“I thank you, my Lord, for your concern. I had an untroubled but tiring journey. I would rest and refresh myself, with your leave,” Eanfleda said, with eyes downcast.
“Are your quarters prepared already?” Oswy demanded.
“I sent ahead and asked my sister Hilda to prepare chambers for me in the convent.” Her husband bridled and a snarl started to distort his handsome face.
“In the nunnery!” he sneered quietly. “It would of course be too much to expect the Queen to bed down with the king, near the kingdom’s warriors, who protect and defend her, who provide her with the victories that give the lands she so willingly disposes of. And Romanus? Is he catered for?”
“He is.”
“And where are his quarters? Curled up at the foot of your bed like a lapdog?”
“I am sure the arrangements will be humble but suitable,” Eanfleda’s chaplain replied obsequiously.
“Romanus, I despise you. Don’t remind me how much by speaking without being spoken to.” Oswy stood and paced the width of his room. Normally it would accommodate a dozen monks but had been set aside for the King. It was temporary and already sealed against the weather, so he hadn’t bothered to adorn it with his wallhangings or fabrics. It presented a stark and businesslike air.
“May we have your leave, my Lord?” the Queen asked. Oswy paused and sighed. He stretched his back before replying.
“Oh, go on, you have my leave to do what you will. This matter will be resolved in the next few days and then, with any luck, we can try to be nice to each other.”
“As my Lord commands,” she replied, curtsied and then left swiftly with her women and chaplain in tow. She was almost running before she reached the door. He had toyed with the idea of keeping her longer as he rather liked the look of one of her companion ladies but she would only have made him cross and there was still work to do, even today, in this place.
His attention was drawn to a quiet disturbance at the door.
“What is it now?” he called out, irritably.
“A monk, my Lord. He says he has a message for you but he won’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Claims he’s under orders to deliver it to you personally.” He slouched down onto his chair and leaned on the table, propping his head on his fist.
“Let him in,” he said resignedly. The guards stood aside and allowed in a monk, one of the community from Lindisfarne, by the look of his threadbare habit with its incomplete set of buttons. They made almost an obsession of poverty and self-denial, he thought to himself. The monk was about his own age, quite tall for a Briton, with grey beginning to lighten the long dark hair that fell back off his head to his shoulders. He didn’t recognise him but noted that he came to a halt a respectful spear’s length away, bowed and stood straight, waiting to be addressed.
“I don’t know you: you’re not from Lindisfarne, are you?”
“No, my Lord. I have come from Iona.”
“And what is this message you have to deliver to me personally?” I considered the Northumbrian king, and those in the chamber. There were guards either side of the throne, a couple of thanes lounging at a trestle table to his left, an older man in everyday clothes to the right and two younger men either side of the throne but further back, and in shadow. Sufficient of their features and bearing could be made out to see that these last looked enough like Oswy to be his sons.
“My Lord, I was asked to deliver it to you in private, if at all possible.” I said. Oswy adjusted his position with a heavy sigh.
“Who is it from?”
“I passed through other kingdoms on my way here, sir,” I replied, and hoped that was enough. Oswy looked at me with more interest.
“Search him,” he ordered, and two guards did so. It took only a moment to ascertain that I had no weapon on me. Oswy stood up and turned towards a door set into the back wall. “Come on.” he said. As I followed my eyes were drawn to the younger of the two boys and
I saw a wolf imprisoned, a black wolf writhing and snarling, baring its fangs and snapping at the bars of its cage. Overlaid was the face and skin of the prince, but the true nature was the black wolf.
I staggered and almost fell. My eyes were on the near-grown boy and they pretty much started out of their sockets.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded angrily. Oswy turned.
“Your pardon,” I replied as I steadied myself. “Your pardon please my Lord. I have an affliction which takes me without warning. I hope I didn’t cause you distress?” The young man snorted and looked away, idly chewing a thumbnail.
“Is there a problem here? Are you unwell?” the King asked.
