Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “If we go now, we will not have to run,” Tondhere added. He looked to the Godfriend again. “But we will have to run if we wait much longer.”

  Oswine breathed out: a long, slow breath.

  “They have stopped,” he said.

  “They are close.”

  “But not too close.” Oswine Godfriend glanced at his old friend. “I would not have men say my first act as king of Deira was to run.”

  Tondhere grasped his king’s arm. “They are coming closer.”

  *

  The raven’s shadow was huge. It glided down in front of Oswiu and landed upon the grass. The slaughter bird lowered its head and croaked, its sharp caw sawing through Oswiu’s battle-ready senses.

  “B-Bran?”

  The raven turned its head one way and the other, its black eyes fixing upon the watching men.

  “Bran?”

  The raven struck at the grass at its feet, tearing at the earth with its heavy bill.

  “He’s digging a grave,” Æthelwin whispered. All the men were watching the bird now, with the fixed attention of men fearing death and seeking tidings.

  The raven croaked again, and ducked its head towards Oswiu and the watching Northumbrians. Some among them, it is true, made the sign against the evil eye, but more made the sign of the new god, Oswald’s god, touching to head and heart and shoulders, and then, one by one, they began to kneel.

  The raven gave a last, guttural croak and then it took flight. It circled above them once, and then flew away, heading south-west. Oswiu watched until the raven disappeared from sight.

  “You always did have to look out for me,” he said softly, then turned to where the two men still waited, under the standard of Deira. The wind had died with the bird’s leaving, and the standard hung limp upon its pole.

  “Let us go speak with this new king, Æthelwin,” he said. He did not even have to give the order to his men to wait. Thought of battle had flown from everyone.

  *

  Seeing the two men step out from the battle line and approach, Oswine Godfriend let his breath go. Even after the raven had landed between them, and he felt the air change, he had remained tense. But now, seeing Oswiu and his warmaster approach, alone and with no more arms than he himself bore, he knew that he had not led his friend to death after all. The Godfriend knew that it was his own pride that had led him to stand, past all sense and retreat, as that battle line approached. Oswine resolved in his heart that never again would his pride leave his men in peril of their lives. Yes, he would fight, when fighting came, but it would be when battle led to victory, not when he sought only to save himself from ill fame.

  *

  Oswiu and Æthelwin approached to just outside spear’s length, and stopped. Æthelwin planted the banner of the Idings in the damp earth, shaking out the purple and gold so all might see it, the gold of its cloth glowing in the late and slanting light, and then took one step further forward to announce his lord.

  “Oswiu, Iding, king of Bernicia by right of his father, king of Deira by right of his mother, lord of Rheged, Master of the Islands, the gold giver and ring bestower, gives greetings to thee, and thanks thee for bringing to him the banner of Deira, his by right of birth and by right of his brother, Oswald, Lamnguin, the White Arm: king of Deira by the same right as Oswiu.”

  The Deiran standard bearer made to answer in kind, but before he could begin, the Godfriend silenced him, holding up his hand.

  “I give you greeting, cousin. I am Oswine, whom men call Godfriend through no merit of mine, and we be cousins. I would have no bad blood between us and, to that end, when I heard tell of the ill way you were greeted when you came to York, I made to follow you, to ask your pardon, and to pledge friendship with you and with Bernicia.” The Godfriend looked Oswiu full in the face, the men taking the measure of each other. “Do I have your pardon, cousin? Do I have your friendship?”

  Oswiu looked long at the man before him. This Godfriend was tall – taller than he – and of a kind that seemed familiar. There was no obvious guile to his face and his eyes were steady under his gaze. This man might bend, but he would not easily break.

  “You ask my pardon and my friendship, and call yourself cousin, although I have not known of you before this day. Yes, I suppose we are family – but then are not all men family, first through our father, Adam, and then through our forefathers, who sailed the whale road to this land? As to pardon, yes, I would give it, and readily, but to the man who quits me of the dishonour done to me at York gate. And to friendship, yes, you shall have it, for as all will testify, I am generous and quick to give, gold and treasure and many white mares, to those kings who pledge themselves to me and give oath. I see you have brought the flag of this kingdom – it was refused to me before, and unrightly. Now, if you bring it to me and give your pledge, then I will give you friendship and the honour due to you, lord of Deira, oath bound to me.”

