Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “And how did they hear of me, master innkeeper? I would not have my news bruited around to every country lad and tinker.”

  “Ah, that’d be Behrt, master. Can’t keep a thing to himself. Goes out blurting the news to everyone he meets – not like me.” Coenred tapped the side of his nose.

  “Of course. Well, since all wait upon us, we will join you shortly.”

  “That’s grand, master, grand,” said Coenred. But the innkeeper gave no indication of leaving them, and stood there, absently wiping his hands.

  “Presently, master innkeeper.”

  “Ah. Right, right.”

  While Coenred bustled away to the men gathered around the fire Oswiu gathered his companions around him.

  “Remember who we are,” he whispered. “But use your ears, and learn what you can. We know Penda’s men were here yesterday: find out what you can of the king’s whereabouts and his plans.” Oswiu turned to the scop. “Acca, it might be better if you were to go out and take the air – it will save you much temptation.”

  The scop, condemned to silence, made frantic “no” gestures, shaking his head and pawing at Oswiu’s arm, but the king held up his hand.

  “Take him out, Æthelwin, but return – I would have your ear among this crowd.”

  “And I?” asked Coifi, as Æthelwin led the resisting scop from the inn.

  “The old gods still rule here in Mercia, Coifi. Look – see what you can of their plans – they will thwart us, if they might. And crossroads are ever said to be places where the gods walk, and watch. Go out with Acca, stay within, whatever you think best: but watch and listen, and tell me what you learn.”

  The old priest nodded his head and drew his raven-feather cloak around his shoulders. Then, when Æthelwin returned without Acca, Coifi began to rock gently upon his stool, his eyes rolling in time with his rocking, a low hum emerging from his lips.

  “Hey, what’s he doing?” The shout went up from the group of men gathered round the fire.

  Oswiu stood, his hands raised blindly towards the voice.

  “He means no harm.” Then, in the gesture understood throughout the kingdoms, he pointed his finger at his temple and turned it. “He is a priest. Sometimes he sees the gods, sometimes he sees the Fair Folk, sometimes he sees his own dreams – if he screams, that’s when he’s seen his dreams.”

  “Come, join us.” The same voice that had called out earlier asked Oswiu and Æthelwin’s company. The voice was big; Oswiu judged the man possessing it to be bigger. The warmaster took Oswiu’s arm and led him across the inn, shoving inquisitive dogs out of the way with knee and thigh, and helped him to a stool.

  Despite the bandages wound tight around his head, Oswiu could feel the eyes upon him. The fire warmed his knees and he held his hands out to it.

  “Tell us your tale, Nothelm the Blind, and we will tell you ours.”

  Oswiu turned his face to the speaker. “You know my name, though I gave it not to you, but I do not know yours.”

  “That was Red – best way of getting your news spread through the kingdom is to tell him it as a secret. But there’s no harm in him, and only curiosity in me. I am Brandnoth, thegn of this village of High Cross and the land around, keeper of the crossroads and the royal roads in these parts, and, lately, nursemaid to little yelping æthelings too young to be taken from their mummy.”

  “It sounds, Brandnoth, as if you have tale enough to tell for the night.”

  “But these men all know my tales – they know them too well. You should hear them groan when I’m in my cups and I ask for the lyre – don’t think I don’t hear you! – so me thinks they’d thank me, and thank you, for asking your tale first. Then, if you wish, you can hear mine.”

  “Very well. My story is short to tell. Six months past, when the sun was running down the sky, the clouds went into my eyes and took my sight with them. I’ve been blind since that day – one who could once see the difference between oak leaf and beech leaf at a hundred paces.

  “Then word came to me, from a traveller in my hall, that many cures and healings were happening in this kingdom, in its west, on the marches with Powys, where your king fought a great battle and cast down the High King. Word came of people and animals healed, who lay upon the ground where the High King fell, and others, going pilgrim to the tree where his head and arms are said to hang. The traveller averred he had seen some of these healings for himself, and heard of others from men he knew and trusted. So, taking these companions who likewise hope for healing, I set forth from Lindsey. Tell me, what hear you of this place, this Oswald’s tree?” Oswiu turned his bandaged head, looking without seeing, but hearing the whispers and excited conversation.

