“No, no,” said Aidan. “You are king. It is for you to decide such matters.”
“And if I leave him there, set before Woden’s tree, then I lose the support of the Holy Island, I lose the support of my sister and my wife, I lose the support of my own mother.”
“No. No, never.” Aidan made to put his hand on Oswiu’s shoulder, but the king shook it off.
“Tell them,” Oswiu said. “Tell them I will go. I will ride into Mercia; I will claim my brother’s body and bring it back.” He glanced back at the monk. “Maybe then, if I live, they will think better of me.”
Aidan saw the wind bleakness in the king’s eyes, the winter touch that came upon warriors when they made the death bargain with their fortune, and he fought against it, in quick, silent prayer and in words.
“Lord, do not cast your life away in anger and bitterness. None of us will leave your side should you choose to stay; all of us will follow you in prayer should you decide to go. But… but there is one other thing…” Aidan looked questioningly at the king, then continued. “The warmaster, Æthelwin, sends word too: we have heard today, not all ride into Mercia – some go as pilgrims instead. I – I do not understand what he means, but as I was leaving the hall to come to you, he took my arm and told me this, insisting I say it to you. Do you know whereof he speaks?”
At the words, the winter cold seemed to leave the king’s face, and then a slow smile, as welcome as spring, spread in its place.
“Yes,” said Oswiu. “Yes, I think I do.”
Chapter 5
The wagon creaked down the road. The oxen pulling it plodded along, heads swaying from side to side and, in response, the man driving them swayed too. His chin sank lower and lower onto his chest. The oxen, feeling the reins slacken, slowed, then stopped.
From the back of the wagon, a man stood from where he had been sitting watching the stones of the emperor’s road slowly recede behind the wagon.
“We’re never going…” He stopped, seeing the driver’s drooping head, then poked him in the ribs. But unlike any other wagoner, this driver’s first reaction on being woken was to reach to his waist.
“It’s not there, Æthelwin,” laughed Oswiu, for it was the king who rode in the back of the wagon, and the warmaster who drove it. “Remember, we stowed your sword in the back, under Coifi’s pallet.”
The warmaster shook his head, trying to force wakefulness back into his mind.
“It’s these oxen,” he said. “They put me to sleep.”
“Not me,” said Oswiu. He stretched out, breathing deeply, then looked around at the rich landscape stretching on either side of the road: copses and woods, fields laid out in strips or given over to pasture, the cattle pausing in their labour of eating to look at the wagon. “This is as I was in my youth; taking passage with some farmer, sometimes sleeping under hedges, just me and a few companions. Not the endless, ceaseless press of being king. You know, before we left, I was sitting with my bottom sticking out over the walls at Bamburgh, getting ready to let go, when a ceorl came up to ask me about a law case against his neighbour – and he wouldn’t wait until I’d finished. So there I was, straining away – I must have eaten too much rich food – while having to decide whether his neighbour’s cow had eaten his barley. That’s being a king for you, Æthelwin: you can’t even poo in peace. So this –” and Oswiu turned to take in the peaceful landscape – “is wonderful.”
“All the same, I should not have fallen asleep. Though it appears quiet, yet we are in Mercia.”
“But at least you’ve woken up,” said Oswiu. “Unlike some others I could mention.”
The warmaster peered into the wagon bed and saw two figures lying there in contented sleep.
“Are you quite sure these are the men to take with us? I would have brought one or two hardened warriors.”
“One or a hundred. Where we are going, if we are caught, there will be no fighting our way out of it. No.” Oswiu shook his head. “Everything relies on wit and stealth and luck. And something in my heart said these were the men to take: they were there when he died, they alone remain of those who were closest companions to him.” The mouth of one of the men dropped open, and he began to snore, a great, rasping noise, enough to make the boards of the wagon shake. “Then again…” said Oswiu. He gave a short, sharp kick to the snorer.