“No sir, it was nothing - a momentary spasm. I apologise. If I may just have a draft of my medicine, because these episodes are frequently accompanied by headache…” I rummaged through my bag and attracted the attention of more in the hall, some hands went to swords and then relaxed as I produced my bottle and took a small draught against the emergent pain. “All will be well. I’m fine, now.” We continued into the rear chamber.
The door was closed and Oswy sat on a bench by the window of the inner room with one foot up, resting his forearm on his knee. His blond braided hair was untouched by grey and fell to his shoulders. He wore a gold circlet at his brow, a leather sleeveless jacket over a white linen shirt, brown leggings and shoes whose laces were crisscrossed over his calves in typical English style. Even seated, he had a powerful presence. He stood over six feet tall and his frame was broad, lean and well-muscled. If his younger son was a wolf then this one was a lion, regal, confident, massive. The eyes that regarded me from the bearded face were clear grey-blue and unblinking but I returned the look for a few seconds of silence before respectfully dropping my own. We had been followed into the room by the civilian, possibly a scribe - although he walked with a limp and breathed heavily, so more likely he was a trusted officer, invalided out of the army. I felt the nature of a maimed bear.
“Who are you, master monk, and where have you been?” I half-looked towards the third person in the room. “Godwin stays. Don’t make me repeat my question.” I bowed briefly.
“My name is Anselm, I am from the community of Iona and I’ve been to Dumbarton. I have a message for you from King Owain.” I pulled the parchment from my bag and handed it over. Oswy examined the stained exterior and looked at me. “A problem with the tide at Lindisfarne. My own fault, I was in too much of a rush to get to the island. My bag protected it from serious harm.” Oswy nodded as if the explanation was familiar, opened the letter and read it and then handed it over to Godwin. The adviser finished, turned the page over to see if there was more and looked quizzically at his King. Oswy linked hand and wrist casually.
“I am always pleased to receive a fellow monarch’s good wishes, especially when it’s couched in such sweet language. And even if the author is a jumped-up warmongering whelp who will have his hide tanned by me personally when we defeat him. Him and his brother both. He has enough sense not to come within reach of my sword arm though, I’ll give him that. Why was it necessary to put it into my hands alone?”
“Sir, the letter is really only to establish that I am charged with delivering Owain’s personal message to you.” Oswy nodded. Get to the point. “He has more to convey, which is so secret that it was not committed to writing. He is concerned at the possible influence that outside forces may exert over some kingdoms and offers an alliance if these forces try to push their power too far, to your mutual detriment.” The King swung his legs off the bench and sat straight up, very attentive now.
“An alliance! Owain proposes an alliance?” his voice rose to something approaching an astonished squeak. “He knows I’ll have his head the next time I see him: we’re lifelong enemies, him and his uncle before him. Is he mad?”
“No, sir,” I said, and fell silent.
“An alliance against who?”
“Outside forces in general and the Roman Church in particular.
He is concerned at its secular influence.” I let it rest there and let the English King think the matter through himself. He did so, walking slowly up and down the chamber, now stroking his beard with one hand, now folding his arms.
Oswy understood Owain’s meaning. The Romans were very keen on power and influence - witness the hold they had over Eanfleda - and the way they ruled the lands around their monasteries angered him: they seemed to regard them as private fiefdoms. In his own Kingdom, his own Queen had handed over most of the land the priories and monasteries now had! Without her, he thought (and not for the first time), things would be a lot more straightforward. He preferred the Irish Church; they mostly kept to their monasteries and their duties with the people, didn’t seek to interfere with his running of his affairs and could even be prevailed upon to bless the odd army here and there. They would come and tell him off for his womanising and expansionism from time to time but that never bothered him. The Romans, by contrast, wanted their people at his ear, whispering like a lover all the time. They were eager to get involved with the fray, they held Masses before battles and some of their younger and more inflamed actually fought: but Owain was right, their motives were suspect. But ally with Strathclyde? Join with his most implacable foes? Make common cause with the one kingdom that defied him - and had the power to back up that defiance? It was unthinkable!
