Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

“You were with my husband through all his journey into Mercia. Tell me this. When he left, there was division between us, but one I hoped to heal by doing that which he bade: caring for his nephew until his return. But when he returned, his heart was turned against me, though I had discharged the burden he laid upon me.” Rhieienmelth looked up at the warmaster. There seemed little hope of insight from this stone-faced man, but she would like as not have no other chance to speak with him. “Do you know why his heart turned against me?”

  The warmaster stared down at her impassively.

  “Was there, perhaps, someone else?”

  At this question, Æthelwin did react, with the same sardonic smile that had greeted her reminding him that she was still queen.

  “No, O queen. There was nobody else.”

  “Then why? I do not understand. I had not thought he would put me aside simply for a nobler queen.”

  The warmaster looked at her for a time, his face returning to the blankness of before. Then he began to speak.

  “You are a woman. You have never stood in the shieldwall, half blind behind your shield, while the man in front of you tries to find a gap in the wall to strike. There, in the shieldwall, a man must use any weakness: if your enemy slips, strike quickly, before he recovers. If he wearies, weaken him with fresh attacks. If he turns, in fear or panic, slip your sword into his back. But even though your courage and strength still hold, if the men on either side of you fail, you will fall with them. To be a king is to stand always in a shieldwall, with your enemies ever around you, searching for weakness. To stay a king, a man must take every advantage he might; he must remove every weakness.”

  “You think I was a weakness to the king?” Rhieienmelth shook her head. “You must know a different man.”

  “I do not say you brought weakness. But an alliance with Kent, and further to the kingdom of the Franks, strengthens the king where he is weakest. Among the men of the old North, the king is known, and well respected, for his deeds and word. There is little advantage in alliance with Rheged.”

  “We were great once.” The queen brushed a hand across her face. The wet upon it may well have been rain. “Great enough to push the Idings into the sea and reclaim all this land – as my grandfather would have done, if not for the cursed treachery of Morgant. May he rot in hell.”

  The warmaster nodded. “Treachery is ever the greatest threat to a kingdom.” He looked, with blank eyes, at the queen. “Soon after we arrived in Mercia, we were attacked by robbers. In these uncertain days, there was no great surprise in that. But these were men of the North, of Northumbria, and they were a long way from home.”

  The queen looked up at the warmaster’s hard face. “Surely the king did not think I sent those men?”

  “The king knows not who sent them; he only knows someone did.” The warmaster tugged his unwilling horse’s head round into the full force of the rain. “We will arrive soon, O queen. Prepare yourself.”

  *

  “Rhieienmelth.”

  The queen looked round. “Æbbe.”

  The two women stood looking at each other, each waiting for the other to speak. Outside the small hall, the wind had slackened and the rain eased, but still it sounded hard on the shutters, tight closed against the storm. In the gloom, lit by torches dancing in the stray draughts that blew through the shutters and beneath the door, both women seemed more like the great stones raised to old gods that stood upon plain and hill throughout this ancient land. From without there came the sounds of unloading and carrying and storing, as the wagons that had brought the queen and her women were relieved of their charge.

  “You are welcome here, Rhieienmelth,” Æbbe said eventually. “I will show you to your quarters.”

  But the queen held up her hand. “If you mean one of those huts, then I am afraid you are mistaken. I am yet queen, and a queen does not live in a hut.”

  The door of the hall was pulled back, and the dim, cloud light filled the space.

  Rhieienmelth looked around. “But this will do.”

  And men began carrying in chests and hangings and bowls, while Rhieienmelth’s women directed them.

  “Wh-what are you doing?” asked Æbbe, taking her sister-in-law’s arm. “This is my house. I rule here.”

  Rhieienmelth looked down at the hand upon her arm. Slowly, Æbbe released her. Rhieienmelth smiled, then took Æbbe’s hands in her own. “Of course you rule here. You are mother of this house – and you shall stay mother of this house and all your little chicks, clucking around in their huts outside. But think on this: I, a queen, have stood aside and agreed to enter into this life so that the king might take a new wife. But if I do so, I will live here as a queen, not in one of those noisome little huts where your sisters live.”

