THE POWER AND THE GLORY: Kings of Northumbria Book 4

by H A CULLEY

  ‘How many do you estimate?’

  Redwald clicked his tongue repeatedly as his eyes scanned the enemy host. It was an annoying habit but he said it helped him to count.

  ‘No more than eight hundred warriors and perhaps twice that number in the fyrd to the rear of them. They’re standing eight deep. He has few horsemen and archers.’

  Oswiu grunted before turning to the rider on his other side.

  ‘Well, Ethelred, what do you think Wulfhere will do now?’

  Wulfhere’s younger brother was a hostage for the good behaviour of the Mercians. He was thirteen and was being educated as a novice at Lindisfarne. His brother’s revolt against Oswiu’s rule had, unsurprisingly, caused him to fear for his life and he sat there looking nervous and unsure how to reply.

  ‘Don’t worry. I won’t execute you, not because I’m fond of you, but because I suspect Wulfhere would welcome your death. It would remove a rival for the throne.’

  Ethelred smiled grimly. ‘We were never close and, after Peada, I was father’s favourite son. Wulfhere hates me as a result. However, I don’t know him very well. He has the reputation of being unpredictable: impetuous one minute and cautious the next.’

  ‘Hmm, that’s what I’ve heard. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me very much.’

  Oswiu continued to sit and regard the Mercian host. The only things he knew about Wulfhere were that he had led an expedition to recruit mercenaries from the continent when he was fourteen and he’d been outwitted at the Battle of the Winwaed by Catinus. Eventually he signalled to the man holding his banner aloft and he waved it to and fro. Wulfhere’s banner bearer repeated the action after a minute’s pause and Oswiu cantered down the slope to the valley floor accompanied by Ethelred, Redwald, Arthius of Elmet and five of his gesith.

  Wulfhere had been standing in the middle of his men but now he mounted and he rode to meet the King of Northumbria with a similar sized escort.

  ‘Greetings, Wulfhere.’

  The other man nodded cautiously.

  ‘I think you know Redwald and Arthius and, of course, your brother,’ Oswiu continued.

  Wulfhere spat a globule of phlegm into the dust.

  ‘He’s not my brother, or he wouldn’t be dressed like a lickspittle of the White Christ,’ he said, referring to the coarse brown novice’s robe that Ethelred wore.

  ‘So you are a pagan like your father? I understood that many Mercians were now Christians?’

  Wulfhere grunted but didn’t respond to the question; instead he changed tack.

  ‘Are you prepared to recognise me as King of Mercia or do I have to fight you for my right to succeed my father?’

  ‘That rather depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  As they’d been speaking a light rain had started to fall, now it was changing to sleet and the wind had picked up.

  ‘We can sit here negotiating all day getting wet and cold, or we can agree a temporary truce, withdraw our forces by a mile or so for the night and agree to meet here again tomorrow. By then my servants will have erected a tent where we can discuss matters in a more civilised manner.’

  Wulfhere sucked his teeth, glared at his brother for a moment - receiving an equally cold look in response – then nodded.

  ‘Very well. Two hours after dawn with no more than four men.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  The cold weather of the previous day had changed overnight, but it was raining quite heavily when the two sides met again, so they were glad of the protection afforded by Oswiu’s tent. The two men sat on chairs whilst the others stood behind them. Nerian, Oswiu’s body servant, and two other men served ale and bread to the negotiators before withdrawing to seek what shelter they could find under the cart that had transported the tent.

  Wulfhere studied Oswiu whilst he took a drink of the indifferent ale and chewed on the tough bread. Evidently Oswiu wasn’t a lover of good food. The king was of average height, well built with fair hair and pale blue eyes. He face was hidden behind a bushy beard but Wulfhere had the impression that it hid a strong jaw. In contrast, Oswiu saw a young man with an oval face, green eyes and a hook nose. The jaw was slightly receding, which gave him a weak appearance; something that Oswiu suspected was far from the truth. He was beardless but wore a moustache that was a little darker in hue than his fair hair.

