When they reached the line, “et ne nos inducas in tentationem”, Coenred paused momentarily and Eanflæd felt her face grow hot. Was this a reproach? Or a warning, perhaps? Or maybe it was his way of offering her solace; placing emphasis on those words in the prayer about not being led into temptation, that they might give her strength to fight her own internal battles.
Whatever the reason for his hesitation, Coenred quickly continued with the prayer and she found herself wondering whether she had imagined the added resonance he had given that particular line. But before they could finish the oft-spoken prayer to the Lord Almighty, heavy footsteps interrupted them, followed by a voice they both knew well.
Eanflæd sighed. Of course, it had to be him.
“My queen,” Beobrand said, his voice ringing out in the quiet of the church. Eanflæd shuddered at the sound. “Ne nos inducas in tentationem,” she repeated under her breath. Making the sign of the cross over her breast, she twisted to look up at the thegn from Cantware.
The light from the open door shone in his hair, wreathing his face in glowing gold. His blue eyes met hers and she drew in a long, ragged breath. The light delineated the broadness of his chest, the shape of his muscled legs. Her throat grew dry. Suddenly aware that she was kneeling before Beobrand, she rose, brushing her hands over her dress.
“Lord Beobrand,” she said, her tone brisk, “what is it that cannot wait until we finish our prayers?”
“I know what Penda is planning,” he said, as if that answered her. Then, seeing her questioning expression, he added, “I need your help.”
With an effort, she looked away from Beobrand’s silhouetted form.
“What is it you need from me?” she asked. At hearing her own words, she almost laughed, half-frightened at what he might say by way of reply.
But if he had thought of another meaning in her words, he did not show it. Without so much as a smile, he said, “Come. I will show you.”
With that, he strode from the church without looking back. With a quick glance to Coenred, who offered her a thin smile and a nod of encouragement, Eanflæd followed Beobrand out into the light.
Chapter 24
“There can be no doubt now,” said Ethelwin, shielding his eyes with one wide hand. “You were right.”
Beobrand nodded. His eyes watered from the quickening breeze that blew from the north. They stood atop the ramparts near the gate and looked down at where Mercian warriors were dragging yet more timber up the slope. There was already a huge pile of broken beams, shattered fence posts, wattle walls and splintered shingles heaped against the gates.
Initially, they had been unsure what Penda had planned for all the dwellings he had ordered to be destroyed in the land around Bebbanburg, but as the Mercian warriors had begun to laden the remnants of the buildings into ox-drawn carts, goading the beasts towards the fortress, Beobrand had finally understood.
The night-time raid had been thwarted. The attackers had been slain on the ramparts and had failed in their attempt at opening the gates from within. But if they could not be opened through stealth in the darkest reaches of the night, Penda would need to find another way.
At first, the Bernician defenders had loosed arrows down at the approaching waggons, and in this way they had killed a handful of men and two oxen. The men looking on from the battlements had let out a huge cheer as each arrow had struck home, and yet the work had continued. The slain men and beasts were hauled away, and groups of warriors carried the timber in smaller quantities the final paces to the gates. Some of these Mercians held shields aloft to protect their comrades and, whilst every now and again a Bernician arrow would find its mark, the pile grew throughout the day.
Men hurled down rocks and even a few spears at the enemy warriors who were slowly, but with the constant determination of ants, building Bebbanburg’s funeral pyre.
It soon became clear that no matter how many missiles they cast down at the Mercians, the defenders were not going to stop the construction of the huge mound of wood at the gates of the fortress. That the very means for the destruction of what they had believed to be invulnerable should come from the homes, farms and new church they had abandoned, made the knowledge of Bebbanburg’s impending defeat all the more bitter.
“Do you think they will fire it tonight?” asked Ethelwin.
Beobrand looked towards the setting sun. The land hazed into the distance where the hills met the burnished bronze sky. It would be dusk soon. Down the slope there were still three more carts piled with the wooden bones of Bernician buildings.
