Better than Gold

by Theresa Tomlinson

  Egfrid sighed. He wished they’d brought Woodruff instead, but he thanked them politely as Chad gathered up the vellum rolls and sealed inkhorns, and put them carefully into his leather scrip.

  The sounding of horns announced the final meal. Eanfleda kissed her son again and Egfrid’s brief moment with his parents was over. They made their way to the great hall and took their places for the last feast.

  The following morning, Alchfled was given a box of jewels and a gift of land from Prince Beorn, as her morning-gift. This finalised the wedding ceremony and made them husband and wife, for good or ill. The bride blushed and smiled in a way that surprised Egfrid. Perhaps it would not be so bad a thing to have his sister with him at the Mercian court.

  Queen Eanfleda came to him as the Mercians mounted up to leave. ‘Dear boy, stay strong and pray to the Christ-God that you will soon be released. I pray for it every day.’

  ‘I will be strong, Mother,’ he agreed.

  Then she dropped her voice and whispered, ‘Don’t fret that your father doesn’t come to say farewell. He cannot bear to let them see that he suffers by your exile…and he does suffer greatly. He is deeply humiliated to see you as Penda’s foster-son.’

  Egfrid swallowed hard. ‘But I am not humiliated by it. Queen Cynewise is my friend.’

  ‘Yes.’ Eanfleda nodded. ‘She is a good woman, almost as good as her sister. If only she knew the true faith then she would be truly good.’

  This mild criticism of the Mercian queen rankled. Egfrid kissed his mother and swung himself up onto Golden-mane’s back, feeling strangely eager to ride away.

  The journey-mead was drunk, horns blared, and the Mercian cavalcade moved off. Egfrid saw tears on his sister’s cheek and urged his horse forward to ride at her side.

  ‘Don’t fear, sister,’ he said. ‘I have much to show you at Tamworth.’

  ‘Dear, brave little brother,’ she said. ‘You will be a comfort to me. Will you come to pray with me in Mercia? I mean to build a Christian church on the land that Beorn has given me—will you help with my plans?’

  Egfrid smiled reassuringly at her, but when she fell silent he allowed his horse to drop back to ride beside Chad and Fritha.

  ‘I tried to cheer my sister,’ he told the monk. ‘But I think you could bring her more comfort than me.’

  Chad urged his mare forward, while Egfrid fell in with Fritha.

  ‘How is that hound of yours doing?’ she asked.

  Egfrid smiled. ‘He comes whenever I call.’

  They reached Tamworth just in time for the Night of the Dead, the feast that the Christians called All Hallows Eve. Alchfled refused to take part in the pagan celebration and suggested that Egfrid come to her small private hall to pray. Aware of the disappointment on the boy’s face, Beorn offered to stay with his bride instead.

  ‘I wish I could see the Night of the Dead,’ Egfrid told Chad, once they were out of his sister’s hearing. ‘Fritha says there will be dancing after dark and fires lit on the hillside. I would not worship the death-goddess. I would only watch to see what happens.’

  Chad thought for a moment. ‘I’ll come with you,’ he said. ‘We may both learn something. To know about such things is part of your education, I think.’

  Egfrid grinned. ‘I’ll be safe with you and Dapple,’ he said.

  The Mercians baked cakes and carried them to the shrine of Hella, the death-goddess. Though the food and drink were meant for the dead, they seemed to be eaten by the living, and once darkness fell wild music and dancing began. The boy and the monk sat on the shadowy hillside with Dapple at their side and watched, faint smiles upon their faces.

  Blood-month followed and just as in Bernicia, the cattle were slaughtered and butchered, their carcases salted or smoked. Only the breeding cows were saved for spring. Every hut and dwelling had joints and haunches hanging above the fires. The weather grew cold and Yule was celebrated with more fires, feast and drinking. The guards no longer stood outside Egfrid’s guest house.

  CHAPTER 11

  A Coward’s Act

  All through the winter Egfrid trained, and no amount of ice or snow provided an excuse. His determination to succeed was strengthened whenever Penda rewarded him with a nod or grunt of approval. As the days lengthened, an exhilarating new sensation of bodily strength came to the boy. His spear flew further and hit its mark more often. The muscles in his body grew hard, so that swinging an axe and lifting a shield became easier. On rare, wonderful occasions he managed to knock Ranulf down, and once he caught Sigurd off-guard and landed a well-aimed blow. His teacher got up, looking startled, while Ranulf laughed.

