by H A CULLEY
~~~
Bruide had watched the Northumbrian camp from the watchtower inside the fortress of Dùn Nectain since dawn. Now he had Ecgfrith and his wretched Northumbrians just where he wanted them. His policy of stripping the land of people, livestock and stored crops had worked. The enemy were frustrated and hungry. The skirmish at the bridge had merely been a ploy to make sure that they walked into the trap he’d prepared. He hadn’t like losing a few hundred men, but it had been worth it.
Dùn Nectain was the Mormaer of Angus’ principal stronghold and it was larger than it looked from below. He watched a boy on a hill pony canter up the valley to the south of the hills on which the fortress stood, out of sight from Ecgfrith’s men. He rode in through the gates and gave a message to the mormaer. The man mounted the watchtower and handed it to Bruide who broke the seal and scanned the contents. He smiled and was about to give it to the mormaer when he remembered that he couldn’t read.
‘Beli and Mael Duin are five miles away. They’ll be here well before noon.’
Beli was Elfin of Strathclyde’s son. Elfin was elderly now and Beli was the power behind the throne. Unlike his father, he didn’t like the Northumbrians and was keen to rule without interference from anyone, least of all Ecgfrith. Mael Diun had agreed to Bruide’s plan for fear of isolation otherwise.
‘In that case the trap is sprung. Give the signal.’
The mormaer waved down at the boy with the pony who mounted and was about to ride out of the gates when Bruide yelled down for him to stay where he was. He’d spotted the two groups of riders leaving the camp below.
‘Tell the boy to ride to warn the warband to the east about the scouts coming their way. None are to return to warn Ecgfrith. Then take a dozen of your best men and lie in wait for the horsemen coming towards us. As soon as they cross the ridge to approach the gates they are to be killed. Make sure they are out of sight first though. Now go!’
The boy, who was called Taran and was Bruide’s son, lay under a gorse bush with the Mormaer of Atholl, who commanded the warband blocking the route to the east. When the six riders appeared, the mormaer nodded and Taran put his fingers in his mouth. A split second later a piercing whistle gave the signal to spring the ambush. Fifty men shot to their feet and ran at the horsemen, whilst fifty more ran to cut off their line of retreat. It was the work of seconds to pull the riders from their horses and kill them.
One of the horses bolted and ran straight at the blocking group, who jumped out of its way. Luckily one with more courage than the rest stood his ground and aimed his spear at the animal’s chest. It ran straight onto the point, knocking the man to the ground, but then it fell to its knees, collapsed sideways and lay still.
Those scouting the fortress met a similar fate and, once Taran returned to tell his father that the other party of horsemen were no more, he left again to take the message to those manning a beacon on the next hill.
‘Light the fire, quickly now,’ he yelled excitedly in his treble voice.
Five minutes later the pile of wood caught from the kindling and ten minutes after that the fire was alight well enough for the men to throw wet straw onto it to produce white smoke that was visible for some distance.
~~~
Octa was the first to notice the smoke and he went to find Ecgfrith.
‘That bodes ill for us, I’ll be bound,’ he muttered.
‘Yes, it’s a signal to the Picts, but to do what?’
He had his answer half an hour later when over two thousand of them appeared blocking the valley to the east. At the same moment two thousand more lined the hills either side of Dùn Nectain.
‘That must be every warrior that Bruide could find.’ Octa said, looking worried. ‘I suggest the time has come for us to retreat, Cyning.’
‘Yes, you’re right. They’ll press us hard if we do, but a fighting withdrawal seems like our only choice or else we’ll be hemmed in by Picts on two sides with the marsh on the other.’
The tactic was working. The Northumbrians formed an L shaped shield wall to hold off the sporadic attacks by the frenzied Picts and they’d gone about a mile to where the marsh petered out so that they could form a proper long shield wall when they saw another army advancing up Strath Mor towards them.
‘Who in the Name of God are they?’ Ecgfrith asked Octa.
As they came closer they could distinguish the banners of Strathclyde and Dalriada.