  “I hear many tales, as you have heard them: animals healed from the foaming sickness, men raised who could not walk, women with child who were once barren. I hear there are so many tales that the king himself goes to Oswald’s tree, which was Woden’s tree, to see the truth of these tales, and to make secure the head and arms, that they be not taken by thieves or sorcerers seeking their power.”

  “Ah,” said the innkeeper. “That be why the king’s men passed through yesterday in such haste. They were making to meet him upon the road.”

  “This… this is fine news. Know you how many days ahead the king is? Mayhap we might meet him upon the road.”

  Brandnoth shook his head, then laughed. “Your pardon: so keen are your questions, I forget you cannot see. Like as not King Penda goes by another way towards Shrewsbury, and then beyond, to the tree. Besides, it pays not a thegn of Mercia to tell a stranger the king’s whereabouts, even if that man be blind.”

  “That is well and I understand. But mayhap you can tell me this. How be it that Penda cast down the High King when there is such power in Oswald?”

  “Ha, you know not our king, or you would not ask! He is as clever and cunning as a raven, and as patient as a cat. I hear tell it was by plans long laid and deeper spun that he trapped the High King. Against such craft, even the greatest power might fail. Besides, we hear tell that the High King had given over the worship of the gods of our fathers and taken a new god, the god of the Britons: now he hangs upon the tree of the Lord of the Slain. I think that shows which gods we should cleave to.”

  “No doubt, no doubt,” said Oswiu. “But if that be so, is it not most passing strange that these tales tell of the wonders done by his body and the very dirt where he fell?”

  “Aye, that is truth. And that is, I think, why the king goes thence. If there is one thing I know of our king it is this: if there is power to be had, he will take it.” Brandnoth fell silent for a while, but Oswiu heard the sound of drinking, and kept the peace of beer while the thegn finished his cup and, from the gurgling sound, had it refilled.

  “Ha!” continued Brandnoth. “I remember Penda when he was a boy, snot nosed and quick, always ordering his younger brother around. Back then, he was the son of the king’s steward and a whore of the Britons: now, turns out, he’s an Iclinga, and descended from Woden.” Brandnoth slapped his hand upon the bench and then, from the slurping sound, refreshed himself of his cup.

  “You said King Penda is travelling to Oswald’s tree. I would get there before him, if I am able, that he may not take the relics into his keeping.”

  “These days, t’ain’t safe for men to travel, save they go fast and on horse, or many and armed. I’ll send men with you, far as Shrewsbury, to keep you safe on the road – I might even come myself. I would see these wonders with my eyes and not just my ears.”

  Oswiu stopped, startled at the offer, then held up his hands. “Such generosity! Such spirit! Now, wherever I go and when I go home, I will put an end to the lie.”

  Brandnoth sat back on his stool. “What lie?”

  “That the men of Mercia are greedy and liars, ever eager for gold but ever ready to gain it through trickery, and most inclined to play those tricks on travellers. That’s what I heard on the road through Lindsey; that’s what I heard from travelle
rs who came to my hall. Now I can say the lie for what it is.”

  “Who told this lie?”

  Oswiu could tell, from the way the voice moved, that Brandnoth was standing up.

  “Who told this lie?”

  Oswiu turned his bandaged face up towards the man standing over him.

  “Oh, everyone in Lindsey says so, and Elmet and the East Angles and the South Folk and the North Folk – didn’t you know? I used to say it myself: as greedy as a man from Mercia – that was how the proverb ran. Now I can tell its untruth as we go along the road: wherever we stop, I will make sure to tell travellers and the people we meet the untruth of what we all say. What a merry journey we will make of it.”

  “I – I spoke in haste. I have duties to attend to that will not wait.”

  “Oh. Oh dear. Does that mean you won’t be joining us on our journey, friend Brandnoth?”