“It will take them a long while yet to bring all of that up here,” he said. “I think they will wait for tomorrow. But we must be ready to fight tonight. Penda is never easy to predict.” Beobrand bit back the sour thought that the only thing he could foresee when it came to Penda was that the Mercian king usually won his battles. He scanned the horizon in all directions. There were only the merest wisps of cloud far away out over the deep blue of the sea. He watched a pair of puffins skimming the waves’ surface, their tiny wings beating fast. “But I do not think Penda will wait beyond tomorrow. This dry weather cannot last forever.”
Ethelwin nodded, his features grave.
“It seems Penda is not a patient man.”
Beobrand shook his head.
“No. Of all the things he might be, patient is not one of them. A long siege is not the way of the man.”
“I imagine he does not like being here,” said Ethelwin, “with his back to Bernicia and Bebbanburg and the sea before him. Perhaps he has heard that Oswiu is not here and fears he will be attacked from the rear.”
“Or maybe he knows that our fyrd is destroyed and he just doesn’t want to remain here any longer than he has to. Warriors that are camped in one place for a long time will only cause trouble. It is hard enough to herd sheep, but it is quite some task to keep a pack of wolves in peace.”
They watched as a group of Mercians jogged within range of arrow and spear to toss some more logs onto the pile at the gates. Four men held their wide circular shields over them as they came. A single desultory stone flew from the ramparts and clattered harmlessly from one of the linden boards. A couple of the defenders yelled insults at the Mercians, but no damage was done to them, and they hurried back down the slope to collect more tinder for what the men had started to call Bebbanburg’s bone-fire. They had long since ceased to shoot arrows at the attackers, and Beobrand had rebuked the men for wasting their spears and so now, the wall wardens watched grimly as the heap of splintered rubble grew.
Ethelwin turned and gazed down to the courtyard. A crowd of men, in the plain clothes of ceorls and bondsmen, sweated and grunted under the watchful gaze of Beircheart, Attor, Dreogan and Halinard. In the shade of the wall, Beobrand noticed Brinin. The young man was pale and clearly not able to lend his hands to the work, but the sight of him on his feet pleased Beobrand. Fraomar yet lay in an unwaking slumber and neither Coenred nor the crone could say anything that might give Beobrand comfort. He could see in their faces that they both believed Fraomar would die, it was just a matter of how long his spirit would cling to this world.
“Will we be ready?” asked Ethelwin, dragging Beobrand’s thoughts back to the gate and the work being done in the courtyard.
“As ready as we can be,” Beobrand said.
Beircheart and his gesithas had drilled the men of Bebbanburg into a semblance of a fighting force. Beobrand knew that when the gates were breached, as they most certainly would be, and the crashing terror of battle descended upon them, many of those men would be slain. But some would stand strong. A handful might even discover they were that rare breed of man who rose to greatness in combat. Who could tell what would happen when the shields clashed and the steel spear-points ripped into flesh? Only the gods could see a man’s wyrd. In the short time they had, his gesithas had done the best they could with the men. The Black Shields were the most notorious warriors of Albion and the men looked up to them with awe and not
a little fear. But these farmers would do their best when the time came, he knew. Not to impress the lords of Bernicia and the Black Shields, but to defend their loved ones. If their spirit did not break, they would each fight with the strength of many men. For there can be no man more dangerous than one whose kin is standing right behind him.
For an instant, Beobrand thought of Octa and Ardith. He was glad his son was far away with Oswiu and that his daughter was safe in Ubbanford.
Safe?
If Bebbanburg fell, who would be truly safe in Bernicia? But Bassus would see the folk of Ubbanford safe. The old champion had warriors to defend them. Beobrand hoped that word had reached Bassus of what was occurring here, and that the one-armed warrior would lead the people into the forested hills to the north, where Penda and his wolves would not find them.
He pushed thoughts of Ubbanford, his friends and his children from his mind with difficulty. The only thing he could do to keep his people safe was to survive this battle and send Penda back to Mercia in defeat. Scratching at the sweaty hair that draggled at the nape of his neck, he sighed. Could they win here?
