“I, Oswald, son of Æthelfrith, King of Deira and Bernicia, Lord of Northumbria. I will be Cynegils’ Godfather.”
Birinus inclined his head slightly towards Oswald. Such was the presence of the Northumbrian, none thought it strange. But in his current state of heightened awareness Coenred noted a tightening of the skin around Cynegils’ eyes.
Birinus continued: “Step forward, King Cynegils. Step into the running water of this river, where your sins will be washed away.”
Cynegils unclasped his cloak-pin and shrugged off his fine woollen cloak. The bruised-faced thegn took it from him.
The crowd of people was silent now. There was magic in the air. Magic of the new god, the Christ.
Birinus led Cynegils into the river. They halted when the cool water eddied over their calves.
“Now kneel before the Lord your God,” said Birinus, his voice exultant, carrying to all onlookers.
Cynegils hesitated. For a moment, it seemed he would not kneel. He looked at Oswald, who gave a slight nod. Finally, as if struggling against a physical force, the proud King of the West Seaxons, knelt in the river. The plain white robe he wore billowed around him like a lady’s skirts in a strong wind.
Birinus signalled to Oswald.
“Oswald, as sponsor of Cynegils in this Holy sacrament, step forward and place your hand upon his shoulder. You are to be his support, his guide as he enters Christ’s church.”
Without hesitation, Oswald strode into the water. He placed a hand upon the kneeling Cynegils’ shoulder and turned his face towards Birinus, who continued with the rite.
“Cynegils, what do you ask of the Church of God?”
Cynegils had learnt his part after much coaxing the previous night.
“Faith,” he answered, his voice small, as if choked in his throat.
“What does Faith offer you?”
Cynegils seemed unable to speak. Perhaps he could not recall the correct words. After a moment, Oswald whispered something to him.
Cynegils’ face flushed scarlet, but he intoned in a clear voice: “Life everlasting.”
Birinus nodded and said, “If then you desire to enter into life, keep the commandments. ‘Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart and with thy whole soul and with thy whole mind; and thy neighbour as thyself’.”
The rite continued smoothly. The crowd watched in hushed awe at their king welcoming a new God and renouncing the old ones they had worshipped for generations. Most did not understand everything that was said, but they would all remember seeing the King of Wessex having river water thrice poured from a golden cup over his head as the strange priest from a southern land intoned about washing away sins. They would all recount how Cynegils had shivered as the cold water had doused him, plastering his plain white robe to his corpulent body.
But clearest of all, they would remember how their lord, Cynegils, son of Ceol had knelt before the tall and proud king of the Northumbrians.
Chapter 12
Beobrand scratched at his scrubby beard. His head ached with a dull throb. The day was still and humid, the sun heating middle earth as if it were inside a clay bread oven. There was no breeze, and scarcely any shade beside the hall where he sat. Some way off, Oswald walked stiffly next to his young bride.
Acennan slumped to the ground beside Beobrand with a groan.
“By Tiw’s cock, if I have to eat any more boar, or drink one more drop of mead, I think I’ll die.”
Beobrand snorted.
“I’m sure you’ll manage.” But he understood Acennan’s comment. Where the tedious journey from Bebbanburg had been sombre and full of tension, the days they had spent at Dorcic had suffered from a surfeit of merriment and celebrations.
The baptism of the king had been followed by feasting. And then, with barely enough time to recover, by the marriage of Oswald to Cyneburg. Despite the pain in his head, Beobrand smiled to remember the gasps from the men as the princess had been led to the altar, where Birinus performed the marriage rites. She was the most beautiful creature most had ever seen. Beobrand shook his head at the memory. Almost as beautiful as Sunniva. There was not a man there who was not jealous of the Northumbrian king at seeing him wed to this dazzling peace-weaver.
“I’m not so sure,” said Acennan, rubbing his belly and stretching to work the kinks out of his shoulders. “I may take up fasting like those monks of the Christ.”