“Wha…who?” The man sat up rubbing his eyes, saw the king standing over him, and groaned. “I was having a wonderful dream. The emperor himself had heard of my fame and invited me to his palace, and there I sang for him so sweetly that he stepped down from his throne to give me his favour (and a very thick gold armband) and just as he was about to embrace me –” the man looked up accusingly at Oswiu – “you woke me.”
“You were snoring.”
“There is music even in my sleeping.”
Oswiu snorted. “The music of a pig, Acca.”
“Indeed. Have you not heard it?” And the scop began to imitate a pig’s snorting, but he put music and rhythm into the grunts, so that the listening men smiled in delight.
“If we live, Acca, I’ll give you a thicker arm ring even than the emperor,” said Oswiu.
“If we live, I will deserve it,” the scop grumbled. “I can’t believe what you said would have to be wrong with me.”
“That’s why I woke you.” Oswiu pointed ahead. “There, see that line of trees, stretching west? That’s the road we want – the old road of the emperors: Watling Street. Once we are on it, we will be deep in Mercian territory. There will be messengers, and king’s men, and thegns riding and marching it, and all of them Penda’s men. Before we go among them, I would know that we each know our roles.” Oswiu turned to the other man, who still lay in the bed of the wagon. But his eyes were open, and they looked upwards into the sky, darting from cloud to bird to things only the man himself could see.
The man hunched himself up, squatting on the wagon bed and drawing around his thin shoulders the tattered raven-feather cloak that alone told of what he had once been: priest of the old gods, spirit walker and wyrd reader, fate spinner and rune reader. Coifi, abjured priest, almoner to Oswald, rocked upon his heels, hugging his knees and making clacking noises with his mouth.
Oswiu glanced at his warmaster, who grimaced in return. They had only been travelling for a day and Acca had spent most of the time complaining, while Coifi alternated between sudden, jerky movements and squatting on his heels, rocking backwards and forwards. They had sailed down the coast from Bamburgh and then up the River Trent to where it ran closest to the Foss Way. Leaving the boat to return north, the four men had quickly bought a wagon and oxen from a merchant who could scarce believe his luck at a deal struck so swiftly, and started along the old road of the emperors towards where it met Watling Street. There they would strike west, into the heart of Mercia, towards the tree upon which Oswald hung.
“We will go through it again,” Oswiu said. “Now, who am I?” He looked at the two men in the wagon, neither of whom seemed inclined to answer his question. “Who am I?” he asked again, while giving the slightest glance to Æthelwin. The warmaster swivelled upon the driver’s bench and flicked his ox whip – once, twice – over Acca and Coifi.
The whip had an instant effect on Acca. He sprang to his feet and, hands behind his back, recited in the sing-song voice of a young scop reciting the tale of his people while his master stands ready to correct any errors.
“You are a thegn of the kingdom of Lindsey, from Bardsey, and web in the eye struck you and took your sight. You go to seek healing where you have heard others have been healed, at Woden’s tree. And you take us with you, companions in illness, each seeking cure.”
“That’s right,” said Oswiu. Turning to Coifi, he asked, “And what is my name?”
The priest rocked his head. “Change a name, change a thing; new name, it’s not the same thing.”
“What’s my name?” Oswiu repeated.
“Are you quite sure about bringing him?” Æthelw
in whispered to the king.
“I was,” said Oswiu. “Now…”
“You are named Nothelm.” Coifi pointed at Æthelwin. “He is lame, from a fall.” He pointed to Acca. “He is dumb.”
“I can’t believe I allowed myself to agree to that,” the scop muttered.
“And I,” said Coifi, “am mad.” His eyes rolled back, until only the whites showed. “Will I serve?”
Oswiu laughed. “You will.”
The priest’s eyes rolled to normal, and he looked up, blinking like a young raven, at the king.
Oswiu looked to his warmaster. “There, I knew Oswald must have had reason to take Coifi as almoner. Not only does he see what others do not, but he makes others see him as he would.”
The priest blinked again, his eyes huge and white against his raven-feather cloak.
“I make men hear as I would,” Acca said, holding up his hand.
