“And look at you now,” said Beobrand, smiling broadly. “You are not only a formidable man in a shieldwall, but a leader of men, it seems.” He arched an eyebrow and Cynan laughed.
Beobrand had seen when Cynan had ridden into Bebbanburg with the man called Ingwald beside him. Ingwald had carried Oswiu’s silken purple banner. He had timidly presented the cloth wrapped loosely about its wooden shaft to Oswiu and the king had been jubilant at its retrieval. Shortly after, several weary warriors in the drab clothing of farmhands had marched into the courtyard. Cynan had greeted them with smiles and words of praise and the men had beamed at the reception.
“They are fyrd-men, lord,” said Cynan. “I rode to their aid at Hefenfelth and they have followed me ever since. I daresay they will return to their own homes now that Penda has fled.” He laughed suddenly, seemingly embarrassed. “They call me ‘lord’, though I have told them I am no such thing.”
Beobrand slapped him on the back and laughed with him.
“It is no easy thing to lead men,” he said. “If these fyrd-men follow you and call you their lord, you have done something few men can do – gain their trust with your actions.”
Standing now on the palisade, he thought he should have said more to Cynan. Perhaps he should have told him he was proud of him; that Acennan would have been proud too. Seeing the way the men looked at the young Waelisc warrior, Beobrand was not so sure they would all disappear back to their farms and steadings. When they returned to Ubbanford, he would have to decide what to do with Cynan. He would speak to Bassus about it. If men followed the young gesith, perhaps he should give Cynan some land. He could build a hall of his own. Mayhap the time had come for him to find a wife. Beobrand knew he yet pined for the madwoman, Sulis. The mere thought of her angered Beobrand, and he would never understand how Cynan could have become so enthralled with the thrall.
He looked down into the darkened courtyard. Lightning lit the sky, giving a brief glimpse of the men at the far side of the fortress. Fordraed, Heremod and the rest of the fat thegn’s comitatus were guarding the gates.
Beobrand smiled without humour. Who was he to judge a man for the woman he desired? Again he thought of Heremod and what he knew. Gods, what a fool he had been. The man was certain to take what he knew to Fordraed, or even to the king himself. Beobrand shivered. The wind was cold off the sea and he had not found his cloak after the clash of shieldwalls, but it was not the chill air that caused him to tremble. If the king learnt of Eanflæd’s indiscretion, Beobrand could imagine all too well the fury that would grip him and what such a rage could lead a man to do.
If only Heremod had taken a spear or sword thrust in the heat of the day’s fighting. Beobrand shook his head, ashamed of his own thoughts. The man was a brave warrior and had stood against the enemies of Bernicia. He did not deserve death. But no matter how he picked at the tangle of worries about the queen and what Heremod had witnessed, Beobrand could not unravel the knot of them.
He turned back to look to the dark sea once more. Out there the world was a simpler place of rolling waves and blustering winds. He wondered if Ferenbald was out on Saeslaga on such a night. He hoped the skipper was safely moored on some friendly beach, where a local lord would offer him and his crew hospitality and shelter. A few drops of rain splattered the palisade timbers. He would need to seek shelter too when the rains returned in earnest. He wished for fresh air, not to stand out in the howl of a thunderstorm. He recalled the storms they had endured on the voyage that had led them to Frankia and almost to a watery death off the southern coast of Albion.
A sudden brilliant streak of lightning sliced the night’s blackness. By its light, Beobrand saw a movement to his left. Someone was climbing the ladder to the palisade walkway. For a moment he could not make out who it was, for the flash of the lightning had burnt into his vision. He blinked. The grumble of thunder reached him, loud and deep like boulders falling down a mountain in the distance.
“Lord,” came a voice he knew. More raindrops fell, slapping the planks of the battlement.
“Beircheart,” said Beobrand. “I thought you would be enjoying the ale and, by now, perhaps the warmth of one of Oswiu’s thralls.”
He expected the dark-bearded warrior to laugh, or to respond with a bawdy comment. Instead, he frowned.
“What is wrong?” asked Beobrand. “It is unlike you to leave a feast early. You fought well today, you deserve to enjoy the king’s table and mead.”
