner thigh. They all knew that a deep cut there would open an artery. He would spill great gouts of dark blood and be dead within moments.

  “And if you do cut me,” Beobrand continued, “you’d better make it a killing blow, because otherwise, I’ll be taking you with me to the afterlife. I think you’d both make good slaves in Woden’s corpse-hall.”

  Heremod glowered, but said nothing.

  “Let him pass,” Fordraed squeaked. Heremod glared and did not move. Beobrand could see murder in the man’s eyes, so he pricked Fordraed’s skin. The fat thegn squealed in fear. “By all the saints, let him pass.”

  Heremod slowly, deliberately, sheathed his seax and stepped back.

  Beobrand’s face was as close to Fordraed’s as a lover.

  “Do not cross me again,” he whispered, following up his words with a gentle jab of his seax. Fordraed shuddered. “I am tired of your accusations and your venomous words. You are a snake. A fat snake. And there is only one thing to do with a viper.”

  Stepping away from Fordraed, he sheathed his seax and then clapped his hands together hard, a finger’s breadth from the portly lord’s pale jowls. Fordraed let out a stifled cry. Beobrand spun to face Heremod. The man’s plaited beard quivered with his rage and his hand had fallen again to the hilt of his seax.

  “Don’t,” Beobrand said.

  He stared into Heremod’s eyes. Heremod saw a quick death in that blue gaze and, after a moment, his shoulders slumped.

  Without hesitation, Beobrand strode past the two men as if nothing untoward had occurred. He noticed with surprise that his headache had gone. His mind was clear and he was certain what he needed to do now.

  But as he hurried towards the stables, a commotion drew his attention. He tensed, spinning around, for an instant thinking that Heremod had decided to attack after all. But Fordraed and his gesith were where he had left them. They had also turned to see what was happening.

  A man had entered through the gates. The door wards held him back behind their spears and the man was growing increasingly agitated. Beobrand did not recognise him. He wore a light kirtle and plain breeches. His face was heavily bearded and his feet were bare. His lack of shoes and his rolling gait made Beobrand think he must be a sailor. If so, he might just have beached his ship and made his way up the rock-hewn steps which led from the harbour.

  “Where is the queen?” the stranger shouted, casting his voice towards Beobrand and the other onlookers. His accent was stra
ngely familiar yet foreign at the same time to Beobrand. The man spoke with the music of someone from his homeland of Cantware. “Where is the queen?” he called again. Nobody answered him. He glanced around him, as if he might see the queen standing before him in the courtyard.

  He made an effort to push past the guards, his exasperation at being held back obvious.

  His next words chilled Beobrand.

  “I bring grave tidings for the queen.”

  Chapter 11

  Eanflæd dipped her head and once more muttered the words of the prayer to Maria, Mother of God. She knew the words without thinking and as she repeated the litany of phrases, her mind wandered to the night before. She was alone in the church. Thin shafts of light filtered through the small windows and it was dark and cool inside the stone building. In the stillness, her murmured words reverberated about her, buzzing like insects.

  The words of the prayer to the Virgin were on her lips, but her mind was filled with thoughts of Beobrand. His taste was still in her mouth. The broad strength of his back, the solid slab of his chest against her cheek. Her face grew hot as she recalled his massive hand cupping her breast, his erect manhood pressing against her stomach as he pulled her into his embrace.

  She swallowed. Making the sign of the cross, she recommenced her prayers, fighting against the lustful memories that threatened to engulf her. Surely the Devil had decided to torment her, to lead her astray from the path of righteousness with his temptations. There had been a moment in the hot darkness beside the stable when she would have given herself to Beobrand. She shuddered, unaware that her breath was coming in short panting gasps as she thought again of his touch. She would have fallen to the earth and coupled with him there in the darkness, like animals, had it not been for a moment of clarity that surely had come to her from God or His blessed mother.

  She had been so close to losing herself in a passion that was more than forbidden. It was deadly. To succumb to her desires, to allow Beobrand to lie with her, would not only consign her soul to hell, but what of her son, should Oswiu discover her infidelity? What of her own life and that of Beobrand? This folly could not be permitted to continue. She would forget this madness. And to atone for her sins she would renew her efforts to help Aidan and the brethren of Lindisfarena to spread the word of God throughout Northumbria.