by H A CULLEY
‘Is your father home boy? I have an urgent message for him.’
The man spoke English with a strange accent and the scar on his face made both of the warriors suspicious.
‘Who is the message from?’ the instructor asked.
‘That’s none of your business; go and fetch Thegn Cuthwin,’ he told Cenred.
The boy stared at him but didn’t move.
‘You heard the question,’ he said. ‘Who is the message from?’
The messenger was evidently getting impatient at the impasse and was about to display his anger when the door to the hall opened and Cuthwin emerged with his wife and Coelwulf.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, but before anyone could say anything the messenger sprang into action.
He drew his sword and killed the sentry with a thrust into his neck. He dug his heels into his horse and it sprang forward. As Cenred’s instructor went to draw his sword he too was cut down. The rider yanked on the reins to bring the horse to a sudden halt, his forelegs pawing at the air. Cuthwin was so surprised he just stood there whilst his wife cowered behind him, her body shielding her young son.
Gerrit leapt from his horse and stabbed Cuthwin in the chest. The thegn fell to his knees, his hands ineffectually clawing at the wound as he tried to stem the blood gushing from it. By the time he was dead Gerrit had hacked at the head of the thegn’s wife and she had fallen on top of the boy badly wounded. Gerrit was about to pull her off to stab down at Coelwulf when he felt an agonising pain in his back.
He lurched around to see Cenred standing there holding a seax dripping blood. He cursed himself for forgetting about the other whelp and went to rectify his error when the boy beat him to it, thrusting the seax upwards into his mouth and on into his brain. The Frisian registered a look of surprise before he toppled sideways and lay still. Cenred stabbed him several more times to make sure that he was dead then ran sobbing to his father.
He knew immediately that he was dead and, wiping away the tears, he went to his mother. The two had never got on and ever since Coelwulf had been born she had lavished all her affection on her younger son. Cenred didn’t blame his brother but he hated his mother for her neglect of him. She hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye to him when he left for Jarrow eighteen months previously and for that he could never forgive her. Now, when he found that she had died of the grievous wound the stranger had dealt her, he found that he felt nothing. He was as indifferent to her in death as she had been to him in life.
Unlike ealdormen, who were officers appointed by the king, the land owned by thegns passed down from father to eldest son. Cenred was therefore now the thegn. It wasn’t until after the funerals of those who had been killed by the mysterious stranger had taken place that he turned his thoughts to the future. He still needed training as a warrior. The reeve could look after the vill whilst he was away but care of his little brother was more problematical. He sent a messenger to report what had happened to the ealdorman and then sat down to write to Eochaid once more.
~~~
Eadwulf was alarmed when he heard about the murder of Cuthwin. He cursed the dead Gerrit; he had a funny idea of what being discreet meant. Perhaps he’d intended to kill everyone in the hall and burn it down, as he had said, but had been killed before he could do so. He sighed. There was nothing to trace the man back to him. Although many knew he employed Frisians as his warband, there were plenty of others in Northumbria.
A few months later he received an invitation to celebrate Christmas at the king’s new hall at Driffield in southern Deira. It wasn’t something he could ignore; besides it would give him an opportunity to meet other ealdormen whose support he’d need when Aldfrith died.
Driffield lay some twenty-five miles to the east of Eoforwīc and ten miles inland from the coast. Overland it would mean a journey of over a hundred and fifty miles, which would take a week or so. The obvious way to travel south was by sea and this time he could travel openly. He went aboard his largest birlinn and, accompanied by two knarrs to transport his horse, those of his escort and the packhorses he set sail on an overcast day in early December.
Few travelled by sea this late in the season. Storms were commonplace and the biting easterly wind cut through clothing to chill one’s bones. However, dressed in a wolf skin cloak and a woollen hat Eadwulf could ignore the cold as he stood at the prow of his ship. Birlinns were broad in the beam, though not as broad as the wallowing knars, and had a high prow and stern. The waist, where the rowers sat, was closer to the water and, to add to their misery, sea spray washed over them as their oars powered the ship forward into the rolling waves.
