The defence must not fail. He could not allow it to. The shieldwall would stand and somehow, with sheer determination and the knowledge that they were defending their loved ones, their home and their queen, the Bernicians would win. He could not bear to think otherwise.
Shortly after the fire had been lit and the sky was still dark, with the merest hint of gold out over the sea, Coenred had come to him at the barricade.
The monk’s face had been pale, but he held himself tall and Beobrand had smiled to see his friend. Coenred hated battle and killing, but he was no coward.
“How can I help?” the monk asked.
“This is not the place for you,” Beobrand answered. Coenred dropped his gaze, his cheeks flushed. “But I welcome your offer of aid,” Beobrand continued, placing his half-hand on his old friend’s thin shoulder. “Go back to the great hall. Prepare your bandages and poultices. Whatever you need to heal wounds. Your skills will be required before the day is old. And the women and children will need your strength.” He hesitated for a moment. “And your faith.”
Coenred seemed pleased at the words. Or perhaps he was relieved that Beobrand had sent him away from the shieldwall and the barricade.
“I will do whatever I can to help God’s flock,” he said. “May the Lord watch over you.” He made the sign of the Christ rood in the air. Turning, he moved back towards the great hall.
“One other thing, Coenred,” Beobrand called to him.
The monk halted, turning to his old friend. Coenred’s long hair drifted about his face in the wind. In the early morning gloom, he looked as young as when he had nursed Beobrand to health all those years before.
“Yes?” he said.
“Pray for us,” said Beobrand.
Coenred had stared at Beobrand for a long moment, as if weighing his words. At last, he had nodded and left.
A great rending crack snapped Beobrand’s attention away from his memories.
The left gate had split. A cloud of sparks gusted into the smoke-heavy sky and the thin cheer from the Mercians reached him where he stood at the centre of the shieldwall behind the barricade.
Some of the men picked up their shields, others checked their swords. There was a murmur from the gathered warriors as they retrieved discarded helms and rose to their feet. The gate would not stand for much longer, and then the Mercians would pull away what debris they could and swarm into the fortress.
“Ready yourselves,” cried Ethelwin. “Soon we shall give those Mercian whoresons a taste of Bernician steel.” A desultory sound went up from the men, more groan than battle-cry.
“Are you well, lord?” Attor stepped forward, close to Beobrand.
Beobrand had not moved. He was watching the flames and the smoke and thinking of the clouds he had seen to the north and west. And somewhere in the depths of his mind, he wondered if Coenred might be on his knees in the hall, praying to his Christ god.
And perhaps the Christ was listening.
Beobrand had seen the power of the new god over weather before. At Hefenfelth Oswald had prayed beneath a great rood and a storm had come to conceal their approach as they had attacked the Waelisc. Bernicia had been victorious, and all the warriors there had felt the power of the new god who had delivered the triumph to this young, Christ-following king returned from years of exile.
“Lord?” Attor reached out a hand, touching Beobrand’s arm and bringing him out of his reverie.
“Attor,” he said, not removing his gaze from the blaze at the gate, “what do you see?”
“The fire has almost had its way with those gates,” Attor replied. “They will soon fall. Best to be ready for when they do.” He made to hand Beobrand his great helm. Beobrand ignored the proffered helmet.
“Look carefully,” he urged. “What has changed?”
Attor stared at the flames and the smoke. Another snapping, splintering crash came from the left gate, and a part of it fell to the ground in a sudden shower of sparks. At last, understanding dawned on his face.
“The wind,” he said, awe in his voice. “It is changing direction.”
As he spoke a strong billowing gust whistled across the courtyard, away from the Bernician shieldwall. The heat from the fire abated considerably with the shift in the wind. Beobrand wondered whether it would swing around again, once more sending embers, ash and sparks and the intolerable waves of heat at the defenders. But rather than turn against them, the wind blew ever harder into the north-west. The flames and heat were now pushed away from them and towards the awaiting Mercian ranks.
