Æthelburh indicated the battered ship. “With your boat in this condition, I do not think it would survive even a squall. Therefore, I tell you to sail into Humbermouth and make repair there, and let the crew rest.” The queen looked away from the master, and up along the broad channel of water that carved through the land. “There is something I must do in the meantime.”
*
Sitting in the prow of the river boat, the sun bright upon her face, Queen Æthelburh looked to her daughter. “This is madness,” she said. But there was laughter in her voice, and there was laughter in Eanflæd’s answer.
“Yes, it is, Mother.”
“We should stay with the boat while it is repaired, and then set off to your new home as soon as it is ready.”
“I know, Mother, we really should.”
“What we shouldn’t be doing is hiring a river boat to take us up the Ouse to York.”
“No, that would be a silly thing to do, Mother. And you are never silly.”
“No, never silly. But married, once…” The queen’s voice trailed away as she stared ahead, as attentive as a hunting dog. “There,” she said, pointing. “There. There it is. York.” She turned to the young woman beside her. “Do you remember it at all?”
“A-a little. I think.”
“I was younger than you when I came here for the first time. Bishop Paulinus brought me. Now I bring you.” The queen paused, and when she began speaking again, there was a catch in her voice. “Do you remember your father?”
“Yes. Yes, I do.”
The queen looked ahead. In the distance, the old walls, built by the emperors, reared up above the river.
“I can’t remember his face any more,” Æthelburh whispered.
They moored on the strand under the walls. The men climbed over the side of the boat and squelched in the soft river bank, laying wicker mats on the mud, that the two royal women might disembark. They had brought the two priests with them, and ten retainers, men who had done double duty on the journey up the coast by manning the oars, and who had served on the oars again during the long pull upstream from Humbermouth to York.
When all was ready, Romanus helped Queen Æthelburh from the boat, while Eanflæd, conscious of the many curious eyes watching from wharf and wall, accepted Utta’s hand.
The queen looked to the two priests.
“Announce us, please. To the king, if he is here; to his reeve, if he is not.”
As the priests made their way to the gates, Queen Æthelburh looked around. Her face was pale with the memory of a day, many years ago, when a rider had come galloping to York with news that her husband, King Edwin, was dead, and his killers were coming. She remembered the chaos and confusion as boats were loaded and what supplies could be found were rushed on board. She remembered looking for her son, little Wuscfrea, and finding him lost in the confusion. She had found him then, but lost him in exile, to the fever. Wuscfrea, Ethelhun and Ethelthryd. All gone now, save the eldest, Eanflæd, the young woman who stood beside her. Æthelburh sighed. Sometimes it was very hard to let her children go with God.
Eanflæd looked at her mother, and saw that she remembered. “You’re thinking of them, aren’t you? Wuscfrea, and Ethelhun and Ethelthryd, the twins.”
“Wuscfrea loved talking to the boatmen here. They all loved him too – little otter, they called him, on account of how well he could swim.” Tears sparkled on the queen’s eyes, like water jewels.
Eanflæd took her mother’s hand. “We could go back to the ship. The river is flowing fast; it would take us back much faster than we came.”
But the queen patted her daughter’s hand in turn, and blinked away the tears.
“Not all sad memories are cruel, nor is all pain bad. Coming here, I can see them again, Eanflæd. Over the years, their faces have grown dim, but now, here, where they lived, I see them.” The queen smiled, and there was as much joy as sadness in her smile. “I see them as I see you.”
Eanflæd nodded her understanding and left her mother to her memories, while she looked around with interest. Only London had greater, higher walls than those she saw in front of her, but those of the old capital were broken in more places, thrown down in the years of desperate defence that the Britons had mounted before the city fell. York’s defences stood all but intact, the watchtowers still looking out over the rivers and marsh and water meadows that stretched out from the city.