  “No. No, I cannot. I – I must leave. The roads are not so bad – I am sure you will be safe.”

  And the thegn made to leave the inn.

  *

  Deprived of his voice and the chance to sing to the people at the inn, Acca went to clear his head. But even so simple a pastime as walking was a frustration to Acca, for the villagers, sitting outside their houses to catch the last of the day’s warmth or returning from their fields, passed greeting to Acca and all he could do was mime a dumb show of his lack of voice.

  Passing between the whitewashed walls of the houses, smiling and nodding and holding his mouth and shaking his head, the scop soon began to feel like a leaf, bobbing upon the water. He would have passed out of the village altogether, but already the gateman had closed the gate and Acca, forced to silence, did not have voice to ask to be let out.

  Not that it was much of a gate, nor was the fence around the village particularly formidable. In truth, it was more hedge than fence, with hawthorn and holly and hazel thickening the cut branches woven horizontally between regular poles. By no means all villages had fences and gates. Acca could not ask, but he presumed High Cross was fenced due to its position at the crossing of the old roads of the emperors: many strangers came this way, far more than to most villages, and not all of the visitors would be welcome.

  Ahead, caught on thorn finger and hazel wand, Acca saw string and rag dangling from the hedge, twisting in the slight breeze that had sprung up with the evening. There had been others as he walked, but there were more here, and he suddenly saw them for what they were: offerings to whatever walked the crossways in the dark hours, when people sheltered indoors, and heard quiet hooves and quieter feet upon the roads, and knew that other, stranger folk walked upon their business.

  The scop shivered. The shadows lengthened and the nearest house, which before had seemed too close, now seemed too far. Of a sudden, Acca saw the folly of walking alone in a strange village as night drew down and, changing his way, he left the circuit of the village and went back towards the clustered houses. But first he had to pass the working huts, the low buildings that clustered like little mushrooms in groups on the outskirts of the village: threshing, carding, grinding and butchery were mostly done in these huts. Acca’s nose twitched as he passed the first: the smell of mingled iron and offal told him that this, the outlying hut, was where animals were butchered.

  A sound. A footfall. Acca looked around, and in the deep shadows under the hedge saw a deeper shadow, then two, and they moving. He stopped, opening his eyes wide to gather what light there was. Probably just village animals, a free-roaming pig or goat.

  But then the first shadow reached the footpath he had taken, and took it also, becoming a crouching shape that might have been a man, cloaked and hooded, creeping towards him. Acca stood, throat working in terror: this had happened to him before, in dream and nightmare.

  The second shadow followed the first, feeling its way along the path as if it were blind.

  In dream, the shadows had no face. But they had knives. And Acca saw the dull gleam of blade blackened with grease to stop it catching the betraying light.

  In dream, Acca stood, unable to move as the shadow figures weaved closer until they rose around him in a wall of darkness and their black blades found his throat.

  This was not a dream. Acca told himself he could move. He did.

  Running, not looking back, he escaped the dark mushroom huts and emerged among the paths weaving between houses and gardens. The night had come, and no one sat upon stools to wave to him. In his panic, he seemed to run through a village lost to life, each house a tomb, its inhabitants already slaughtered by the wights that pursued him.

  Only the inn showed bright. Torches burned outside the Red Dragon and Acca ran towards them. But, as he ran, he saw other shadows racing to cut him off.

  Acca ran, not looking to left or right, for he knew if he looked and saw that which pursued him, his bowels would freeze and his legs give way.

  With a final, heart-bursting effort, Acca escaped the trap that was closing upon him and, with the light of the inn throwing its welcome about him, he ran into the courtyard, daring for the first time to look back.

  There he saw the shadows, standing, black blades pointing to him, and they seemed now more men than wights. Safe in the light, Acca gave them the sign of the horns, but at that the shadow men flowed closer and, holding back a shriek, Acca hurled himself at the door of the inn.

  “Help, help!” he cried, as he burst into the Red Dragon. “Someone’s trying to kill me.”

  Brandnoth, about to leave, stared at the scop. “I thought you were dumb?”

