“Get back,” growled Heremod.
Beobrand withdrew and with a single blow of his sword, Heremod severed the rope.
The Mercians fell with a wailing cry. Further screams echoed up from below a moment later.
Running footsteps made Beobrand spin round, shield raised, seax resting on the rim.
“Lord Beobrand,” said the newcomer, one of Reodstan’s men. More men had clambered up the ladder behind him.
“We have secured this part of the wall,” Beobrand said. “Check all the ramparts. They may have planned more attacks.”
After a moment of hesitation where his gaze flicked to the carnage behind Beobrand and the blood-slick blade in his hand, the man nodded, turned and began to shout orders.
Beobrand turned to Heremod.
“What were you doing up here?” Beobrand asked.
Heremod bridled.
“Some thanks would be nice,” he said, leaning down to wipe gore from his blade on the kirtle of one of the fallen Mercians.
“You have my thanks, Heremod, but my question remains.”
Heremod grunted. His breath was sour, reeking of mead. He took three attempts to find the mouth of his scabbard. When he finally sheathed his blade, he leaned over the ramparts and, without warning, puked. Yells of outrage and abuse wafted up from the rocks beneath the wall.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Heremod chuckled.
“That’ll teach them.” His voice was slurred and he swayed before slumping against the parapet.
“Why were you here?” Beobrand repeated.
“You should know why,” spat Heremod. “It was your accursed idea. Extra watch.”
Bebbanburg was alive with voices and movement now. Torches were lit and men shouted as each section of the wall was checked. There were no screams or further clangour of battle. It seemed they had survived the surprise attack.
Heremod heaved one of the corpses out of his way, sending it crashing down into the courtyard. Someone swore from below. He ignored the voice and staggered along the rampart to where he had evidently been on guard. He bent unsteadily, and retrieved a leather flask from the shadows.
Returning to Beobrand, he took a deep draught and proffered the vessel.
“Drink?” he asked and belched. With his left hand he rubbed at his eyes, then yawned expansively.
Ire kindled within Beobrand.
“You are drunk,” he snapped, “and you were asleep when you were supposed to be on watch.” He gripped the wooden handle of the seax tightly. He still held the shield, and the weight of it helped him to hide the trembling that seized his hands.
“Well, I am awake now,” said Heremod with a stifled yawn. “No harm done. You woke me. We killed the Mercians. Now perhaps I can get back to sleep.”
Heremod made to push past, but Beobrand dropped the shield with a clatter and grabbed the fork-bearded warrior’s throat with his left half-hand. Backing Heremod into the rampart, Beobrand lifted the seax’s blade to press its point against his inner thigh.
“Because of you,” Beobrand hissed, “a man is dead.” Heremod stank of vomit and mead. Beobrand’s stomach churned. “If I had not come up here, Bebbanburg might well have fallen. More men would have died for certain. You are a disgrace.” He shoved Heremod hard against the timber palisade. A wave crashed and sighed on the rocks and sand beneath them.
“But you did come,” Heremod said, his breath threatening to make Beobrand gag. “And Bebbanburg yet stands. Now let me go. I am tired.”
“I will see you answer for your deeds,” said Beobrand, his anger seething within him. “I will take you before Ethelwin and Fordraed.”
Heremod scoffed.
“You think my lord will take your word over mine?”
Again he made to break away, but Beobrand held him firm, jabbing the seax into his groin until Heremod gasped.
“Perhaps not. But do you think Ethelwin will not listen to me? He knows me for a man of my word. But you he has seen drinking all the long afternoon and into the night. You think the warmaster will so easily forgive you? It is one of his men who lies dead by the brazier.”
Heremod’s gaze flicked to the shadowed shape of the murdered guard. Then a cunning thought narrowed his eyes.
“You want to be careful, lord,” he whispered, his foetid breath making Beobrand pull back from him. “It would not do to bring this matter before Ethelwin.”
“And why is that?” Beobrand asked. There was something in Heremod’s eyes that gave him pause.
Heremod leered.