Beobrand watched as Eanflæd stepped out of the shadows and spoke quietly to Beircheart. The black-bearded warrior immediately bellowed orders, which the men followed instantly, without question. No longer were the ceorls and bondsmen being taught the ways of the shieldwall. Now they were helping to move the shelters away from the entrance to the fortress and then, some way in from the gates, they were constructing a secondary defence across the cleared ground. It was for this task that he had asked for Eanflæd’s help. She was organised and knew all of the people within the fortress by name after arranging the preparation of the provisions. She was their queen, but she was also the daughter of old king Edwin and she was beloved. The folk obeyed her without question and she had a knack of making difficult decisions seem easy.
Earlier that day, he had been amazed when she had ordered the guardhouse that stood near the gates to be pulled down. Fordraed had argued against it, but Eanflæd had been resolute.
“Would you rather keep the guardhouse and lose the fortress?” she had asked.
Ethelwin had told her to do what was needed.
Beobrand had wanted to laugh at the expression of disbelief on Fordraed’s flabby features. But he had kept his face sombre and stern. This was no time for levity.
Eanflæd seemed to become more beautiful the more obstacles were placed in her path, and she appeared to be glowing now in the afternoon sunshine. She glanced up at them and Beobrand felt as though his heart had stopped when her gaze lingered on him for a moment. Her expression did not alter, and Beobrand held his own face as still as a mask. But his neck and cheeks grew hot and he was sure that his discomfort was obvious to all. If Ethelwin noticed anything, he did not say.
Under Eanflæd’s and Beircheart’s supervision four men were wrestling with a great beam of oak. After a deal of effort they finally rested it on one of the waggons that had been added to the makeshift wall.
“That defence won’t hold them for long,” Ethelwin said.
“With any luck, it will hold them long enough for our archers to make them pay dearly,” Beobrand replied. He hoped he was right.
Those men who possessed bows would climb up to the ramparts and rain down arrows into the Mercians after they had broken through the gates. The attackers would be caught with the smouldering remains of the gate behind them, the wall of rubble and carts before them. The air above them would be filled with the bitter sting of arrows and when they finally managed to pull down the barricades to make their way further into the fortress, they would be met by the shieldwall. Beobrand and his Black Shields would be there, along with Ethelwin, Reodstan and all the other thegns and gesithas in Bebbanburg. The shieldwall was the last line against Penda’s horde and Beobrand knew that it would be a terrible thing. Blood would turn the earth to marsh and the screams of the dying would echo from the palisades. It would be the essence of nightmares. There would be nowhere for them to turn after that. They would fight to the last man. Beobrand looked down at Eanflæd and his throat closed. Gods, he thought. So many would die here.
He had looked out at the great warhost of Penda and no matter how he tried, no matter the plans and defences they placed in the path of the attackers, nor the savage power of men defending their wives and children, he could not imagine how they could win this fight.
He cared nothing for his own life – he should have died many times before – but the thought of these women and children being trapped within Bebbanburg’s walls filled him with a dreadful horror. Would Eanflæd be spared? She was the queen and of more value than a plaything for blood-soaked warriors to sate their lust on. Could Penda exert that much control over his baying wolves once they had scented and tasted blood?
Beobrand shuddered.
He looked down at her as she talked to the men who toiled to move yet more rubble, dragging a heavy basket of debris to the barricade. They wiped the sweat from their foreheads and smiled at her words. Beobrand could not hear what she said, but he recognised the love in the men’s faces. A lock of her hair had slipped from beneath her wimple, and absently she pushed it back under the linen with a dainty gesture of her slender fingers. Gods, how he wished he could go to her; to hold her in his arms and one more time kiss her perfect lips. He drew in a deep breath and did not move.
With an effort he pulled his gaze away from Eanflæd and found himself staring into the eyes of another.
Heremod.
