“So, if the day should come when my husband wishes to put me aside, he may only do so if I choose to enter one of the holy houses?”
Bishop Aidan flushed even redder. “I hope such a day will never come,” he said. But he could not bring himself to look at the princess.
“As do I,” said Eanflæd. She looked across the bishop to her mother, but Queen Æthelburh was speaking with the king. “As do I,” Eanflæd repeated under her breath, and then, rising, she signalled to the servant who bore the great cup, the drinking horn, filled with the sweetest mead, to bring it to her. Taking the great cup, Eanflæd bore it to where the king, Oswine Godfriend, sat in his judgement seat. Making the courtesy with such grace that not a drop spilled from the cup, even though it was full to its brim, she held the cup to the king.
“May this cup ever be a sign and token of friendship between the two kingdoms, Bernicia and Deira, and a pledge of our good fellowship – for we are cousins, you and I, Oswine and Eanflæd.”
The king, eyes shining, took the cup from her and raised it to his lips. “I take this cup right gladly from you, Eanflæd, Æthelburh daughter.” The king raised it, but before he could bring the cup to his lips, the door warden hailed the feast.
“Hwæt! A messenger from King Penda.”
And Eanflæd, her gaze still fixed upon the king, saw Oswine pale as the messenger was announced; she saw him put aside the great cup, still undrunk, handing it to the servant who stood beside him, while he turned his attention to the man who came and stood before the high table.
Normally, a messenger waited upon the king’s command before presenting his message to the king, but this messenger expected Oswine to hear him immediately, and the king did as the messenger expected. Eanflæd looked round to see, and hear, what message this man brought, that it be so urgent.
“King Penda, the High King, sends greetings to his pledge king, Oswine, whom some name Godfriend. King Penda reminds him of his pledge, and tells him that the pledge is due.”
Oswine Godfriend shook his head.
“No, there is some mistake. We sent our pledge, all our pledge, this six month past; it is not due again until winter has come and gone.”
“King Penda, the High King, reminds his pledge king that he rules through his good pleasure and by his sufferance. It is not for him to say when the pledge is due.” The messenger smiled, in calculated insult. “It is as if the sheep were to say to the shearer, ‘My fleece is not woolly enough; wait for it yet to grow’; or the wheat to the reaper, ‘We are not yet ripe: stay your scythe until we are taller.’ It is for King Penda to say when the pledge is due – and he has sent me to tell thee it is due.”
Oswine made to answer, but the messenger held up his hand and silenced the king.
“I have given my message; there is no more for me to say. I will withdraw and wait upon your answer, returning three day hence to hear it.”
The messenger left the hall with silence walking beside him into the night. But the silence left with him; when he was gone, speech returned: quiet, furtive conversations, glances passed between men upon the benches, then thrown up to the high table where King Oswine, with the messenger’s departure, had turned at once to Hunwald to ask his warmaster’s counsel.
Standing forgotten in front of the king, Princess Eanflæd looked with new eyes upon the man in front of her.
“Lord.”
She had not meant to speak, but the word escaped her. It cut through the whispers that surrounded the king, and came to his ear. And Oswine turned to Eanflæd.
“Yes?”
“Do you pay throne geld to Penda, the man who slew my father?”
Oswine glanced around, for the princess spoke clearly, although she had not raised her voice, and its pure tones carried the words over the low voices of his men, so that it took the question to the far corners of his hall. The king shook his head, signing her for quiet, but Eanflæd asked the question once more.
“Do you pay throne geld to Penda, the man who slew my father?”
And now she saw her mother stand too, and look upon the king for his answer.
Oswine glanced from daughter to mother and back again. “It’s – it’s not as simple as that…” Oswine glanced at Queen Æthelburh. “You understand…?”
But the queen held her hand out to her daughter.
“Come, it is time for us to leave. We may not stay here, in this hall, and feast with those who give gold to my husband’s killer that they might rule in his stead.”
The princess went towards her mother, the two women converging, while the king held out a silent hand to stay them, but no words escaped his lips. They cast no glance towards him, but together turned and walked towards the door. In the great stillness that had fallen upon the hall, not even their own retainers, nor their priests, moved, but stared in silent wonder at the queen and the princess.
But there was one who moved. Getting up from his seat by the king, Hunwald came and stood before the two women, so that they had, perforce, to stop.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, but under the queen’s regard his voice tailed away, and Hunwald looked past them, to the king. “Are they, lord?”
“I remember you of old,” said Queen Æthelburh, “when my husband ruled this land.” And she began to advance upon the thegn. “I remember you of old, Hunwald; you were then snake tongued and gold greedy, looking always to stand beside those whose deeds were greater than yours, that you might steal some of their glory. In all these years, I see you have not changed. Now get out of my way, you witless, crawling thing, lest I crush you beneath my heel.”
And though the man was a head taller and a ram heavier than the queen, he fell back before her, and the queen and the princess passed him by.
At the door, Queen Æthelburh stopped, and looked back to the king.
“I would think more of a king who keeps better counsel,” she said. While her mother spoke, Eanflæd signed to their people, the two priests and the retainers, to follow, and the men hastily made their way towards the women. Then, together, they left the hall.
