Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  But when he set aside the horn, Beobrand found Eanflæd was staring at him. He could not avoid her gaze, or ignore her plea for answers. She deserved to know.

  “Indeed,” he said, “Oswiu was married to Rhieinmelth…”

  “Was?” she interjected. “What has become of her?”

  Beobrand swallowed.

  “I heard tell she has been sent to a new minster, where she will pray with the Christ monks.”

  To his own ears the words sounded hollow.

  Eanflæd looked aghast.

  “And her children?”

  Beobrand thought fleetingly of Octa. Was he being treated kindly? Did he play with Oswiu’s son, Alhfrith?

  “They remain with the king’s household.”

  “So I am to be queen to my father’s enemy and mother to another woman’s children.”

  Now it was Eanflæd’s turn to drink deeply from her cup. Did her hand shake?

  Beobrand said nothing.

  “And what is to stop Oswiu from treating me in the same way as he has dealt with Rhieinmelth?”

  Beobrand stared at her, allowing his eyes to drink in her glowing beauty. Her shimmering, golden hair, the long smooth curve of her neck, the intelligent eyes and full, expressive lips. What man would spurn such beauty? And yet, was Rhieinmelth not also beautiful? If Oswiu tired of his new bride, or if he believed he could attain more power by casting her aside, Beobrand knew the king of Bernicia would not hesitate.

  Eanflæd guffawed, a deep belly laugh, startling him. She laughed long and hard. He watched on, bemused at her sudden mirth. His skin prickled.

  “By Christ’s bones,” she said when her laughter had subsided, “you are lucky that you are good with a sword, for I fear you will have no luck when it comes to tafl or riddling. You do not need to speak, your face gives away your thoughts as loudly as if you had shouted them.”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks, then smoothed her dress over her legs, composing herself.

  “Do not fear, Beobrand,” she said, “I will not make you answer my question. You do not need to say the words that would make you speak ill of your lord.” Beobrand couldn’t help smiling grimly at the thought. Eanflæd continued, seeming not to notice his expression. “But you and I both know that my prospects of happiness in Bernicia are as likely as my father’s ghost approving my union with a son of Æthelfrith.”

  Beobrand didn’t answer, instead he reached for the pitcher of ale and refilled both his horn and her cup. It seemed they would both benefit from a drink.

  Chapter 6

  For a time Beobrand and Eanflæd shied away from talk of her future. The mood in the hall was convivial and warm as the ale, wine and mead flowed, loosening tongues and relaxing tensions. The strong ale warmed Beobrand’s body as he listened to Eanflæd speak of her memories of coming to Cantware when still a child. Bassus had sworn to Edwin that he would protect Eanflæd’s mother, Ethelburga, and their children following the terrible defeat at Elmet. Beobrand’s left, half-hand crept up to the scar under his left eye, a reminder of the battle in which he had first stood in a shieldwall and slain a man. He had killed countless men since, too many to remember, though their faces often haunted his dreams. But Beobrand would never forget that first foe-man, how his spear had skewered the Waelisc man through the eye, killing him instantly and becoming lodged in the gory socket. Bassus had been by his side then, watching over him, as he had later watched over Edwin’s family when they fled south.

  “For a long while I did not believe father was truly killed,” she said, her voice becoming hollow with distant memories. “He was so strong. Nothing scared him and he never lost a battle.”

  Beobrand sipped at his ale and looked at the flames of the great hearth fire in the centre of the hall. He recalled how Edwin had seemed an unstoppable force to him when he had pledged his allegiance to him in the hall of Bebbanburg. Later he had served Scand, an old thegn who, with his grey beard and gruff confidence also seemed unbeatable. And then he saw in his mind’s eye the horrific sight of King Oswald’s head and limbs, skewered on waelstengs as sacrifice for Woden. Despite the ale and the hearth, Beobrand shivered.

  “Everybody loses a battle in the end,” he said, his tone flat.

  “Yes,” she said, “I suppose they do. Even you, brave Beobrand of Ubbanford?”

  Beobrand snorted.

