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
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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
Te
mes
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 knew 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.