Once clear of the land, the sailors lowered the mainsail from the yardarm and the birlinn turned and headed south propelled by the wind. The rowers shipped their oars and dried themselves off before donning dry tunics and cloaks. Now they huddled in whatever shelter they could find whilst the ship rolled back and forth as each successive wave struck it beam on before passing under it.
Few fancied staggering to the lee side to be sick but there were too few leather buckets for all those who became queasy. Eadwulf had enjoyed standing at the prow with the wind in his face but he was no sailor and soon he too was emptying his breakfast into a bucket. Perhaps the long journey on horseback would have been preferable after all, he thought after being sick for the fourth time. After a while the wind veered and strengthened and the motion became a little easier; by then Eadwulf was past caring.
At noon on the second day the captain saw a black cloud on the horizon making its way swiftly towards them.
‘Squall,’ he bellowed. ‘Take in the sail and make sure everything is secure. Rowers to your posts; bring her round head on into the wind and keep her like that.’
The ships boys and the younger sailors scrambled up to the yardarm so swiftly that one would think that someone was holding a flame to their posteriors. Hauling the billowing canvas up and lashing it to the yardarm was no easy task but the sailors had secured the sail and were back on deck before the squall hit.
The rowers struggled against the waves and the wind to bring the ship’s head around. They had nearly made it when a ferocious gust pushed the bows back the other way and torrential rain lashed the ship from stem to stern.
The rowers, chilled to the bone, fought resolutely to bring the bows around again so that they were facing into the waves. For a horrific moment Eadwulf thought that they were going to fail and that the birlinn was about to broach and capsize. However, one last pull by those on one side, matched by the oarsmen backing their blades on the other, brought the birlinn back on course. Eadwulf breathed a sigh of relief; all they had to do now was to keep the bows facing into the foam-streaked waves.
However, unlike the later longships, the sides of a birlinn didn’t curve up until they were vertical. Such a design made the former more seaworthy but birlinns were built so that the top strake was angled at forty five degrees. In a heavy sea waves could easily wash over the sides of the ship and collect in the bilges. Although he couldn’t hear it above the howling wind, he could see a significant amount of water sloshing about and he realised that it would sink the birlinn if it was allowed to get much deeper. He grabbed a leather bucket, emptied the vomit out of it, and started to bale. The men and boys who weren’t rowing followed his example and grabbed other buckets, helmets and anything else capable of holding water and began to throw the water back over the sides. They weren’t emptying the bilges, but at least it wasn’t getting any deeper.
Just when they were nearing exhaustion the squall vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Everyone was cold and exhausted and the bilges still had to be emptied, but at least that could be done at a sustainable pace now. A quick check established that one ship’s boy had been swept overboard and two men had broken bones, otherwise the only other damage was minor. A thoroughly chastened Eadwulf gave the order to resume their original course, vowing silently to himself that he would return overland, however long it took.
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~~~
Eochaid scowled as Eadwulf approached him. The latter had waited until Swefred had left his cousin’s side before doing so and tried to smile engagingly as he offered the other man a goblet of mead. Eochaid took it with a grunt but said nothing.
‘I’m sorry you have had to take in my brother, but I’m afraid that he and I never got on, probably because he was our father’s favourite,’ he began.
‘I heard that your parents had no problems with either Swefred or Guthild. You were the only one who gave them grief.’
‘Only because Osfrid made no secret of the fact that he would have preferred Swefred to succeed him instead of me,’ he replied a little more heatedly than he had intended.
‘If you seek to make amends then it is to your sister and brother you should apologise, not to me. I will always support my wife.’
Eadwulf sighed. ‘We used to be good friends, Eochaid. I would rather have you as my ally than my enemy.’
‘Why should I be either? We may be family but I think it best if you keep your distance and I keep mine.’
‘Very well. You may live to regret this.’
‘I can’t think why. Are you threatening me?’