‘I suppose it’s too much to hope that they have come to support us,’ Octa muttered.
~~~
Crows and buzzards flew over the battleground seeking their next tasty morsel. Even the wolves ventured down from the hills to eat as much as their bellies could contain. Over two thousand – nearly every Northumbrian warrior worthy of the name – lay scattered over the valley floor. Only a handful had escaped. Amongst the dead lay Ecgfrith, Octa, Stepan of Cumbria and Beornheth of Lothian, Bishop Cuthbert’s brother. Northumbria was left with no eorls, only a few ealdormen – all of them elderly and infirm, except for Osfrid, and a score of thegns after that fateful day. The kingdom would take a long time to recover from the slaughter of the twenty first of May in 685, if it ever did.
PART TWO – ALDFRITH
Chapter Thirteen – Two Funerals
685 to 687 AD
Three days before the fateful battle Bishop Cuthbert arrived at Bebbanburg to see Osfrid. He had sailed over in one of the monastery’s small fishing boats and brought the faint whiff of yesterday’s catch with him into the hall. Osfrid and Godwyna were sitting at a table talking to Sigmund, Uurad and Morcar the reeve.
The matter which concerned them all was Ecgfrith’s obvious intention to hold Osfrid to account for the oppression of the Hibernian Church. Osfrid’s main concern was to preserve Eadwulf’s inheritance. They were debating how best to achieve this when a servant came and diffidently whispered in his master’s ear that the bishop had just landed on the beach below the fortress. Osfrid was puzzled and slightly alarmed. Cuthbert hadn’t come to see him before and he suspected that he wouldn’t be the bearer of glad tidings. Biting his lip, he and his companions made their way down to the beach.
‘Bishop Cuthbert, welcome to Bebbanburg. To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Osfrid was being polite; it wasn’t how he felt towards the man who had publicly castigated him for what had happened in Brega.
‘I owe you an apology, Osfrid. I know now that you tried your best to rein in the excesses of Stepan’s Cumbrians and the Manxmen.’
‘What caused you to change your mind?’ Osfrid asked in surprise.
‘Can we go up to your hall? It is the least of what I have come to say.’
‘Yes, of course.’
As they walked in through the sea gate and up to the hall Osfrid felt as if he was walking on air; a great weight had just been lifted off his shoulders. Then, as they approached the hall the feeling of relief changed to one of resentment that he should ever have been blamed in the first place. However, what Cuthbert had to say when they sat down drove that from his mind.
‘Last night Christ himself came to me in a vision. He told me that I was wrong to blame you for what happened in Hibernia. It was the fault of the king for choosing the wrong man to command the campaign and of Stepan for intentionally looting Church property. What Our Lord went on to say was like a cold dagger in my heart. He said that both Ecgfrith and Stepan would be punished. They and all the army of Northumbria would be wiped out by the Picts at a place called Dùn Nectain in three days’ time.’
There was a stunned silence after Cuthbert had finished speaking. It was Osfrid who broke it.
‘Are you certain, Cuthbert?’
‘My visions have never proved false in the past.’
There was a hint of reproof in the statement.
‘Where is this Dùn Nectain?’ Sigmund asked, looking at Uurad, who’d been born a Pict.
‘I’ve never heard of it, but then I had never been anywhere more than a few miles from our set
tlement until I became Catinus’ servant.’
‘My uncle might know,’ Osfrid said suddenly. ‘After all he was the Bishop of Abernethy, the diocese of the Picts.’
Osfrid’s birlinns were kept on the beach in the shelter of Budle Bay. Several were escorting his knarrs who were away on trading missions but two were still there. One was on its side being repaired and re-caulked but the other was ready for sea. Unfortunately the tide was out so it was three hours before Sigmund and the gesith managed to get her launched. They would crew her with Uurad as the helmsman.
‘Take care husband, I need you home again safely,’ Godwyna said as she kissed Osfrith goodbye.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be back soon.’