  Oswine Godfriend nodded his head slightly, as if he were giving assent, and Oswiu’s face tightened with sudden surprise. But then the Godfriend spoke.

  “I would that that might be so. But it cannot be. Once before, when Cadwallon ravaged our land, the witan came to me and asked me to take the throne, and I would not. Now, with our king dead and Penda raiding upon our borders, they have asked me again, and I have not refused. Oswine Godfriend, Yffing, is king of Deira, and so I will remain unless the witan acclaims another or death takes me.”

  Oswiu’s eyes narrowed. “As you say. If not the first, it will be the second.”

  Tondhere, standing at his lord’s side, stiffened at the words, his hand straying to sword hilt and resting upon it. Seeing the motion, Æthelwin mirrored it.

  “Do you threaten me?” the Godfriend asked. His tone was mild, but his hand also now moved to where his sword hilt nestled against his hip.

  Oswiu smiled thinly. So, there were limits to the Godfriend’s goodness. “All men die. All kings die. Think you to be different?”

  “We pay weregild for our father’s crime. I am no different.”

  “You speak of our father, Adam.” Oswiu, carefully, so all knew he did this with no threat, drew the seax from its sheath and held it up that all might see its handle: interlaced weavings of gold and garnet that picked out a cross in curving, crossing lines. “We pay weregild for his breaking of oath to his Lord. When King Edwin, my uncle, died, all Deira broke faith with the pledge he had made to our new god; all Deira abandoned their lord of heaven and spilled blood to stones and idols and the old gods. It was my brother Oswald who brought Deira back to its word and oath, taking no vengeance for its pledge-breaking. Now, will Deira prove faithless again?”

  “No! No, even if I alone keep true, Deira will not break faith.” The Godfriend held his hand to his heart. “This news, this hope, is dearer to me than heart’s blood. I will not let it go.”

  “But who will keep it for you?” asked Oswiu. “Bishop Aidan dwells upon the Holy Island with his monks. What priest have you to perform the sacred mysteries, to bring God down from heaven?”

  “There… there is one. James.”

  “James. Oh, James the Deacon. Yes, I know him. I saw him when first my brother brought a bishop from the Holy Isle. Bishop Corman sent him scuttling from the hall like a whipped dog, to skulk in some cave. Is there another?”

  “N-no.”

  “One man for a kingdom as large as Deira. And him, I have heard tell, not even a priest, let alone a bishop. You do know you have as your deacon one of God’s mules? He can work, but he can sire no priests for Deira. As a king makes a thegn, so a bishop makes priests.”

  The Godfriend nodded. “I see. And Aidan is the only bishop in these islands?”

  “There may be one for the men of Kent. But Kent is far, and from what I hear its bishop is no more inclined to leave his church than you are to leave your kingdom.”

  “What would you ask to send me Aidan?”

  “What would you give to receive Aidan?”

  The God
friend fell to silence, eyes turned inward, while Tondhere eased his hand away from sword hilt, as did Æthelwin.

  Oswine looked up and sought Oswiu with his eyes.

  “I would give aught I might, within the charge laid upon me that I guard this kingdom and keep it.”

  “Pledge to me, and I will give you leave to rule Deira beneath me, and send Aidan, and many monks, to open heaven’s gate to you.” Oswiu’s lip twitched. “That God might give you better welcome than York gave me.”

  “I… I may not. Such charge was laid upon me by the witan: that I swear to no other king, nor give pledge to any other throne, that Deira be free of kings not of its earth and waters.”

  “But I am of its earth and waters! My mother…”

  The Godfriend shook his head. “None here know you now. Some, at least, knew Oswald, for he was twelve when you left, but you were but a babe when your mother took you into exile. You grew among strange folk, far away, amid the Isles upon the World’s Edge. I hear the wind over that restless sea in the sound of your words. You are not as we are. That is why the witan will not accept you, Oswiu, Iding, though you be flesh of Acha and nephew to Edwin.”