Eadwulf said nothing further but went off in search of Berthfrith. At least he knew he could count on him.
‘How many ealdormen would support me as king when the time comes,’ he asked Berthfrith later when they were alone.
‘Probably my three fellow ealdormen in Lothian for a start. They won’t commit themselves but they can see the sense in having a proven warrior as king instead of a young boy.’
‘Eochaid is my enemy I fear, but I believe that I can count on the votes of the ealdormen of Hexham, Durham and Catterick.’
‘Bishop John of Hexham might join us and, if he does, his brother, the Ealdorman of Beverley, may well follow suit. However, we really need Wilfrid’s vote. His support would persuade many. He still carries a lot of weight in Northumbria, even if the king can’t stand him. Will Bishop Eadfrith vote for you? After all Lindisfarne is in your shire.’
‘I think that the most I can hope for is for him to abstain when the Witan comes to vote.’
‘So, at the moment there are twenty seven members of the Witan, including yourself, and we have ten who will probably vote for you. We have to engineer Wilfrid’s reinstatement as Bishop of Eoforwīc. Some will follow his lead, especially the abbots, who are an unknown quantity at the moment.’
‘I agree, but how do we bring that about?’
‘Aldfrith has taken the loss of his wife to the Church badly. Perhaps we can encourage him to blame Bosa for that. Wilfrid has appealed to the Pope once more. Perhaps this time Aldfrith will listen to him. After all, his own approaching death must be weighing on his mind and he won’t want to anger God’s representative on Earth, will he?’
~~~
Wilfrid arrived in Rome to find that Pope Sergius had just died. He kicked his heels impatiently until Pope John VI was elected at the end of October 701. This time he was more successful in obtaining an audience and by February 702 he was on his way back to England with an edict from Pope John appointing him as Bishop of Eoforwīc in place of Bosa. He also said that Wilfred’s monasteries of Ripon and Hexham should be restored to him.
This time Wilfrid was accompanied by a Papal envoy called Eddius who would negotiate Wilfrid’s return with Aldfrith. Wilfrid was now sixty-nine and finding travelling long distances tiring. By the time that they reached Meaux in Frankia Wilfrid was feeling distinctly unwell. During the service of compline Eddius noticed that Wilfrid’s face looked peculiar and he was having difficulty in singing the responses. The left side of his face looked as if it had collapsed and one eye was lower than the other. Wilfrid tried to use his arms to stand but he had evidently lost the use of them.
He slowly recovered in the infirmary but his seizure had given him a shock. One night he had a dream in which the Archangel Michael came to him and warned him that Osred would succeed his father and that the boy would need Wilfrid’s spiritual guidance.
Thoroughly chastened, Wilfred resumed his journey, travelling in easy stages. He finally arrived back in Kent in April 703 and stayed with Brihtwald, the Archbishop of Cantwareburg who had succeeded Theodore ten years previously, whilst Eddius went ahead to present the Papal edict to Aldfrith.
~~~
Eddius was surprised at the primitiveness of the king’s hall at Eoforwīc. Whereas the church was built of stone, albeit on a smaller scale and plainer than he was accustomed to seeing on the Continent, the hall was built of timber and reeked of a mixture of smoke, stale urine and sweat. He tried not to wrinkle his nose in disgust as he approached the two thrones at the end of the hall, but didn’t entirely succeed. On one sat an old man and beside him on a small one sat a boy of about seven. Aldfrith hadn’t missed the contempt in the Papal envoy’s demeanour. In consequence his cause was lost before he even began speaking.
‘Domine,’ he began in Latin. ‘I bring you greetings from the Holy Father and his wishes for a long life.’
‘Not something that seems to be granted to most popes,’ Aldfrith replied with a wry smile. ‘God seems extraordinarily eager to gather each one to his bosom almost as soon as they are enthroned. Do you even know if Pope John is still alive?’
‘As far as I’m aware. Why? Have you heard anything?’
‘News takes a long time to reach us here in the North.’