He scooped up Eadwulf from where he stood uncertainly on his little legs, clutching his mother’s skirts and kissed his baby son before lifting his tunic and blowing a raspberry on his belly. The little boy screamed with delight and clutched at his father’s hair. Osfrid kissed both of them again and handed the boy to his wife before scrambling aboard.
The wind was from the east and it took them barely four hours to reach the bay at the mouth of the River Aln. There were no horses available so they had to walk from there to the hall at Alnwic, a distance of five miles. Cuthbert was fit for his age but slow and it took another two hours to get there. As they approached the sun was setting and a warm sunny day turned into a cool evening.
Conomultus came out of the hall with Eydth and five year old Eochaid to greet them.
‘Cuthbert, Osfrid,’ he said smiling at them. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘You might not think it quite so pleasurable when you’ve heard what Bishop Cuthbert has to say, uncle.’
‘Dùn Nectain? I’ve heard of it but never been there,’ he replied when he was asked if he knew of it.
‘What do you know about it?’
‘It’s the main stronghold of the Mormaer of Angus. I think it’s about fourteen miles north-west of the monastery at Arbroath on the east coast.’
‘We need to go there and there is no time to lose.’
‘Why?’
So Cuthbert told him of his vision.
The next morning they set out again, not in the birlinn, which now acted as their escort, but in one of Conomultus’ knarrs which could carry six horses. Eochaid had asked to go with his guardian and sulked when he was told that he was too young. Conomultus laughed and said there would be plenty of time for adventures when he was older. The boy didn’t stop scowling but he nodded in understanding.
It was a hundred and twenty miles by sea from Amble – the nearest harbour to Alnwic – to Arbroath and it took twenty four hours to sail there. However, it was dangerous to try and navigate in unfamiliar waters after dark and so they spent the night in the small harbour below the palisaded fortress at Dùn Barra.
Although Dùn Èideann was the principle fortress of the Eorl of Lothian, Cuthbert’s brother preferred the smaller stronghold on the rock jutting out into the German Ocean. They were welcomed by his wife and her son, Behrt, a youth of fifteen who was halfway through his training to be a warrior.
Although Cuthbert was his uncle, Behrt hardly knew him and seemed to be somewhat in awe of him. When he was told of Cuthbert’s vision he was visibly shocked.
‘Does that mean that father is dead too?’
‘We don’t know, Behrt. That’s why we need to get there as soon as possible and find out what the situation is.’
‘When is this battle supposed to take place?’
‘On the twenty first,’
‘But that’s tomorrow!’
‘I’m well aware of that!’ his uncle replied brusquely. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. I think we’re all a little on edge. Tonight we’ll all pray in the church for the safety of Ecgfrith, his army, and especially for your father.’
It was mid-afternoon when they arrived at Arbroath and it took time to unload the horses. Nevertheless, they still had a few hours of daylight left and they set out heading north-west. The abbot from the monastery had offered to guide them as soon as he found out who the two bishops were. Osfrid, Sigmund and a member of his gesith made up the other members of the group of riders. The rest were left with the knarr and the birlinn.
The abbot wasn’t a proficient rider and his mount was a sturdy but docile hill pony. The fastest the pair would go was a sedate trot, which frustrated the rest. Even the two elderly bishops were capable of riding at a gentle canter. It took them nearly four hours to travel the dozen miles to Dùn Nectain and the sun was setting over the hills to the west by the time the fortress came in sight.
The gates were closed but as they approached the abbot called out who he was and they creaked open to admit him and his companions.
‘What brings you here, Father Abbot, and who’s that with you?’
In the dusk it wasn’t easy to see who had spoken, nor could the speaker make out who the other six riders were, other than one was clearly a boy, presumably a servant.
‘Come in to the hall,’ the voice continued without giving the abbot the chance to reply. ‘You will have to forgive me if I stink; I haven’t had a chance to wash the blood and filth off me as yet.’