  “B-but I live in one of those huts,” said Æbbe.

  “Of course you do,” said Rhieienmelth. “You are good and kind and holy; naturally you share in the life of your sisters. However, I am not here to share your life, but to be out of the king’s.”

  “You do know this was none of my doing,” said Æbbe.

  “I know, I know. You have always been gracious to me, Æbbe. But it was your mother who told me that the king wished to put me away; I think she may have done more than tell me his wish – I believe she put the wish into his heart.”

  “My mother would never do such a thing.”

  “No? Not to gain an advantage for her son – her last surviving son?”

  Æbbe made no answer, for her eyes had turned inward, to memory.

  “But I am sure I will do very well here,” said Rhieienmelth. “I hear you have men under your rule as well? That is good. I will need some of them to run my hounds.”

  “You’ve brought your dogs?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Hunting, of course.” Rhieienmelth looked round at a sudden, high-pitched cry, just in time to see her falcon flapping upon the wrist of the man carrying it. “Put Hebog there, by the fire. He will need to dry himself.”

  “Y-you can’t,” began Æbbe. “A falcon?”

  “The dogs we’ll leave outside. My men can find shelter with yours.”

  “Your men? How many have you brought?”

  “A scop – he’s new to me but his voice is sweet – my falconer and steward, my master of hounds…” Rhieienmelth put her finger to her lips, thinking. “Oh, and of course –” she turned to the door and gestured – “Prince Œthelwald.”

  A boy, who had been standing by the door watching the unloading, walked towards them. Seeing him, Æbbe felt the shift of memory, for he moved with the same ease as her older brother, Oswald. She looked to the woman beside her. “Your own children? Where are they?” At the question, she saw Rhieienmelth stiffen, but the queen did not look round.

  “My daughter will spend half the year with her father and half with me; she begins with her father. As for my son, the king decided it was time he went to another court, to learn their ways and to make allies of foes.”

  “Where has the king sent Ahlfrith?”

  “Somewhere he did not want to go.” The young Œthelwald stood in front of the two women, one his aunt by blood, the other his aunt by marriage. “You should have seen him cry when he went. He only stopped when the king told him his sister could go with him. What a baby.”

  “He is not a baby,” said Rhieienmelth sharply, but the prince merely smirked and, turning to Æbbe, made the courtesy.

  “The king has also sent me where I would not have gone,” said Œthelwald, “but I have come so I might learn more of my father. And I did not cry.”

  Æbbe held out her hands to the boy and took his shoulders. “You are the very image of him. For my part, I am glad your father has sent you here.” She glanced briefly at Rhieienmelth. “Besides, it seems you will not have to endure the usual rigours of a holy house.”

  “I would not have come if all I was to do was pray. I am learning to fight. Here, see.” And, stepping back, the boy drew a s
word from the scabbard hanging from his belt. “The king gave me this before I left. He said it belonged once to my father.” Œthelwald looked sharply at his aunt. “Is that so?”

  Æbbe saw a finely worked sword with garnets inlaid upon its hilt, and running down the blade the intricate weave of its welding, marked in whirls and waves. She looked up at the boy and smiled.

  “It is a sword fit for a king.”

  “That is good.” Œthelwald began to sheathe the sword. “I will be a king one day. Like my father.”

  “Of course you will,” said Æbbe.

  The boy, who had struggled to get the tip of the blade smoothly into its scabbard, looked up at his aunt. “A proper king,” he said. “Like my father. Not a king who holds his throne only through the strength of another, like…like…” Œthelwald cast around in thought, searching for such a king, then of a sudden his face brightened, and he looked to Rhieienmelth. “Like Rheged,” he said. “Like your father.”

  The queen made no answer.

  “The queen’s father is a great king…” Æbbe began, but the young prince cut her off.

  “Not according to the men. I’ve heard them in hall, laughing about him, saying how the only warriors who go to Rheged now are those who want to grow rust on their swords and fat on their bellies.”

