‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and held out her arms to Egfrid. ‘So sorry to keep you locked up, but it was for your own safety. I hope you understand.’
Relief that she was not angry made his face crumple as she hugged him. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘Sorry that my father has broken the peace that you worked so hard to gain.’
Cynewise nodded. ‘Not your fault,’ she said. ‘I must keep you here, but if you give me your word not to escape, then I will allow you the freedom of Tamworth once again.’
‘I give my word,’ he said.
They discovered when they emerged that Tamworth had turned into a ghost town. The only men of fighting age were the queen’s own warrior band, though at least that meant Sigurd was there. The usually busy workshops were quiet, for the smiths and metalworkers had gone with Penda. Only the gentle clack of working looms rose from the websters’ and spinners’ huts. The stables stood almost empty, with just three horse-boys left behind. Egfrid was grateful to find Golden-mane stabled alongside Cynewise’s silver-grey mare.
The days passed quietly and Egfrid worked with Chad every morning and with Sigurd in the afternoons, but more often he rode out with the queen, who was almost as restless as he was.
‘Where is Ranulf?’ Egfrid asked, noticing his absence.
‘Gone to fight,’ Sigurd told him, his face a blank mask.
‘I’m sorry,’ Egfrid said. ‘You must fear for him.’
‘I’m proud of him,’ the captain insisted.
Egfrid understood.
‘Wulfhere and his battle-master will meet the army as they travel north,’ Sigurd said.
‘And what of Prince Beorn?’
‘Beorn must stay where he is and keep well out of this quarrel.’
‘Do you wish you could go too?’
Sigurd nodded. ‘It is hard to stand back while others fight, but I stay here to guard the queen…and you,’ he added.
Weed-month passed and Harvest-month came and still there was no word of distant battles in the north. Chad and Egfrid went out to help bring in the harvest, turning brown-skinned and weather-beaten. Offerings-month dragged by and even the Night of the Dead passed with few celebrations. In Blood-month the work of slaughtering animals began.
CHAPTER 13
King’s Gold
Just as the slaughtering of the beasts began, horses were spotted on the tracks from the north. Was this Penda returning at last? But almost at once they saw that this was just a small contingent with a wagon and few warriors.
‘Return to your chamber,’ Cynewise told Egfrid sharply. ‘I know that banner. It is Wulfhere, with his battle-master Aldred.’
Chad took him by the arm and hurried him away. They watched from their window as a tall lad, well-armed and dressed in mail, rode into the courtyard ahead of the wagon. He was escorted by a small warrior band and an older, battle-scarred man.
‘Does this mean they have won?’ Egfrid asked. ‘Is my father dead?’
Chad pressed his shoulder, but said nothing.
They watched as the queen went to greet her son. He swung her round in his arms.
‘I’ve never seen her look so happy,’ Egfrid said resentfully.
‘He’s her son,’ Chad said. ‘And she has feared for him, just as your mother fears for you.’
Wyn brought food to their chamber, saying nothing. It seemed a feast took place to which they were not invited, but later that night they were summoned to the hall. Wulfhere sat on his father’s chair, one leg thrown over the arm, a horn of mead in his hand, the battle-scarred Aldred at his side.
Egfrid bowed politely and Wulfhere turned a smiling face to him, but the warmth of his expression slipped immediately.
‘He’s wearing my old hog-skin jerkin,’ he said.
Cynewise smiled. ‘And why not?’ she said. ‘He is our foster-son.’
‘I have something to show you, Bernician boy,’ Wulfhere said, with a sneering smile. ‘You may have my old clothes, but I’ve got your father’s gold.’
Egfrid summoned his courage to ask the question uppermost in his mind. ‘Is my father dead?’
Wulfhere shrugged. ‘Not dead, but disgraced. He ran as he always does when he saw that our war-host outnumbered his. We had the Welsh on our side, Ethelwald of course, and the East Anglians too. We kept your Faint-heart holed up in Stirling castle through the Month of Offerings—and he agreed to pay us three sacks of gold, to go away. Ethelwald will rule Deira now, and I have more Bernician gold in my possession than I have ever seen. Come, I will show it to you.’
