Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  “Who is this Wilnoth you speak of?”

  “One of Dudoc’s gesithas. A fine hunter, or so they say.” Ferenbald’s eyes twinkled with barely contained jollity. “And I hear he is a jealous one. I am not sure how he would have taken to learning of his wife’s night-time visits to a certain thegn of renown.”

  Beobrand’s mouth grew dry and his face flushed.

  “You… you mean…” he could not find the words.

  Ferenbald laughed, throwing his head back and shaking with mirth. In that moment, he looked just like his father.

  “You thought we did not hear you rutting like lusty boars?” Ferenbald wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Oh, by Christ’s bones, Beobrand,” he said, relenting at the sight of Beobrand’s distraught expression. “I am sorry. You are not the first man to fall under Leofgyth’s spell. But most men are too scared of her husband to accept her advances. You are made of sterner stuff, it seems. The tales of your bravery must all be true.”

  Dreogan stepped up and clapped Beobrand on the shoulder.

  “You needed a good woman to plough, lord. It’s been too long.”

  Beobrand glared at Dreogan and Ferenbald, his anger surging up within him.

  “You knew!” he spat. “She is married and you said nothing.”

  Dreogan made an effort to appear serious, but the tattoo soot lines on his cheeks twitched. Ferenbald stifled any further chuckling and said, “I didn’t think you would have taken kindly to me spoiling your fun.”

  Cynan strode down the length of the ship, walking with sure-footed ease over coils of ropes and past bales and chests.

  “Do not be angered, lord,” he said, a grin spreading across his face. “It is as Dreogan says, you were in need of a good fuck.”

  Beobrand felt foolish. He would never have lain with the wife of another man had he known. But he had seen her in the hall; had seen the keys hanging from her girdle. He had not thought to question her or anyone else. Still, these were his men, his gesithas. If they had known, they should have told him. Was it not their duty? Beobrand was set to reply with an angry retort, but then he noticed Coenred looking on with such a pained expression of disapproval that he could not hold onto his ire. His thoughts turned to Leofgyth’s warm curves, the taste of her kisses, the passion of their coupling and the shuddering relief of climax.

  “You should have told me,” he said, making his tone and face hard. “But I cannot deny that I will remember the warm welcome of Dudoc’s hall for many a year.”

  “It will not be the warm welcome you’ll remember,” laughed Bearn, who, even though they had only just left shore, was already pale, open-mouthed and clutching to the sheer strake. “It will be the warm cunny!”

  Laughter rippled over Brimblæd. Beobrand looked at Coenred. The young monk’s eyes and mouth were wide open in shock. Beobrand could no longer keep up the pretence of seriousness. He laughed with the rest of them as the ship pulled ever further from Hastingas and headed west on a placid sea.

  Chapter 25

  They made good time that day. There was scarcely a cloud in the sky and the breeze was light, without the bite of winter. Spirits were high as Brimblæd sliced through the water of the Narrow Sea. Ferenbald kept them close enough to the coast that he was able to guide them by what he saw. There were the Seven Sisters, great hump-backed hills atop sheer white cliffs that rose high above the sea. He pointed out the barrows and earthen mounds of the old settlement that stood on the brow of one of the Sisters. Ferenbald told Beobrand that soon they would be in the shadow of the isle of the Wihtwara. They travelled west, the land always on the side of the steerboard.

  Ferenbald piloted into the harbour of Bristelmestune and spoke to the fishermen who were fixing their nets on the beach. They had seen Grimr. His three ships had moored there not four days before the storm hit.

  “He’s a wrong ’un, that bastard with the beast-skull helm,” said one of the fishermen. He was bald, with a stubbly grey beard and skin as weathered and lined as old wood. He sucked his lips over the few teeth that nestled, brown and sickly, in his fish-pale gums. Nobody had answered him or asked for more, yet he continued to speak. “He’s not the kind of man one goes in search of,” he said, spitting into the sand. All the while his fingers, old and gnarled as twigs, worked deftly at the nettle-hemp lines, threading through with the help of a worn wooden needle before knotting them and moving on to the next part of the net. Beobrand thought of the Sisters who weaved the wyrd of men. He held back a shudder. “And you with only one ship and him with three,” the old man went on. “I hope you know what it is you will do when you find him. He has some devils in his crew. Black-skinned demons from lands far beyond our ken. Further away than Hibernia, if you can believe it. Make no mistake, they will gut you like mackerel given half a chance.”