By the light of the fire and the torches in the hall the visitors could see the torn and bloodstained tunic their host was wearing. His face was streaked with dirt and dried blood and, as he sank down into a chair at the head of the table, clearly exhausted, a man dressed as a Celtic priest with a tonsured forehead came to clean and sew up two cuts on the man’s right arm.
‘Bishop Conomultus! I never expected to see you again after I drove you out of Abernethy,’ the man exclaimed, clearly puzzled by his presence.
‘I’m here at the invitation of Bishop Cuthbert, Cyning,’ he replied in English, knowing that the man seated in front of them, King Bruide, spoke both English and his own tongue equally fluently.
‘Cuthbert! Well, well, we are indeed honoured. Were you hoping to join your ill-fated king? If so I fear you are in for a disappointment.’
‘No, Brenin,’ he replied in the Brythonic language, ‘I was visited by the Lord Jesus three nights ago who told me of fate of Ecgfrith’s campaign in advance.’
‘A vision? Do you expect me to believe that,’ he scoffed.
‘How else would we know where to come to, and when, Brenin?’
‘What was the message in this vision if not to warn Ecgfrith he was walking into a trap?’ Bruide asked, now a little less sure of himself.
Suddenly he winced as the priest finished sewing his wounds up and bit off the end of the length of catgut. He jerked his arm away from the priest and curtly told him to leave.
‘To recover his body and take it to Iona for burial.’
‘Iona? Why there?’
‘I know not. But that was what Our Lord told me to do.’
‘How strange. Well, I have no objection but, to do that you’ll have to find his corpse first. There are well over two thousand of them out there. We will recover those of our own men in the morning, but the buzzards can have the wretched Northumbrians.’
‘You cannot do that,’ Cuthbert protested. ‘They are Christians, just as you and I are Christians. They deserve a proper burial in consecrated ground.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because, if you don’t, just as I prophesied the death of Ecgfrith so I will tell you of your end. Do you want to know the day and manner of your demise, Bruide? Will such knowledge haunt you every day from now until then? It would me and I’m looking forward to meeting my maker.’
Bruide was now looking extremely agitated.
‘No, you old wizard, I don’t want to know, nor do I even want to think about it. Curse you, Cuthbert. Very well, I’ll get my men to bury the invaders in a common grave and you can consecrate the barrow we’ll put over it. Now get out of my sight, and don’t expect me to provide you with food and lodging tonight. You can sleep in the stables for all I care.’
‘Thank you, Brenin. Onc
e more thing, if, as I suspect, the body of my younger brother is also lying out there, I would like to take him back to Dùn Barra for burial alongside my family.’
‘Yes, yes. Now get out.’
‘How do you know when Bruide will die?’ Osfrid asked curiously as they went towards the stables.
Cuthbert replied without looking at him.
‘I don’t. How could I? ‘
~~~
It took them three hours to find the two bodies they were looking for the next morning. They started soon after dawn and made for the place where the standard of Northumbria was stuck in the ground, leaning drunkenly at forty five degrees. They wept openly as they made their way through mutilated bodies with thousands of flies buzzing around them.
The Picts had already started to remove their own dead whilst the Strathclyde Britons and the Dalriadan Scots were busy looting the bodies of both sides of their valuables, helmets, byrnies and weapons. All this was done in sombre silence. It seems all were stunned by the carnage of the previous day.
Ecgfrith’s body was located fairly quickly as it was only twenty yards from the standard. The Eorl of Lothian took longer to find. Eventually Cuthbert recognised two of the dead as members of his gesith. After that it didn’t take long to find Beornheth. His right arm lay separated from his torso and his face had a cut all down his right cheek which exposed the bone. Evidently he had lost his helmet by that stage and there was no sign of it nearby. Perhaps it had already been looted.
Having found the two corpses the problem was one of transport. True to his word, Bruide had ordered several mass graves to be dug for the Northumbrian dead. There were no wounded; any such had long since had their throats cut. However, there was no sign of the King of the Picts and no-one else seemed inclined to help the two bishops. The abbot had already returned to his monastery, his job as guide done.