Storm of Steel

by Matthew Harffy

  A woman screamed in Coenred’s face, her breath foetid and dank. He did not understand the words, but she proffered a greasy hunk of meat at him, its juices trickling down her bony, dirt-encrusted fingers. Coenred’s stomach heaved. Attor pushed the woman away. He grasped a handful of Coenred’s robe and tugged him along in the wake of the men carrying the invalid on the makeshift stretcher. Feologild’s servant trotted behind them. In this way, keeping close to the men who barged their way through the throng before the crowds closed in again behind them, Coenred, Attor and Gadd were able to get near the steps of the church.

  They passed all manner of sickness and disease. Faces with festering sores, flesh black and sickly sweet with the wound rot, the blind and the raving, eyes rolling around in their heads and foam frothing at their lips. For a hideous, stomach-twisting moment Coenred wondered whether this was not punishment for his sins. Perhaps God had created this hell on middle earth for his torment. Or maybe he had already died somehow, unshriven and unforgiven and this was in fact the domain of the devil. For surely, apart from the biting cold, this was hell.

  But soon enough they had reached the steps that rose up to the huge timber doors of the church. There were guards there, holding back the crowds with crossed spears. One of the warriors shouted at the throng as they shoved. Again, Coenred could not comprehend the Frankish words, but the venom in the man’s tone made him sure they were not words of forgiveness and love such as the Christ would have spoken to the poor and infirm.

  Gadd had caught the angry guard’s attention and spoken a few words and after only a brief moment of hesitation, the guard had given the order to his men to let them pass. They had walked up the stone steps, rising out of the shade of the surrounding buildings and into the cool afternoon sunshine that reached the uppermost steps and this western facade of the church. They had stood there, blinking and breathless, gazing down at the heaving sea of sickness and desperation. So many ill, so many needing care, seeking a miracle. Coenred had swallowed against the lump in his throat and rubbed a hand over his face. He was a healer. One of the best of the Northumbrian brethren. Had God sent him to this place with a purpose? Surely it must be so. This was not his personal hell, this was his salvation. He would show his penitence by giving succour to the poor and the lost. Taking a deep breath, Coenred had stepped back down towards the shadows and the swaying tides of pilgrims. But a hand had pulled him close. Attor. The warrior had given a small shake of his head and then indicated to where the great doors of the church had opened, letting out a slim figure of a young man. The newcomer was a cleric dressed in black robes. He had stepped into the afternoon light and ushered them inside.

  Unlike Coenred, the man’s hair was shaved at the top of his head, making his hair like a crown about the bald pate. But he smiled at Coenred as one brother in Christ to another. He glanced at Attor, taking in the rood necklace he wore about his throat and nodded his approval.

  For a moment, Coenred did not move. The noise of the crowd pulled him back. Screams and shouts, bellowed exhortations aimed at the two holy men on the steps. Surely God had sent him here to tend to His flock. But Attor had kept a firm grip on his robe and shook his head again.

  “This is what we came for,” he whispered close to Coenred’s ear, and, as if he could perceive what Coenred was thinking, “you cannot heal them all.”

  Coenred had sighed and reluctantly followed the priest into the dark stillness of the stone church.

  Once inside the priest pushed shut the thick iron-studded doors. With the doors closed behind them, muffling the cacophony of the crowd to a dull roar, like a storm raging in a distant forest, or waves crashing on a far beach, the clergyman turned to Coenred, speaking quickly and animatedly. Coenred held up his hand to halt the man’s tirade. At the same moment Feologild’s man said something in Frankish, presumably that Coenred did not speak their tongue. The priest nodded, paused with a slight frown. Then he spoke again, but this time in a strongly accented Latin. Coenred had never been the best student, and he still remembered old Fearghas’ despair at his lack of attention, but he had grown to be a good scribe and his grasp of Latin was now better than he would ever have imagined all those years before when Fearghas had needed to punish him almost daily.

  “The boy here tells me you are come from Albion?” the man said.

  “Yes,” Coenred replied, also in Latin. “I am of the brethren of the holy island of Lindisfarena.”

  The man turned to stare at him, the light of candles glittering in his widened eyes.