This was the city, and the realm, that her husband-to-be hoped to win over by marrying her. Oh, of course that had not been mentioned during the marriage negotiations, but Eanflæd understood the reason for Oswiu’s suit as well as anyone involved in the bargaining. She had been offered as proof of alliance, and bought with gold, and garnets, and land – much land. Her mother had told King Earconbert’s men what to accept for her, and she had told well. Should Oswiu put her aside – and they knew well that he had put aside one woman and fathered a son on another – then all the gold, and garnets, and land was hers, to do with as she would. There would be more than enough land to endow a monastery, a holy house such as the one her mother led, as a place to retire to should such a thing come to pass. But she did not intend such a thing to come to pass. Eanflæd knew how to be a queen – her mother, a great queen, had told and shown her how. Now she meant to be one.
It was not long before Romanus and Utta returned. Seeing them approach, Eanflæd saw Utta beginning to rush towards them, his face eager with news, only to be called back by the Frank. Romanus had been priest to a queen for many years now. He knew the slow, stately walk that signalled the proper dignity due such a woman. Chastened, Utta fell in beside Romanus, and the two priests approached with the solemn diligence due their role as heralds to two queens: one who was, and one who would be.
Romanus stopped in front of the two women and bowed low in the Frankish manner. Utta, for his part, made the courtesy.
“We have announced you to York,” Romanus said, his voice loud enough to ensure anyone attempting to overhear could do so without undue difficulty. “The king, Oswine Godfriend, is here in the city, but he is hunting.”
“But Bishop Aidan is here!” Utta broke in, unable to maintain silence any longer.
Romanus dug an elbow into the monk’s flank. Utta appeared not to notice, but Romanus winced, and rubbed his elbow.
“The king will return soon. Now, the king’s reeve bids you welcome, and asks you to come within the city, to the king’s great hall, where you may be made welcome until his return.”
“We are blessed,” said Utta. “I did not know Bishop Aidan would be here.”
“Then we can thank him for the oil which calmed the sea,” said Queen Æthelburh.
“We can thank him for our lives,” said Eanflæd. “Take us to your bishop, Utta,” said Æthelburh. “And we shall all thank him.”
They got the chance more quickly than they had thought. For Aidan was waiting for them, at the city gates, standing alongside the door warden, the guards, a gaggle of excited children and gossiping fishwives, farmers and boatmen; such a crowd as was rarely seen save when the king arrived with all his court. But the king and his retainers were out on the hunt, so the people waiting with Aidan were the low born and the coarse; some few did not even carry spears, the mark of a free man, for they were slaves. All waited at the gate, leaving scant room around the bishop, but Aidan did not seem to mind. Instead, he waited with them, hearing the excited whisper pass through the crowd: Queen Æthelburh, wife of King Edwin, had returned to them, with her daughter. Some were already confidently proclaiming this as a marriage between Æthelburh’s daughter and King Oswine, notwithstanding the fact that the king already had a wife. But all knew that a king might as easily put aside a wife as a farmer puts aside seed, particularly when that wife had made no children.
“You mark my words, it’ll be like the old days, when good King Edwin ruled, and there was peace in the land and food on the table, and a woman could walk from one end of the country to the other, with babe in a
rms mind, and none would harm her for fear of the king’s vengeance.” So said one old fishwife to another, younger than her – too young to remember the legendary days her elder recalled.
“Don’t know about that, but she is pretty, right enough,” replied the younger. “Bet the king’ll be eager to get some children on her.”
Aidan, listening, tried not to. He put up a surreptitious hand to test his face. At least it was not flushed. Once, hearing such things would have sent him scarlet with embarrassment, but he was older now and, as bishop, had heard this, and worse, many, many times. Maybe he should bewail the loss of the gift of shame? Aidan laid the matter aside to think upon in the quiet watches of the night, when men slept and he lay awake, struggling with his conscience and his God.
Utta was leading the party, his eagerness pushing him on ahead of the other priest’s measured stride, until he all but ran the final few steps to stand, then kneel, in front of Aidan. The bishop raised his brother to his feet, and kissed him, then turned to the party now standing before him.
Romanus nudged Utta to one side. In normal circumstances it was his job to announce the queen; even more so on this unusual day.