  ‘You asked me yesterday if I would be prepared to recognise you as King of Mercia,’ Oswiu said without preliminary. ‘The answer is perhaps, but it would depend on you agreeing to certain conditions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I have no desire to rule Mercia but I’m not prepared for Northumbria to be raped and pillaged as it was so many times in your father’s day. I have brought peace to my northern border by making enemies into allies and I seek to do the same in the south. However, you word is not enough, I fear.’

  ‘What would satisfy you that I don’t share my father’s dream of a Greater Mercia encompassing all of England?’

  ‘Your conversion to Christianity and marriage to a princess who is also a Christian.’

  ‘I suppose you have some old harridan in mind?’

  ‘Perhaps Eormenhild of Kent? I’m afraid that she is neither old, being but ten years of age, and she is certainly not a harridan. I am told that she is positively pretty. Of course, it would be a betrothal only at this stage with marriage in three or four years’ time. I’m sure you are nothing like your brother Peada, but you’ll understand that I and her father, King Eocenberht, want to play safe.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘A treaty, of course, and Ethelred remains under my protection.’

  Just when Wulfhere thought that Oswiu had finished he added one last stipulation.

  ‘I nearly forget. I also require you to surrender the eldest sons of Immin, Eafa and Eadbert to me as hostages for their good behaviour.’

  Oswiu hadn’t forgiven the three Mercian eorls who had instigated the revolt that had put Wulfhere on the throne of Mercia, nor did he trust them not to talk Wulfhere into some act of folly. Holding their sons should, he hoped, keep them in check.

  The three men were amongst the Mercian delegation and they started to protest loudly.

  ‘Silence!’ Oswiu thundered. ‘The alternative is for you to risk everything on one turn of the dice. If you think you can win, go ahead, but be warned; if you lose there won’t be any more cosy little negotiations like this. Your head will be struck from your body, as will the heads of those three,’ he said, gesticulating towards the three eorls. ‘Your decision. We’ll retire and leave you to deliberate.’