  “He-he was a great king once,” said Rhieienmelth.

  “My father was always great,” said Œthelwald.

  “Yes. Yes, he was,” said Æbbe. Glancing at Rhieienmelth, she saw the hurt in the queen’s eyes, and as quickly looked away. “Come. You are right; of course you must have the hall.” She took Rhieienmelth’s arm and led her towards the bustling, arguing throng of women and servants. “It looks as if they need your guidance.” Glancing back, to make sure Œthelwald was out of earshot, she whispered to the queen: “My brother’s son may look like him, but he does not act like him. Still, it is hard, to have neither father nor mother.”

  “Yes,” said Rhieienmelth. “That is what I remind myself when he speaks as he did just now.”

  “But what of your own son? You have not told me to which court the king has sent little Ahlfrith.”

  “One where I would not have had him go. But the king said, when the messenger came, offering to take Ahlfrith as foster son to this king, that he must needs go, for the peace and time it would buy the kingdom. So, he has gone.” The queen turned a pale face to her sister-in-law. “I do not know if I shall see him again.”

  “But why? Taking a boy as foster son is a sacred bond – none would break it. You need not fear. Besides, it is time Ahlfrith learned the ways of other courts and different lands, for it will serve him well in due time. Where has he gone?”

  “To Penda,” said Rhieienmelth.

  Chapter 5

  The boy ran desperately across the courtyard of the great hall at Tamworth, dodging in and out between sheep pens and rooting pigs, round store huts and weaving sheds, while his pursuers, shouting and screaming what they were going to do when they caught him, drew closer. He’d led them a long chase, and what had started as little more than a game had turned dark; the easy pursuit his hunters had anticipated had turned into a lung-bursting run, and they had grown angry. Now, the cries that came from them were fainter – for the chasing boys were as breathless as he – but the threats they carried were greater. Before, he might have escaped with a few bruises; now, if they caught him, he would be lucky not to have an arm or rib broken.

  Rounding the seething, reeking hut where the smith carried out minor repairs, the smoke from the ever-burning forge creeping out through the slats in the rough roof, Ahlfrith risked a glance back at his pursuers.

  There were five of them: Peada, Penda’s son, and four of his friends. All except Peada were bigger and older than him. Against Peada, Ahlfrith thought he might win; but not against the ætheling’s friends as well.

  The glance told him that they were not giving up the chase, although they had not managed to narrow the gap. The years he had spent racing his sister had made Ahlfrith quick. With the smithy shielding him from their view, he made use of that speed. Jagging to the side, he headed back towards the great hall. If he could get inside, then even Peada would have to let him go: everyone knew that Penda tolerated no fighting within its high walls.

  “Get him!”

  He heard the cry, but it sounded a little fainter. Ahlfrith glanced round to see Peada pointing after him. Looking ahead, he saw to whom Peada was gesturing. Some more of his friends were lounging by the training grounds, watching the king’s men going through their exercises, but when they heard Peada’s yell they looked round. It only took a glance for them to see what was asked: this was more fun than watching weapons drill. Yelling their joining of the chase, the boys angled towards him, cutting off Ahlfrith’s escape.

  Veering away, he still hoped to outdistance them and then turn back to the hall, but they were pushing him further and further away from it, out towards the high, rich tents, hung with banners, where the queen and her women made their daytime quarters, that they might make better use of the light.

  Maybe, maybe, he could run round the tents and then back to the hall. But his lungs were burning and the muscles in his legs were turning liquid; he could not run much further at such a pace.

  “Here! Come in here!”

  Ahlfrith almost did not hear the call, his ears were so full of the sound of his own heart, but he saw the arm waving to him from the entrance to one of the tents, and he ran to it and dived inside.

  “Ahlflæd,” he gasped.

  His sister put her finger to her lips.

  “Shh,” she said. “These are the queen’s quarters; no men are allowed in here. Quick, hide.” And she pushed her brother behind a bundle of sheepskins.

  “Come out!”