“I can enjoy nothing, lord,” Beircheart said, gazing out into the darkness. His shoulders were rigid, his fists clenched on the wet timbers of the ramparts.
Unease scratched along Beobrand’s back.
“What ails you?”
“Nothing, lord. I am well.” He stared out into the dark distance for a moment. “But I fear I am about to do something that may lead to my death. And I do not wish to bring dishonour to you.” His voice had grown quiet now and the wind whipped the words away as Beircheart spoke, but the quivering rage within him was evident.
“What is it that you plan to do, Beircheart?” asked Beobrand. He was unsure he wanted to hear the man’s answer. But he was Beircheart’s hlaford and the gesith had come to him for a reason. Beobrand thought of what he had said to Cynan. It was no easy task to lead men.
Beircheart did not answer.
Lightning cracked into the sea from the angry clouds, illuminating everything with an icy white light. A heartbeat later, the crash of thunder rumbled around them. Beobrand looked at the man. Beircheart’s face was tight, his jaw muscles bunched. Without warning, he cursed and punched the rough wood of the rampart, but still he did not offer a response. Beobrand’s unease grew. The wind gusted and a fresh squall of rain fell. He stared at Beircheart’s forlorn features. Another storm was coming, of that there could be no doubt.
“Well, Beircheart?” Beobrand asked.
At last, the gesith turned to face him. He was sombre, his eyes dark shadows.
“I am going to kill that bastard Fordraed,” he said.
Chapter 32
Wind and rain lashed Bebbanburg for most of the night. The sky was stabbed with lightning and the crash of thunder overhead awoke Eanflæd.
She lay in the warm safety of her chamber and listened to the roar of the storm. Beside her, Oswiu snored. He lay on his back and his mouth was open. She could barely make out his form in the gloom. The only light came from beneath the door. A lamp burnt outside where Godgyth slept with Ecgfrith.
Eanflæd sighed as she gazed at the straight line of his nose and the shape of his strong jaw. Oswiu’s arms and torso were heavily muscled and she knew he was a handsome man. He was also the king and her husband and she had made the decision that she must be true to her vows.
When they had come from the hall, she had told Godgyth to fetch some warm water and a clean cloth with which she had planned to wipe Oswiu’s body clean of the grime of travel and battle. She had also thought that such an action might bring them closer in some way, stir something within her.
But when Godgyth returned with the water, Oswiu was already sleeping. As soon as they were alone, his desire had grown quickly and he had kissed her, pushing her down onto the bed with his bulk. She had felt nothing. Even as he entered her it was as if this act was being performed by another woman. It had been over quickly. He had rolled over and was soon asleep, exhausted after the travails of the day.
Eanflæd had opened the door quietly, taking the pot of warm water from Godgyth with a whisper of thanks. Closing the door behind her, she had used the water and the cloth to clean herself. She had wiped his smell from her skin and wondered whether his seed would find fertile ground in her womb. If she were with child again, perhaps the feelings she had for Beobrand would finally vanish. At the very least neither her husband nor Beobrand would desire her when her belly was bloated.
She lay in silence beside her sleeping husband and listened to the storm. It took a long time for sleep to come to her again. When it did, her dream
s were filled with the taste of the wine on Oswiu’s tongue. She dreamed of his weight on her, the feel of him pushing inside of her, the heat of his seed spurting into her. But in her dream, when he rolled away from her, panting from the exertion, the dim light from the burning rush wick had illuminated his hair. As he turned to her, smiling, his hair glowed a golden lustre in the darkened room.
This was not Oswiu. It was Beobrand who lay beside her.
She awoke at dawn, breathless and ashamed.
Oswiu still slept, oblivious to the storm blustering outside and the thoughts that buffeted her mind. She quietly left the chamber. Godgyth was asleep in her pallet and Ecgfrith lay still, his round face calm and undisturbed by the sounds of the wind and rain that rocked the hall. For a moment she gazed down at him, a surge of happiness flooding through her. He had not coughed in days and he was sleeping better than ever. He was gaining weight quickly and his cheeks were pink and healthy. Here was the reason she must push aside her weakness. Ecgfrith was all-important. She watched his chest rise and fall in the gloom and offered up a prayer of thanks to God, the Blessed Virgin and even to Oswald, whose head mouldered in the casket in the quiet of the stone church.