“You’ll wish for some hot meat and good mead when we are once more far from here on the whale’s way. And I think we’ll be leaving soon enough. Cynegils must be despairing of all the food we’ve eaten. His people will starve this winter if we stay much longer.”
They were silent for a time, content to watch Oswald and Cyneburg. Behind the couple, a few paces back, walked Derian, the bearded thegn, leader of Oswald’s hearth-warriors. Beside him, head lowered, walked the raven-haired girl from that first night. Her name was Eadgyth, and wooing her had become Acennan’s obsession. After the fight, she would not approach him again, and any attempt he made at speaking to her in the hall, met with stony silence.
“Look at the king,” said Acennan, scorn dripping from his words. “It is as if he doesn’t know what to do with a lovely woman. Gods, instead of Derian I wish I could walk with Eadgyth. I could show Oswald how to treat a lady.”
“Yes,” Beobrand smirked. “You are doing such a good job with Eadgyth, I’m sure the king would welcome your assistance.”
Acennan frowned.
“Well, how was I to know?”
“I suppose we could have asked.”
“But her brother!” said Acennan “Who could have foreseen such a thing?”
The thegn, who now bore the storm-cloud bruises of a broken nose from Beobrand’s savage head-butt, was Wulfgar, brother of Eadgyth. Young and proud, he had not taken kindly to his sister receiving the attentions of a visiting warrior from Bernicia. Since the incident by the byre, Wulfgar and his companions had made no further attempt to confront Beobrand or Acennan, but the two friends were careful not to wander outside the hall alone. They could see the resentment burning behind Wulfgar’s dark-ringed eyes. Beobrand knew what it was to crave vengeance, and worried that should the West Seaxon and his friends seek retribution, they would not set aside their weapons a second time. And with drawn blades there would be blood. And death. It would not do to shed the blood of their new-found allies. Beobrand had almost trod that dangerous path at Dor, when Oswald agreed a truce with Penda of Mercia. He did not wish to be forced into a situation that would go badly for them all, no matter the outcome of a fight.
They watched as Oswald pointed at something in the trees that they could not make out. Cyneburg’s laughter reached them. Perhaps the king was making progress with his bride after all.
“We should count ourselves lucky that the king did not pry into what happened between us and Wulfgar.”
“Why?” a new voice said, making them both start. “What did happen?”
Turning, Beobrand saw Coenred come round the corner of the hall. He offered the monk a smile.
“Nothing happened,” Beobrand said quickly.
Coenred eased himself down to sit beside the two warriors.
“Really? The man’s face says otherwise, and I have seen how he looks at you. His friends too. You should watch yourselves.”
“Don’t concern yourself with us. We’re amongst friends here in Wessex. You know that.”
“That is your problem,” said Coenred, wiping beads of sweat from his shaved forehead. “You often turn friends to enemies too readily.” He gave Beobrand a reproachful look, but was unable to hold it for long.
Acennan let out a short bark of laughter. Beobrand gave him a sidelong glance. Was he thinking of how Beobrand had knocked him senseless in that thunder-filled night, not so long ago?
“And your trouble, Coenred,” said Beobrand, “is that you think too much. And see too much for your own good.”
The king, his new queen and their entourage had
walked out of their sight now, down towards the river.
Beobrand clapped Coenred on the shoulder. “Do not look glum, I was merely jesting with you. But best if you do not speak of Wulfgar and his friends. We are trying to keep the peace. Now, how goes your work?”
“It is done. Dalston and I have completed making the copies this very morning.”
“Copies?”
“We have written down that which Oswald and Cynegils have agreed upon. Hides of tribute. Queen Cyneburg’s brýdgifu, morgengifu and handgeld. All the quantities and values in their pacts. And so there is no confusion when the two kings are apart, we have made copies.”
Beobrand had spoken of this writing with Coenred before. He could see little reason for it, but Oswald put great store in the scratched marks the holy men made on their sheets of stretched calf skin. Beobrand thought the writing made Oswald feel somehow more of a king, more than a warlord to be respected for his power in battle and shrewdness in peace. Beobrand was not very interested in the scratchings of the monks, but he had seen their writing on occasion and he could not hide his admiration for the craftsmanship. The lines of ink were precise. In places, the monks would add cunning drawings to the words. Animals and men, depicted with fine attention to detail. He cared little for the meaning of the writing, but he did enjoy looking at the pictures.