“Bishop Aidan of Lindisfarne, I present to you Queen Æthelburh, mother abbess of the holy house at Lyminge, wife to King Edwin of blessed memory, and her daughter, the Princess Eanflæd.”
Aidan made the courtesy to mother and daughter. And then, despite Romanus’s huffing and puffing, it was Utta’s turn.
“Queen Æthelburh and Princess Eanflæd, this is Bishop Aidan, abbot of the Holy Island, the man who saved our lives.”
Now Aidan really did blush, bright as cooked salmon, and all the more so when first queen, then princess, knelt to him and pressed their lips to the back of his hand. It did not help that he heard the fishwives, who had earlier been speculating about the princess marrying the king, laughing at his discomfort. Many a side was nudged to attract attention, and then fingers pointed at his red face.
As soon as he might, Aidan urged mother and daughter back to their feet.
“Please, I am not worthy of such honour. You are Yffings, of the House of Yffi and, by your marriage, joined to the Idings, rulers of Bernicia. My father was a fisherman. Do not do me such honour.”
Æthelburh looked pointedly at Aidan. “The father of our Lord was a carpenter. Should I not pay him honour? And should I not honour the Lord through you, his servant?”
“Please, pay all honour to the Lord, but this, his servant, is a weak and foolish man – I would not have my head turned nor my chest puffed with honour, when I deserve none.”
“If you will accept no other honour, accept this,” broke in Eanflæd. “Our thanks, for the flask of oil you gave to Brother Utta; it calmed the storm when we were all but lost, and now we who had thought to be drowned are here.”
Aidan waved his hand. “It was but a dream I had. There was no skill in it.”
“Few men have the knowledge of dreams.”
“This one does not,” said Aidan. “The dream told what I had to do.”
“Did a dream tell you of our visit?” asked Queen Æthelburh.
Aidan smiled, glad to admit his ignorance. “No, it did not.”
“Then you should know that we may not wait long ere we continue on our journey. Do you know when the king will return?”
“I sent a messenger as soon as your priest told me of your arrival. King Oswine will, I am sure, return in all haste – most likely before day’s end.”
“That is well, for we may not wait longer. But –” and here the queen’s voice lowered, so few apart from Aidan might hear her – “while he returns, there is another I would see…”
Aidan nodded. “Of course.” He turned to the gathered crowd. “Make way for the queen! Make way for Queen Æthelburh!” Shoving and pushing against each other, the crowd nevertheless parted to make a passage for the queen. Going first, Bishop Aidan led the queen, her daughter, priests and retainers through the gates of York and into the city.
As they walked through its streets, Eanflæd marvelled at the size of the buildings that rose upon either side of her, and also lamented their decay, for few bore any sign of living, but rather slumped, as corpses upon a battlefield, in the pose of their last living. Men shunned the places built by the emperors of old, thinking them wraith haunted. But Eanflæd remembered the stories her mother had told her, when they were in exile and walked in cities as great or greater than this, but cities that still lived. Her mother had told her of this city of York, city of the emperors, and of how her father had grown up in its decaying splendour, and how he did not fear it, so that as a boy he wandered its ways and buildings, a child walking in the work of giants. Now they were going to where her father waited on them, and she looked at her mother, and saw the eagerness in her walk and the concentration in her eyes.
Aidan led them to the great church of York, the church of stone, the first such building made in the land since the emperor’s legions had sailed back across the narrow sea. The building rose high before them, its wooden roof pointing to the sky. Bishop Aidan paused before its great wood door, and rapped upon the wood with his staff. The door opened, and the sound of chant reached to them, standing without.
Aidan turned to the two women. “The king, Oswine Godfriend, has ordered that the monks here pray throughout the day for King Edwin.”
The queen nodded her thanks at such news; she could not speak with words. Taking her hand, Aidan led her into the church.
It was gloomy within, the only light coming through the door and the row of small windows set high in the walls, but the darkness glowed with the richness of the hangings, woven gold, upon the walls, and the vessels upon the altar, and the torches burning in sconces. It was a light such as that which shines upon the world under a lid of cloud, when the sun, before it sinks out of sight, sends its light across the land to banish the gloom of the day with promise of the light of tomorrow. It was the hope light, and it shone in the queen’s face as she followed Bishop Aidan into the church.