She did not wish to awaken either of them, but her stumbling about in the darkness searching for her clothes roused Godgyth, who sat up, rubbing at her eyes blearily.
“My lady?” she whispered. “Is everything well?”
Eanflæd looked again down at the sleeping face of her son. Nothing else was of importance.
“Yes,” she said. “All is well. Help me dress and let us try not to wake Ecgfrith. He is so peaceful.”
Godgyth found her plain green gown and helped her attach the brooches and wrist clasps. Ethelburga had given it to her when she had left for Bernicia and the touch of its fine linen brought to her the memory of her mother’s serious, lined face as she had said farewell. Neither she nor Godgyth spoke and when she was dressed, Eanflæd whispered her thanks and went out to the hall.
There was already movement there. Thralls and servants, a constant of life in the fortress, bustled about, readying the room for people to break their fast. Someone had thrown open the doors and Eanflæd could see great sheets of rain falling from the leaden sky. Grey light filtered into the hall, mingling with the smoke of the newly kindled fire on the hearthstone. Soon the benches and boards would be brought out, but for the time being many of the revellers from last night’s feast yet lay in cloak-wrapped mounds around the floor. Someone coughed, a hacking phlegmy rasp, and Eanflæd started. Would she ever hear such a sound and not think of Ecgfrith? She reached up and touched the crucifix that hung between her breasts. God was good. She had prayed and turned away from the Devil’s temptations of the flesh. Her son was well again and he would not succumb once more to illness, she was certain of it. She just needed to remain resolute.
Looking about the hall she regretted her decision to leave her quarters. She could not venture out into the seething rain, but it would be quite some time before the hall was prepared. She sighed. She had not wished to remain in her chamber for Oswiu to awaken. She had no wish to speak with him or to suffer his advances this morning, if he woke aroused. Perhaps she should go back to Godgyth. She could help her gemæcce to prepare Ecgfrith and by the time he was dressed, the hall would be cleaned and the drunken warriors would be up. Maybe the rain would ease and she could take some air, but judging from the waterfall streaming from the porch and the gloomy wet light, the weather did not look like changing anytime soon.
“Lady Eanflæd,” said a voice behind her, and her heart clenched. It was a deep voice and it carried a hint of the south lands of Cantware in its tones. She took a deep breath.
“Lord Beobrand,” she said, turning to face him. She kept her face expressionless, but the sight of him made her stomach flutter. She felt suddenly too warm in her green dress and mantle.
Beobrand looked as though he had not slept. His long fair hair, just as she had seen it in her dream, was tousled and unruly, softening his harsh features and partly concealing the scar beneath his left eye. The skin under his eyes was bruised and dark and he seemed somehow thinner than he had appeared not two days before.
It had been a trying time for everyone, but she knew that, true to the tales that were told of him, it was Beobrand who had led the charge through the flames. It was he who had smashed into the Mercian ranks. She had heard others at the feast speaking of his prowess in the shieldwall. Hardened warriors spoke of the lord of Ubbanford in tones of awe, with something like fear in their voices. Seeing him now, his eyes glinting cold in the gloom of the hall and no smile of greeting on his lips, she sensed a ghost of what those men had witnessed. A sliver of ice traced her spine and she fought not to shiver.
A silence grew between them as they stared at each other. Beobrand’s scowling face was unreadable.
“I rejoice that you are well, Beobrand,” she said at last, wishing to break the awkward stillness.
“The king is also returned hale to your side, my queen,” he said. His tone was clipped, sharp.
She blushed.
“And for that I also give thanks to God,” she replied.
Beobrand looked beyond her, peering into the depths of the hall. She felt a scratch of annoyance.
“Have you seen the lady Edlyn?” he asked, still absently scanning the inhabitants of the hall.
“No,” she replied, a touch of frost entering her voice. “I have not seen Edlyn since yestereve.”