  “The witan does not always decide who will rule.”

  “Then you will have to fight. Would you win this kingdom, your mother’s land of old, in blood?”

  Oswiu stared at the Godfriend.

  “I could have killed you,” he said. “Just now you let us get too close. I could have cut you down before your men reached you. I do not think I will have to wait long before the throne comes to me.”

  “They would not have you, even were I dead.”

  Oswiu grinned thinly. “Think you so? I shall see.”

  For his part, the Godfriend nodded grimly. “War, then, between us?”

  Oswiu laughed. “What said I of war? A king so foolish will not long sit upon the throne. All I have to do is wait.” He looked to his warmaster. “Come, let us go. There is nothing to keep us here further.”

  With that, Oswiu and Æthelwin turned back to their men. As they approached the waiting line, Oswiu glanced back. He saw the Godfriend and his thegn still standing there, watching them, and in his stillness he suddenly saw the resemblance, and knew of whom Oswine Godfriend reminded him.

  “He’s like my brother,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  Oswiu laboured up the steep steps to the gate. Below, on the thin spit of beach, the boats were being unloaded after their journey up the coast. Restless horses, too long confined on shifting platforms in the sea, were being persuaded not to run off. Oswiu’s retainers, salt stained and damp despite the wax-rubbed cloaks they wore for the sea voyage, were busy slinging shields onto backs and removing swords and spears from the leather wrappings they used to keep them dry while at sea. The more careful among them – which meant the older men – also stopped to clean off the grease they’d smeared onto the iron before winding leather around their weapons. The younger ones, when they saw the red bloom of rust on the grey of sword or spear, would soon learn the value of such precautions.

  For his part, Oswiu drew his cloak tighter around his shoulders. Climbing up towards the gate exposed him to the wind. The king looked over his right shoulder, to the north-east, whence the wind blew. There were clouds on the horizon and soon they would be over the Holy Island, Lindisfarne. Oswiu grimaced. He had hoped to send word to Aidan to come to him, but now he would have to wait for the weather to change. It was the season: the spring saw the wind change from day to day. This early in the season, there was little warmth to the sun, and the north-easterly still blew cold. It reached fingers in, past the fur at his collar, sending winter chills down Oswiu’s back. The king grinned at the familiar touch. The north-easterly always blew cold, whatever the season. It was as familiar as the handle of his seax; he was home.

  Oswiu looked up. He was almost at the gate, the single entrance to the great stronghold of his family. Bamburgh was set upon a great rock by the sea, commanding land and water and, so high did it stand, it seemed the very sky itself. Approaching the gate he hailed the door warden and the gate opened.

  “A better greeting here than where last we sought entrance,” he said to Æthelwin.

  “We’re not through the gate yet,” said the warmaster.

  “Please, say no more ill news.”

  Oswiu looked up. There was a woman standing in the gate.

  “Mother.” The king tried to smile, but the smile died as he saw the pain upon her face. Before, his mother had always smiled whenever she saw him, her face lighting up when he arrived upon Coll, the island where she had taken exile after the death of her husband. But that was before Oswald had died. Now, when Acha saw her younger son, he saw the pain of loss upon her face first, before any joy at his arrival.

  “What has happened?” Acha stepped from the gate and took his arm.

  “Nothing – no one dead.” Oswiu looked down at the hand holding his arm, then into his mother’s face. Some of the concern was dropping away, but still there was no joy in it. “Aren’t you going to kiss me, Mother?”

  “What – oh, of course. I am sorry, Oswiu. But you scared me when I heard what you said.” Acha took his head in her hands and bent it down to her, that she might kiss her son upon his brow. Then, holding Oswiu, she looked again at the face of her youngest child.

  “Whenever I see you, I am still surprised. My boy, so big, so tall…”

  “So old.”

  “Thirty years is not so old.”

  “It is for a king, Mother. As you know.” Oswiu gently removed the hands that still held his face. “Remembering my face again, Mother?”

