“So men say, lord.”
“If only you had sight to see, Nothelm the Blind, for there is a wonder ahead. We draw near to Woden’s tree; already I can see the hills rise and the crown of green where the tree stands. But before we come to the tree, there is a hill of the old ones, called Caer Gogyrfan in their language, and it is set about with mighty walls and ditches. None live there now, for it is wraith haunted, but I have climbed to it and stood upon it, and they have whispered to me of their might, when all this land was theirs. Then – do you know what I said to them?”
By the change in sound, Oswiu knew that Penda had turned to him for answer.
“No, lord. What did you say to them?”
“I told them that this kingdom was mine now, and they were but wraiths, shadows of men, lingering among the living when they should be with the dead. And they left me.”
The hooves of their animals crunched onwards, the sound deadening as gravel in places gave way to earth and mud, then crunched again.
“We pass in the shadow of Caer Gogyrfan now, Nothelm the Blind. In our tongue, it means the city of Gogyrfan. The Britons say Gogyrfan was a giant, the father of Guinevere, Arthur’s queen and Arthur’s bane. But then the Britons say many things of Arthur, and most of all they wait for him. And in waiting, they leave the land to us.”
It seemed to Oswiu that the column of riders had fallen into something approaching silence. It might have been weariness from the long ride – he could feel the sun upon his face and, through his bandages, see its brightness in front of him as it swung low in the sky – but there seemed to him to be something more to the silence.
“Ah, they feel it. Ever when I pass here, a silence falls upon man and beast. In the shadow of Caer Gogyrfan, men hold their tongues and beasts pass uneasily. They watch. From the hill the ancient old ones watch, and curse the living their life.”
“I-I feel of that too.”
“They say the blind see more deeply than the sighted. Have you found that so, Nothelm the Blind?”
“I have not long been blind, lord. But it is true that without sight I hear and smell and feel what I did not before.”
“Then it is almost a shame that your eyes should be restored to you.”
“If such should happen, lord, I think I would not find it so.”
“Nor would I, I suppose, if my sight were lost to me. But tell me, Nothelm the Blind, before your sight was lost, what did your eyes see? We have passed beyond the shadow of Caer Gogyrfan. There is still a little way to Woden’s tree, and I would hear some tale of wonder from you ere we get there. Can you feel the road rising? We climb towards the hill of the tree.”
“Yes, I can feel it.”
“Then while we ascend to Woden’s tree, where I offered Oswald to the Hooded God, tell me what you saw when you had sight. What wonders? Where did you travel? Did you ever see the Great Wall, the work of giants that runs from sea to sea? It is far north, of course. I expect you did not travel so far. Or York? That is closer. Men say its wall still stands.”
“Men also say that Penda travelled much in those lands, when Cadwallon ravaged them and laid them waste. Why do you ask of me what you have seen with your own eyes?”
“One man may see what another might miss. And this journey has been long, and weary work. I but thought to share some words with one whose talk I knew only a little, rather than those whose tales I have heard, and heard again. But it is near done. Though you cannot see it, I see the grove atop the hill where grows Woden’s tree. You gave to me to choose where first we should go: we go here. Maserfield is but a field, and even of the blood it swallowed there is no sign. But here there is trace, and more, of my victory. Mayhap it will bring you sight. Then, when I have seen what truth there is in these tales, I will take Oswald’s head and arms and make of them a burnt offering to the gods, and have an end to these tales.”
“But lord, I had thought to wait here a while if healing came not at once, and see if it would come later.”
Penda laughed. “Think you truly I would leave you here when I had gone? No. We throw the dice and let them fall. Now, I would speak with my warmaster. Wait here for your companions, Nothelm the Blind. They will accompany you to Woden’s tree.”
Oswiu pulled gently on his horse’s reins, bringing the animal to a halt. The riders flowed past until Acca, Coifi and Æthelwin caught up with him.
“He knows,” Oswiu said, pitching his voice so only his companions might hear. “Penda knows who I am.”