He paused.
Actually, he considered, it had its attractions. The two greatest kingdoms on the island, side by side, together in harness -
They could carve the whole island up between the two of them - Strathclyde to the north and west, Northumbria to the south and east. Then they could even consider taking on the Franks. Or the Jutes. Or anyone, even the tattered remnants of the Roman Empire itself. Could it be done? Could it be?
And then, when all common enemies had been vanquished, could he not turn against them in the moment of triumph and have all for himself?
“What sort of alliance does Owain propose?”
“A defensive one, sir.” Oh. Maybe Strathclyde wouldn’t be so keen on taking on the Empire, then. That still left Britain. Yes, quite possibly. He looked at Godwin and smiled. The smile was returned hesitantly, but wolfishly. His adviser could see the possibilities, too. He turned to me again.
“Your few brief words have given us much food for thought. Thank you Magister. You may leave us, we have a lot to discuss - but be ready to come and talk to me again. Keep this secret, as I’m sure you have done up till now. No-one must know of the proposal. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye, sir,” I said, and bowed and left the chamber.
I couldn’t resist eavesdropping. While I walked through the main chamber and out into the yard I left my spirit in the room, hovering above the two men. I wanted to know whether Strathclyde could trust Northumbria’s answer, whatever it turned out to be.
“What do you think of that?” I heard Oswy gasp, as the door closed. Godwin snorted and shook his head. “There are possibilities - “
“Great ones,” Godwin smiled the wolfish smile again.
“And pitfalls?”
“Oh, yes. There are always pitfalls.”
“But what we could do - “
“What we could achieve!”
I left the building and sat on a bench just round the corner from the door. I could do two things at once – walk and send my spirit out to watch, unseen – but it was difficult and often gave me a headache. Not least, from walking into walls and doors to which I wasn’t paying enough attention. I was in time to see Oswy throw his head back, laugh out loud and slap his adviser on the back.
“Oh, Godwin! Would you be alive any other day? Such a time we can have!” Godwin laughed in return, then Oswy’s face fell and he was thoughtful again. “Damn!”
“What is it?”
“I forgot to ask that monk – what was his name?“
“Aldhelm? Alban?”
“Anselm. I forgot to ask Anselm what the hell he said to Owain to get him to even consider an alliance. No matter. We must think long and hard on this before we speak to him again.” Godwin nodded agreement. “And there are real problems. The Druids still hold sway in Strathclyde. Even the Irish monks may draw the line at an alliance with a pagan kingdom.”
“But it was a monk that brought the message, so it’s not insurmountable, surely? We’ve made converts by force of arms before and if Owain is as intelligent as he seems then he’ll probably see the advantage in realignment.”
“Maybe. Yes, it may not be such a big problem: maybe he’s right for conversion. Think of it!” he continued. “We could bring a whole kingdom to Christ without spilling a drop of blood! Think what honour that would bring us, when we march full-armoured into the presence of the God of Victories in His halls of judgement! How heavily would those thousands and thousands of souls weigh on our side of the balance! Surely a place of honour would be ours if we could achieve it!”
“Your name would be honoured and revered above as here on Earth. They would raise churches and shrines in your memory. But,” Godwin raised a point that steadied the heady images, “do we know that Owain is truly ready to convert? Or is this just a tactic?”
“Right,” Oswy nodded, “it must be sorted out before we march together. Anyway, we won’t decide today: let’s think about it for a night or so. Let the idea settle in and either we send back agreement or nothing doing. Until we’ve decided, we say nothing to anyone.”
“And your sons, what of them?” Oswy paused before answering.
“Aldfrid is something of a chatterer, especially when he’s in his cups. His woman is worse and he hasn’t learned to keep anything from her. Ecgfrid is too hot-headed. Time may cool his blood but he’s not ready yet. You saw how the monk reacted when he first set eyes on him?” Godwin nodded. “They can be fey, these outlanders, and there’s something in the boy that worried him - frightened him in fact, and I get the impression he can handle himself if need be. He held my gaze longer than most and cast his eyes down because he had decided to out of respect, not because he had to out of fear.