“And the copies are identical?” He could not imagine having the patience to scratch out the symbols on the vellum sheets once, let alone doing it all again.
“As near as we can make them. The content is the same. That is the reason for the copies.”
“So,” said Acennan, who had been sitting silently, “if the kings have made their agreements, and you have written your words, we should be leaving soon, no?”
“Gothfraidh says that is so. Oswald King was anxious to leave as soon as he was wed, but Cynegils bids him tarry a while longer.”
“Why?” asked Beobrand. “Surely we have been here long enough for his hospitality to wane.”
The distant sound of a woman’s laughter drifted to them.
“Gothfraidh says Cynegils does not wish to say farewell to his daughter.”
“She’s no longer his daughter,” said Acennan. “She’s Oswald’s Queen.”
“That is true, but Cynegils would have one last feast in Oswald’s honour before we leave.”
Acennan groaned.
“Another feast? I will surely burst.”
“Let us hope then,” said Coenred, “that the Picts have settled down in the north and there is no war when we return to Bernicia.”
Beobrand hoped for peace in the north too, but did not follow Coenred’s thinking.
“Why?”
“Otherwise, with all this feasting, neither of you will be able to squeeze into your byrnies.”
*
Another feast. Fresh ale had been brewed. Once more precious animals had been slaughtered, the meat roasted over great firepits, turned on spits by sweat-streaked children. Fresh eel had been brought up from the Temes. The hall was again awash with the sound of conversation. At the high table, the kings of Wessex and Northumbria presided over the gathered throng. At Oswald’s side, sat his radiant new queen, her hair lustrous and golden. Many were the men who would catch themselves gawping at Cyneburg that night. Hers was a beauty that led to men dreaming. Beobrand gazed at her too, through the smoke-haze of the hall. But his thoughts were not full of lust for the daughter of Cynegils. Her shining tresses and flawless, smooth skin conjured images of Sunniva in his mind. She too had caused men to stare, to become ensnared in her dazzling beauty.
But she had gone, like all the womenfolk in his life. Well, not all. He had managed to save Rheagan. The memory of her dark mane of hair, her fragile, pale body, brought a secret smile to his lips. He yearned for the solace of her touch once more. To lie with her quietly in the dark sanctuary of his own hall.
He looked away from the queen. Lost in his thoughts, he stared into the fire that burnt brightly on the hearth, though the night was not cold. Smoke eddied and pooled around the wooden bones of the roof, where soot hung like blackened fungus growths on the beams. It reminded him of the blaze of Nathair’s hall. That night of killing and blood.
He offered up a silent prayer to any god who would listen. Keep Ubbanford safe.
Surely he had done enough to protect his lands. Torran and his Picts were still abroad in Bernicia. But Bassus was strong. A good leader of men. And Beobrand had left most of his gesithas to guard his people. To keep them safe.
To keep Octa from harm.
To keep Rheagan safe. She was a thrall. Nothing more. And yet her face played in his mind at night. Sometimes he awoke with the shreds of his dreams tattering in the morning light. At those times, he knew he had dreamt of lying with a woman, but he was unsure with which one. Sunniva and Rheagan were as far from each other as day is to night, but both haunted his sleep.
No. Only one haunted him. Rheagan still lived.
Absently, Beobrand picked meat from the bones of the pigeon on the trencher before him. The flesh was soft and succulent, but the taste turned to ash in his mouth as he saw the remnants of the bird on the board. Bird bones, white and brittle. Like those left on the horse’s skull on the path near Ubbanford. Nelda had left them there, of that he was certain. When he returned to Bernicia, he would seek her out, and put an end to the witch, once and for all.
He had done his best to push aside his worries. There was nothing to be gained from fretting about that over which he had no control. But now, as the moment for their departure drew close, it was as if a poorly-built dam had collapsed and all his fears rushed back, flooding his mind.