  Beobrand stepped forward then, pulling himself up to his full height. Beside him loomed Cynan and the tattooed warrior, Dreogan. All of them bore their weapons and had donned their iron-knit byrnies before coming ashore. Beobrand fixed the man with an ice blue stare. The taut and stretched skin of his scar stood out beneath his left eye. The old fisherman shivered, as if the beach had grown suddenly cooler.

  “We will not give them half a chance,” said Beobrand, his voice as cold and hard as his glaring eyes.

  The fisherman said no more. He looked down at his hands as they continued to work with their uncanny speed and agility, weaving his nets as the gods wove the destinies of men.

  They slept aboard Brimblæd that night. The moon was up and the sky clear, so Ferenbald said they would continue at half sail. Beobrand had struggled to sleep, the creaking of the ship and the rush of water beneath the keel unnerving him rather than lulling him to slumber. In the middle of the night, when the moon was high and bright in the cold sky, Beobrand had fancied he’d heard a wailing, ululating call, echoing up from the deep, through the timbers of the ship. It pierced the still of the night, a plaintive moaning cry that made his skin prickle. This was no sound of man. He lay there for a time, listening. The other-worldly sound came again and Beobrand rose, sure that he would not sleep again that night.

  The night was cold and quiet. The sail flapped against the light breeze as Brimblæd slipped ever westward through the darkness. In its wake trailed a pale line of foam on the black sea. At the prow of the ship was the shadow of one of the crew, looking out for any obstacle or enemy. To stern, Beobrand recognised sad-eyed Cargást at the rudder. Also at the rear of the ship huddled two men. Their whispered voices came to him on the cool air, but he could not make out the words. Wrapping his cloak about him, Beobrand made his way past the shapes of sleeping men towards the two figures. He nodded at the helmsman, receiving a grunt by way of reply.

  The nearer of the two men turned and he recognised the shaved forehead, long hair and slender features of Coenred. The moonlight fell on the face of the other man. It was Brinin. The boy’s wide eyes shone in the night.

  The unearthly cry echoed up from the sea again and Beobrand had to stop himself from shivering.

  “What is that?” asked Brinin, fear sharpening his tone.

  “I know not,” replied Beobrand.

  “Could it be a devil?” said Coenred, his whispers excited and fearful in equal measure. “A night creature from hell?”

  Brinin shuddered.

  “Coenred said it might be the voice of sea-women, calling for us to join them in their watery world.”

  “Did he indeed?” answered Beobrand. “Perhaps it is.” Truth be told, he too feared the strange sound. It conjured up dark images of women swimming up from the depths, seaweed in their hair, beckoning to them to come to them, to feel their cold, wet embrace. He willed himself not to shiver. Scanning the moonlit sea all around them, there was no movement save for the rolling waves. “I think if it were demons come to enslave us, the seamen would be showing more concern. They do not appear to worry. Come, let us ask one who will give us answers.”

  They stepped close to Ca
rgást. He flicked his eyes at them, but did not move, holding the rudder as still as if he were part of the very timbers of the ship.

  “What is that wailing?” asked Beobrand.

  “Nobody rightly knows,” answered the sorrowful-looking helmsman. “Some say it is the singing of women of the deep, calling out for husbands from men of middle earth.”

  Brinin gasped.

  Cargást chuckled quietly.

  “Do not fear, Brinin, they would not want one as skinny and young as you.”

  “You say nobody knows what makes the sounds,” said Beobrand.

  “Nobody I have met.”

  “What do you think it is?”

  Cargást hawked, leant over the side, and spat.

  “I think it is the song of whales.”

  Beobrand searched the dark surface of the sea around them again for sign of one of the great creatures. But the dark surface was unbroken.