Oswiu sighed. “We have spoken on this. Your voice is too sweet, too known, for you to speak. Anyone, having once heard you in hall, will remember its sound, then wonder why the scop to Edwin and Oswald travels with a thegn of Lindsey.” The king looked at the scop standing sulky faced in the wagon. “For such as I, without sweet voice, it is hard to understand how much we ask you to sacrifice by your silence, but think on this: what a tale you will have to tell when we return, and how many will wait upon hearing it.”
The scop brightened, although only a little. “It will be a tale indeed. And, in this great silence, I suppose I can perfect the telling, hearing out the sound of the words and their rhythm in the great hall of my mind, working them and rounding them, till the time comes to unveil the song to the people.”
“One final thing.” Oswiu fingered the bandages that lay looped over his shoulders. “Remember, on the road, whenever we are in sight of people, I will wear these over my eyes. I spoke to Penda face to face. Some among his men might know what I look like. But they do not know you. You can pass without suspicion.”
“Maybe we should say you have the pox,” said the warmaster. “Then no one will bother us.”
“And no one will give us shelter either,” said Oswiu. “No, I will be blind. But, being blind, I can hear; there are inns upon the road where we can stay and learn of Penda’s movements.”
“If we want to get to an inn before dark, we had better get moving.” Æthelwin nodded to the west. The sun hung three hand spans from the horizon. Time enough for them to travel six miles on foot, and maybe three with the wagon.
Oswiu looked to the line of trees that marched westwards. There were many gaps in their growing now, but the mind filled in what the eye did not see. The emperors of old must have planted them to shade their marching armies. Although time and wind had thinned the line, the line still stood. It was frost and water and many, many wheels that had rutted the road, but for the most part it too still survived, the local villagers charged with its maintenance against the king’s passage and the swift riding of his messengers. That duty applied, Oswiu could see, as much here, in Mercia, as it did in Northumbria.
“There is a village and an inn at the crossroads where Foss Way and Watling Street meet,” said Æthelwin as he flicked the reluctant oxen into slow motion. “We could rest there. There will be many travellers, and much news.”
Oswiu measured the sun’s progress against the slow creak of the wagon. “I would go further. But let us ask, when we get there, how much further to the next inn.”
*
“Oh my, you’ll never be getting there before nightfall – not with them oxen.” The innkeeper stood at the door to his inn, stropping a large and gleaming cleaver in long, easy strokes upon a leather. “It be a good ten mile to the Fox and Hen. Beside –” and here he held up the cleaver and breathed upon the blade – “the beer there’ll give your bellies the gripe.”
“And yours won’t?” asked Oswiu. He could not see the man, for he’d wound the bandages over his eyes, but he could picture him from his voice.
“Too right it won’t,” said the innkeeper. “Best beer in Mercia, if I says so myself, and like as not you’ll say the same once you’ve tasted it.”
“Then we will stay. If you have room?”
“Room? We can always fit another in, outside if not in. But you’re lucky today; I’m not too busy. Should have seen it yesterday: could hardly move, what with all the king’s men ordering this and commanding that.”
“King’s men? What were they doing here?”
“Don’t rightly know. The king weren’t with them, and they went off this morning in some fearful hurry. Wouldn’t say what they wanted, nor would they give us a tale when asked, just sat and talked among themselves like they were too good for the rest of us. S’pose they were, really. Now, where would you be wanting to sleep: inside or out?” The innkeeper looked them over with an eye experienced in judging a man’s wealth by his appearance. “Inside, like as not. Just as well, really. Looks like rain, I be thinking.”
“Yes, inside, master innkeeper.” Oswiu held out his hand. “Would you help me down.”
The innkeeper looked around for somewhere to put the cleaver. Seeing nowhere obvious, he swung it through the air and left it, embedded and quivering, in the door post, before rushing over to the wagon, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Coenred I be called,” said the innkeeper, taking Oswiu’s hand, “only everyone calls me Red on account of my hair and my dragon. You just ask anyone around here after Coenred of the Red Dragon. They’ll all vouch for me and my beer.”
“And your dragon?” asked Oswiu.