“How do the Mercians fare?” bellowed Beobrand at the archer he had spoken to on the palisade.
“They’ve had their beards singed by the change in the wind, lord,” he called back. “They are retreating back from the fire.”
Beobrand closed his eyes, picturing the sloping path that led down from the gates. The ramp was narrow, with broken rocks and bushes at either side.
Could it be? Was this how the Christ God had listened to Coenred’s prayers? The wind gusted, harder than ever, cooling the sweat on his neck and tugging his long hair about his face. The flames, smoke and heat from the fire were pushed into the faces of the Mercians. The left gate, with a moaning wail, crashed from its hinges. It toppled outward, onto the burning heap of timber that the Mercians had built outside Bebbanburg’s entrance. Burning splinters and sparks flew up, to be carried on the gusting wind towards the attackers. Through the heat-shimmer and smoke, Beobrand could see the Mercian line wavering, pulling back from the fire that now assaulted them with each billow of wind.
Beobrand grinned, suddenly consumed by an idea of such audacity that it left him breathless. But why not? There was little to lose and much to gain. And what warrior gained victory by being cautious?
“Bernicians,” he boomed in his loudest battle-voice, “do not fear. I know you believe all is lost. But no! The winds have changed and victory will be ours.”
A rumble went through the line.
“Look, my Black Shields stand with you today and we will not be defeated by this Mercian rabble. Do you doubt me? Do you doubt Beobrand of Ubbanford?”
A few of the men nearest to Beobrand muttered a reply. His gesithas hammered their blades into the black shields they bore and let out a roar.
“No!” they shouted.
Gradually the rest of the men took up the chant and soon the fortress reverberated with the word.
“No! No! No!”
“We will have victory today!” Beobrand screamed, his voice rising above the chanting. “Are we sheep to await our slaughter here?”
The booming response grew, as if the spark of his idea had kindled the spirit of the Bernician warriors.
“No! No! No!”
Ethelwin shouldered his way through the gesithas to Beobrand’s side.
“How does the change in the wind alter anything, Beobrand?” he asked, placing his mouth close to Beobrand’s ear so that he alone would hear the words.
“Waiting here, thinking about the attack that we know will come, it has sapped the men of their spirit. They have felt powerless. But listen to them now,” shouted Beobrand, the joy of battle gripping him as it always did. “Do they sound powerless to you? They long to fight, to bleed Penda and his dogs for what they have done.”
Ethelwin looked at him, an expression of confused dismay on his face.
“We must take the fight to the Mercians,” Beobrand said.
“But the fire,” Ethelwin replied. “We are trapped within Bebbanburg.”
Beobrand’s grin widened, the savage madness of bloodletting calling to him.
“We are not trapped,” he replied. “We are caged beasts. And I know how to release us.”
Chapter 27
“This is madness!” cried Ethelwin. “We will destroy the gates!”
A few of the men turned at the warmaster’s angry words. Beobrand pulled him in close enough that he could smell the man’s sour sweat.
“Think, Ethelwin,
” he hissed. “A divided warband is a weakened warband. The men have taken heart, would you destroy their belief by questioning me in front of them?”
Ethelwin held Beobrand’s gaze. His brow was furrowed, his eyes glaring. Beobrand did not turn away. The moment dragged out. The wind blew strongly across the courtyard.
Fordraed’s nasal tone cut through their battle of wills.
“What is the meaning of this? Surely you will not listen to this fool.” Fordraed was stuffed into an iron byrnie; his jowls, swelling above his collar like rising dough, quivered as he spoke. His hair was plastered against his head and beads of sweat bejewelled his face. A droplet formed on the end of his nose and splattered onto the rings of metal that encased his bulging belly.
For a heartbeat, Beobrand thought that Ethelwin would back the fat lord; that he had pushed his luck too far with the warmaster. Ethelwin stared into his eyes for a moment longer, before giving him the smallest of nods and rounding on Fordraed.
