STORM OF STEEL
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
SHORT STORIES
Kin of Cain
STORM OF STEEL
Matthew Harffy
AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS
www.ariafiction.com
First published in 2019 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus
Copyright © Matthew Harffy, 2019
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.
9 7 5 3 1 2 4 6 8
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781786696380
Jacket Design: Rory Kee
Author Photo: © Stephen Weatherly
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Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Map of Southern Albion and Northern Frankia
Place Names
Part One: Low Tides and Ill Tidings
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
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Part Two: Warm Welcomes on the Whale Road
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part Three: Despite and Despair
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Part Four: Wreck and Reckoning
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Part Five: Oaths Fulfilled
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Historical Note
Acknowledgements
About the author
Become an Aria Addict
Map of Southern Albion and Northern Frankia
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.
Addelam
Deal, Kent
Æscendene
Ashington, Northumberland
Afen
River Avon
Albion
Great Britain
Baetica
Southern region of the Iberian peninsula, loosely corresponding to modern-day Andalusia.
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
Bristelmestune
Brighton
Caer Luel
Carlisle
Cabilonen
Chalon-sur-Saône
Cair Chaladain
Kirkcaldy, Fife
Cantware
Kent
Cantwareburh
Canterbury
Carrec Dún
Carrock Fell, Cumbria
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
Dommoc
Dunwich, Suffolk
Dor
Dore, Yorkshire
Dorcic
Dorchester on Thames
Dun
River Don
Dyvene
River Devon
Elmet
Native Briton kingdom, approximately equal to the West Riding of Yorkshire
Engelmynster
Fictional location in Deira
Eoferwic
York
Frankia
France
Gefrin
Yeavering
Gernemwa
Great Yarmouth, Norfolk
Gipeswic
Ipswich
Gwynedd
Gwynedd, North Wales
Hastingas
Hastings
Hefenfelth
Heavenfield
Hibernia
Ireland
Hii
Iona
Hithe
Hythe, Kent
Inhrypum
Ripon, North Yorkshire
Liger
Loire River
Liminge
Lyminge, Kent
Lindesege
Lindsey
Lindisfarena
Lindisfarne
Loidis
Leeds
Maerse
Mersey
Mercia
Kingdom centred on the valley of the River Trent and its tributaries, in the modern-day English Midlands.
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)
Secoana
River Seine
Seoles
Selsey, Sussex
Snodengaham
Nottingham
Soluente
Solent
Stanfordham
Stamfordham, Northumberland
Tatecastre
Temes
Tadcaster
River Thames
Tenet Waraden
Tenterden, Kent
Tuidi
River Tweed
Ubbanford
Norham, Northumberland
Wihtwara
Wight (Isle of)
Anno Domini Nostri Iesu Christi
In the Year of Our Lord Jesus Christ
643
Part One
Low Tides and Ill Tidings
Ne mæg werig mod wyrde wiðstondan
The weary spirit cannot withstand wyrd
“The Wanderer”, author unknown – The Exeter Book
Chapter 1
Beobrand had never known such terror and misery before that foul night.
His stomach clenched and heaved, but all he could manage to bring up was a thin string of spittle and bile. He hawked and spat into the leaden, opaque waves that caused the ship to list and roll.
The storm had caught Háligsteorra’s master ill-prepared and too far from the shelter and safety of land and they had been buffeted and blown far out into the North Sea. They had lost sight of their escort as the sky had grown bruised and full of anger. Sharp flickers of lightning had lit the white-fretted waves and the terrified faces of the men who clung to the fragile timbers of the ship as the furious sea crashed over its wales and thwarts. The winds had made the taut ropes thrum and the mast bend, despite the sail having been furled and secured.
To start with, Beobrand had looked to the master, an old, leathery-faced man who exuded confidence and experience, and had believed such a veteran seaman must surely know how to deal with the squall. But, as the wind-lashed, wave-soaking night had dragged on and after one hapless sailor, a young lad that had reminded Beobrand of Tondberct, had been washed overboard, to disappear into the dark ocean without so much as a scream to be heard over the roaring ire of the storm, Beobrand’s faith in the captain had waned. The ship had begun to rapidly fill with water and all of them had bailed out as quickly as they were able. More than once, Beobrand had puked into the hold as he had scooped the chill water out and flung it over the side.
Utta and the other Christ priests and monks lent their own energies to the task of trying to keep the vessel afloat. Utta even led them in prayer to their nailed god. Before he became overcome with sickness, Utta produced a flask of oil that he said had been given to him by Abbot Aidan of Lindisfarena.
“Our Father of the Holy Isle foretold this storm,” Utta said, his face white and his voice tremulous. “He told me to pour this oil upon the troubled waves and all would become calm.”
Everyone paused to watch as he trickled the holy oil over Háligsteorra’s side. But nothing happened. The wind continued to rock the ship terribly and the cold waters still sluiced over the sides.
Coenred smiled at Beobrand, perhaps trying to show he wasn’t scared. But his pallid skin and pinched features told the truth of it. He was fearful for his life and Beobrand thought no less of the monk for it. He had stood in the gut-spilt, stench-filled clamour of shieldwalls and had faced great swordsmen in deadly combat, but he was terrified, sure that this wind-tossed sea would send them all to their doom.