“You are sure of this, lord?” asked Æthelwin.
“Yes. He knows.”
“Then why does he allow us to ride, unbound and alive, with him?”
“Mayhap he plays with me, as a cat with a mouse.”
“I know,” said Coifi. “We ride to Woden’s tree. Penda would make a new offering to the god.” The priest looked at his companions. He did not have to voice what the offering might be.
“That is what you saw, Coifi?” asked Oswiu.
“Yes, lord. I am sorry.”
“The sorrow will be as much mine – should your sight come to pass. But think on this, friends: oft times, when a cat plays with a mouse, the mouse escapes. Besides –” and here the king smiled, so that his teeth showed sharp – “I am not a mouse.”
And though they rode to death, there was no falsity in the king’s smile: he smiled for the joy of it, and his smile spread among his companions.
“Think on this: ere this day’s ending, we shall either stand in the Lord’s hall, or have such a tale to tell that Acca will not cease from singing it all the days of his life – nor all the scops of days to come. This is better than the honey words of false counsellors or the pullings of women. So take heart and keep for me the watch I cannot yet. Penda takes us where we would go: there, my brother waits. So, tell me: what do you see?”
“We ride in mid column,” said Æthelwin. “The king ahead. Behind, there are fifteen men, well mounted. Though they ride not close, there is no escape here without cover or attack.”
“Acca?” asked Oswiu.
“I hear the hooves of the horses strike rhythm on the emperors’ road; I have told tale to this rhythm and I will tell it again, should we live for me to tell it. I see the road rise, and to its right, upon the ridge, a green crown: the trees of a grove held over to the gods. The trees are thick there. Behind, not long have we passed another hill, ringed with ditch and bank; in passing it, I saw many a man make sign against the evil eye. Few of these would pass willingly onto its height.”
“That was Caer Gogyrfan,” said Oswiu. “Penda told me a giant raised its walls. Though his men might baulk before it, he would not, for he knows it of old and has faced down its fear. Coifi, what do you see?”
“I see your death, lord.”
“Yes, yes. Apart from that. What do you see now?”
“I-I see us ride into shadows, lord.” The old priest pulled the tattered old raven-feather cloak around his thin shoulders. “It is cold, and we ride to it, and I can see nothing in the shadows. But – but I hear…”
And as Coifi spoke, there came, over the crunch of hoof on gravel and the creak of harness and the weary conversation of men long riding, the unmistakable creaking call of the raven.
“Bran?” said Oswiu. He turned his head, searching for the sound. “Bran is here?”
The call came again. It was as yet distant, but it was coming closer.
“There,” said Acca, pointing. And he saw true, for beating through the air, a great black raven approached, stiff winged and calling. The riders at the head of the column pointed its approach, then marked how it swooped low over them, calling, before rolling sideways and turning back to fly to the grove whence it had come.
“I have heard tell,” said Coifi, “that a great raven stands watch upon Oswald, where he hangs before Woden’s tree, and will not suffer beast nor bird to approach him.”
“He knows we are coming,” said Oswiu. “Bran has kept him for us; now he knows we are he
re.”
At the head of the column, Penda called his priest to him.
“Wihtrun. Did you mark that bird, that raven?”
“Yes, lord,” said the priest. He rode, as was required, a mare. A priest might not ride a stallion, nor bear spear, the mark of a free man, for he was bound to the service of the gods; he was no free man, but slave to the gods.
“What make you of it?”
“It is a mark of Woden’s favour; come to greet you as you approach the tree set aside to him.”
“But what of the tales of a raven that guards Oswald’s remains? Have you heard tell of this?”
“I have, lord, and give thanks to the Lord of the Slain: for all the slaughter birds are his, tale bringers and messengers. To set such a one as guard upon our offering to him is a mark of his great favour.”
“Oswald had such a bird. I saw it. It was with him the day he fell; some say it is this bird that guards him.”