“Oh, t’ain’t a real dragon, master; just one I made myself when them down the road started up calling themselves the Fox and Hen. Painted it myself; I’m right proud of it too – what do you think, master?”
In answer, Oswiu pointed to the bandages covering his eyes.
“Oh, there I go again, putting my mouth in it before my feet are in the same village. I’m sorry, master.”
“I’m sure a cup of your famous ale will put things right.”
“You’re right enough it will, master. Fact is, I’ve heard people say it cures all ills.”
“Good beer does that, for a while.” Oswiu took hold of the innkeeper’s arm and allowed him to lead the way towards the door. “But I fear even your beer will not restore my sight.”
“T’ain’t often we sees a master like yourself out on the road in your, er…in your condition.”
“It is not easy to travel when blind. But my men help me, and share my hope.”
Coenred glanced back to the wagon, which was being slowly unloaded. “I’ll get my boy to take care of your oxen. Hey, Behrtwald, Behrtwald, where are you, you lazy good for nothing? Behrt!”
A tousle-haired lad sprang out from where he had been watching proceedings from behind the stock fence that stopped the local animals, farmed and wild, coming into the inn’s yard.
“Take care of the oxen, Behrt, and show the rest of the guests where to go. I’ll take care of the master here.” And holding Oswiu’s arm, Coenred took him towards the inn.
“What hope be that, master? I’m sure if any hear of some way of healing the bad eyes, they’ll be coming from miles around; like as not from as far as Bernicia!”
“As far as that?”
“Further! I’m not a man for travelling myself, but being an innkeeper I gets to hear all sorts of stories. But what hope be you seeking, master?”
Oswiu held his finger to his lips. “Mayhap I will tell you anon. After I’ve had chance to soothe my travel-dry mouth with your fine beer.”
“Right enough, master, right enough. You don’t want to be telling every Wulf, Behrt or Harry your business…”
As the innkeeper talked on, Oswiu sought to picture where he was going in his mind. While they were approaching, and when it was still safe to go unbandaged, Oswiu had looked with interest at the inn. It sat back from the crossroads, a large, sturdy timber hall, typical of the house of the chief man of a village, a ceorl
, well known and respected in his neighbourhood, from whom a thegn would seek advice on pasturage and tillage, or the temper of the people.
Entering the inn, Oswiu smelled the smoke of the fire – though it was not a cold day, the hearth fire was kept burning – and heard the sudden silence of cut-off conversation as men left off their talking to see who joined them.
“I’ll put you in the corner here,” said Coenred, leading Oswiu, “and send your men over when they’re finished with your things. You’ll be wanting beer and bread, I take it?”
“To start.” Oswiu’s nose wrinkled. “Is that lamb?”
“Ah, they say blind men can smell a roast a mile or more off. Yes, lamb – fine, sweet lamb. It’ll be ready afore you’re all settled.”
“Then some lamb afterwards.”
“And here you go.” Coenred eased Oswiu down upon a stool. “Right you are, master. Will there be anything else?”
“No, not for the present.”
“Very well, master… Did I catch your name? Begging your pardon, master. I know you might have told me, but like as not some other thing chased it right out again.”
“I am Nothelm the Blind.”
*
“Will you be joining us, master?”
Coenred stood, wiping his hands on his apron. Since they had arrived at the inn, the innkeeper had been rushing around, serving out cups of beer to the men sat on benches at either side of the long tables, then bustling over to the corner where he had settled Oswiu and his companions with their own cups of beer and thick slabs of bread, before bringing over the best cuts of lamb, dripping fat and trailing the most glorious scent. But with the immediate hunger and thirst of travel sated, the innkeeper moved on to the second, but by no means less important, part of his occupation: the making of fellowship among men strange to each other, who had fallen into each other’s company for the night.
“You serve good lamb and better beer, master innkeeper,” said Oswiu. “Is the company as fine?”
“I like to think it is, master. There’s a saying in these here parts: as tall as one of the Dragon’s tales. There’s all sorts here, master, and more come up from the village on account of they heard of you and wants to hear your story.”
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 6