Outside, the twilight was fading, but there was still light enough to see.
“We must make haste,” said the queen. “To the boat. On it, the river will carry us to safety.” She glanced back at the hall, its door still closed, and looked to Eanflæd. “Humiliation is a bitter goad. Hunwald will come after us.”
Eanflæd nodded. “Yes.” She looked around. The door warden had gone within, to find the cause of their leaving, and his post was briefly unmanned. As the men retrieved their swords and spears, the princess saw the two great round iron handles upon the door.
“Quick.” She motioned to one of her men and he, seeing what she meant, ran a spear through the handles
Just in time. The door heaved inward, but the spears locked it. Shouts rang out from within, and blows fell upon the wood, but it did not give.
The queen looked to her daughter. “If I fall behind, leave me.”
Eanflæd gave a quick glance to her mother, shook her head, and signed the strongest of her retainers.
“Carry the queen,” she said. And while the queen was hoisted protesting onto the man’s back, Eanflæd gathered her skirt up and tied it off around her thighs. She caught Romanus’ scandalized glance. “Don’t look.”
From within the hall, sound was rising. They would soon break open the door.
“Mother, show the way.”
With the queen riding upon the man’s back and pointing where to go, they ran through the darkening streets of the city. As night deepened, shadows bled from the ruined houses, pooling around their running feet so that they could no longer see where they stepped, and could only call God’s mercy down that they not fall.
Romanus, running beside Eanflæd, stumbled and all but fell. Running once more, Eanflæd caught the pale flash of his legs: the priest had pulled his own robes up out of the way.
The way to the river was not long in the day. At night, with the D
eirans chasing them, it seemed long indeed.
Turning past the ruined houses, the sound of the pursuit sometimes rose, sometimes fell, so that they could not tell whether the pursuers drew closer or not.
“That way!” The queen pointed through the dark shadows to where lamplight flickered briefly, moving upon the black waters of the Ouse.
But as they ran towards the strand, men streamed across in front of them, blocking the way. And though there was little light, for the moon had not yet risen, yet the starlight was itself sufficient to show the glitter of their swords.
“Put me down.” Queen Æthelburh went out in front of her party. A moment later, Eanflæd joined her. “Go back,” whispered the queen. “I brought this upon us. You may have chance to escape in the darkness.”
“No.” Eanflæd reached out and found her mother’s hand in the dark. “We go together. Besides –” and now she squeezed the fingers she was holding – “I do not think ill will come to us: Daddy is here – he is with us.”
“I gave you honour and respect, and this is how you pay me?”
The voice was hoarse and cracked, a half-broken husk of the voice that had filled the hall before. Standing out from the men behind him, advancing upon them with sword bright in hand, Oswine, whom some called Godfriend, could bare hold the sword steady for the fury that was in him. At his side, walking in time with the king, was Hunwald.
“Before ever I saw you, some had said I should retain you, keep you, kill you even. But, oh no, I had refused, thinking to follow my better soul.”
The two men were closer now and as some of their retainers began to strike steel on flint and fire torches, their faces began to flicker in the light. Oswine’s face was as pale as a corpse, drained of blood and cold, but Hunwald’s was livid. Eanflæd felt fear gripe her bowels; both men had the death light in their eyes.
Eanflæd could see Hunwald whispering into the king’s ear as they approached, always whispering.
“I thought that by holding my hand from you though you were delivered into my grasp, I was keeping my skin and staying a man; and so I was. But it is no part of a man, no part of a king, to be insulted in his own hall, in front of his own men, by those whom he had called into his hall as guests.”
They were close now. The torchlight glittered upon the blades they held loosely in their hands. Eanflæd had spent many hours among men practising with sword and spear and shield. She knew well the ease with which such a grip could shift to killing thrust.
The king was ready to kill, and they were caught in the glare of his fury.
“Daddy.” Eanflæd called on her father, although the word seemed barely to rise from her throat. At the same moment, she felt her mother squeeze her hand, and then the queen stepped forward, breathing her own call to her…
“Husband…”
Oswine raised his sword.
“Strike, strike, strike, lord! Strike!”
Eanflæd could hear the words, slithering like a snake from Hunwald.
The queen did not quail. The sword remained poised above her, quivering in the grip of the king’s emotion, as Hunwald poured poison into his ear.
“Stop! What do you think you are doing? Stop!”
Aidan ran between king and queen, putting his body in the way of the sword.
“Get out of the way!” The king reached out to push Aidan aside, but the bishop pushed forward.
“Would you kill me, lord?”
“Move!” Oswine, in his fury, tried to pull Aidan out of the way, but the man, although slight in frame compared to the king, would not shift. Instead, he grasped the hilt of Oswine’s sword and pushed the blade against his own chest.
“If there must be blood, it will be mine.” Aidan pulled the blade towards himself, and now the king was pulling the sword away. “If you must kill, kill me.”
“No, no.” The king fell back, letting the sword go. It fell to the ground, where it rang upon the broken flagstones, setting sparks flying into the dark.