  In the early days his sister called him to her chamber and made him kneel to pray, but those times grew rarer. More often than not, it was Chad who went to pray with both Beorn and his bride. The Mercian prince took his promise to study Christianity seriously.

  Penda watched his son with brooding concern, and sometimes tempered his newfound enthusiasm for the Christ-God with a few sharp warnings. ‘It’s all well and good to speak of forgiveness and peace,’ he said. ‘But can these Christians really forgive? I think not! I have still to see a warrior turn the other cheek, when he’s attacked. And is it honourable? To my mind, a man who proclaims one thing and does another is without honour.’

  Beorn nodded thoughtfully. ‘But look at Chad,’ he protested. ‘He was brought here by force, but has forgiven us and become our friend. Is that not impressive?’

  ‘Chad is an exception,’ said Penda gloomily.

  As Easter-month approached, Beorn announced that he wanted to present his bride to the kingdom of the Middle Angles.

  ‘I shall rule them as a Christian king,’ he said. ‘Alchfled wishes us to send for Chad’s older brother Cedd, soon to be made a bishop.’

  Penda shrugged. ‘My children have free will,’ he said. ‘I gave my word. My word is my honour.’

  So messages were sent north and Cedd arrived at the beginning of Gentle-month. He was welcomed warmly by Chad, and courteously by most of the Mercians, but Woden’s priest was clearly relieved when he set off for Lichfield in the train of the new king and queen of the Middle Angles.

  Egfrid’s training progressed and Penda presented him with a rune-marked, pattern-forged sword, specially made for him. It was light in weight and slightly shorter than most weapons, but it was a warrior’s sword, fit for a king’s son, and Egfrid was proud of it.

  ‘Learn how to use it,’ Penda told him.

  So Sigurd’s training took a new and more serious turn.

  Beorn and Alchfled had only been gone a few days when dust rising in the north announced more visitors. Uncertain as to what this might mean, Egfrid and Chad went with the king and queen to meet the new arrivals. Prince Ethelwald and a large party of Deiran thanes rode into the courtyard, their clothes mud-stained and horses lathered, as if they were pursued.

  ‘Ill news, ill news!’ they shouted.

  ‘What brings you riding like the Wild Hunt to our gates?’ Penda asked.

  Ethelwald leapt from his horse, his face flushed and furious. He glanced around the curious, assembled company until his eyes lighted on Egfrid.

  ‘His father…’ he cried, pointing at the boy. ‘His father has betrayed all honour, all decency and is unworthy to be a king. He has taken Deira from Oswin the Good by treachery!’

  Chad stepped between Ethelwald and Egfrid, his hand moving to the hilt of his knife. Penda stared from one to the other, astounded, as did Cynewise. Egfrid’s stomach lurched and his courage drained to his boots.

  ‘Whatever the father has done, the boy is not to blame,’ the queen said.

  ‘Indeed. Egfrid is still my foster-son—have a care how you insult him,’ Penda warned, his voice low and threatening.

  But anger blazed in Ethelwald’s eyes. ‘Wait till you hear what Faint-heart has done! Oswin the Good is dead, and by Oswy Iding’s hand.’

  ‘Are you telling us that Oswy has made a challenge for Deira?’


  ‘Oh, he’s challenged him, yes, but Oswin did not have the chance to die honourably in battle. He was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? How?’ Penda demanded.

  ‘In cold blood,’ Ethelwald insisted. ‘Oswy gathered a great army, with Picts and Scots at his back, and rode into Deira calling on Oswin to hand over his throne.’

  ‘By Woden!’ Penda swore. ‘What did the lad do?’

  ‘He gathered his warriors together—and I for one went to his aid—but when Oswin saw the size of the Bernician war-host, he backed off, saying he would not fight an unwinnable battle and bring so many of his countrymen to their deaths. You know he has never been a great warrior, but—’

  ‘But he’s an honourable man and I put him on that throne,’ Penda growled. ‘So do you say he ran from them?’

  ‘No. He called for negotiations and took refuge with Hunwald, a local thane, who he thought was his friend.’