  “But we have seen no whales.”

  “No, not this trip. But I have seen plenty in my time. And they are bigger than anything you can imagine. As long and broad as a mead hall. So big that if one sang, I think you would hear its voice halfway across middle earth.”

  For a time they were all silent, listening to the night and the soft sounds of Brimblæd’s hull pushing through the water. Again, they heard the thin, moaning song. Coenred and Brinin stiffened. Coenred made the sign of the Christ rood over his chest and murmured words in the tongue of the Christ followers.

  “You don’t think it is creature of evil then?” Brinin asked.

  “As I said, boy,” replied Cargást with a grin that looked out of place beneath his doleful eyes, “nobody knows what it is, but I will tell you something, I have never seen no watery woman in the sea.” He paused, staring out into the darkness. “And another thing,” he said at last.

  “What?” Brinin asked, eager for reassurance.

  “I have never heard the singing when a storm was nearby, so I would say we are in for a quiet night. That is if you would shut up your chattering and leave a man in peace.”

  Chapter 26

  “I think we have them!” shouted Fraomar from where he stood at Brimblæd’s prow. He had keen eyes and as soon as Ferenbald had announced they would be at Seoles soon, Fraomar had pulled himself up, clinging to the ropes and the carved prow to peer into the misty morning. Beobrand tried to see through the veils of mists that hung over the water, but all he saw were shadows. There was something out there, but his eyes were not sharp enough to make out any details.

  Ferenbald took a quick glance and nodded.

  “I think you’re right,” he said before hurrying back down the ship, barking orders.

  “What do you see?” asked Beobrand, his frustration and lack of sleep adding a sharp edge to his tone.

  “There are ships beached there,” answered Fraomar, jumping down from his perch. “I recognise at least one from when we were attacked. I think we have them.”

  “Arm yourselves,” Beobrand called to his men. Bearn groaned. He had spent much of the night puking and was the colour of the foam that topped the waves that broke before Brimblæd’s bow. But he knew his business and heaved himself up and began to wriggle into his byrnie. Garr, Dreogan, Fraomar and Cynan joined him in his preparations. Attor did not wear a shirt of metal, so there was nothing for him to do apart from check the seaxes sheathed at his belt. His savage grin showed Beobrand he was ready.

  Beobrand went to the leather sack where his gear was stored and began to pull his iron shirt out. It was greasy and cold, but as he shrugged it on, he welcomed its weight on his shoulders. His body thrummed with the anticipation of battle. Thank Woden they had found them so quickly. A sliver of hope came to him then that perhaps the girl would still be whole, unharmed and unsullied. A surge of rage flooded through him as he strapped his belt tightly around his middle, taking some of the heft from his byrnie. He placed his half-hand on Hrunting’s pommel, the touch of the sword familiar and reassuring. It would sing its song of death soon enough.

  All around the preparing warriors, the ship bustled with activity. Ferenbald called out and men responded instantly. Beobrand smiled to see the control the young man had of the vessel. Brimblæd was closer to the beach now, and Beobrand could discern the hulls of ships and boats that were resting there, pulled up beyond the reach of the sea. The mist was clearing as the sun rose. There were a couple of small fires on the beach, their smoke drifting lazily on the soft morning air, mingling with the mist. Men moved about between the fires. Beobrand thought that one waved to the incoming Brimblæd.

  “Beobrand,” said a small voice behind him. He turned from the beach and saw Coenred, his face pale against his dark robes.

  “What is it, Coenred?” he asked. “We will soon be ashore and I must prepare myself for the coming fight, for I doubt they will give up Ardith easily.”

  “That is what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “What do you mean?” Beobrand answered, reaching for the bands of metal he strapped to his shins. “Speak quickly. There is not much time.”

  “I do not think you should fight them,” Coenred said.

  “What?” Beobrand was incredulous. “Why? These men killed Dalston and have taken my daughter. And from all we hear, they are scum. They deserve nothing more than death.”

  Coenred swallowed.

  “That may be so, Beo,” he said, “but look and think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at your gesithas. How many do you see?”