Not long now. They would be leaving soon and the journey would not take them much more than a sennight, if the gods smiled on them and the calm weather held.
Beobrand looked about him at the assembled men. For the most part those from Northumbria and Wessex still sat apart. Bonds that were forged in battle were strong and hard to break. But in some cases new friendships had been made and Wessexmen and Northumbrians shared drinking horns and conversation. Willing himself to push aside his dark thoughts, he listened to Athelstan, who now stood, boasting before a group of West Seaxons.
“And so it was,” the grizzled warrior said in a booming voice, “that we attacked the Waelisc host at night. Yes, your ears did not trick you. I said, at night. And Thunor’s chariot crashed in the heavens and his hammer struck with savage fury. And Oswald led us down to their camp and we smote them with blade and spear in the flicker-flame light of the storm.”
The warriors raised their cups and hammered their fists on the boards. Tales of battle were ever popular. And Athelstan was a good tale-spinner. He was no scop, but his voice was clear. His words clever. And he had been there at Hefenfelth. He bore the scars of many battles and wore the rings on his muscled arms that proved his worth. The hall quietened as people turned to listen to this brutish-looking thegn of the north. His beard bristled and he flashed his teeth in a grin at Beobrand, as he sensed the eyes of all on him.
“We fought all that long night. Cadwallon’s host was huge. Their spears numbered more than all the trees in Albion. They thought to sweep Bernicia before them. To destroy us. To push us back into the sea from whence had come our forebears. But Oswald had prayed to the Christ God. He had put up a great rood, before which we all bowed on the eve of the battle. God had promised him victory over Cadwallon, and the one God is true. He keeps his word.”
At the far end of the hall, Oswald sat up tall and proud. He nodded, clearly listening intently to Athelstan’s words. Cynegils turned to him and spoke; perhaps asking for the end of the tale. Oswald merely indicated with his hand to listen to his thegn as Athelstan finished his account of the battle of Hefenfelth. Off to one side, Beobrand saw Acennan and Derian, deep in conversation. He raised his hand to them, but neither noticed him. He heard his name and turned his attention back to Athelstan.
“… with only half a hand, this noble
-hearted warrior from the south, stepped forth from the shieldwall. Beobrand ordered the great steed to halt, and listening, the mount, a massive black beast, stopped before him, and allowed him to climb onto its back.”
To Beobrand’s embarrassment, eyes turned to him. Unsure what to do, he offered a thin smile and focused on Athelstan, willing them all to watch the older man, who revelled in the attention.
Athelstan, in total control of his audience now, told how Beobrand had chased down the King of Gwynedd and brought him back to Oswald. The story ended with Cadwallon defeated and Oswald, the Christ-worshipper victorious and ruler of a united Northumbria. Athelstan recounted the victorious gift-giving feast, where Oswald rewarded his trusted followers.
Beobrand looked to the high table. Cynegils was frowning. The message was clear. Those who stood against Oswald were slain, and those who aided him, were rewarded. Beobrand wondered whether Athelstan had been instructed to act as scop this evening, on the eve of Oswald’s departure, to reinforce to the King of the West Seaxons that they were now allies and what that entailed.
The board creaked under Cynegils’ weight as he pushed himself to his feet. He raised his hands to silence the cheering that had erupted at the conclusion to Athelstan’s story. After a time, the noise abated and all present turned to hear what the lord of the hall would say.
The King of the West Seaxons drew in a deep breath and seemed prepared to address them all in his huge voice. But, before he could utter a sound, the silence of the hall was split by a shout from the doors.
“I must speak with my king.”
The door wards, with crossed spears, held back a tall, lean man. He made to push into the hall, but they prevented him, laying their weight against the ash hafts of the spears.
“I have urgent tidings for my king,” shouted the man.
Cynegils beckoned to the newcomer who had interrupted him. The man was clearly distressed, tension evident in his every move.
Blood and Blade (The Bernicia Chronicles Book 3) Page 11