“You would not be wanting everybody, Ethelwin and my lord Fordraed and all in Bebbanburg, to hear of what goes on in the night with certain ladies, would you?”
Beobrand grew suddenly cold.
“What are you speaking of?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I think you know, lord,” Heremod said, with a lascivious grin. He pushed Beobrand away from him and this time Beobrand moved backward, lowering the blade of the seax. “I have seen a certain,” he paused and licked his lips, “warrior engaged in activity with another man’s wife. I don’t really believe you would like me to speak of what I witnessed the other night.”
Beobrand’s mind reeled. He could barely breathe. If Heremod should speak to anyone of what had occurred between Eanflæd and him, they would both be as good as dead. If Bebbanburg survived the siege.
“Is all well here?” came a voice from behind Beobrand.
It was Ethelwin. His hair was dishevelled from sleep but he wore his byrnie and his sword was slung from a baldric over his shoulder. As Beobrand turned to him, he noticed the warmaster’s eyes flick down to take in the seax in his hand and his proximity to Heremod. Ethelwin frowned.
“All is well now,” said Heremod. “Isn’t it, Beobrand?”
Still Beobrand did not respond. The man knew! By Woden and all the gods, Heremod knew their secret.
“Beobrand?” enquired Ethelwin. “Are you hurt?”
Beobrand shook his head.
“No, lord,” he replied. “The fighting came as a surprise, that is all. I’ve yet to catch my breath.”
Ethelwin tilted his head, looking at him quizzically.
“Well, it seems you were right, and we all owe you our gratitude. It is a good thing that we set the extra watches. Without Heremod up here, things might have gone very badly indeed. I see that poor Sithric fell.”
“He was a brave man,” said Heremod, “but the bravest is Beobrand here. If not for him, I might not have lived and the fortress would have been taken.” He slapped Beobrand on the shoulder.
Ethelwin nodded in appreciation of Heremod’s words.
“What were you doing up here anyway?” he asked.
“I had a dream,” Beobrand replied. “I could not sleep.”
“So in the right place at the right time,” said Ethelwin. “Praise be to God!”
“Yes,” said Heremod, shoving past the two of them and making his way towards the ladder, “praise the Lord for people being in the right place at just the right time.” The burly warrior winked, a broad grin showing his teeth, and started his descent.
Beobrand watched him leave, a sense of dismay engulfing him.
Chapter 23
Eanflæd bowed her head and prayed. She prayed for the people of Bebbanburg, for its defenders, that they might remain resolute and strong, and for the women and children trapped within its walls. And finally, she prayed for the poor folk she had watched so cruelly sacrificed by Penda’s pagan priest.
She had not climbed up to the ramparts since the brutal slaying of the nine victims. She had been told that their heads and limbs were on display as a gory reminder of their killing and she could not stomach the thought of seeing their faces in death.
She shuddered.
The church was dark, with only thin spears of light piercing the gloom from the small windows. Being made of stone, it was marvellously cool and she felt a momentary pang of guilt that others were toilin
g outside in the midday heat, while she knelt here in the comfort of God’s house. But she had gone over the lists of provisions with Brytnere all that long morning and ever since she had swooned on the walls, the man was fearful for her safety and ordered her to rest frequently. He would not be dissuaded and she acquiesced to his demands, feeling sorry for him. She was his queen after all, and he had enough to worry about without being terrified that she might collapse at any moment. She was hale of body, she was sure. It had been the shock that had snatched her senses from her on the palisade. But she worked hard and the truth was, she welcomed a few moments of respite in the cool of the church. Besides, she thought, even though she was resting, she was still offering up prayers, continuing to help see Bebbanburg victorious.