Hunwald, seeing the king fall back, raised his own sword as if to strike, but the monk turned his face to him and it was terrible, for in that moment the light of foresight filled Aidan, and he saw the end to which the thegn would come, and the pity of it filled him, and the waste, and for an unbearable moment Hunwald saw his own soul laid bare before him.
“Quick, quick.” Aidan turned to Æthelburh and Eanflæd. “While there is time, to your boat.”
Leading them, his staff tapping fast over stone to soft earth, Aidan pushed through the king’s men. Without order from Oswine or his thegn, they stood irresolute, unsure of what to do, but certain only that they must lay no hand on this slight figure who was bringing the party to their boat.
“Get in, get in.” Aidan handed the queen and Eanflæd into the boat as it bobbed upon the river, their men and the two priests quickly following.
“Come with us,” said Eanflæd, as the painters were unhitched and the men shipped the oars, pushing the boat’s head into the stream.
“No,” said Aidan. “No, the king has need of me, lest his madness linger.” Putting his foot to the stern of the boat, Aidan helped push it out into the middle of the river. Oars dipped and pulled, sending the boat surging downstream. The bishop raised his hand.
“Farewell,” he called.
With all the men pulling, and the river in spate, it was the work of but a few minutes to leave the city behind, the few lights upon the quay lost as the river turned past stands of willow and alder. But York was still close, and the river not yet broad enough to offer safety from arrow shot – not now, with the moon rising. The men pulled on, settling into a fast stroke, while Æthelburh and Eanflæd kept watch for pursuit.
But as the Wharfe joined with the Ouse and there was still no sign of anyone following, the two women began to relax their vigil.
“Ease,” called Eanflæd. “Ease the stroke.”
The men, gasping, let the water support their oars for a while, as the river carried them along, on into the broad, dark mouth of the Humber.
Æthelburh took her daughter’s hand.
“I am sorry,” she said. “If I had known what would happen, I would not have taken you.”
“If you had known what would happen, would you still have gone?” Eanflæd asked.
The queen let go of Eanflæd’s hand. She linked her fingers in her lap, sitting with head slightly down, in the position so known to the sisters of the holy house at Lyminge. Now, though, Æthelburh was not praying, but casting her mind back, to a memory renewed and a face returned to her.
Æthelburh looked up at her daughter. “Yes,” she said.
“As would I, Mother. As would I.” Eanflæd looked back along the river flow, back to York. “For I saw my father again and I am glad.”
Chapter 8
“There it is.”
Eanflæd pointed past the prow of the boat to where a great rock rose from the sea, the waves white about its base, and high walls upon its crown. She looked back at her mother. “That is it, isn’t it?”
But the queen, her sight dulled by the years, could see only the grey of sea and the grey of sky and the greys of the land merging into one. She shook her head. “I do not see it, daughter.”
“Aye, that’s Bamburgh, right enough,” said Utta. He looked to the princess. “Your new home.” He looked to the priest sitting shivering beside him. “Yours too.”
Romanus scowled. “I mide hab down id wod be barbarid,” he said. He’d caught a chill in the escape from York and now, two days later, it had matured into a proper head cold.
But Utta, taking no notice of the comment, poked Romanus in the ribs.
“There, see.” He pointed north, to where the land curved into the sea. “The Holy Island. It’s only a short trip by boat from Bamburgh. We go back and forwards all the time.”
“Oh, dho,” said Romanus, drawing his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He had never known a wind that cut so deeply as this one blowing over the grey sea.
“Eber?” asked the priest, his head emerging from his hood.
“I can’t say never – but not for a long time. After all, there is the matter of my marriage and wedding feast to keep us on dry land.”
“Dood,” said the priest. He pulled his head back inside his cloak.
“I can see it now,” said Æthelburh. “It is the great stronghold of the Idings. But it is a cold and windy place, and my bones still remember the chill when the wind blows from the north-east – which it always seems to do. Your father’s heart was in Deira, in York, and I am glad that is where he rests. But I would that you could have seen his palace at Ad Gefrin, in the shadow of Yeavering Bell, for never have I seen a hall more beautiful – but it is gone now. Cadwallon burned it.” The queen shook her head. “Beauty is so hard earned and so easily lost.” She looked at her daughter. “You would do well to remember that, Eanflæd. Your beauty will not last forever – not long past the children you must needs bear. Use it well, while it lasts. You know how to be a queen, for I have shown you and I have trained you; but to be a wife, that is a different matter, and one a widow and mother of a holy house is not best placed to teach.”
Æthelburh looked appraisingly at her daughter. Although a scarf covered her head, some strands of hair had escaped, and they blew over Eanflæd’s face. The sun was behind them, for they were sailing north, but even in shadow she could see the girl’s beauty, and she knew her wit. “But I think you will do well. The king is still a young man, and by all I have heard tell of him, he will be well pleased when he first sees you. Yes, daughter, I think you will do well indeed.”
*
“There it is.”
It was, perhaps, chance that had brought Oswiu out upon the ramparts of Bamburgh at this hour. But standing on the rampart, he’d seen a boat, and a large one, square rigged, with many oars, beating up the coast. Could it be a raiding boat, carrying men hoping to find a lightly defended hall, there to reap a harvest of people to sell as slaves?
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 20