  ‘And was he mistaken in that?’

  An icy finger of fear rippled down Egfrid’s back.

  ‘Utterly!’ Ethelwald told his tale with relish. ‘Oswy’s assassins lay in wait for him, in Hunwald’s hall. The Bernicians attacked in the night and all there were slaughtered. Even Hunwald died. Oswy has taken the throne of Deira for himself.’

  ‘Hunwald deserved to die,’ Penda spat in disgust. He turned furiously on Chad. ‘Is this your king’s idea of Christian justice? Is this his Christian peace? The man’s without honour. What do you say to this, holy man?’

  Chad’s face was grim, but he spoke out bravely. ‘We are all fallible.’

  Egfrid shuddered. Would Penda kill him now? Could his father really have done this vile deed? He remembered only too well his quiet rage, and his desire to rule Deira as well as Bernicia.

  Penda gave a sudden roar of fury, followed by terrible silence. Then at last he turned to Egfrid. ‘It is not your fault, boy, that you are the son of a traitor. To challenge openly to battle is honourable, but to murder by stealth in the night…it is without honour! All peace agreements are destroyed by this act of treachery.’

  There was silence again.

  ‘Call up the army!’ Penda roared. ‘Ethelwald, you shall have the throne of Deira! We march to meet Oswy in battle! Fetch Thunderer to me…my spear and my sword!’

  Suddenly it was chaos. Orders were shouted, horns sounded and a steady drum beat started. Men ran in all directions.

  ‘You cannot ride to war!’ Cynewise told her husband, her face frantic. ‘Beorn must lead them!’

  ‘Do not tell me what I can or can’t do, woman!’ Penda bellowed. ‘Beorn traipses about the country dancing attention on his Christian wife. This is what comes of trusting Christians, and I blame you for that! I won’t have Beorn ride with me! Send for Wulfhere— he at least cannot be tainted by this coward’s disease. Fetch the herb woman with her salves and potions; she will get me up and onto Thunderer’s back! I shall lead the Mercians. I am their king!’

  ‘Fetch Fritha!’ Cynewise sent a servant running.

  Penda turned to stare at Egfrid, and for one dreadful moment he feared his last moment had come. ‘Get that boy out of my sight and keep him locked up!’ Penda bellowed. ‘He is my hostage still!’

  ‘Go!’ Cynewise hissed to Chad. ‘Take the boy to your hut.’

  CHAPTER 12

  War

  Once back in their private space Chad began rolling cloaks into bundles. Dapple bounced down from the bed where he’d been sleeping to lick Egfrid’s face.

  The boy pushed the hound away. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked Chad.

  ‘I think we should slip away,’ the monk told him. ‘Can you carry a bundle?’

  ‘Of course,’ Egfrid agreed.

  But the sound of feet and the clatter of wood on wood outside made them turn uneasily.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Chad called.

  No reply came. He unfastened the door and opened it cautiously. Two spearheads clashed together in front of his face—two guards had been set there again. ‘You cannot leave, holy man,’ said one. ‘We’re sorry, but this is war, we are to bar the door!’

  ‘We’re prisoners!’ Egfrid said.

  Chad let the bundle drop to the floor. He took Egfrid gently by the shoulders and turned him round, making him sit on the bed. ‘We’ve always been prisoners,’ he said gently.

  ‘Will they kill me now?’ Egfrid asked. ‘The king hates me.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t hate you,’ Chad said. ‘He would have sliced your head off there and then if he hated you. But he was furious. This is a terrible moment for Mercia and we must be quiet, calm and patient.’

  ‘Why has my father done it?’ Egfrid asked. ‘Why has he killed his cousin Oswin, and in such a vile way?’

  Chad shook his head. ‘It is the nature of kingship to be ruthless. Oswin the Good was perhaps too gentle to have ruled for long, and your father was never going to be content until the whole of Northumbria was his.’

  Dapple leapt back onto the bed and tried again to lick the boy’s face. His tail wagged furiously. This time Egfrid hugged the hound to his chest, grateful for the comfort of one more loyal friend.

  The door creaked open and the queen’s maid Wyn carried in a tray of food and drink. ‘The queen says be quiet and wait,’ she whispered.