Egfrid hesitated, but Wulfhere grabbed his arm and led him from the hall into the courtyard where the stumpy tower that was used as a strong room stood. He lifted the heavy wooden bar and opened the door.
‘Come, you will recognise this. You will know where it came from!’
Chad, Cynewise and Aldred followed hurriedly, speaking low to each other.
‘You need to see this, Bernician boy,’ Wulfhere continued. ‘See how your father’s courage fails! Let this be a lesson to you for the future: Mercia is overlord.’
Egfrid gritted his teeth. In the light of the torch that blazed from a wall sconce, he saw that the strong room was spread with the glimmer of gold. He could not help but gasp, for Wulfhere was right. The more he looked, the more he saw familiar fragments—broken, all broken and thrown onto trestle tops—sword pommel caps, scabbard pyramids, sword loops, the hilt plates of a seax, but all of them hacked from the weapons they once adorned.
‘Ha! I see you come to understand the coward your father is.’
Egfrid wanted to turn and walk away, but pride and a horrid curiosity forced him to stay there looking. He knew how his father valued these riches, these symbols of wealth and power, gathered over many years.
Egfrid’s hand strayed towards a narrow dragon’s head that once had capped his father’s battle helmet with its solemn gold-wrought face. Now the sinuous head was hacked from the body.
‘And this—see this.’ Wulfhere picked up two broken, highly decorated gold cheek pieces and threw them down onto the trestle. ‘Do you know these?’
Egfrid nodded silently.
‘And what is this?’ Wulfhere snatched up an elaborately worked sword hilt fitting, decorated with garnets and an exquisite curled pattern of twisting creatures.
‘It is from my father’s sword,’ Egfrid said quietly.
‘Where is the pommel cap?’ Wulfhere asked, rummaging amongst the glittering scraps.
‘It’s here,’ Egfrid said, reaching into the middle of the pile. He drew out the treasured piece that had been made for his father by Frankish goldsmiths and brought by sea from Kent to Bernicia. ‘This sword was a wedding gift from my mother.’
Wulfhere laughed nastily. ‘Rumour has it that your mother refuses to speak to your father. He dared not ask for her jewel box and instead made his companions hack off their gold fittings and helmet trimmings, which were added to make up the payment demanded of him—three bags of gold. There are two more sacks like this, shared out amongst our allies.’
Egfrid’s stomach tightened. It must have been deeply humiliating for his father to be forced to order this crude destruction of the precious gold fittings his followers possessed…but he had brought it upon himself.
‘See here!’ Wulfhere reached out to snatch up a larger twisted gold plate plaque, fantastically wrought into the form of two eagles holding a fish between them. Egfrid had last seen it decorating Cedric’s shield, the one given to him by the young wife who’d died long ago. Cedric would have hated to part with such a treasured possession, but it was the duty of the king’s companions to give their all for him—even their lives.
‘And this…’ Wulfhere went on relentlessly.
From another bag he lifted out what seemed to be a great mash of tangled strips, bent into a strange basket-like shape.
‘Look at this, boy, and tell me your father is not a coward! Penda is old and sick, but he straps himself into his saddle and rid
es to the fight, a true follower of Woden. Your Faint-heart kills by treachery, hides in his castle and buys his safety with the symbols of his faith!’
Egfrid’s eyes widened as he suddenly understood what he looked at. It was twisted and crushed, but as Wulfhere prised the strips apart and flattened them, the gold and garnet cross that Oswy carried ahead of his household warrior-band was revealed. How could his father have allowed this desecration of the symbol of his God-given power as a Christian king? Egfrid wanted to crumble into dust at Wulfhere’s feet and die. He could take no more.
Cynewise had come into the strong room behind them. ‘That is enough!’ she said. ‘It is dishonourable in you, Wulfhere. The boy is humiliated enough. Chad, take Egfrid back to his guest hut, please.’
‘Come,’ Chad said quietly.
Egfrid turned and followed his tutor, neither of them speaking until they got inside and closed the door.
‘You bore that well,’ Chad said at last.
Egfrid looked at his book-master. He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘If I should live through this, to be a man, I swear that I will make Wulfhere cry for mercy. I will take every possession he has, and then I will kill him!’