  For the first and only time in his life, Acca stood with his mouth opening and closing but with no sound coming out of it. His eyes flicked to where Oswiu sat, frozen, and then to Æthelwin, whose hand had already moved to the seax at his waist, and then back to the big, burly thegn standing in front of him, beard bristling over his belly. Now, Acca really was struck dumb.

  “It’s a miracle!”

  The cry went up from the corner, and all eyes turned to Coifi, squatting upon his haunches but with his arms raised.

  “It’s a miracle,” Coifi repeated. “The blessings of the god, the blessings of the king, are upon us already, though we have just entered the kingdom. He can speak, who was dumb; he was saved, whom men would kill.”

  “Yes, yes,” babbled Acca. “Miracle, I can speak, they were trying to kill me.”

  “Who?” demanded Brandnoth, drawing his sword and going to the door. Checking out into the night, he asked again. “Who?”

  “I-I do not know,” said Acca. “Mayhap they were men, mayhap wights. I was walking, taking the air, and they leapt upon me from the darkness. It was only fortune that saved me.”

  Brandnoth signalled some of his retainers over. “They were men, not wights, I’ll wager,” he said. “I’ll not have thieves disturbing my land.” He gestured for a couple of his men to stay at the inn, then made ready to lead the rest out with him. “They’ll be strangers; the men of High Cross know not to raise hand against those staying at the Red Dragon.” He glanced back at Oswiu. “I’ll send word if I find the thieves, but like as not they’ve taken to their heels. And remember: tell all you meet that the men of Mercia are not greedy.”

  With that, Brandnoth led his men out of the inn.

  When, a few minutes later, Coenred returned from the kitchens, carrying cups of ale, he looked around in puzzlement.

  “Where is he?” he asked. “Where’s Brandnoth?”

  “He was called away,” said Oswiu.

  “That is strange,” said the innkeeper. “I’ve never known him go afore, not when there were new people come, to hear his tales.” He put down the cups. “Will you drink these in his stead, master?”

  “Yes,” said Oswiu. “Yes, I think we will.”

  *

  They waited until the few other men staying at the inn that night lay snoring on floor or bench before gathering in the corner, in the dim red glow of the banked hearth fire, to talk on what had happened. Brandnoth had sent word that
whoever had threatened Acca had gone – muddy tracks led to the fence and, outside, horses had been left tethered, but they were gone with their riders by the time Brandnoth and his men found the tracks. The thegn urged caution on their journey, but made no mention of his offer to send men with them or to accompany them in person.

  “Thieves?” Oswiu asked in a low voice, as they sat close together.

  Acca shook his head. “I do not think so.”

  Æthelwin snorted. “Wights do not leave tracks like men; nor do they tether horses to make their escape.”

  “Well, if they were men, they did not act like thieves,” said Acca.

  “Who knows where we go?” asked Æthelwin.

  “My family,” said Oswiu. “Aidan. I do not know of any others. Why do you ask?”

  “This would be a fine chance for someone who wanted you dead to send men to make that happen: in Mercia, with only us to protect you.”

  “But only my family and Aidan know where we are going.”

  “Yes,” said the warmaster. His face was red in the firelight as he turned it to the king. “Who of them would want you dead?”

  Oswiu shook his head. “No,” he hissed. “My mother and sister – we were exiles together.”

  “The priest, then. Aidan.”

  “He is my oldest friend.”

  “Friends turn; even old ones.”

  “Not him.”

  “Then that leaves the queen.”

  “B-but why would she want to kill me?”

  “Who would be king in your place, lord?”

  “Ahlfrith, my son. Or Œthelwald, Oswald’s boy. Depending on which the witan chose. But they are too young.”

  “And close to the queen, I hear. A young king might listen well to his mother – or his aunt.”

  “No.” Oswiu shook his head. “No, no. Not Rhieienmelth. I will not hear you speak of her in this way, Æthelwin.”

  The warmaster turned his face back to the fire. “I am your warmaster, lord. It falls to me to guard you from the enemy within as from the enemy without.”