  Chad nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Egfrid flung himself down on his bed. ‘I cannot be quiet and wait,’ he protested. ‘How can I be quiet, when they may come at any time to kill me?’

  ‘I will cut a piece of vellum, light a candle and sharpen a quill, and you will write,’ Chad said. ‘You will copy the psalm of King David.’

  So with the sounds of preparation for war all around them, Egfrid wrote, while Chad recited words he knew by heart.

  ‘I will not be afraid of ten thousands,

  Who have set themselves against me.’

  They spent a restless night, disturbed by the hammering of smiths, the thud of horses’ hooves, the shouting of angry voices and the stamp of booted feet. Preparations for war went on through the next day and night. When Chad opened the wooden shutter at dawn on the third day, they saw that the courtyard was crammed with horses and men. Penda’s war host was gathering.

  Chad set Egfrid to copy psalms again, but half way through the morning the boy threw his quill across the chamber and refused. ‘I cannot sit here writing,’ he cried. ‘I will go mad!’

  ‘Very well,’ said Chad. ‘Strip off your jerkin and we will wrestle.’

  ‘What? You are a holy man.’

  Chad shrugged. ‘I can still wrestle.’

  ‘Very well.’ Egfrid angrily stripped off his jerkin and rolled up his sleeves. ‘I will give you a taste of what Sigurd has taught me.’

  Chad rolled up his sleeves and kilted up his monk’s habit. Egfrid strode forward and gripped his book-master by the shoulders, but he knew at once that he’d underestimated his opponent, for he quickly found himself thrown on his back.

  ‘Who taught you to wrestle?’ he asked, gasping.

  Chad laughed, a brief sound of joy in a world that had gone mad. ‘I told you, I was the youngest of five brothers,’ he said.

  Egfrid struggled to his feet. ‘I cannot imagine holy Cedd wrestling,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, he was the fiercest of all,’ Chad told him.

  Egfrid came at him again, this time with a little more wariness and respect. They wrestled until they were exhausted and Egfrid felt calmer when Wyn appeared again with more food and drink. ‘The queen says, be of good cheer, they will soon be gone.’

  With the following dawn came the sound of marching feet. Horns blared, shouts and cheers were raised. Peeping out from the window hole they saw the flap and flare of Woden’s raven banners and just for a moment glimpsed Penda, mounted on Thunderer, his leg heavily strapped, his back supported by a leather-covered frame. Egfrid turned away, moved by the sight of the sick, aged king, so determined to lead his men to war.

  ‘I… I have wanted to please him,’ he admitted guilti
ly. ‘And I should not have done.’

  ‘You gave him respect, there is no guilt in that,’ Chad told him. ‘This war is a ruthless battle for land and power.’

  As they turned to look again, the great gathering moved off.

  ‘Will they kill my father, do you think?’

  ‘That’s in the hands of God,’ Chad said.

  To the sound of horns and a steady beating drum they set off. The king went first with his hearth-companions, eager for battle, seasoned warriors every one. They were followed by well-disciplined foot soldiers, archers and slingers, each with their own special skills. The local headman led the serfs, ploughmen and young lads, herders and farmers, armed only with axes, pikes, scythes and ploughshares. Unused to fighting, they glanced regretfully back to their wives and daughters. Last of all went the slaves. Unarmed, they led mules and rumbling carts, loaded with food, drink and grain. Egfrid glimpsed Fritha riding amongst a gang of well-wrapped women, mounted on her sturdy pony. He watched her go sadly, for she’d been a good friend to him.

  ‘Some do not look as though they want to go,’ he said.

  Chad sighed. ‘They have no choice, they must follow their lord. Every kingdom that pays tribute to Penda will send the same and when they join together as they move north, there will be many of them.’

  ‘What will my father do?’

  Chad shook his head. ‘Oswy has already added Pictish warriors and Dalriads to his war host, but I doubt Deirans will go willingly to his cause. Oswin wasn’t known as ‘the Good’ for nothing. He was loved by his people, I think.’

  ‘Damn him…damn my father!’ Egfrid cried angrily. ‘Will he ride north and hide in the hills, so that Penda may call him Faint-heart once again?’

  Chad made no reply and in the quiet that followed the great exit, they heard the murmur of voices and light footsteps approaching. The door was opened and the queen herself stood there.