“What use is such a guard? Oswald is dead – why set a guard upon the dead? No, this raven belongs to the Raven God, the Lord of Battles, the Wolf Rider, the Frenzy Giver. He comes to greet you, gift giver.”
“Then give him news, priest. Tell him I bring further gifts for the Lord of the Slain.”
“I will tell him, lord.” The priest paused. “What gifts do you bring, lord? We have left the wagons behind.”
“Some gifts are easier to carry than others. Some gifts even bring themselves.”
While Wihtrun the priest rode ahead, urging his horse up the path to the low hill crowned with Woden’s grove, Oswiu and his companions rode in watchful silence.
The king, Penda, gave no sign of moving against them. But the day was drawing down – already the sun dipped behind the western hills. Shadows dripped from where they had hidden through the day, amid the leaves and branches of trees, and flowed out from wood and spinney and grove. The last streaks of light ran into the east, fleeing from the sun’s setting.
“There will be chance in the night,” said Æthelwin. “We might slip away then.”
“Penda will not give us that chance,” said Oswiu. “We must find, or make, another.”
“Torches!”
The command went up from the head of the column, where Penda rode now with his warmaster, and the men pulled, from saddle or pack, brands wrapped in cloth, steeped in wax and fat. Steel rasped on flint, sparks flared, and the brands burned.
The approaching dusk was held at bay. Even full night would be driven back a little way before so many bright torches. Only Oswiu and his companions rode without torches: a patch of darkness in the centre of the bright, blazing column of riders that now began to make its way up the slope to the place of the god.
The path ran straight up the slope, for the way was not too steep for horse or man, but it was deeply rutted, for winter rains washed earth and even smaller stones away.
Coming out onto the wide ridge, Oswiu’s companions saw the land fall away gently beyond, before rising in steps again into the west, towards more distant, dark hills. The sun had set behind the western hills now, but the king gave no command to set camp for the night, riding on towards the grove hallowed to the god.
The outer trees were rowan and oak, but most of all ash, sending branches curving up to the darkening sky. The trees were hung with offerings: shields, weather worn and bright and new; spears, dangling from branches like seed pods; tokens of cloth and carvings and rune-carved stones, set in branch curve and trunk hollow. Below, there had been but little wind, but here, on the ridge, it blew strong and steady, and the trees creaked and clacked with their burden of offerings. But these were minor sacrifices: made by those with little to give or smaller desire to return favour after favour was given. The richest offerings would lie at the heart of the grove, where Woden’s tree grew.
As they neared the grove, Penda signed for silence, but in truth there was no need. Before such a place, men did not speak but trod warily, lest they draw the god’s gaze to them.
Through that silence came the raven’s call, creaking louder than any tree, and man and beast paused before it.
But Wihtrun called them on. For he waited now upon the boundary of the grove, standing beside his horse, the wolf cloak drawn around his shoulders, the beast’s gaping mouth now set upon his forehead. Its eyes were black, though the torches burned.
Reaching the priest, Penda dismounted, and the other riders likewise, for it was not permitted that a man might ride in the presence of the god. Penda spoke briefly with his warmaster, who called some half of the men to him to wait outside the grove and guard the horses.
“We will not camp here,” Penda assured his men. “This is no place for night sleeping. After we have greeted the god, we will go down the hill and spend the night there – out of this wind.” The king gestured to Oswiu and his companions. “Come. You will accompany us. After all, you have come far in search of healing; I would not have you wait another night.”
As Penda stepped through the line of willow wands that marked the boundary of the sacred grove, Æthelwin looked to see if there would be chance to slip away into the dark beneath the trees, but Penda’s men followed after as well as before, their torches scattering flickering light beneath the ceiling of whispering leaves.
Oswiu, walking in the blindness of his disguise, led by his companions, could not see the darkness that surrounded them, and that was for his blessing. For without sight, he felt his brother’s presence and he knew that Oswald walked beside him.
“Wait.” Penda held up his hand. They had emerged from the grove into the space that stood at its heart, a space with a single tree at its centre.