  “You have travelled very far indeed then. And what brings you to Rodomo?”

  They walked further into the gloom of the church. The noise of the crowd outside subsided to a murmured memory.

  “That is a very long story,” said Coenred. “I had hoped to speak with the bishop.” He swallowed and ran his long fingers through the hair that hung down to his neck. “I would like him to hear my confession.”

  “I am afraid that will be impossible today. His Excellence Bishop Audoen is otherwise engaged.”

  Coenred was unable to hide his dismay. He had not dared to believe he would be allowed to speak with the bishop on such a day and with no prior arrangement, but after the ease with which they had gained entry into the church, he had begun to hope.

  “Do not be downhearted,” the cleric went on. “If you are in need, I would hear your confession.”

  Coenred frowned, confused.

  “Are you a bishop then?” For Coenred had heard that the Christ followers on the continent only allowed bishops to hear confession.

  The priest smiled.

  “No, I am no bishop. My name is Walaric and I am vicar here at Our Most Holy Lady of the Assumption.”

  “Then how can you hear my confession? Is it not the case that only bishops can hear confession and offer penance?”

  “That was true, friend, until the Council at Cabilonen. There, new canons were agreed.”

  Coenred tried to make sense of the words. He knew nothing of this Council, but back in Lindisfarena, priests would hear each other’s confessions. He longed for the release of forgiveness. Penance and absolution.

  “My confession would be secret, as if I spoke directly to God?” Coenred asked. His voice wavered slightly and he knew that his words might make Walaric suspicious for what he was about to tell him.

  They had reached the altar now. An ornate silver cross stood there. Walaric held Coenred’s gaze for what seemed a long while, as if he was weighing up the young monk’s sins. At last he nodded.

  “Of course, brother,” he said. “The seal of the confession is sacred and cannot be broken.”

  Relief rushed through Coenred, making him light-headed. He could be free of this guilt. He let out a long, shuddering breath.

  “Very well, Walaric,” he said, “I accept your offer to hear my confession and I thank you.”

  Leaving Attor and Gadd to wait for them by the altar, Coenred and Walaric made their way into a small chapel at the rear of the church.

  A wooden bench was propped against the wall, a sliver of dull, winter afternoon light trickled through a small window. Walaric seated himself and motioned for Coenred to do the same.

  Making the sign of Christ’s cross over his body, Walaric said, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Coenred moved his hand automatically, head, chest, left shoulder, right shoulder. The words came bubbling up from within him too, as if they had been straining behind a dam.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It is many weeks since my last confession. And these are my sins.”

  The light had dimmed to dusk outside by the time he had finished. He stood up quickly, as if his body was lighter now, allowing him to move more freely. He had told Walaric everything – the lustful thoughts of Leofgyth in Hastingas, lying about who he was to the men at Seoles, and then striking the priest and stealing the reliquary. He felt as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. But there was more
than that. He was giddy, almost light-headed, thrilling now with the certainty that God had meant him to come to this place; that he had been right to turn away from the poor and sick thronging outside the church. For Walaric had not only offered him penance to absolve him of his many sins, the priest had given him something so unexpected and valuable that it was all Coenred could do not to run from the church yelling.

  When he emerged from the chapel, his excitement must have been plain on his face, for Attor leapt up from where he was sitting in the gloom beside the dozing servant.

  “What is it?” Attor asked.

  “Come,” said Coenred, without waiting, already half-running down the nave towards the double doors, “we must find Beobrand immediately.”

  Attor frowned in confusion, but followed without hesitation. Together they rushed out into the gathering night of the city.

  Chapter 45

  “Do you think Vulmar will listen to you?” asked Cynan. His voice was hushed, though why he bothered lowering his tone, Beobrand could not understand. They might as well have shouted for all the interest being paid them by the people in the hall. A sudden guffaw of laughter, like the harsh croak of a raven, made Beobrand start. The hairs on his neck prickled.

  “He will listen to me,” he said, forcing calmness into his voice; a certainty he did not feel.