“The gates are already destroyed,” Ethelwin said. As if to accentuate his words, the right gate collapsed in a flurry of bright sparks and ash. “And I have learnt to listen to lord Beobrand. You might do well to do the same. If not for him, we would have no fortress to defend.”
“But this is madness,” spluttered Fordraed.
“No,” said Beobrand, raising his voice again so that all should hear him, “this is not madness. This is the will of God! I know those of you who believe in the Christ have been praying. I also told the monk, Coenred, and Utta the priest to pray. And God has heard your prayers. He has sent this great wind to aid us. See now how it pushes back our enemy?”
Peering through the gateway, beyond the flickering furnace of the collapsing fire, he could see the Mercians had retreated even further to avoid the terrible heat and flying debris from the flames.
“We will take the fight to our enemies. To God’s enemies. But we must be quick about it. I will lead with my Black Shields and I know you will be right behind us, brave Bernicians. With your strength and courage, and with the power of God on our side, victory will be ours.”
A movement caught his eye and, looking up, he saw two crows flapping slowly, labouring into the brisk breeze. He shuddered. With his words he had pitched Woden against the Christ. Most of the Bernicians worshipped the new nailed god so these were the words they needed to hear, but he wondered what powers he might have unleashed by uttering them.
He shook off the feeling of doubt. There was no time for that now. The time had come for action. For killing. To bend his wyrd to his will.
“Listen to the warmaster,” Beobrand bellowed. “He knows what you are to do.”
He had quickly laid out his plan to Ethelwin and now he must trust that the man would lead the warriors as he had instructed. There was no time for discussion.
While he had been talking, Eadgard, Dreogan, Grindan and Halinard had wrestled the largest waggon from the barricade, swinging it around to face the burning doors. Attor had run to fetch rope and now, with Beircheart’s aid, he proceeded to lash some boards taken from the barricade to the shafts that projected from the front of the cart. This was where a mule or donkey would be saddled to pull the vehicle, but today there would be no animal before the cart.
Attor had understood Beobrand’s meaning immediately and his eyes had glinted with the savage exhilaration of the idea.
Ethelwin was shouting orders at the men in the courtyard, pulling them together into a narrower force, five men across. He positioned his own warriors, hardened fighters of many shieldwalls, at the front and Beobrand saw Reodstan and his gesithas jostling to take the foremost rank. Beobrand saw all of this in a moment, and, trusting to Ethelwin, he turned his attention to his comitatus.
“Soak your cloaks,” he said, dipping his own woollen cloak into the nearest bucket and then swinging its sodden weight over his shoulders. Like all the men, he had discarded the garment as the sun came up, but now they would be glad of its protection against the heat and sparks from the fire. As an afterthought, he dipped each of his feet into the bucket. His gesithas copied him.
“More water!” he screamed, and boys carried the empty buckets to be refilled. All along the line men were drenching themselves in water. He wondered whether it would be enough; if damp cloth, wet shoes and leg bindings would provide protection against the inferno at the gate.
Was this foolishness? He looked at the shimmering air where the gates had stood. Had he thought of this idea himself, or was it perhaps the Christ God who had planted the seed in his mind? He thought of the crows and the waelstengs with their grisly totems. Or was it Woden, the grey wanderer, who had turned his mind to this course? He would never know. There was no time left for pondering. The flames were receding. The wind yet whistled through the gates towards the Mercians, but soon the fire would die down and any chance of a surprise attack would be lost.
“Are you ready, my brave gesithas?” he asked, scanning the grim faces of his men. All of them nodded in return, slinging shields onto their backs to leave their hands free. “Then let us kill some Mercians.”
Leaning their shoulders into the waggon, they groaned with the effort, pushing it forward. Attor stood at the front, lifting the shafts with the boards strapped between them. The waggon rolled forward and Attor pushed the shafts to one side, aiming the cart directly into the burning gap in Bebbanburg’s defences.
