Better than Gold
Page 7
The Mercian herdsman’s-army had bravely rallied behind the seasoned warriors, but were driven like cattle into the fast-flowing water, only to be trapped in silt and carried away downstream. Cynewise’s war-band and their horses had vanished in amongst the struggling mass. The queen sent poor weeping Wyn to her tent and told her not to come out again. The woman went readily enough.
‘There’s Ethelwald,’ Chad said, and he pointed to where the Deiran battle-standard had been raised on higher ground. Ethelwald was mounted and rallying his men, but all of a sudden instead of entering the fight, he whirled about and headed further upriver, his men streaming after him.
‘What is he doing?’ Cynewise cried, her face white and shocked. ‘The Bernicians are letting him slip away!’
‘But see who comes forward!’ Egfrid cried. He pointed down-river to where Sigurd led a large following of warriors through the soaked meadowland.
‘The East Angles!’ Cynewise cried. ‘Sigurd has found King Athelhere and brought him to Mercia’s aid. But he comes too late!’
As this new help arrived, Penda’s standard was dragged to the ground and the fighting around the Mercian king grew fierce.
The queen set off, rushing down towards the river, just as an armed warrior drove his beast across the raging torrent and through the mire. Egfrid raced after her, feeling only that he must follow where she went. The Bernician rider raised his sword as Cynewise stumbled on, careless of her own safety.
‘It is the end!’ she cried.
‘You shall not touch her,’ Egfrid growled and without pause for thought, he lurched in front of her and taking his sword in both hands, he swung it sideways, biting into the warrior’s armpit, as Sigurd had trained him.
The Bernician let out a bellow of shock and pain and slumped forwards in his saddle, dropping his weapon at Egfrid’s feet. His panicking horse wheeled and charged back into the water to skitter away downstream. Egfrid stared at the bloodied sword that lay at his feet. Had he killed a man?
Chad was there beside them, with Dapple leaping up and down. The monk gently pulled Cynewise away and began to lead them both back up the hillside. ‘Come away, lady,’ he told her firmly. ‘There is nothing you can do.’
‘He is gone,’ she murmured softly. ‘Penda is dead, I saw him fall, the bravest warrior that ever lived!’
Egfrid picked up the Bernician’s sword, his first spoil of war, and followed them back up the hill. As they reached the queen’s tents again, Cynewise turned angrily on him. ‘You should have let me die,’ she said. ‘I would have gone with him. You swore you wouldn’t fight.’
‘I swore I wouldn’t fight for my father or Penda,’ Egfrid said. ‘I never said I wouldn’t fight for you.’
The queen’s face crumpled and she flung her arms around the boy and wept. Egfrid remembered the fateful ride from Bamburgh on Thunderer’s back, the moments of unexpected joy when the grizzled old king had praised him. He could not believe that such a valiant, fearless spirit as Penda was gone. He felt sick and angry, but he was elated too. His father was no faint-heart. Nobody could ever say that again. Oswy had paid off the enemy with gold trimmings, but kept most of his spears and blades and his fighting spirit intact.
CHAPTER 15
Woden’s Man
The Bernicians, cheered on by Ethelwald’s desertion, drove the remnants of the helpless Mercian army into the flooding river, and then put all their force into tackling King Athelhere.
It was not a fight any more. It was a drowning, for the ground beneath the East Angles’ feet had turned into a swamp of dragging mud. As Egfrid and the queen watched, they saw one man swim steadily across the river towards them. He battled against a strong current, but made it to the field below and came loping up the hill towards them. It was Sigurd, soaked and slashed with bleeding cuts, choking on muddy water.
Cynewise shook her head. ‘You should have gone down with Penda,’ she said.
‘No,’ he gasped. ‘Penda died sword in hand, a true Woden’s man, as he would have wished, but Athelhere too is killed and the kingdom of Mercia is no more. I swore on oath that I’d take you to safety.’