An ash tree, greater and taller than any of the others, its branches upcurved and weighed down with the offerings that ladened it: battle-won swords and shields, the sacrifice of herd and hearth. Oswiu smelled the blood iron of many offerings: ox and goat and horse. They hung upon the tree, some still fleshed, flanks crawling in the torchlight with the wriggling creatures that consumed the offering, others reduced to bone, gazing down upon them with shadow eyes.
Beside him, he heard Acca gasp, and Coifi’s sharp breath.
The ground before the tree was spiked with stakes. On these hung the great offerings, the richest gifts to the Lord of the Slain: the slain themselves. Men they had known, whom they had sat next to in the great hall at Ad Gefrin and ridden beside on long and weary journeys, swapping tales and jokes and shared complaints against rain and wind and road.
And before the great tree, three stakes set apart from the rest. A hand and arm hung from each of the outer stakes, but on the centre stake there was a head.
“He’s looking at us,” whispered Acca.
For it was true. Oswald’s head was set upon that stake, but it was turned outwards, so that it looked to all who came to the tree, rather than facing inwards to the tree itself.
“Wait here.” Penda turned and looked back at his men, then, alone, advanced towards the tree. But his gaze was turned not to the tree, but to the man he had killed and set before the tree.
“Oswald.”
Penda stopped in front of the stake where he had set the king’s head. When he had put it there, he had left the head turned towards the tree, that the god might see the offering given him, but now Oswald had turned from the tree and looked outwards, and Penda would know how.
But first, he had a message for the king.
Penda bent closer to the head, holding his torch that he might see it more clearly. It was true. Save for the wound at the temple, the death wound that had pierced flesh and bone, the head was unmarked. He pushed his thumb against the cheek, and the skin gave way under his touch, then sprang back when he took the thumb away. The eyes were closed, but suddenly Penda was filled with a bowel fear that they might open and hold him in sight, fixed and unmoving.
“No,” the king said. “No, Oswald. That won’t work on me. When I’m done here, I’m going to burn you.” Penda leaned closer to the head, whispered to it. “But
before I do, I want you to know this: I killed you, and gave you to Woden, and your god could not protect you. Now I’m going to kill your brother too.”
Penda turned around. He gestured to his men.
“Bring me Nothelm the Blind.”
Two of Penda’s men approached Oswiu. His companions backed towards him, hands inching towards sword hilt, but Oswiu, sensing their tension, laid hand to arm.
“No,” he whispered. “Not yet. Wait for my sign, then come to me.” Above him, with hearing made sharper by his blindness, he heard movement and feather rattle. Then, when Penda’s men took his arms to guide him across the clearing, he heard the bough creak as a weight released it, and the rush of flight above the reach of the torches.
Oswiu followed the sound. He heard the bird land upon the tree in front of him and, though he could not see, he knew it waited upon Woden’s tree.
Penda’s men brought him to the king. Oswiu could feel the heat of the brands they carried, and he could feel the heat withdraw as, with unspoken gesture, Penda dismissed them.
He was alone with Penda now, set apart from the others at the far side of the space that hollowed out the hallowed ground, standing before the tree.
“Here he is,” said Penda. “Oswald. Or part of him. The rest I keep with me, wrapped in the banner I took when I killed him. If there was power in him, I took it. There is no healing for you here, Nothelm the Blind.”
But as Penda spoke, from the tree there came the rasping cough of the slaughter bird. Oswiu heard Penda start, and knew that the king looked up, aware that the raven was there but not able to see the bird.
“Bran says otherwise.”
Penda glanced at the man beside him, then searched the tree again. “It is just a bird. It has no name.”
“His name is Bran.”
“My priest says he is Woden’s bird.”
“No. Bran belongs to no one, but he is faithful to one, and that is not your god.”
“How know you this, Nothelm the Blind?”
“You know well I am not Nothelm the Blind, but Oswiu, Oswald’s brother. How did you know me? You did not at the start.”
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 12