  “Even me. I have suffered my share of defeats.”

  “And yet you live.”

  Beobrand frowned. That he still lived when others were but memories was a mystery to him. Often he wished it were not so. Would it not have been better for Acennan to have escaped Rheged and for him to have lost his life? He thought of Acennan’s widow, Eadgyth, and their children in the great hall Acennan had built for them. Acennan had so much to live for, and he had given his life for what? For his lord and his friend to be able to rescue their king’s remains. Lives sacrificed for a corpse. Beobrand’s jaw clenched and he sensed his mood growing as dark as the autumn night outside the hall.

  “I am sorry for turning the conversation to death,” Eanflæd said. “Let us speak of more pleasant things.”

  Beobrand nodded, drained his horn once more and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was not yet drunk, but he was well down that path he realised with a start. A quiet voice within told him it would not be wise to drink more. He was in the presence of royalty.

  Ignoring the voice, he signalled to a thrall to bring him wine.

  “You seem to have prospered here, amongst your mother’s people.”

  “Yes. Eadbald King provided us with everything we needed. He was a great man. He treated me as one of his own children.” Beobrand glanced at Eorcenberht, who gazed in their direction with increasing frequency, clearly frustrated at his cousin’s refusal to do his bidding. Beobrand could only imagine how the young king felt at having had to share his father’s affections with the vivacious Eanflæd.

  “And your mother? She is well?” Beobrand remembered Edwin’s haughty, handsome queen. She had been every bit as formidable as her husband.

  “My mother fares as well as can be expected for one of her years. She lives now in the minster of Liminge, where she spends most of her time in prayer.” She chuckled. “Much like poor Rhieinmelth.”

  Beobrand fidgeted, uncomfortable to be straying back to talk of what lay in store for Eanflæd in the north. He sipped at the rich wine that had been placed before him. It was even better than the jug that had been brought to their quarters earlier in the day. It was sour and sweet and as dark as blood. It conjured up thoughts of berry-bejewelled bushes, bone-fires and the sacrifices of Blotmonath. He swilled the liquid around his mouth appreciatively.

  “There is something I have pondered these past days,” he said. “I understand why you would like to have Bassus at your side, for he has ever been a trusted friend of your kin. But why ask Oswiu to send me with the delegation?”

  Eanflæd looked him in the eye, amusement tugging at her eyes and mouth.

  “That is simple,” she said. “I would be protected by the greatest warrior of Northumbria and a thegn of honour who is known to me. I would have the mighty Lord Beobrand as my protector.”

  Before he could answer, she rose fluidly to her feet.

  “I must go and speak to my cousin and the priest now,” she said. “They are getting anxious at my disobedience.” Beobrand saw that both Utta and Eorcenberht were looking at the princess. Eorcenberht’s face was hard, his eyes narrowed, lips pressed together.

  Eanflæd bent down, her face close to Beobrand’s. Reaching forward with a slender hand, she tugged free the carved whale tooth hammer amulet that dangled from a thong around his neck.

  “You do not worship Christ?” she asked.

  “I keep to the old ways,” Beobrand answered. “Though I am sure the gods merely watch our deeds on middle earth as we might watch ants or beetles. We are just playthings to them.” For an instant his mind was full of thunder, blood and mud; gloom-laden memories
of shieldwalls and death and ravens gorging on the broken corpses of valiant men.

  Eanflæd leaned in close, so that her voice could not be overheard.

  “You pagans have a saying, ‘Wyrd bið ful aræd’, do you not?” she asked, her breath like butterfly wings on his cheek. “Do you believe that? That one’s wyrd is fixed and cannot be changed?”

  He swallowed, acutely aware of her closeness and the eyes of the king and the priest boring into him.

  “Wyrd goes ever as she will,” he replied. “The Sisters weave the threads of our lives. We mortals must just live them as best we can.”

  She made the sign of the cross with her right hand, touching first her head then chest, then her left shoulder and finishing with her right. Perhaps she was dismayed at such open disregard for the teachings of Christ. But she quickly dispelled that thought with a wink and a mischievous smirk.