The Christ neither listened to the monks’ supplications nor paid heed to the magical oil. The storm did not abate and they were tossed about on the surface of the sea like a twig thrown into a rushing stream. The skipper wrestled with the steerboard until it came adrift from the frame that attached it to the side of the ship, leaving them adrift, at the mercy of the elements and the gods.
Beobrand pulled a large chunk of hacksilver from his pouch and threw it far out into the darkness. It winked as a flash of distant lightning caught it and then it vanished. He hoped that was a good sign and that the gods of the ocean had accepted his offering. Muttering the words so that none could hear over the raging torment of the night, he offered the gods the silver and the life of the boy who had looked like Tondberct. The boy was already dead, but perhaps his could be a sacrifice that would save his shipmates.
Whether it was Woden and his children, or the Christ god who responded to their desperate pleas, Beobrand knew not, but as the dawn painted the horizon like an iron sword blade, the storm’s vehemence fled. The waves began to lessen in their ferocity and Beobrand believed, for the first time since dusk, that they might actually survive.
“Sails ahoy!” shouted a voice and Beobrand pushed himself up from where he had been leaning over the side of the ship.
Peering into the early morning gloom, Beobrand at first saw nothing but endless foam-flecked waves. But then, as the ship rolled down once more into a gully between two peaks of water, he saw three dark-sailed ships cutting through the water towards them. The sail of the foremost ship was a dark blood red. These were not the vessels that had been escorting them southward.
“Those ships mean us no goodwill,” said the skipper. “They be raiders, or I’m a Waelisc man! The gods alone know how they have ridden out that storm.” He spat over the side. He scanned the horizon in all directions and Beobrand followed his gaze. There was no sign of their escort or land.
Beobrand pushed himself up. Bassus reached out his one arm, his right, and hauled Beobrand to his feet. Bassus looked old, his beard and hair rimed with white, as if salt from the sea had dried there. His face was the colour of week-old hearth ash.
“I hate sailing,” the giant warrior growled, “always have. The sea and the sickness is bad enough, now there are pirates too. Why couldn’t we have ridden? You know where you are with a horse.”
“Yes,” replied Beobrand, pausing to spit once more to clear his mouth of the sour taste of vomit, “for we never get attacked when we are on land, do we, old man?”
Bassus grunted.
“At least on land we can run away.”
Beobrand raised an eyebrow.
“But we never do, do we?”
Bassus appraised him for a moment, before offering him a thin grin.
“True, but if we get knocked down on land, we don’t sink and drown.”
“Then we must do our best not to get knocked down.”
Around them a few of the sailors were pulling weapons from chests. They produced knives, seaxes and short axes. Despite their toughness and resilience, these were not fighting men and Beobrand wondered whether they would even put up any resistance to those who came sliding towards them in the sleek-prowed ships atop the surf. He glanced about them once more, in the opposite direction of the rising sun, but the horizon was still empty of land and any other vessels.
By Woden and all the gods, where were the escorts? Most of the fighting men were there. Wynhelm and his men rode in one ship, and that fat bastard Fordraed and his gesithas in the other. What few warriors Beobrand had been permitted to bring were in this ship, along with Utta, Coenred and the other monks. But Oswiu was concerned about his power and so had forbade him and Bassus having more than half a dozen men accompany them south. The raiders were closing fast. If all three pirate crews attacked at once, they would surely be overrun.
“Captain,” snapped Beobrand. “Do you mean to leave us here wallowing like pigs in shit awaiting our wyrd?”
For an instant Beobrand wondered whether the grizzled mariner had heard him, and then, as if awoken from a deep sleep with a splash of cold water, the skipper shook his head and began shouting orders.
His crew was experienced and the men knew what they were about. In a few heartbeats they were rushing over the ship, repairing rigging and preparing to outrun their attackers. The captain called to one of the older sailors who quickly ran over, his bare feet steady on the heaving deck.
“Fix the steerboard.”
The old man nodded and set to his task.
&nb
sp; “Well,” said Beobrand in a hushed voice, “will we be able to escape them?”
The captain gauged the speed of the incoming vessels and looked up at the clouds above them.
“I doubt it,” he said, in a voice meant only for Beobrand, “but we’ll give it a good try. We are not travelling heavy, so we might yet give them a run they won’t forget. But if they catch us, there will be nothing for it. They’ll board us and take what they want. We’ll be lucky if they leave us with our lives. To fight them when we are so few would be folly.”
Beobrand glowered at him, his expression as dark and brooding as the sky.
“Do I seem like a man to surrender without a fight?”
The sailor looked up to meet Beobrand’s icy gaze, taking in the scar beneath the huge thegn’s left eye, the thick neck and broad shoulders. After a moment he swallowed and dropped his gaze.
“Come on, you whoresons,” he bellowed. “Get that sail aloft and get the oars in the tholes. Or do you want to be buggered by those bastards?”
Beobrand looked over to where Cynan was struggling into his byrnie. The Waelisc warrior was jumping up and down with his arms upstretched. Beside him, grim-faced Dreogan had strapped on his sword belt and hefted his black shield, but he had not donned his own metal shirt.
“I may die from a sword thrust or the barb of a spear,” he said, his tattooed cheeks pulling into a grimace, “but I will not be dragged into the depths of the ocean by the weight of an iron-knit shirt.” He placed his helm onto his bald head.