The crashes and shouts of dozens of men thrusting spears and shoving with shields drifted to her, muffled by the stout walls of the church, but loud nonetheless. She wondered what good they would truly do if Penda’s wolves breached the gates, as Beobrand had predicted. He had ordered for his gesithas, led by Beircheart, to train all the able-bodied men within Bebbanburg. Now, for most of each day, Beobrand’s gesithas barked orders and the ceorls and even bondsmen and thralls who had been permitted to take up weapons, given the extremity of the fortress’s plight, practised how to form a shieldwall and to attack with the iron-tipped spears. At the end of each hot day, the men were sweat-drenched and exhausted, and the thought had crossed her mind that the training was as much to keep the men occupied as to truly prepare them for war. She could scarcely believe that this motley bunch of farmers from the lands surrounding Bebbanburg would be any kind of match for Penda and his battle-hardened killers.
Still, keeping them busy was a good thing, and it seemed to keep their morale buoyant too. She knew that the children of the fortress liked to watch the men train. Even little Ecgfrith was content to sit and stare as the men crashed their shields together, grunting and panting as they tested their strength against each other. Godgyth was there with the child now and Edlyn had joined them. The women also seemed happy to watch the sweating men, and Eanflæd shook her head in the gloom at the weakness of the flesh. She had not fallen to temptation these last few days. She had thrown herself into her work with Brytnere and she was always occupied. She had seen Beobrand a few times, but on such occasions she had maintained an aloof air and had not engaged in anything more than polite pleasantries.
And yet she knew that her feelings had not vanished with her decision to put aside her desires for him. Eanflæd prayed that with time, her lust for him would wane. Just as the fortress must endure against the pagan, so she must be unyielding in the face of the Devil’s temptations.
But she recalled how her heart had fluttered when she had been awoken in the dead of night to the sound of shouts and the clash of weapons. She had huddled in the dark with Godgyth, trembling beside Ecgfrith’s cot, where the boy had yet slept. Eanflæd had prayed, whispering the words of the Ave Maria, all the while fearing that at any moment the door would fly open to reveal the leering face of a Mercian warrior. When the door had swung open, both women had let out tiny screams of terror. But it had not been an enemy fighter, come to violate and murder them. It had been Edlyn, her face flushed with excitement.
“Mercians attacked the walls,” she said, breathless.
The fortress was still filled with shouts and movement, as if it were the middle of the day and not the darkest part of the night.
Eanflæd forced herself to calm her breathing.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Some warriors climbed over the eastern wall. Beobrand and Heremod fought them.”
Eanflæd’s heart clenched at the sound of Beobrand’s name.
“Are they both…” Her voice trailed off. She was unable to utter the question, too fearful of the answer.
“They are both well,” replied Edlyn. “They killed the Mercians and cut the rope they had used.”
“Praise be to God,” Eanflæd had said.
A movement in the church caught her attention, a shadow fell across her kneeling form and she turned to see Coenred.
“My queen,” he said with a slight bow. “May I pray with you?”
“Of course,” she said with a sigh. She liked the monk well enough, but she felt the accusation and judgement in his eyes whenever he looked at her. He never mentioned what he had seen that night in Hereteu, but she knew that he had witnessed her sin and his open, youthful face was always a reminder of her weakness.
He knelt at her side and for a time they were both silent, lost in their individual thoughts and prayers.
She gazed up at the altar and the ornate whalebone casket that adorned it. The box was a thing of great beauty, carved by master craftsmen. Each side depicted scenes from the life of the Christ and also the extraordinary life of the man whose head rested within. One of the images was of a great rood being erected before a stone wall, men kneeling all about. Another was of a dove slaying a raven, while in the distance stood a tree upon which a figure was hanged. The details of the carving were breathtaking. And as ever, when she gazed upon it, she felt a strange mixture of emotions.
“Oswald was a great man,” said Coenred, interrupting her thoughts.
“So I am told,” she replied. Her tone was terse and she felt a small cut of guilt.
“He was a good Christian king,” said the monk. “I have met no finer follower of Christ’s teachings.”
“You never met my father,” she snapped.
“True. I have heard much of Edwin and his bishop, Paulinus. Both great men, I am sure.”
