Fortress of Fury (The Bernicia Chronicles) Read online

  By Matthew Harffy

  The Bernicia Chronicles

  The Serpent Sword

  The Cross and the Curse

  Blood and Blade

  Killer of Kings

  Warrior of Woden

  Storm of Steel

  Fortress of Fury

  Kin of Cain (short story)

  Wolf of Wessex

  A Time for Swords

  FORTRESS OF FURY

  Matthew Harffy

  An Aries book

  www.headofzeus.com

  First published in 2020 by Aries, an imprint of Head of Zeus

  Copyright © Matthew Harffy, 2020

  The moral right of Matthew Harffy to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN HB: 9781786696342

  ISBN ANZTPB: 9781786696359

  ISBN E: 9781786696397

  Head of Zeus Ltd

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.headofzeus.com

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Place Names

  Prologue

  Eoferwic, ad 646

  Part 1: Dangerous Deceits

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Part 2: Sacred Wind

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part 3: Foe-Man or Friend?

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Fortress of Fury

  is for everyone who has read, reviewed and recommended my books.

  Thank you for helping me to realise my dreams.

  If you keep reading, I’ll keep writing. Deal?

  Map

  Place Names

  Place names in Dark Ages Britain vary according to time, language, dialect and the scribe who was writing. I have not followed a strict convention when choosing what spelling to use for a given place. In most cases, I have chosen the name I believe to be the closest to that used in the early seventh century, but like the scribes of all those centuries ago, I have taken artistic licence at times, and merely selected the one I liked most.

  Æscendene

  Ashington, Northumberland

  Afen

  River Avon

  Albion

  Great Britain

  Bebbanburg

  Bamburgh

  Beodericsworth

  Bury St Edmunds

  Berewic

  Berwick-upon-Tweed

  Bernicia

  Northern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Tyne to the Firth of Forth

  Caer Luel

  Carlisle

  Cair Chaladain

  Kirkcaldy, Fife

  Cantware

  Kent

  Cantwareburh

  Canterbury

  Catrice

  Catterick

  Cocueda

  River Coquet

  Dál Riata

  Gaelic overkingdom, roughly encompassing modern-day Argyll and Bute and Lochaber in Scotland and also County Antrim in Northern Ireland

  Deira

  Southern kingdom of Northumbria, running approximately from the Humber to the Tyne

  Din Eidyn

  Edinburgh

  Dor

  Dore, Yorkshire

  Dorcic

  Dorchester on Thames

  Dun

  River Don

  Dyvene

  River Devon

  Ediscum

  Escomb, County Durham

  Elmet

  Native Briton kingdom, approximately equal to the West Riding of Yorkshire

  Engelmynster

  Fictional location in Deira

  Eoferwic

  York

  Frankia

  France

  Gefrin

  Yeavering

  Gillisland

  Gilsland, Northumberland

  Gipeswic

  Ipswich

  Gwynedd

  Gwynedd, North Wales

  Hefenfelth

  Heavenfield

  Hereteu

  Hartlepool

  Hibernia

  Ireland

  Hii

  Iona

  Hithe

  Hythe, Kent

  Ingetlingum

  Gilling, Yorkshire

  Inhrypum

  Ripon, North Yorkshire

  Irthin

  River Irthing, Cumbria

  Liminge

  Lyminge, Kent

  Lindesege

  Lindsey

  Lindisfarena

  Lindisfarne

  Loidis

  Leeds

  Maerse

  Mersey

  Magilros

  Melrose, Scottish Borders

  Mercia

  Kingdom centred on the valley of the River Trent and its tributaries, in the modern-day English Midlands.

  Morðpæð

  Morpeth, Northumberland

  Muile

  Mull

  Neustria

  Frankish kingdom in the north of present-day France, encompassing the land approximately between the Loire and the Silva Carbonaria.