  “Yes. Yes. Do you blame me?”

  “Do you remember his? Do you remember Oswald’s?”

  Acha paled. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “Neither do I.” Oswiu paused, caught in thought, then looked at his mother. “I would have brought him home if I could.”

  “I know.” Acha touched her son’s arm. “I know.”

  “Penda took him. Coifi and Acca saw.”

  “I know, I know.” His mother said the words with the same soothing, lullaby rhythm that he had heard when she rocked his own children to sleep, a rhythm that reached back into his childhood, and he looked gratefully at her pale smile, patting her hand with his own before making to move past her.

  “But…”

  Oswiu stopped.

  “But what?”

  “I should so wish to see his face again.”

  The king walked through the gate and into his stronghold, the keep of Bamburgh, and he felt its walls close in around him. The greetings of his people rang around him, but Oswiu barely heard them. There was still further to ascend, the gate being set halfway up the steep ascent of the rock, and he did not look back to see if his mother followed. He did not look up to see where he was going, but only to the rock at his feet.

  So the first thing he saw was feet. Bare feet. Standing on the final step. He looked up, past the feet, his gaze travelling up over a coarse woollen robe, undyed and roughly cut, to reach a face, at once smiling and solemn, with no hair upon its brow but hanging long and loose from the crown and down onto the man’s shoulders.

  “Aidan!”

  The man held out his arms as one greeting an old friend, for so they were. “Oswiu.” But as Oswiu went to embrace him, Aidan suddenly blushed and stepped back. “B-but you’re king now. I should kneel.”

  Oswiu laughed. “What, you? Kneel to me? Never, old friend, never.” And over Aidan’s blushed protests he embraced the man.

  Then holding him at arm’s length, Oswiu looked at his friend, the searching glance of a meeting after many months apart; months of ill tiding.

  “I had thought to have to wait until after the wind turned to see you. How did you know to come?”

  “There are so many to call, and so few doing the calling.” Aidan smiled ruefully and, with a shock, Oswiu saw the lines of age, which before he thought lines of laughter
, upon the monk bishop’s face. “I can ill afford to spend time in feasting at a king’s court.”

  “Even when the king is an old friend?”

  Aidan smiled, and there was no rue in this smile. “Well, maybe then.”

  “Good. I will have need of your counsel as well as your friendship. Is the queen here? And my children?”

  “Yes, they are here…” From across the courtyard came the sound of shouting and laughter. “No, they are coming.”

  Oswiu climbed the final steps and looked across the inner ward. A boy and girl were emerging from the great hall that stood against the far rampart, whooping and racing each other.

  Aidan came and stood beside him, watching the race.

  “Who do you think will win?” Oswiu asked the question of his old friend without taking eye from the race.

  “Ahlflæd is the elder, but she is a girl and her dress is slowing her. See, already Ahlfrith is catching her. I think Ahlfrith will win.”

  “Think you so?” Oswiu grinned a sharp, quick smile at Aidan. “I know my girl.”

  And as Oswiu spoke, and Ahlfrith was on the point of overtaking his sister, Ahlflæd caught his heel with her foot, sending him rolling and tumbling to the ground, while she, more sedately now, completed the race and stopped, face shining, in front of her father.

  But as Oswiu reached out to embrace her, Ahlflæd stepped back.

  “I’m a big girl now,” she said, and she made the courtesy, after the manner of women, spreading her skirt and bowing low. Then, courtesy made, Ahlflæd stood and jumped into her father’s arms. “Daddy!”

  Oswiu embraced his daughter, eyes bright with joy, then held her away from him. Ahlflæd, seeing his scrutiny, wriggled loose and twirled around, the rich fabrics of her dress flowing out from her.

  “Do you think I look pretty?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  “Do you think I’m prettier than Mummy? Granny says I am.”

  “Does she? Well, if Granny says so, it must be so.”

  Ahlflæd smiled, then made a face at the monk. “Uncle Aidan’s always saying I pay too much mind to being pretty and I should think more about God, but I say it was God who made me pretty – I might not have been; look at Ahlfrith – so he can’t mind.”