Cynewise shook her head fiercely. ‘No, it is Wulfhere that you must save,’ she said. ‘He is camped near Lichfield with Aldred. Take my horse and ride to them and warn him. Hide him. He is Mercia’s hope. Beorn will have to do as Oswy tells him now.’
‘Lady, you must come too,’ Sigurd begged.
‘Yes, you should go with him,’ Egfrid added his voice. He found he couldn’t bear the thought of her being captured.
But Cynewise refused. ‘Wyn can go. Where is Wyn?’ she asked. ‘I stay here to see my husband’s death rites. My fate is in the three dark spinners’ hands.’
Sigurd looked at Egfrid. ‘The boy is your hostage,’ he cried. ‘And though I love him, by rights he should be killed. Lady, they have cut off your husband’s head!’
Wyn cried out, emerging from the queen’s tent.
Egfrid gasped in shock at Sigurd’s words, but he hauled together every scrap of courage he could muster. ‘I am willing to die,’ he said. ‘My father has killed your husband, lady, and by the rules of blood-feud it is just. I’m no faint-heart.’
They stared at him. Vomit suddenly rose in his throat, and he staggered away from them a few steps to be sick.
Chad strode to his side. ‘If you must die, so shall I,’ he said quietly. ‘The boy will not die alone.’
But Cynewise shook her head. ‘There will be no more killing,’ she said firmly. ‘This boy saved my life, using those very warrior skills that you yourself taught him. No, Sigurd. Take my horse and ride fast to Wulfhere. I order you to do it as captain of my guard—you are my man still. Take my mare and ride away with Wyn. You must both serve my son now.’
At last Sigurd bent to kiss the queen’s hand, while Chad threw a saddle over the queen’s mare and led her forward. Wyn scrambled up behind Sigurd and they rode southwards, back towards the high ridge of hills.
The queen, the monk and the boy, stood together in silence, as the dreadful sounds of dying men reached them from the far riverbank.
‘What will we do?’ Egfrid asked at last.
‘We cannot do anything till the waters go down,’ Cynewise said. ‘We wait for now. I will see you safely back to your father and in return I shall beg that he allow my husband Woden’s rites.’
Egfrid knew the importance she placed on this, but he doubted that his father would be generous. Oswald Whiteblade’s body had been hacked to pieces and staked out for a raven-feast.
They gazed across the river at a scene of utter devastation. Bodies floated downstream, though many of them were caught in reeds and rushes at the water’s edge. On the far hillside, Bernician warriors walked from corpse to corpse, stripping weapons and cloaks from dead or dying Mercians. Here and there it seemed the water ran red with blood.
‘Did our Christian God want this?’ Egfrid asked.
Chad shook his head and the boy saw traces of tears on the monk’s cheeks.
Darkness fell and the three of them kept watch all night, sitting close together wrapped in furs. The rain ceased, but the night was cold and none of them could sleep or eat. Dapple curled close to Egfrid, sharing warmth, while the queen wept quietly for her husband and her warrior band.
‘You could still ride away,’ Egfrid told her, as he stroked the hound’s silky ears. ‘Take Golden-mane. I will not stop you, nor will Chad. I doubt my father knows that we are here. I’ll even give you Dapple, if you want him.’
But she shook her head. ‘My son is safer if I’m not with him,’ she said. ‘And if I hand you back, at least I’ll feel that I have done the honourable thing.’
Chad offered words of Christian comfort to the queen.
‘Hush,’ she told him. ‘Woden is my god and Freya my goddess, like Penda. My loyalty stays with them.’
As light came, they saw that the Bernicians were wading into the water to drag bodies back onto land. Cynewise vanished
into her tent to emerge a short while later, looking very much the queen again. She’d combed her hair and dressed herself in a clean gown and cloak, and she’d set a fine gold fillet at her brow.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘We cannot sit up here for ever.’
So they wandered down towards the crossing, leading two horses, Dapple trotting at their side. Some Bernicians watering their mounts near the ford looked up at their approach, and stared as though they’d seen ghosts.
Egfrid strode forward. ‘Get my father!’ he shouted. ‘Tell Oswy Iding his son is here.’