  On the bench beside him Brinin fidgeted and squirmed. Beobrand placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “Easy,” he said. “Never show your enemy you’re nervous. Here, drink.” He reached for one of the fine glass beakers that rested on the linen-draped board. When they had first been invited to wait here at the end of the long hall, Beobrand had sipped of the dark liquid in a show of relaxed insouciance. The wine was wonderful, rich and warm as blood. Brinin gulped the contents of the glass and Beobrand pulled at his arm. “Easy, now. Do not make me regret allowing you to come with us.”

  The boy’s cheeks flushed and he bit his lower lip.

  On the lad’s left, Dreogan smiled through a mouthful of some dainty pastry that had been offered to them by a pretty slave girl.

  “Try one of these, boy,” he said, spitting crumbs. “It’ll settle your nerves.”

  Brinin gaped at the usually scowling warrior. Dreogan’s chewing made the soot lines on his cheeks writhe like serpents. Brinin shook his head and murmured something about not being hungry.

  Garr, Fraomar and Bearn seemed to have no such problem, and they each took handfuls of the sweetmeats and pastries proffered on silver platters.

  Beobrand looked at Bearn askance.

  “Did you not eat your fill at Feologild’s?” he asked.

  “Well, I had saved some space for more ale and mead, but you told us not to drink any more.” He picked up another treat and popped it into his mouth. Crumbs flecked his beard and he brushed his fingers through the hair. “You are not going to tell me I shouldn’t eat now too, are you, lord?”

  Beobrand snorted, shaking his head.

  “Good,” said Bearn. “I’ve puked so much these past days at sea, I feel I could eat my own weight in meat.”

  “Don’t get so full you can’t fight,” said Beobrand.

  Fraomar shot him a glance.

  “You expecting trouble then?” he asked.

  “I always expect trouble,” said Beobrand. “No matter where I am, I always seem to find it.”

  “Well, let’s hope this Lord Vulmar listens to you,” said Cynan, taking the smallest of sips of his wine. He scanned the hall, and Beobrand followed the Waelisc warrior’s gaze, taking in the laughing men and women, the thralls and servants, the guards at the doors and the nobles in their finery, sitting at the high table around Vulmar himself. “If Vulmar does not wish to listen to you, and there really is trouble, we might as well eat and drink now, for we won’t fare well. We are too few to make much of a stand if it came to that.”

  Beobrand made himself smile, despite the chill he felt. He wasn’t sure Cynan did not see through his bluff. There was a sharp intelligence behind those Waelisc eyes. And ever since the fight at the Wall, and Sulis, Beobrand often felt the weight of Cynan’s judgement of him.

  “Don’t forget,” he said, “Vulmar sent for us. If he did not wish to talk, why bother?”

  Cynan did not reply, instead taking another sip of wine and offering Beobrand a twisted expression someway between a smirk and a glower.

  Beobrand couldn’t deny he shared Cynan’s concerns. The uncertainty of their situation, in a foreign land, surrounded by intrigue and powerful foes, had threatened to engulf him as they’d ridden to Vulmar’s palace.

  Feologild had loaned them horses from his stable and the six of them had followed Vulmar’s messenger and a small escort of armed warriors through the busy city as the sun sank in the grey western sky. Their escorts all bore cloaks of yellow, which clearly marked them out as men of Vulmar. The lord’s power was evident and he was obviously feared. The people of Rodomo parted before them without complaint. They looked away or cast their gaze downward, so as not to catch the eye of one of Vulmar’s guards or the visitors to the city who rode behind them.

  They had soon ridden far from the bustling crowds and after passing through an area of crumbling ruins, all fallen columns and spindly winter weeds, they had reached a whitewashed wall that surrounded a collection of buildings. The wall was high and in good repair. They rode along its length until they came to a great gate, stout oak reinforced with iron. More yellow-cloaked guards allowed them entry and they had been admitted into a courtyard. In the distance, from the city, came the doleful clangour of a bell. At Beobrand’s questioning look, the messenger, swinging down from his saddle, had said, “It is the bell of Our Lady. It calls the faithful to prayer.”

  Beobrand had looked at the watery setting sun and thought of Coenred, wondering fleetingly how the monk fared. Better than us, riding into the dragon’s lair, he’d thought.