“Heave!” yelled Beobrand, shoving his weight against the wood of the cart. Eadgard, seemingly oblivious of the wound to his thigh that must still be painful, was beside him, lending his massive bulk to the effort, and the waggon, free now of the debris around the barricade and unimpeded by the shafts that Attor had lifted from the earth, hurtled forward.
They sped towards the fire, the wind at their backs, pushing them along. Despite the shift in the direction of the wind, as they drew closer, the heat became oppressive, overwhelming. It sucked the air from their lungs and blistered their skin.
Gods, thought Beobrand, he must have been moonstruck. They would be burnt alive!
He heard an inchoate scream of rage filling the boiling air around him, unaware that the sound came from his own mouth. The smoke stung his eyes and he could barely make out lithe Attor sprinting to the front of the waggon, pushing and pulling the shafts to guide it between the flaming columns of the gateway. They were moving too fast, thought Beobrand, suddenly fearful that Attor would be pushed into the flaming rubble of the doors and the bonfire by the weight of the speeding cart.
But with the uncanny agility that made him so deadly in combat and able to wield a blade in each hand, the wiry warrior darted to one side at the last possible moment. At the same instant, he dropped the shafts to the ground.
They instantly dug into the earth and the boards he had lashed between them drove into the burning remains of the conflagration with a bursting cloud of sparks. The waggon slowed with the impact and Beobrand roared, pushing with renewed energy. Attor spun around and joined the rest of the gesithas behind the cart, adding his own strength to that of his shield-brothers. Together, with a shared shout of defiance, they surged on, pushing the waggon onward, churning up the embers and flaming timbers before them as they passed through the gateway.
For a moment the heat was so intense that Beobrand could not breathe. He felt his hair singe. Heat seared through his wet shoes where he trod on blackened broken beams that flickered like a smith’s forge. His throat was afire and he could not see. The air writhed and danced. Sparks and ash and flames filled his world. A burning brand flicked up, sizzling against the back of his left hand.
Gods, what had he done? Had he led them all to their doom?
And then they were through.
The boards on the front of the cart had done their job, carrying before them great piles of the burning wreckage that had been heaped before the entrance to Bebbanburg. Sparks and embers flew into the air, to be carried by the wind into the faces of the surprised Mercians.
It felt cool here, a
fter the furnace crackle of the fire, and Beobrand sucked in great lungfuls of air. His hand was a stinging agony, and his eyes were streaming. But he yet lived.
With one final effort they sent the cart speeding onward. The sloped ramp before the gates turned to the left and so the cart bumped and creaked towards the bend where it careened over, toppling into the rocks and nettles there, and resting at a twisted angle. All along the path in its wake lay the remnants of the fire that the cart had snagged and pushed before it.
With a glance back towards Bebbanburg, Beobrand saw that Ethelwin was leading the first of the Bernicians out through the shattered gates.
Some paces down the slope the Mercians stood, shield to shield, a thicket of spears bristling above them. Penda’s wolf banner waved tall above the throng, the pelts and tails flapping in the wind.
“Shieldwall!” Beobrand bellowed, and without pause his gesithas unslung their shields and drew their blades. They carried no spears, but Beobrand was not prepared to lose the moment of advantage their sudden appearance through the flames had gained them.
Breaking into a run, knowing that his men would obey without hesitation, he shouted again.
“Boar’s snout!”
Eadgard, with a barely perceptible limp, his huge axe grasped in both meaty hands, took the centre, with Grindan to his left and Beobrand to his right. They would hit the Mercians like a spear-point of men and shields. Eadgard’s axe would be the tip, cutting through the enemies like a scythe through barley.
Ten paces from the Mercian line, their black shields touched and Eadgard let out a bellow like a wild beast.
“Death! Death! Death!” yelled Beobrand, and the others joined him in the murderous chant.
All thought had left Beobrand now. He fixed his gaze on a wide-shouldered man before him wearing an open helm. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were covered in stubble the colour of new thatch. The Mercian’s eyes narrowed as he saw Beobrand charging towards him.
Fortress of Fury Page 22