‘Go to bed,’ Chad said brusquely.
Egfrid threw himself onto his bed and beat the mattress with his fists. He bit the soft woollen covers to stop himself from howling like a wolf. Dapple whined in the corner, sensing his master’s distress. Chad watched in silence.
At last Egfrid lay still, exhausted. Dapple jumped up beside him and eventually boy and dog fell into a restless sleep, while Chad knelt upright by the door and prayed all through the hours of darkness.
They were disturbed in the morning by the sound of hooves and voices. When they looked out through the shutter, they saw that the gold was being removed from the strong room and lifted back into the wagon. Aldred supervised and gave orders while Wulfhere hovered in the background.
‘What will they do with it?’ Egfrid asked.
Chad shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
At last the wagon was packed and driven out through the gate in the palisade, Wulfhere and Aldred bringing up the rear. Egfrid heard footsteps approaching and knew it was the queen.
‘I apologise for my son,’ she said. ‘He is young and rash and angry…but he is my son and I would die for him.’
Egfrid, pale-faced and red-eyed, accepted her apology, unsure that his own mother would speak so fervently for him. ‘Can we come out again?’ he asked.
‘You can indeed…more than that! Penda heads back to Tamworth and I will go to meet him. You must come with me, so that I know you are safe. I’ve had enough of skulking at home while my husband and younger son go to war.’
Egfrid exchanged a brief glance of pleasure with Chad, for he too was weary of Tamworth, and almost anything would be better than being cooped up any longer. ‘May I take Dapple with me?’
‘Why not?’ Cynewise agreed.
‘What will they do with the gold my father paid for his freedom?’ Egfrid asked uncomfortably.
The queen’s look darkened a little. ‘I told Aldred to bury it as a gift to the gods,’ she said. ‘Penda wants nothing to do with it, and I don’t want it either. It is not an honourable gift.’
‘So nobody shall have it.’ Egfrid felt some satisfaction that at least Wulfhere would not keep it.
‘The earth shall have it,’ Cynewise said. ‘Aldred will bury it and tell nobody where it lies.’
CHAPTER 14
Blood-month
They left Tamworth in a patter of rain while thunder rolled in the distance. Despite the threatening storm it felt better to be doing something and Egfrid’s spirits lifted. It was good to be out on Golden-mane’s back, Dapple racing at his side.
The rain came on more steadily and lashed down on them as they rode towards the high hill passes. Cynewise, wrapped in furs and skins, set a good pace on her silver mare, leaving poor Wyn, wet and miserable, riding behind her.
They made camp on the southern lee of a hill above the River Derwent, but moved on next morning, though thick mist made the going slow. That evening a watery sun struggled out to greet them as they made camp again.
‘Where will we meet them?’ Egfrid asked, fearful that this brief freedom might quickly be lost to him.
‘They’ll ford the River Winwaed,’ Cynewise said. ‘Tomorrow we’ll head in that direction and may find them there already.’
The following afternoon they arrived at the southern bank of River Winwaed, only to discover the water-meadows in flood. They made camp on high ground where they had a clear view of the ford. As the light began to fade, Mercian standards emerged from the mist that covered the northernmost riverbank.
‘But they cannot cross!’ Cynewise protested.
‘No, lady,’ Sigurd agreed.
‘Then we must swallow our impatience and wait till the morning.’
Penda’s vast army appeared and settled to camp on the far bankside. Horns blared in greeting from one side of the river to the other and Dapple ran backwards and forwards yapping, as though he recognised the gathering on the other side.
Cynewise waded through mud, almost to the water’s edge and Penda gave her a loud halloo. ‘At least he knows I’m here,’ she said, blowing kisses across the water.
‘You’d best go back to your tent, lady,’ Sigurd warned her.
Late into the night cheerful shouts drifted across the water. The queen’s tents were made of twice-stitched oilskin and though it rained heavily all night, Egfrid was dry and comfortable on the folding bed they’d put up for him.
The next morning he woke to hear Dapple’s bark, and struggled bleary-eyed from his tent to find Sigurd on watch. It still rained and a heavy mist filled the valley.