‘Pope John is still in his forties so I’m sure he’ll be with us for a long time yet.’
He looked at the grey bearded, balding man with the grey wrinkled face and thought that Pope John was likely to outlive this king at any rate.
‘Let us pray so. Now, to what do we owe the honour of a visit from a Papal envoy?’
‘I bring an edict regarding the scandalous treatment of Bishop Wilfrid and the refusal of previous kings to restore him to his rightful place. The Pope insists that you reinstate him as Bishop of Eoforwīc and as Abbot of Hexham and Ripon.’
As he spoke he stepped forward to hand the king the Pope’s edict but the warrior standing to the left of the two thrones pointed his spear at him, preventing him from getting any closer. The boy sitting beside the king got up and, with a sly smirk on his face, took the parchment from Eddius and handed it to his father. Aldfrith didn’t bother to break the seal before handing it to the cleric standing behind his throne.
Bosa opened the letter and quickly scanned the contents before whispering in the king’s ear.
‘It seems that nothing has changed. This Pope, like others before him, seeks to usurp my prerogative as king to appoint my own bishops. Please go back to Rome and tell him that he need not concern himself with Northumbria. We are well served by the bishops we have and have no intention of changing them.’
‘Be very afraid, Aldfrith; you may be a king but you are mortal, like all men. Your time to enter heaven is not far off and your high and mighty defiance of the Pope will serve you ill when it comes time for you to be judged before God.’
Without waiting for a reply or the king’s leave to depart Eddius, spun around and marched out of the hall. An hour later he was mounted and, accompanied by his escort, he was on the road back to Cantwareburg.
He left a worried Aldfrith behind him. Eddius’ words haunted him and, despite the scorn of his eldest son and the opposition of all three bishops in Northumbria, he sent word to Cantwareburg that Wilfrid might return and present his case to him in person.
Chapter Eighteen – The Usurper
704 to 705 AD
Wilfrid travelled north eagerly, if not quickly. As he sat on the cushioned bench inside a small covered cart he wondered about the reception he would receive. Aldfrith was worried about his immortal soul, which was encouraging. On the other hand he wasn’t confident that the king would be prepared to dispossess Bosa once more in order to restore him to the diocese of Eoforwīc.
He also thought about Aldfrith’s successor. Osred, Otta and Osric were
all far too young to rule Northumbria if he died in the next few years. Perhaps he should support Eadwulf after all, although that young man had done little to fulfil the promise he had made at Flishesberg.
As the cart trundled through the green countryside of late autumn - the fields bare of harvested crops and ready for the spring sowing and the russet leaves already falling from the trees - another idea began to form in Wilfrid’s mind. Perhaps there was a third option.
For the first part of the journey he passed through the rolling countryside of Kent and Mercia. The sun shone much of the time and what rain there was came in brief showers. That changed when he crossed the Humber and entered Northumbria. The province of Deira was similar to the shires in the south, unlike the bleak moorland and the hills of much of Bernicia, but now the weather turned.
Rain lashed down, beating on the oiled leather roof of the cart, and the temperature dropped considerably. Gusts of strong wind drove the rain through the open sides of his wagon, despite the leather curtains that served as doors, and chilled him to the bone. Gone were the days when Wilfrid had been corpulent. As he’d aged he’d grown leaner, his once fat jowls now hung like empty purses on his face and the skin under his rich woollen robes was similarly baggy and wrinkled.
His joints ached, especially in damp weather, and he walked with a pronounced stoop, leaning on his bishop’s crook for support. He no longer cut an impressive figure but his eyes were still bright and intelligent and his brain worked as well as it ever did.
Eventually the covered cart with its escort of three bored horsemen on loan from the archbishop, followed by Eddius on a docile mare and two servants sitting on a larger cart laden with Wilfrid’s possessions, pulled into the settlement of Driffield. This was now Aldfrith’s favourite abode and the place was overflowing with nobles, churchmen, servants and thegns seeking an audience with the king.