They looked confused. ‘Oswy’s son?’ they murmured. ‘But he was taken hostage. Surely he cannot still live!’
Someone was sent running and at last Oswy himself came striding down to the river, blade in hand, his face pale and gaunt, a long gash on his cheek. Ribbons of leather hung down from a makeshift sword hilt, the fine blade of the weapon still intact.
He stopped, looking astonished. ‘Egfrid?’ He closed his eyes. ‘God be praised,’ he said, still sounding dazed. ‘My son is alive.’
Egfrid helped Cynewise mount Golden-mane. Chad mounted his horse and hauled Egfrid up behind him. They approached the ford, which was still deep and running fast, but managed to get across.
The queen dismounted and waited for Egfrid to slip down from the saddle. She took him by the hand then and led him to his father with great formality.
‘I, Cynewise, foster-mother to Egfrid of Bernicia, do give your son back to you. I kept him safe as I promised to do. And your holy man too.’
Oswy and his companions stared, speechless and astonished.
Then Cynewise threw herself down onto her knees, careless of the mire. ‘Allow my husband Woden’s rites. That it is all I ask of you.’
Oswy’s eyes blazed and his face turned paler still. ‘What of my brother’s Christian rites?’ he asked.
She made no reply.
Egfrid hated to see the queen kneeling there in the stinking, bloodstained mud. ‘Cynewise is a woman of honour and she is my foster-mother. Give her the boon she begs!’ he cried.
Oswy stared at his son, utterly surprised. ‘Where is my gold?’ he asked. ‘And where is the boy Wulfhere? Do you think I can let him live?’
Cynewise moaned gently.
‘Father, your gold is buried. Given to the ground by a man who will die rather than reveal its whereabouts. That same loyal man hides Wulfhere too.’
There was a moment of tense silence. Oswy raked his fingers through his dirty hair as though he was tired and puzzled by it all.
‘My son went away a boy, but it seems he returns a man,’ he murmured. Suddenly he smiled and it was as if a watery sun had broken through dark clouds. ‘You shall have your pagan rites, lady,’ he said. ‘And so shall all the Mercian dead. Despite my many sins, it seems the Christian God has blessed me.’
He dropped his sword, held out his arms and hugged Egfrid tightly.
‘My son has come back to me,’ Oswy said. ‘And that is better by far than gold.’
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The exciting discovery of the Staffordshire Hoard, made by metal detectorist Terry Herbert, provided the inspiration for my story. My intention is to give an idea of life in the 7th century, and the sort of story that might lie behind the hoard. Rival kings fought fiercely over territory—and yet sometimes they sent their sons and daughters to marry their bitterest enemies in an attempt to make peace. The Venerable Bede refers to a payment of gold in settlement of a dispute:
At this period King Oswy was subjected to savage and intolerable attacks by Penda, King of the Mercians who had slain his brother. At length dire need compelled him to offer Penda an incalculable quantity of regalia and presents as the price of peace, on condition that he return home and cease his ruinous devastation of his kingdom.
Bede also mentions Egfrid: ‘Oswy’s son Egfrid was at the time held hostage at the court of Queen Cynewise in the province of the Mercians.’ Egfrid was about ten or eleven years old when Penda was killed. How he became a hostage is not known—so my story explores the more exciting possibility of his capture, rather than his father handing him over to the Mercians. Bede records a raid on Bamburgh, when Penda attempted to burn the fortress, but was foiled when the wind changed direction and blew the flames back onto the attackers. Egfrid survived to become king of Northumbria on his father’s death in the year AD 670.
Anglo-Saxons often called their children by names very similar to their own, which makes telling a story from that time quite difficult. Penda’s oldest son was called Peada, but I felt that would be too confusing, so in the story I have given him a nickname: Beorn, meaning bear.
The Staffordshire Hoard is on permanent display around the UK. Find out more and see pictures at www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk.
Theresa Tomlinson
Whitby, June 2014
www.theresatomlinson.com