  Three hours later a messenger rode into Oswiu’s camp to let him know that Wulfhere had decided to agree to his conditions.

  ~~~

  Whilst Oswiu was heading into Mercia, Catinus was leading his gesith south west towards Caer Luel, the capital of Rheged. He knew that its eorl would have already departed by sea for Dùn Add too but he hoped that he would be able to borrow or hire a few ships to transport him and his gesith around the Rhins, the bow shaped peninsular at the western extremity of Strathclyde, and up into the Firth of Clyde. Dùn Breatainn, the fortress of the Kings of Strathclyde, lay on the northern bank of the firth where the estuary began to narrow before it became the River Clyde.

  His journey was uneventful until he reached Caer Luel. Being early in the sailing season, the few ships that had already been put into the water had been needed to take the eorl to seek Domangart’s support. There were a number of knarrs, birlinns and currachs beached and propped up on stilts but they were all being repaired, having the weeds scraped off their bottoms and, in the case of the currachs, having some damaged skins replaced before new lanolin was rubbed into them to make the leather waterproof.

  He was faced with two unpalatable alternatives: either he would have to wait until enough ships were ready or they would have to ride north through Strathclyde to where there was a ferry over the river and then approach Dùn Breatainn along the north bank of the firth.
The problem was he didn’t have a safe-conduct and sending a messenger to obtain one would cause even more of a delay to his mission.

  It was Leofric who came up with a solution to his dilemma.

  ‘Lord, I’ve found a fisherman who is willing to transport you to King Mermin’s fortress.’

  ‘A fisherman? Have you gone mad, boy? It must be all of two hundred and fifty miles by sea from here to Dùn Breatainn. How on earth is a fishing boat going to take me and my escort all that way? We’d never make it. Quite apart from the fact that most fishing boats aren’t large enough to take more than a few men. The owner must be a fool to have made the offer.’

  ‘More like he’s got no idea where Dùn Breatainn is,’ Eadstan commented dryly.

  Leofric gave the leader of Bebbanburg’s garrison a pained look.

  ‘He was born in Ayr on the coast of Strathclyde and he knows the way to Dùn Breatainn well. His vessel isn’t a normal fishing boat. He and his sons like to venture further afield where there are better and bigger catches to be had. He bought a pontos a few years ago; one of the ships Eochaid captured when he rescued Aidan from the hinterland of Strathclyde.’

  Catinus had heard the tale, even if Eadstan hadn’t. Over twenty years ago, when Oswald had first come to the throne of Northumbria, he’d sent his friend Eochaid to save Aidan and Ròidh from the clutches of the then pagan King of Strathclyde. In the course of doing so he’d captured several pontos – a craft that had existed since Roman times. They were usually made of leather over a wooden frame but they were also constructed with thin wooden planks as the outer skin. They had a prow and a stern and were much larger than currachs.

  In this case the pontos was thirty five feet long with single mast and was it sheathed in wooden planks. It had four oars a side, but they were primarily designed for manoeuvring in port and to propel the craft slowly in narrow rivers. The normal crew was nine but, with an empty fish hold, it could carry another twenty men; though most would have to travel below decks and suffer the residual stink of dead fish.

  Catinus had brought forty men with him but twenty of those had to return to Bebbanburg as there wasn’t room for them on the pontos. The first part of the journey was uneventful, if tedious as they had to beat into the westerly wind until they rounded the southern tip of the Rhins. After that they sailed with the wind on their beam. They had almost cleared the northern end of the Rhins on the second day when the ship’s boy, sitting on the yard that secured the top of the mainsail near the top of the mast, yelled down that a strange sail was approaching from the west.

  Catinus looked at the owner of the pontos in alarm.

  ‘Can we out sail it?

  ‘I doubt it. From the sail that’s just appeared over the horizon I’d say it is probably three or four miles away and closing on us.’

  A quarter of an hour later the ship was close enough for them to make out the hull from the deck.

  ‘It’s an Irish birlinn by the look of her, but I can’t make out the device on her sail yet. You’d better get your warriors ready for a scrap.’

  Catinus nodded. Not all his men were in their best fighting form. The stench in the fish locker had made half of them seasick. They felt better once they were allowed on deck and, once they’d taken a few breaths of fresh sea air, they donned their chainmail byrnies and helmets. Some believed that fighting in armour at sea was madness. If you fell into the water you’d sink like a stone. However, Catinus didn’t hold with that. Most of men couldn’t swim so they’d drown anyway; it would just take longer.

  As the birlinn drew closer Catinus breathed a sigh of relief. He had never met King Eochaid of the Ulaidh in Ulster but he recognised his device. The pontos he was sailing on had once been captured by him from the men of Strathclyde. He had been a great friend of Oswiu’s brother, Oswald, and he was a Scot, the same tribe who inhabited Dalriada, one of Northumbria’s allies.

  ‘Run up Oswiu’s red and gold banner,’ he told Leofric, who ran away to do as he was bid.

  ‘Who are you?’ a fair haired young man standing on the prow of the birlinn called across.

  ‘I’m Catinus, Ealdorman of Bebbanburg and the emissary of King Oswiu of Northumbria. Who are you? From the device on your sail I presume that your birlinn belongs to King Eochaid.’

  ‘I’m his son, Lethlobar mac Echach. Where are you bound?’