  “Mayhap it has always been our wyrd to be together, Beobrand,” she murmured, letting the amulet fall back against his chest. “I have known you ever since I was a little girl, and I always thought you would one day return.”

  He well remembered the gangly child he had first met in the stable at Bebbanburg. He took in the curves of her lithesome body beneath the red linen gown. He swallowed once more against the sudden lump in his throat.

  “You are a little girl no longer,” he said, his words halting and awkward.

  She laughed, a rich ripple of giggles.

  “Well, I am glad you noticed,” she said.

  And with that, she turned and swished away towards her cousin, the king, where he waited with the dour little priest from Lindisfarena to discuss the arrangements of her marriage to King Oswiu of Bernicia.

  Chapter 7

  “What will happen now?” asked Bassus, flinging the shutters open and taking a great deep breath of the cool, crisp air. Thin autumn sun shone through the window.

  Beobrand groaned from his pallet.

  “How should I know?” Beobrand mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut once more against the stabbing brightness of the chamber. Bassus had awoken him from a pleasant dream. He had been making love with a beautiful woman with hair the hue of gold. Sunniva, he thought, but then, in a flash of guilt and excitement he realised the woman who had come to him in his sleep was Eanflæd. He pulled his blanket over his face and tried to bring back the sensual warmth of the dream-Eanflæd. Already he could only half remember the dream, the memory of it scattering in the light of day like the early morning mist outside. In the darkness under his blanket, he frowned, feeling an acute pang of loss. He had been too long without a woman.

  Bassus pulled the blanket away and handed Beobrand a cup.

  “Well, it seemed to me that Eanflæd might have told you of her plans last night. You were whispering and giggling like old friends.”

  Beobrand sniffed the contents of the cup Bassus had given him. Wine. His stomach churned. He rose from his bed and set the cup aside.

  “Nonsense,” he said, without conviction.

  “Nonsense?” Bassus smiled. “Next you will be telling me you did not drink too much last night.”

  “No, old friend,” replied Beobrand, glad that the conversation had moved away from Eanflæd. “I will not make such a claim. The merest whiff of that wine has turned my stomach.”

  Bassus chortled.

  “You never could hold your drink. Get up and we’ll go and find some food for you. A full belly is what you need.”

  Beobrand’s mouth filled with spittle at the thought of food, but he took a couple of calming breaths of the fresh morning air and began to dress. As he pulled on his kirtle and began to tie his leg bindings, Bassus paced about the room as he had done the previous day. Beobrand marvelled at the older man’s energy. Bassus was already clothed, which Beobrand knew was no easy feat with only one arm. But Bassus was proud and would never accept any help, so Beobrand never offered any. Beobrand knew it was different with women. Bassus was keen to allow Rowena to fuss over him and he had never minded when Reaghan had helped him to fasten his cloak or wind his legs wraps. She had always been kind to Bassus, had loved him as a father. Beobrand could scarcely believe Reaghan had been gone a year now. Anew he felt the stab of guilt at his half-remembered dream.

  “You must take care, Beobrand,” Bassus said, surprising Beobrand with the intensity of his tone. Gone was his usual jesting, the casual hint of laughter behind his words.

  “Care?” asked Beobrand, still fumbling with his bindings whilst fighting the urge to vomit. Looking up at Bassus, he saw the huge warrior was speaking in deadly earnest.

  “She is not for you,” Bassus said, his face sombre.

  Beobrand did not ask Bassus who he was talking about. It seemed his friend was not done with the subject of Eanflæd quite yet.

  Beobrand sighed.

  “Can’t this wait until after I have eaten, or puked? Or both?”

  “I don’t know. Can it? I know you are not one to listen to advice, but I saw you last night. Gods, everyone saw you. You must be careful. Ploughing another man’s field will get you in trouble. Sowing your seed in a furrow owned by a king will get you killed.”

  Beobrand stood, anger flaring in him as suddenly as the flames had caught on the leaves of the bonfire the day before.