“And Fordraed? Do you know where her husband is?”
“I do not.” She had dreaded having to speak to Beobrand, fearing that he would question her in some way about her actions. She had felt the fire in his glare the night before, but now he seemed almost uninterested. Good. Once again she offered up silent thanks to God for His deliverance from the madness of temptation that had consumed her. “Perhaps Lord Fordraed is at the gates, where my husband sent him.”
Beobrand nodded.
“I will look for him there.”
And with that he spun away and strode out of the hall and into the rain. As if drawn after him in his wake, she made her way across the hall and out under the cool of the porch. The door wards nodded at her and pulled themselves up straight. She watched as Beobrand crossed the courtyard towards the gates. He would be drenched by the time he reached them and while part of her wished to follow him, to find out what was so urgent that he would walk away from her without a backward glance, the ferocity of the rain pulled her up short.
Despite the rain, several men were moving about by the gates. The makeshift barricade had been partially dismantled the previous day and now, as she watched, two men led a waggon pulled by a pair of bedraggled oxen through the gap where the gates had stood. She supposed they were heading out to continue the ghastly task of collecting the corpses of the fallen. The previous afternoon, men had been sent to cut down the poor victims of Penda’s pagan sacrifice. And most of the Bernician dead had been collected before dark. But the dozens of Mercians who had perished before the gates of Bebbanburg yet lay in the rocks and bushes, faces contorted, tongues black and protruding from between fish-pale lips. They needed to be taken away and disposed of before the warm weather returned. As soon as the rain stopped, they would become alive with swarms of flies and the stench would be terrible.
In some ways, the rain was a blessing. It would keep the air clean and soften the earth, which would make the job of burying them easier, though no less gruesome. They might have burnt the dead, but for the fact that the Mercians had already destroyed all the timber they could find to set fire to the gates. Besides, Beobrand had said in the hall the night before, most of them would be pagans. They would wish to be consumed by flames so that their spirits could float to the gods and the afterlife. And so it was that Oswiu had given the order for all of the Mercian dead to be buried without any of their belongings. They believed that the goods they took with them in death could be used in the life beyond middle earth and Oswiu would g
ive them no such help.
Beobrand had almost reached the gates and the men surrounding the shattered timbers and the remains of the barricade.
“Where is Fordraed?” she heard him yell, his voice carrying over the tumult of the rain.
But before anyone could answer, a horseman clattered past the gates, the hooves of the beast throwing up showers of muddy water. He paused briefly, speaking to the men at the gate before spurring his horse on towards the hall.
The door wards stiffened and held their spears before them. The horse’s hooves thudded wetly across the yard. Behind the rider came Beobrand at a jog.
“Where is the king?” the rider called out, his voice thinned by the hiss and thrum of the rain. The man was young and slender, with a stubble of beard on his thin cheeks.
Eanflæd stepped out into the rain and looked up at the rider. The two door wards came with her, flanking her protectively.
Beobrand reached them. He was soaked, his clothes and hair plastered to his form. In his hand he held an unsheathed sword by the blade. Rain ran down his face like tears, dripping from his eyebrows and nose.
“My lord king yet sleeps,” she said.
Beobrand fixed her with a look she could not fathom. Was it sadness? Disappointment? Something else? Ignoring him, she fixed the rider with a stern glare.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she asked, speaking in the imperious tone she had heard her mother employ when addressing men at court.
The rider stared down at her. His cloak clung to him and was draped, sodden and heavy, over his mount’s back. She noted the empty scabbard at his side. She assumed the men at the gate had disarmed him and given Beobrand the man’s sword.
“I am Wigelm and I bring tidings from the south, lady,” he said. He slid down from the saddle and offered a small bow. “I am sent by King Oswine of Deira and I bring tidings for Oswiu King.”
Chapter 33
“Enough!” shouted Oswiu. The simmering anger he had been holding back as the messenger spoke finally burst forth. The king slammed his hand flat onto the board before him. Cups and platters jumped and rattled. A pitcher teetered for a moment before settling upright once more. Beobrand was surprised that nothing had fallen from the table.
Fortress of Fury Page 27