  They had dismounted and the horses were led into a large stable on one side of the courtyard. On the other side of the enclosure was a massive structure, built of sandstone and red brick, its roof shingled in ruddy clay tiles. It was grander than any hall he had ever seen. The courtyard was lined with statues and carefully trimmed plants and bushes, reminding Beobrand of the hall of King Eorcenberht in Cantwareburh. Both buildings must have been constructed by those long-vanished giants of Roma, but as with everything here in Rodomo, Vulmar’s palace was more grandiose than what Beobrand had seen in Albion, more redolent of riches. They had needed to hand over their weapons at the entrance and had then been ushered into a huge hall. Stone columns ran down the building’s length, like a forest of petrified trees, reaching up to arch their stone branches to the ceiling.

  The hall was filled with noise and the sour-sweet scents of a feast. And all the people gathered there seemed to Beobrand to be beautiful. Their hair shone and their clothing glowed. Gold and silver glittered from the light of candles and braziers that warded off the gathering gloaming of dusk. Beobrand felt shabby and dirty in his travel-stained breeches, kirtle and cloak. He looked over his men, imagining what these nobles of Frankia would see. Bearded, broad-shouldered, greasy-haired brutes. Fearsome in battle perhaps, but here, surrounded by wealth and silks, they stood out like a handful of flint pebbles in a box of gold and pearls.

  The messenger had offered them places at the table furthest from the lord of the hall and his retinue. Beobrand, now a mighty thegn in his adopted home of Bernicia, had grown accustomed to being seated at the high table. He had the ear of kings and was one of the richest men in the north of Albion. To be so obviously snubbed would usually have kindled his infamous temper. He would have strode down the hall and demanded to be given the respect due to one of his station. But now, with the salt of the sea still griming his beard, and his clothes stiff with dried sweat and dirt, he had merely nodded and allowed his men to be seated close to the doors. The messenger had walked the length of the hall and leaned in to speak to Vulmar. The lord, a squat, broad-faced m
an, with dark, gimlet eyes, had gazed down at Beobrand and his gesithas for the briefest of moments before dismissing the messenger with a flick of his hand. He had turned back to the man at his right and continued his conversation.

  Shame and indignation had rippled through Beobrand, but as he sat, he’d forced a smile for his men. He had felt Cynan’s gaze upon him then, incredulity in the arch of his brows. Beobrand had ignored him.

  “It seems we shall have to wait a while,” he had said, in a cheery tone. “But the food looks good, and I think we can allow ourselves a little of this wine.”

  If the rest of his gesithas felt his discomfort, or if they too noticed the implied insult from Vulmar’s lack of acknowledgement of their lord, they said nothing. Perhaps they too felt out of place, shabby and dirty in this hall of splendour. Cynan’s gaze lingered though, needling Beobrand.

  The evening wore on and Beobrand and his men grew weary of smiling and acting as though nothing was wrong.

  Brinin drank the rest of the goblet of wine and his cheeks grew red. His eyes gleamed and he began to raise his voice in indignation at their treatment. He leaned across the board for a pitcher of wine to fill his glass, but Beobrand pulled it from his reach.

  “No more wine for you, Brinin,” he said. “You will eat and you will be silent.”

  The boy opened his mouth, perhaps readying an angry retort, but one icy look from Beobrand was enough to silence him. He looked down at the stained linen cloth on the table before him, his eyes sullen, his lips quivering.

  Beobrand sighed. He was just a child. And everything was felt more keenly by children. Without warning he thought of Octa, saw in his mind’s eye his son’s earnest eyes, his fragile slender limbs. He missed the boy. They had never been close, but Octa was his son and to imagine him in Oswiu’s hall, far away and lonely, filled him with anxiety. Gods, how had it come to this? And he had not one, but two children. Suddenly, as if awoken from a deep sleep, Beobrand’s anger roused within him, instant and terrible as lightning. Ardith too was a child, by Woden. What was he doing sitting here, cowed and passive, while the man he believed had her prisoner drank and ate and laughed with his silk-draped and jewel-festooned cronies?