Sigurd drew a sharp intake of breath and Dapple barked again.
‘What is it?’ Egfrid asked, sensing the man’s unease.
‘There… I swear I saw something on the crest of the hill, in the mist!’
‘A deer…a wolf?’ Egfrid suggested.
But Sigurd turned suddenly to him with a horrified expression. ‘Damn it!’ He snatched up the horn that swung from his belt and blew three sharp blasts.
‘What is it?’ Egfrid cried.
Then he saw it himself. Moving steadily on the crest of the far hill, a shape appearing from the haze.
‘Faint-heart!’ Sigurd murmured. Then he blew his horn again and started to bellow. ‘The Bernicians are here! To arms! To arms! The Bernicians are on us!’
Egfrid stared into the distance and saw something astonishing emerge from clouds of rolling mist… a shape that he knew well, but roughly hewn from wood, not gold. A cross, linked with a circle: his father’s battle standard. Not the fine gold cross that Wulfhere had crushed, but an emblem crudely shaped from green wood.
His heart began to thunder as he stumbled back to his tent. Chad was on his feet at once, as Egfrid snatched up the sword that Penda had given him and began to buckle it around his waist.
Chad said nothing but strode outside. As Egfrid followed him he saw Sigurd leap onto his horse and charge down the hill towards the swollen waters. ‘Wake Penda, wake! The Bernicians are upon you!’ he cried as he rode into the flooding river.
Cynewise stumbled from her tent in her nightgown, shocked and dishevelled. Wyn followed, clutching her cloak and crying.
‘What is happening?’ Cynewise asked.
Egfrid could only point to the dark shapes of spears and warriors that appeared over the distant brow of the hill, out of the mist, to swoop down on the unsuspecting Mercians. Chad’s face was blank with shock.
‘My father,’ Egfrid managed at last. ‘It is my father; he has given up his gold, but not his swords and spears. Penda is trapped by the swollen river!’
‘Go to them!’ Cynewise ordered her men. ‘Go to my husband’s aid! Get your horses and swim them across!’
‘Lady, we stay by you!’
‘Go!’ she bellowed. ‘I order it! Follow
Sigurd and ride to Penda’s aid!’
Her men ran to their steeds, mounted fast and headed for the swirling waters. They could just see Sigurd’s horse, carried a good distance downstream. Dapple ran after them, barking excitedly.
‘To heel, to heel,’ Egfrid cried desperately. Reluctantly the hound returned to him.
‘We shall all be killed,’ Wyn whispered, weeping quietly.
Sleepy Mercian warriors stumbled from their tents to grab swords, spears and axes, while Oswy Iding and his army rode down out of the mist to kill without mercy.
‘Blessed Freya!’ Cynewise cried. ‘Where is my husband? Wake, brave battle-bear, wake and fight!’
Egfrid felt that his heart would burst with fear.
‘Is this fair Christian battle?’ Cynewise turned in fury to Chad.
He shook his head. ‘I have no answer for you, lady.’
They watched helplessly as Penda’s standard was raised. The old warrior could be seen at last amongst his companions, who made a brave stand, but were forced back towards the river, to lose their footing in deep, slippery mud.
‘I must fight,’ Egfrid cried, his sword there in his hand. ‘I must fight.’
Chad gripped him tightly and pinned his arms to his sides. ‘And who will you fight for?’ he asked.
Egfrid’s mind whirled with confusion as he tried to answer. Which side would he fight for? Would he support his cold, calculating father, to whom he owed unswerving loyalty, or the fierce old warrior king he’d grown to love? His father had been ruthless and clever to follow and attack the Mercians here in this flooded meadow, while they slept…but was it honourable?
‘Aaah!’ he cried out at last, in confusion and agony.
Cynewise clasped his face in her hands. ‘Put your sword away,’ she whispered. ‘Swear to me you will not fight for either man! We must both bear this somehow.’
His mouth was a grim line of pain, but he nodded and sheathed his sword. Chad let him go.
‘Where is Ethelwald?’ Cynewise cried. ‘Why does he not come to Penda’s aid?’
Egfrid didn’t want to watch, but he found he couldn’t look away.
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