  Northumbria

  Modern-day Yorkshire, Northumberland and south-east Scotland

  Pocel’s Hall

  Pocklington

  Rendlæsham

  Rendlesham, Suffolk

  Rodomo

  Rouen, France

  Sandwic

  Sandwich, Kent

  Scheth

  River Sheaf (border of Mercia and Deira)

  Sea of Giudan

  Firth of Forth

  Snodengaham

  Nottingham

  Soluente

  Solent

  Stanfordham

  Stamfordham, Northumberland

  Sualuae


  River Swale

  Tatecastre

  Tadcaster

  Temes

  River Thames

  Tine

  River Tyne

  Tuidi

  River Tweed

  Ubbanford

  Norham, Northumberland

  Wenspic

  River Wansbeck

  Wihtwara

  Wight (Isle of)

  Wiur

  River Wear

  PROLOGUE

  Eoferwic, AD 646

  Beobrand was yet some way from his destination, but he halted his progress, holding himself still and silent in the darkness. His hand fell to the antler hilt of the seax that hung sheathed from his belt. Perhaps Coenred had been right. Maybe he should not have ventured out alone into the cool night-time shadows of the muddy streets of the walled settlement.

  But surely he was safe here, in the heart of Deira’s capital. He listened for a long while, feeling foolish for his nervousness. Curse Coenred and his anxiety. The young monk had sown the seeds of fear in his mind and now every shadow held an imagined lurking danger.

  A baby wailed, the sound thin and plaintive in the distance. All else was silent. The night was dry and, looking up, there were no clouds to cover the sharp, cold light of the stars and the curved bright blade of the rising moon.

  Shaking his head at his own temerity, he pressed on. Much had changed in Eoferwic these last years, with new buildings being erected and old Roman ruins being repaired and returned to some semblance of their former glory. Some of the houses he passed were unfamiliar to him, but he knew the way well enough.

  He would be at the church soon, and his heart quickened at the prospect of being alone with her, even if just for a few moments. Ever since that evening the week before he had scarcely been able to think of anything else. Her soft hair and the pliant lips that had brushed his filled his mind, blurring the rest of his thoughts behind the heat and brilliance of their memory.

  When the message had arrived earlier that evening, Beobrand had struggled to appear uninterested. The missive had been brought by a hooded man, who slipped back into the darkness as soon as he handed the scrip of vellum to Attor who was guarding the door. The wiry warrior had brought the note to Beobrand. They had peered at the scratchings on the stretched calfskin by the light of the candles in the hall, but neither Beobrand nor any of his gesithas knew how to read the markings that were usually penned by monks and priests. So he had sent for Coenred, who had been able to decipher the meaning of the words easily.

  “It is Latin,” he had said, running his finger over the smooth sheet of vellum. “The writing is clear, the letters well-formed.”

  Beobrand had not wished to know the quality of the penmanship. He had already decided who must have sent the message. She knew how to write and would have surmised he would turn to Coenred to explain the note’s meaning. And they both knew that Coenred would keep their secret; that he would be discreet.

  Beobrand still harboured a simmering rage at Coenred for stumbling upon them the week before. He felt his face grow hot at the memory. Who knew what that night might have held in store if the young monk had not blundered into that quiet corner of the newly built monastery at Hereteu? But in helping them meet secretly this night, Coenred could redeem himself. After all, it had been an accident back in Hereteu, happenstance that had seen them interrupted by the monk after the briefest embrace.

  “What does the message say?” Beobrand had asked, his words coming breathlessly, such was his excitement. He could hardly believe how she made him feel. He was as giddy as a child thinking of her. He had pushed thoughts of her deep down within himself for a long time. Years. But all of his passion and longing had resurfaced, the flames of his desire rekindled by the merest brush of her lips and a warm whisper in his ear.

  Coenred had looked at him, the expression on his face pinched. His delicate fingers had stroked the vellum, flattening it unconsciously as he stared at Beobrand.

  “The words are simple enough, old friend,” he’d said. “Meet at the church at moonrise. Come alone.”

  Joy had flooded through Beobrand. It was already dark and the moon would be up soon. He’d turned to leave, but Coenred had pulled him back, his slender fingers tugging at the woollen sleeve of his kirtle.

  “Beo,” he’d whispered urgently, “do not do this thing. Think of the kingdom if nothing else. Even if you care nought for your own life, think of her. Think of her son… The king’s wrath will destroy you, should he find out what is between you.”

  The young monk had been pale in the flickering light of the candles, his eyes glistening. Beobrand had shrugged off his grip and wheeled on him, anger rising. What did Coenred know of how he felt? It had been so many years since he had dared to feel anything like this. A small voice whispered within him that this was madness, that his friend was right. But Beobrand would not listen. He could not forget the scent of her, the lingering touch of her lips. He would not ignore the chance to be alone with her now.