  “I am no fool, Bassus. I do not deny that Eanflæd is comely. Any man would be proud to have such a woman at his side.” He thought then of her breath on his cheek. The scent of her hair. “But she is not for any man and certainly not for me. She is promised to our lord king. And that is all there is.”

  He knew that all present at the feast had witnessed the unseemly closeness between the two of them. He could not deny Eanflæd was beautiful and beguiling, her wit as intoxicating as the ale and wine. But she was promised to Oswiu. It would do him no good to think of her. She was as distant a prize for him as if he had sought to pluck the sun from the sky.

  As quickly as it had come, so his anger dissipated. Suddenly, surprisingly, Beobrand realised he was hungry.

  “Come on,” he said, “enough of this nonsense.” Bassus raised an eyebrow at that word again. “Let’s find some food. I’m famished.”

  Beobrand grabbed his cloak from where it was draped over one of the stools and strode from the room. Bassus stared after him, his lips pressed together into a thin line. After several heartbeats, he let out a long sigh and followed, shaking his head.

  Chapter 8

  Sweat plastered Beobrand’s hair to his scalp. He skipped backward out of reach of the wooden practice sword Cynan had swung at his chest. It missed him by a finger’s breadth. Too close. By Woden, the young Waelisc had grown in skill these past years. Grown in confidence too, from the beaten thrall who had fled Mercia and joined Beobrand’s gesithas.

  Some of the onlookers, those from Cantwareburh, gasped, sure that they were about to see the mighty Beobrand brought down. The watching Northumbrian warriors were not so quick to pass judgement. They had seen these two spar before, and they had watched both men slaughter countless foe-men before them in the heaving fury and horror of shieldwalls. Both men were tall, strong and as fast as thought. And as deadly as a pestilence.

  Cynan could have pressed his attack, Beobrand expected him to, but the younger warrior held back. Beobrand frowned. Was Cynan going easy on him? Beobrand cuffed sweat from his eyes with his forearm and forced a laugh.

  “What is the matter, Cynan? Scared I was ready for your next clumsy attack?”

  In truth he was glad of the short respite. He had felt better after eating some pottage and taking a drink of water, but he had not expected to exert himself in this manner. But the men had been restless, their talk loud and jarring in the great store hall where they’d slept and had broken their fast. Beobrand understood them. They yet smarted over having allowed the pirates to escape, at losing Dalston. They knew their one task had been to protect Oswiu’s emissaries and they had failed. Beobrand spat onto the grass at his feet, already churned and muddy after the opening blows
of this bout with Cynan.

  Beobrand understood well the anger that came from failure. He had all too often tasted the bitterness of his mistakes. Dalston’s death was his fault.

  Cynan seemed unencumbered by any sense of remorse or regret. He laughed and took several quick dancing steps, flourishing his wooden blade in an intricate display of prowess.

  “I thought you might like a rest, lord,” he said, his eyes glimmering in the late-morning sunshine. His breath steamed in the air. It was bright, but the chill of the winter to come was ever present.

  Beobrand spat again. Damn the man. Had Cynan not drunk of the rich ale and heady wine in the hall the night before? Beobrand’s head pounded and the sweat poured from him as if he had been running a long while. It had been his idea for the men to practice their sword-skill, but he had not thought to participate. But as they had left the stale air of the warriors’ barracks behind, Cynan had called out to him in a loud voice. And Beobrand could not ignore the challenge.

  “I thought you just wanted a few moments to prance about like a woman,” he said. Some of the onlookers chortled.

  Without waiting for Cynan to respond, Beobrand sprang forward, leading with his shield, then feinting with his sword at the Waelisc man’s knee. At the last moment, when he was sure that Cynan had committed to parry his sword thrust, he darted to the right, flicking out the light practice blade and rapping it against Cynan’s shoulder.

  Cynan grunted; the smile did not leave his face but Beobrand knew the blow would have hurt. The blades were blunt and not heavy, but neither of the combatants wore any protection. They were stripped to the waist, and were only armed with a wooden sword and a shield apiece.

  A cheer rose from the onlookers. Beobrand heard the hurried whispers of wagers being made.