Eanflæd bit her lip. Paulinus had always frightened her with his eagle-like nose, brooding eyes and his strange accent. He was a stern man and had never shown her any kindness. As for her father, she could barely remember him. But Oswald was the son of his worst enemy, Æthelfrith, the king who had sent Edwin into exile across the land, fleeing from the threat of murder until at last he had been able to summon a warband and face him in battle, reclaiming the throne that had been stolen from him. Oswald might have been a good follower of Christ, but she could not forget so easily the deep-seated enmity she had always felt towards his family.
And who was it that had ordered her brother and nephew slain? Wuscfrea and Yffi had been sent all the way to Frankia, to the court of Dagobert, and yet an assassin’s blade had still found them. Had Oswald sent the killer? Or had it been Oswiu, keen to destroy any claimants to Bernicia’s throne, who had ordered the boys’ murder?
She pushed the dark thoughts aside. She should look to the future, not the past.
“They say Oswald is a saint,” she murmured.
“It is true that he has been responsible for many miracles,” replied Coenred.
Eanflæd nodded. She had heard the tales of how the earth where his lifeblood was shed was imbued with the power of divine healing. It was told that a man’s horse had collapsed at the spot and the beast had been returned to good health. After that, people from all around would go to Hefenfelth and take the soil from the spot. It was said that with all the earth that had been taken, a great hole had formed. And only a pinch of the stuff in a cup of water was enough to cure paralysis or even the flux.
“Do you think if we pray to him, he will bring us victory?” she asked.
“Who can say? But I think there can be none better to listen to our prayers. He was the king of Bernicia, a devout man, and Penda was his sworn enemy. Perhaps Penda’s terrible unholy sacrifice before the walls will aid us and not him.”
“How so?” she asked, suppressing a shudder as a finger of fear traced down her spine.
“I have thought much on this. But I think that the agony of those nine unfortunates, slain as they were in the same manner as Oswald was sacrificed…” He shivered, making the sign of the cross before continuing. “I think their cries in death might have been heard by Oswald, and not Penda’s pagan gods. For is not the head of the saintly king here? And would not the holy king of Bernicia, brother to yo
ur own God-fearing husband, wish to protect Bebbanburg, his home and the fortress that takes its very name from his mother?”
Eanflæd frowned. She imagined the head of Oswiu’s brother, wizened and dry within the casket. She had found Oswiu in the church the year before. He had been kneeling, with the casket opened before him. The king had been angry with her for finding him thus, vulnerable and weak. Tears streaked his cheeks and he had slammed the casket shut. Instinctively, she had looked away from the interior of the finely carved box, not wishing to see something that would lurk in her memories forever. She was glad of her decision and wished she had been as wise and not gone up to the ramparts to witness Penda’s pagan blood-rite. But after her lapse in Hereteu and that fleeting kiss, her sense and wisdom seemed to have fled her. She knew she would never be rid of the images she had seen, looking down from the wall in the afternoon sunshine. The gaping throats, the vacant staring eyes, the cavorting priest drenched in crimson.
“Was he truly a good man?” she asked. The monks venerated Oswald, but he was Oswiu’s brother, and she knew that her husband was no saint.
Coenred was silent for a time. His eyes were distant, as if he looked far into the past. Outside, the training men shouted as one, a great roar of shared experience, followed by a clash of shieldwalls meeting. The sound made Coenred start. She wondered what the monk had been thinking of.
He met her gaze and his eyes were sad. He sighed, and nodded.
“He was good,” he said. “I truly believe that.”
“Well then,” she said, her mind suddenly made up, “if Oswald might have the ear of God, let us pray to him for victory.”
For a moment, they knelt in silence and then Coenred cleared his throat and began to lead them in prayer. He asked the spirit of Oswald to deliver them from the evil of their pagan aggressors; to shore up the walls of Bebbanburg that they might not splinter and fall; to grant their warriors victory when the final battle came.
Eanflæd nodded, her eyes closed now, that she might wholly concentrate on the monk’s words and lend her full support to his pleas to Oswald and to God. When he had finished his prayers asking for Bebbanburg’s deliverance, Coenred went on to intone the Pater Noster. Eanflæd spoke the words along with him and their voices echoed within the dark womb of the stone church.
Fortress of Fury Page 19