The fork-bearded warrior was perched atop one of the waggons, sliding a whetstone along the edge of his sword-blade. As their eyes met, Heremod grinned and set aside his weapon to pick up a cup. He raised it in Beobrand’s direction in a mocking toast before draining its contents.
Despite the heat of the afternoon sun that burnt from a clear sky, Beobrand’s skin prickled like that of a plucked goose.
Heremod finished his drink and offered Beobrand a knowing nod before turning his attention back to his blade. For a moment longer, Beobrand watched the warrior as he sharpened his sword. Every now and then, Heremod’s dark eyes flicked up to observe Eanflæd and Beircheart.
“Will it be enough, Beobrand?” Ethelwin asked. His voice was hollow and forlorn. The warmaster was no fool and Beobrand was sure he had seen in his own mind the events that would come to pass. The burning of the gate, the thrum of bowstrings, followed by the cries of pain of the Mercians injured before the barricades, the bloodletting at the shieldwall and then the terrible surge of rage from the Mercians as they broke through the last resistance to swarm into the buildings of Bebbanburg in search of treasure and the pliant flesh of the womenfolk.
He offered up a silent prayer to Woden that if it came to that, he would be slain before the screaming started.
“There is no other option,” Beobrand said. “It will have to be enough.”
He turned and made his way down the ladder into the shade of the courtyard.
Chapter 25
Beobrand rubbed his callused fingers against his eyelids. His eyes felt gritty, as if he had stood staring on a windswept beach. His body ached with tiredness and he knew he should sleep. But whenever he closed his eyes and slumber began to embrace him, visions of death swelled up in his mind like so much scum on a bubbling broth. Faces of men he had killed swam in the darkness. He could not remember when he had killed most of them. These were nameless men – Mercians, Waelisc, Picts, Franks. He would never learn of their names, hear tales of their lives, of their loved ones. But their final moments on middle earth were forever seared into his memory. Their wails of anguish echoed in the dark on nights such as this. He longed for sleep but was terrified of the dreams, and so he sipped sparingly at the cup of ale he had brought with him for his vigil and thought again of what the dawn might bring.
Come the sunrise, he would see more death. Of that he was certain. There would be flames and fear and the foul stink of blood and spilt guts. Who would he lose tomorrow? Dour Dreoga
n? Beircheart with his swagger and finely combed beard? Attor and his twin flickering seaxes? Would the brothers, Eadgard and Grindan, fall in the shieldwall? What of Halinard? All were dear to him, oath-sworn and loyal and he would do his best to keep them alive. But to die in battle was a warrior’s lot. They would welcome it more than a straw-death, old and wizened, or infirm like Fraomar, drifting into the afterlife with not so much as a murmur.
He gazed down at the frail features of the young gesith and again felt the desperate pang of regret and guilt. Fraomar’s skin was taut over his sharp cheekbones, his eyes sunken and dark in the dim flicker of the rush light.
The old crone snored quietly from the pallet at the rear of the hut. She had barely acknowledged Beobrand when he had stepped into the hut. Grindan had been sitting with Fraomar and Beobrand had ordered him to get some rest.
“You’ll need your strength tomorrow,” he told him. “I have a feeling Penda won’t allow us to dawdle in our blankets in the morn, so drink sparingly.”
Grindan rose.
“You need sleep too, lord,” he said.
“There will be time for sleep when all this is done. Tonight I will watch over Fraomar.”
Beobrand sat on the stool beside Fraomar’s bed. The smell of sweat, piss and sickness was heavy in the air.
Grindan paused in the doorway and Beobrand looked up at him. Grindan’s face was a jumble of shadows, the clear purple expanse of the sky rolled away forever behind him.
“It is not your fault, lord,” he said, his voice not much more than a whisper, as if he was uncertain whether he wanted to be heard or not.
For the briefest of moments, Beobrand felt the stirrings of his infamous rage within him. But it was as if the kindling of his anger was damp, for the sparks did not take. Instead of the incandescent fury Grindan had feared, Beobrand merely sighed.
Fortress of Fury Page 20