  Beobrand did not need to count them, there were seven warriors aboard counting him. He began to take Coenred’s meaning.

  “So we will be outnumbered,” he said, “it will not be the first time. Besides, they will not be expecting a fight.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. But how many of the three crews we seek are fighting men?” He lowered his voice. “Do you think Ferenbald’s men will stand and fight?”

  Beobrand looked about him. The men were strong, willing and able. They might well fight if pushed to it, but he did not see warriors. They were men of the sea, not the shieldwall. Grimr’s crews had fought with violent abandon when they had boarded Háligsteorra.

  “Seven men against three crews of pirates, Beo,” whispered Coenred. “You will be no use to Ardith dead.”

  The sudden surge of joy at finding their quarry so quickly was replaced with a nagging doubt. No matter his battle-skill and the bravery of his gesithas. Those odds were insurmountable. Was this how the song of Beobrand would end? Cut down by men of no honour on a beach? His body stripped of valuables, his armour and blades sold in some windswept wic somewhere down the coast?

  “What would you have me do?” he asked.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Tell me,” said Beobrand.

  Chapter 27

  “You think this will work, lord?” Cynan whispered, as they trudged along the beach.

  “It might,” replied Beobrand. “But not if you call me ‘lord’ in front of those men.”

  Behind them rested Brimblæd, canted to one side where they had pulled it ashore. Ahead of them were several small vessels on the strand and, beyond them, the larger ships that Fraomar and Ferenbald had recognised as belonging to Grimr’s band of pirates. The morning mist had lifted and the thin smoke from the driftwood cooking fires did not obscure their view of the ships or the men who were camped in their shadow. As they had beached Brimblæd, Beobrand had cursed to see only two of Grimr’s ships. They were hunting three, yet just two were on this beach, sharing the sand with the fishing boats of the village-folk. The largest vessel they sought, the sleek fighting ship with the blood-red sail, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Remember,” said Coenred in a small, pinched voice, “you are my men, guarding me from earthly attacks. And Beobrand is no lord. Not here today.” This had been the young monk’s plan, but now Beobrand wondered at the sense of it. Coenred was pale and clearly terrified.

  “As Coenred says, you wi
ll call me Octa. The name of Beobrand is too well known. And remember, these men have not seen us before today, apart from briefly in battle, and we were armoured then. And we were not aboard Brimblæd. With any luck, they will believe the tale we tell.” He shot a glance at Coenred and frowned. The monk was biting his lip and his eyes flicked this way and that, nervously searching the beach for signs of danger.

  “It is a good plan, Coenred,” he said, lowering his voice so that only his friend would hear him. “But it will only work if you act the part you chose for yourself. You are our master, and you must act as such.”

  Coenred took in a deep steadying breath and nodded. Striding forward, the young monk shouted at them, “Come on, you lazy maggots. I do not wish to tarry here longer than I must. The tide will turn soon and the bishop is expecting us by the holy day of Saint Columba the Virgin.”

  Some of the men gathered around the smoking fires glanced in their direction, clearly curious as to who disturbed them so early in the morning. A few of them rose and Beobrand noticed how they spread out, giving themselves options should the approaching men prove a threat.

  Beobrand caught Cynan’s eye and each of them grinned as they trotted after the monk, their heavy byrnies jingling, swords and seaxes slapping against their thighs. Garr, Bearn, Dreogan, Fraomar and Attor picked up their pace, jogging to keep up. They had chosen to leave their shields and helms aboard Brimblæd, for fear that they would give them away. For surely these men would not have forgotten so easily the bloodletting at the hands of Beobrand’s Black Shields.

  A grizzled man with thick, meaty ears and a wide, crooked nose, stepped forward. Some of the men who had stood joined him, their hands menacingly resting on the hilts of their seaxes. A couple held short axes. One of them, a slim man with the features of a weasel, slapped the iron head of his axe into the palm of his hand. Beobrand fixed him with a cold glare, but the weasel’s eyes were devoid of emotion as he continued to whack the metal into his hand over and again.