  The yell came from outside the tent.

  “Come out, you little sneak, and fight me. Or are you too much of a coward – just like your daddy?”

  Waiting outside, Peada saw the tent flap open. Despite his brave words, he took a step backwards. He had not expected the Northumbrian to come out and face him. But then he remembered the friends he had to back him up; one northern whelp couldn’t hope to stand against them all, and he moved forward, raising his fists.

  “My daddy is not a coward!”

  It was a girl who had come out of the tent, fists bunched and face pale with fury.

  “Your daddy and your brother too!” said Peada, turning towards his jeering accomplices. “See, he sends his sister out to do his fighting for him.”

  The turning away from Ahlflæd was a mistake. With all the speed of years racing her brother, Ahlflæd ran at Peada and, with his head only just turning back to her, fetched him such a blow on the chin that the boy fell backwards onto his bottom, landing with a squelch in a cow pat.

  Stunned stupid, Peada looked vacantly up at Ahlflæd. “Wh-what…” he began. But he never got the chance to complete the question.

  Ahlflæd jumped upon him, hitting his chest with all her weight, knocking the ætheling flat on his back and then, grabbing handfuls of hair in each hand, she began hitting the back of his head against the ground.

  It was Peada’s good fortune that the ground underneath him was soft and muddy. Blows that on rocky ground would have broken his skull merely dazed him, although they cut the invisible bonds of will linking his mind to his body. Try as he might, he could not command his muscles sufficiently to throw her from him.

  All around, the boys who would have stood beside him and protected him from Ahlfrith stood and laughed, tears streaming down their faces, some having to hold on to others to stop themselves joining Peada upon the floor.

  Although the ground was soft, if Ahlflæd had kept pounding Peada’s head upon it for much longer his skull must surely have broken. But a hand reached down and grabbed the back of Ahlflæd’s dress and lifted her, still striking and kicking, from the boy’s prone body, then held her, thrashing in the air.

  A single black eye stared at h
er.

  Slowly, Ahlflæd stopped struggling.

  “I came to find my wife and instead I find my son being beaten by a girl.” The black eye looked down at the boy upon the ground. Ahlflæd saw humiliation war with fear in Peada as he scrambled to his feet and stood, face downcast, looking at the ground.

  “Look at me.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Peada looked up. The black eye looked at him.

  The watching ring of boys was absolutely silent, trying not to draw attention to itself, but it did not work.

  “Go.”

  They ran, scurrying away in silence, hoping to be lost before the time for retribution came.

  “D-dad…” Peada began, but his father held a finger to his lips.

  “Shh,” he said.

  “But…”

  “Shh.” And Penda leaned towards his son. The boy struggled not to flinch from him.

  “Did you know I had a sister?” Penda asked.

  The boy shook his head.

  “No, why should you? She died many years ago, and I have not spoken of her for nearly as long. Ymma was two years older than me, but I was a boy. When we were little, I would tease her and taunt her, but all she’d say was, ‘You wait, boy; you wait.’ One day, Ymma decided I had waited long enough. I was taunting her while she was doing her work – she was washing clothes in the stream and, I remember, her hands had turned blue from the cold of the water – and she stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. They were still blue though, I remember that. Then she looked at me, and said, ‘Today is the day, Penda.’ And she came at me. But she was a girl and I was a boy, and I’d grown fast the last year, so there wasn’t much of a difference between us any more. I stood my ground.” Penda laughed, a low, quiet laugh.

  “Ymma gave me such a beating as I have not had from any man since.” The king bent closer towards his son. “But, a year later, when I had grown, I beat her in return. It does not matter who you fight, son: boy, girl, man, wolf, wraith or dragon. It only matters that you win in the end. Remember that.” But then he took Peada’s head in his hand and twisted it so the boy looked, whether he would or not, at Ahlflæd, standing in still silence where Penda had put her. “But remember this as well: this girl is guest to me, and her brother is here as foster son. If you, or any of your friends, touch either of them again I will cut that hand off. Do you understand?”