The chant continued, not catching or pausing despite the presence of the bishop, although the four monks watched the procession that went up the church towards the altar.
There, upon the altar, beside the Gospel book and the sacred vessels, was a rich, golden reliquary. Aidan went to the altar, and knelt before it. Then, standing, he opened the reliquary, but his body covered that which was within.
“Queen Æthelburh.” The bishop spoke softly, without turning round, but the queen heard him well. She stepped up beside the bishop and looked, once again, after so many years, upon the face of her husband.
Aidan moved back, gently positioning himself so that he covered the queen from the sight of the others in the church.
“Yes,” whispered Æthelburh, as she took in the face of her husband. “Of course. I remember now.”
She leaned forward, and with infinite gentleness kissed the dry, withered lips.
“Watch over her. Watch over our daughter, our first born, little Eanflæd. I have grown old, husband – see, my hair is white now. It will not be long before I come to you. I hope I have done rightly, marrying her to an Iding. But as you did not hunt them when they were in exile, they did not hunt me when I was in exile. I think I have done what you would have wished, for you always wanted the two kingdoms, Deira and Bernicia, to be one, and by this match that may be so.” Æthelburh looked back over her shoulder, into the nave, then back to her husband’s remains. “I will show her to you, our little girl. She is grown now, grown beautiful and wise.” Turning round, Æthelburh beckoned to her daughter. “Come, Eanflæd; come and see your father.”
Eanflæd felt her mouth suddenly go dry. Pushing her hands together as if in prayer, but rather to stop them shaking, she went forward to join her mother. The queen was standing by the reliquary, smiling, although her cheeks were streaked with tears.
Eanflæd saw the leathery skin, stretched over skull, the loose hair and the dry lips tight on teeth
; his eyes were closed, but now, seeing him, she remembered his eyes in life, the darkness of them and the intensity. She remembered her father standing over her, looking down at her and then lifting her, it seemed to the sky, and the face, that dead face, breaking into a smile as warm as a father’s love. Eanflæd, once exiled princess, looked on the face of her father, and knew him.
Chapter 7
“We’ve got him!” Hunwald, thegn of Deira and hunting companion to Oswine Godfriend, turned to the king. “We’ve got him.”
Oswine shook his head. “That boar will be well away by now. If the messenger hadn’t called us back, I’m sure we would have got him, but he is long gone now.”
“No, no, not the boar.” Hunwald rode his horse closer to the king. The king’s hunting companions milled around the two men, while the dogs cast upon the ground for a scent, making little forays off in all directions until the huntsmen called them back. It was the scene of a hunt in confusion. But this was through no stratagem of their quarry – a wild boar that had been terrorizing the villages around Skelton – but rather the result of the message, brought to the king, by the messenger who was now receding back towards York as quickly as he had come from the city.
“What do you mean?” asked Oswine Godfriend. The message had taken him by surprise; to think that Edwin’s queen, Æthelburh herself, was now in York. It was as if Yffi himself, father of the Yffings, returned to see how his descendants fared.
Hunwald looked round, making sure none of the other companions were close enough to hear. “Our enemy has been delivered into our hands. Oswiu sends for a new wife, one to win the witan of Deira to his cause, and she comes here first. The gods…” Hunwald caught Oswine’s sharp glance. “I mean, God has delivered her into our hands. You can make sure she never reaches him. You could even…” The thegn’s eyes lit up with speculation. “Yes, why not? Lord, take her as wife for yourself. With Edwin’s daughter by your side, you will have certain claim over the throne here and, mayhap, claim upon the throne in Bernicia too.” Hunwald reached out and grasped Oswine’s forearm. “Then, as king of Northumbria, you may throw off the halter Penda has put upon you, for men will flock to you from all the kingdoms, eager for glory, and we will have such an army that Penda will flee before us, or fall to our swords. What do you say, lord?”
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 18