  “But nobody else knows of this apart from you,” he’d said, his voice a harsh whisper, as threatening as a blade being rasped over a whetstone. “So the king will not find out. Will he?” He’d fixed Coenred with a baleful glower. “Or are you planning on telling him?”

  He was almost at the church now. The newly built stone structure was surrounded by open ground. He would be able to see its bulk when he rounded the next corner, but again, something made him hesitate. He stopped once more, breathing silently through his mouth. There was no sound. No wind stirred. The distant infant’s crying had ceased. So what caused his neck to prickle so? Could Coenred have been right? He had urged Beobrand not to go, or at least to take some of his men with him. “It could be a trap,” he’d said.

  Beobrand had dismissed the younger man’s fears. Who else would have written the message to him, if not her? Few people could write and who, save for her, would believe that he would be able to find someone to read such a message?

  And yet, like an animal sensing unseen hunters, Beobrand’s muscles tensed and bunched, ready for action. He was not so blinded by his lust that he could ignore his instincts; they had kept him alive for too long. He sniffed the air, but could smell nothing save the shit-stink of the mud-slicked streets. Cautiously now, he edged his way forward, keeping his left side close to the wall of the building he was passing.

  He paused and listened.

  Was that the whisper of a voice ahead? He could not be certain. Fingers of dread scratched down his back and he suppressed a shiver. He was sure of it now, there was danger out there in the darkness.

  Silently, he slid his seax from its sheath, wishing now that he had listened to Coenred. He had slipped out alone from the hall where they were staying. Cynan, the tall, trusted Waelisc gesith, had questioned where he was going, rising to his feet as if to follow, but Beobrand had waved him away.

  “Can’t a man piss in peace?” he’d answered and vanished into the night.

  Gods, he was a fool. Alone and with nothing more than a seax to defend him should it come to a fight. Still, he was a match for any man who was stupid enough to attempt to steal his purse. Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from the shadows between the buildings and into the open area before the church. The moon had risen above the shingled roof and the night seemed almost bright after the deep shadows of the sheltered streets.

  Beobrand swept his gaze around the cleared ground. The entrances to streets yawned black as raven’s beaks. Nothing moved. He could see no sign of her, or anyone else, near the church. How had he been so foolish? To think she would have come alone, into the dark streets of Eoferwic. He should turn away now, head back to the warmth of the hall and the camaraderie of his men. But instead, he stepped into the silvered moonlight, making his way towards the church. If there was even the slightest chance she might be there, he could not leave.

  He sighed resignedly when the men stepped out from the shadowed lee of the building. He was unsurprised, though he kn
ew not who they were. Still, he had many enemies and he should have known better than to trust that his wyrd would allow him to find happiness in a secret nocturnal tryst. Cursing himself silently for a fool, he rolled his head, loosening the neck muscles. A pitiful sense of disappointment washed over him, but as quickly as it came, it was smothered by a searing fury. He had come here seeking a love he knew was forbidden to him, a connection he had only dreamed of, but now he faced unnamed assailants in the night. Death and blood were all he would find here.

  Two men closed with him from the church and a quick glance behind showed three more blocked his retreat. In their hands all of them held long, savage blades, steel edges gilded in the moonlight.

  Despite the odds against him, Beobrand grinned savagely, his teeth flashing in the dark. He would be hard-pressed against so many, armed only with a large knife as he was, and yet he felt no fear. He had walked so long with death that it seemed like an old friend to him now. Something in the glint of his eye and the broad smile on his face gave the two men before him pause. They faltered, and in that instant, without any warning, and scarcely aware what he was going to do, Beobrand surged forward. Absently he heard the men behind him begin to run to close the distance. He ignored them. They were too far away yet to be of concern.

  He sped forward with a speed that had undone many an adversary.

  One of the men seemed completely frozen, whether with fear or merely shock, Beobrand did not know, or care. He rushed forward, clasping the wrist of the man’s sword-arm in his mutilated left hand and, without slowing, dragging the deadly edge of his seax across the man’s throat. The blade was sharp and it severed flesh, arteries and cartilage until it scraped against bone. Hot blood gushed over Beobrand’s hand and the man fell away from him, his wrist slipping from Beobrand’s left half-hand as the would-be killer gurgled and choked on his lifeblood.