  ‘To Dùn Breatainn. I’m sent to negotiate with King Mermin.’

  ‘Mermin? Is Guret dead then?’

  ‘Yes. The rumour is that Mermin killed him and took the throne. However, King Oswiu doesn’t want war in the North again. My mission is to prevent that if at all possible.’

  Although the two craft were now sailing abreast about ten yards apart Catinus found that shouting across the waves was making him hoarse.

  ‘Why don’t I come aboard so we can talk face to face instead of shouting?’

  ‘Are you agile enough to jump up onto my birlinn? Perhaps I should come aboard your little pontos instead?’

  A minute later Lethlobar was standing on the deck beside Catinus. The latter was shorter than most men but, in contrast, the Irishman stood six inches taller than the average. When he greeted Catinus by giving him a bear hug he lifted the ealdorman off his feet. Had he not done so Catinus would have found his nose pressed against the young man’s chest.

  ‘Tell me about this Mermin. We Dalriadans are at peace with Strathclyde now and I share your desire to keep it that way. We have suffered grievously at their hands in the past.’

  Catinus was interested to hear Lethlobar describe himself as a Dalriadan. Decades ago the Ulaidh were part of Dalriada; indeed the Dalriadans in Caledonia had come from Ulster originally. However, the link had been broken a long time ago when the two parts of the kingdom had both been struggling for survival.

  The two ships beached side by side in a deserted bay south of Ayr for the night and the Northumbrians and the Ulaidh held a friendly drinking competition that ended with both comatose. That night a six year old child could have killed the lot of them whilst they slept.

  They woke the next morning with sore heads until Catinus and Lethlobar ordered them into the sea to wash and clear the cobwebs away. A little later than either would have liked the two ships set off again heading north. Lethlobar had insisted on accompanying his new found friend and seeing him safely to his destination. For his part Catinus didn’t think that it would do any harm for Mermin to see him arrive in the company of an Irish prince. The more isolated Mermin felt the better.

  The pontos and the larger birlinn edged into the shallow bay below the fortress sitting high above them on its truncated cone of rock. As they approached the shore a large warband massed at the top of the beach.

  ‘It doesn’t look as if our arrival is particularly welcome,’ Lethlobar called across to Catinus.

  ‘I’m going to land without armour, helmet or shield so that they know that we come in peace.’

  ‘I’ll be ready to avenge your death if your peaceful intentions aren’t reciprocated,’ the Irishman replied with a grin.

  Catinus jumped down onto the sand followed by Redwald and his banner bearer. They trudged through the sand towards the warband, who were now talking in increasingly agitated voices amongst themselves. When the Northumbrians were fifty yards away from them three men stepped forward to meet them. The leader handed his shield and helmet to one of his men but the other two remained fully armed.

  ‘Who are you and what do you think you are doing coming here with a warband?’

  To Catinus’ surprise he spoke in English. Lethlobar looked puzzled. He spoke both the Gaelic spoken in Ireland and the Brythonic tongue prevalent in Caledonia and Rheged but his grasp of the language of the Angles, Saxons and Jutes was rudimentary.

  ‘I’m Catinus, Ealdorman of Bebbanburg and the emissary of King Oswiu. My friend, Lethlobar, is the son of the King of Ulaidh who is kindly keeping me company in case of pirates.’

  ‘Pirates? There are none in the Clyde.�
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  ‘No, but we have come from Caer Luel and the waters off Ulster are patrolled by the Uí Néill who prey on other ships.’

  ‘Conceivably you are right, but I still dislike so many armed men arriving uninvited.’

  ‘Did King Oswiu’s messenger not arrive informing you of my intended visit?’

  ‘Yes, but I expected you to come from the east, along the north bank of the Clyde.’

  For a moment Catinus wondered whether, had he done so, he would have arrived safely at Dùn Breatainn. He was fairly certain that he would have disappeared somewhere along the way. If Mermin denied that he had ever arrived in Strathclyde he would have been spared making a decision about his loyalty to Oswiu, at least for now. As it was, he either had to acknowledge him as his overlord or risk finding himself at war with the kingdoms surrounding his territory.

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  Lethlobar, who hadn’t followed much of the conversation so far, was getting increasingly impatient.

  ‘He didn’t expect me to come by sea. He had an escort waiting for me, supposing that I would come by land.’

  ‘More like an execution squad,’ the Irishmen grunted.

  Catinus glanced at Mermin quickly but it was evident that that the king didn’t understand Gaelic.

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’ Turning back to Mermin he asked pleasantly whether they might continue their discussions in more comfortable surroundings.

  The man’s eyes lit up. ‘By all means. Come up to my hall. You can bring a couple of men but no more.’

  ‘No need to trouble yourself, I’ll have a tent and some chairs brought ashore. We can conduct our negotiations here.’

  Catinus had no intention of finding himself a hostage. Mermin scowled at him but had little option but to acquiesce. An hour later both men sat on comfortable chairs with their immediate advisers behind them. Catinus had taken the opportunity to change and he appeared wearing a crimson tunic which came down to just below his knees, blue trousers tied around the calves with white ribbons, and a thick blue cloak secured around his neck with a large broach made of gold with a ruby at its centre. He was bareheaded.