“No, we’ll leave the lads out of it for the moment. We’ll explain everything to them if it becomes necessary. And we’ll say nothing to the monk until we’ve decided. Agreed?” Again, Godwin assented. The relationship between them was becoming clear. He was officially the King’s counsellor but most of the time he was a sounding-board for Oswy’s thoughts, and quite content with that role. His King took his own decisions, which meant that his head was safer than most in his position. As they returned to the main chamber Oswy quietly asked Godwin why the Irishman had a Frankish name. Godwin shrugged. He hadn’t given it any thought.
Owain’s offer was being seriously considered. That was all I needed for the moment
18
The Sisters
Hilda waited in her audience chamber for her sister, who had sent word that she wished to speak to her alone. The room was a little larger than most in the convent but not by much. She preferred to hold audience in the open air; her mind was clearer without walls to confuse and restrict her thoughts but she had been specifically asked for a private - for which read secret - meeting.
“Come in,” she said in answer to the respectful knock at the door. A nun entered.
“Queen Eanfleda asks for you, Abbess,” she said.
“Show her in, and then leave us. Go outside the outer office and make sure no-one comes nearer than the far door.” The nun nodded and stood aside for the royal visitor. Then she made the briefest of bows and departed. Hilda waited until she heard the further door close before speaking. The Queen of the most powerful kingdom in Britain, whose husband’s name alone engendered fear from the northern seas to the Kentish coast, stood before her as a trembling girl at the end of her tether.
“Sit down, Fleda,” she indicated a chair, “and tell me all about it.” As if I have to ask, she thought to herself, but her tone was gentle.
The younger woman was dressed in dark and heavy clothes, d
espite the warm spring sunshine. Her veil was of thick dark wool and was held tightly at her temples by a fine gold circlet. It was also pinned and gripped to her hair - not one strand of which had managed to escape - and her brown dress. Over her dress was a full apron of sombre green and her linen rose all the way to her chin, gathered and tied stiffly, with several safety knots more than was necessary. She looked more like a nun than Hilda herself but even a full suit of armour, complete with closed visor, wouldn’t give her the protection she craved. The laughing young girl who had played happily in the warm southern sun, who had squealed with delight when her older sister had swung her around and around in the meadows outside the castle, was locked away deep within the unhappy woman who sat before her, who now put her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably for several minutes. Hilda passed a linen kerchief to soak up the tears. Many in her flock would have been surprised to see their stern Abbess display such compassion, but several also knew how kind she could be to those in real need of comfort.
Eanfleda blew her nose at an unregal volume and tried to begin.
“Oh, Hilda,” she started and then broke into sobs again. They lasted less time and a few deep breaths enabled her to continue, so long as she didn’t look at her sister’s face. “It’s all so horrible. He wants me to…and I can’t…I’ve been able to refuse him because of his Irish worship…but after the Synod we’ll be in one church…then he says…” her voice died out, she could only mouth the words “I can’t. I can’t.” She looked into her sister’s eyes and saw such kindness, such compassion and such care that she burst into tears again.
Hilda waited for as long as it took.
“You can’t imagine - his breath on my cheek, the smell! He smells of bogs and horses - his dirty hands and that - that - thing - between his legs. You can see it from across a field. He shows it off, wants everyone to see it. Every time I see him, he looks at my body, not at my face. His eyes are like leeches, I can feel them, they run down every inch - my flesh crawls, it crawls. He revolts me! I can’t stand it!” She blew her nose again. “Oh, you wouldn’t understand, you can’t understand. You don’t need to think about men and their disgusting urges.” She stopped and gazed at the wall. A shudder ran through her.
The Monk (Prince Ciaran th Damned Book 3) Page 23