But then the wind turned, catching the banner that flew in the stern of the boat, and he saw the white horse, standard of the kings of Kent, and Oswiu knew from where the boat sailed, and who it brought.
“There it is.” He’d said the words out loud, although there was none but him to hear them. But then it is not every day that a man sees his new wife for the first time – and he remembered well the reports of Eanflæd’s beauty that Acca had brought back from his negotiations.
It had been a long time since he had put Rhieienmelth aside. For a while, there had been a slave girl, a dark-haired, dark-eyed little thing who scarce spoke a word. She had served well enough, but… His heart pricked him. He had tried to put the thoughts aside – he was a king, due his desires – but in the end, when Aidan had stopped for a day with him, he had called the priest aside and spoken to him alone as they walked in the rose light of the setting sun.
The answer, when it came, was not what he had thought.
“Put her aside.” Aidan had turned to him, standing with his back to the lowering sun, and it had shone about him and through him, so that he seemed a man of flame, burning. “Put her aside, lest you burn.”
“B-but if I have not her, or another, I burn.” Oswiu had shaken his head. “You don’t understand. You are a monk.”
“I am a man as well. I understand.” Aidan had stepped closer to his old friend and grasped his arms. Although the monk was shorter, yet he seemed tall then, for he spoke with an authority that was not his, yet spoke through him. “Put her aside.”
But still Oswiu had shaken his head. This was not what he had wanted to hear. He had expected Aidan to quiet his misgivings, but instead he had given them voice.
“I am king,” he had said. “She is a slave. She is mine to do with as I will.”
And Aidan had let go of his arms. He had stepped back and the sun had cloaked him in fire.
“What is her name?”
And Oswiu had stumbled over the name, for though he knew it, his tongue could not say it.
“Name her.”
“Eleri,” Oswiu had whispered.
“That is God-given. She is God-given. Put her aside, old friend. If it will help, I will find a home for her in a holy house, that you may not be tempted.”
“But I am king. Surely I may take what I wish?”
And Aidan had shaken his head. “That was the way with the kings of old: the law was their desire. But you are a king of the new way, Oswiu, and there is a higher law now than your desire. That law tells you to put aside this girl, and wait until you are wed.”
“Wait? But for how long?”
“As long as it takes.”
It had taken a half-year. It had felt longer. Oswiu had put the slave girl, Eleri, aside – she lived now in the holy house at Melrose – and there had only been one or two since. Well, three, but each for one or two nights only. Otherwise, he doused desire with battle training, working himself into a pig sweat as he trained with sword and shield and spear, or even, when the fire grew too intense, with water, wading into river or lake until the cold went over his waist and shrivelled all desire.
But now the wait was all but over.
“There it is.”
Oswiu looked round. Æthelwin was pointing to the ship.
“Yes,” said Oswiu. “There she is. Go and tell the steward to make ready my wedding feast.”
“Lord.” But the warmaster hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Lord, should I send messengers to your mother, that she may come here? For it was, I hear, through her that you heard tidings that King Edwin’s daughter would wed.”
“And she told me who gave her the news too, Æthelwin, never fear. I know that I may rely upon your counsel in matters other than war – and I do.”
The warmaster made the courtesy. “Thank you, lord.”
“As to sending word to my mother: do so. But I will not wait on her to wed.”
Oswiu watched him as he made his way back down to the courtyard, sending servants and slaves scurrying off with orders and instructions as he went. Æthelwin was a most capable man. Most warmasters contented themselves with mustering and training the men of the shieldwall, drilling them to hold together, come what may. But Æthelwin looked further and deeper than the ordinary warmaster. He would befit further command. Maybe he should make him warden of one of the marches? Oswiu pursed his lips. It would wait. He turned back to see the boat much closer now. Looking, he could see the individual figures upon it. One of them was Eanflæd. He wondered which it was.
*
“Do you think he’s watching?”
Eanflæd pointed up at the stronghold, squatting atop the great rock that thrust from the land’s edge. She looked to her mother. “I can see people on the ramparts. Do you think he’s one of them?”
Æthelburh peered up herself, then shook her head. “The eyes of youth. Mayhap he is.”
“Should – should I wave?”
“No, certainly not. Give no sign.”
“But he has waited long.”
“Then he can wait a bit longer.” Æthelburh sighed. “Be not so eager. Daughter, in this middle-earth we have few weapons, and men have many. Be sure to use yours well, that you may bind your husband to you the more tightly.”
“But how may I do that?”
“Bind him with your body, your children and your wit. The body is first, and brings the children, but it fades first too. Wit grows as the body fails – and you bring alliance that will not fail.”
Eanflæd looked at her mother, at the profile staring up at the rock, the grey sea moving beyond her. “Is that what you did?” she asked. For she remembered her mother’s face, in York, in the church of St Peter.
“No.” Æthelburh smiled ruefully at her daughter. “No, it was not what I did at all. Instead, I bound myself to him, in my heart. But God, in his goodness, did not punish me for my stupidity, but opened Edwin’s heart to me, and to his own mercy.”
“Is that not the best way to bind a husband then – by binding yourself to him as well?”
“It – it may be. But while none wholly understand the workings of men’s minds and hearts, their loins are easier to know. This Oswiu, by what we hear, is still a young man, with a young man’s desires. That will make him an easier subject to your heart.”
“Young?” said Eanflæd, laughing. “He is thirty! That is old.”
“Old?” The queen smiled. “Then I thank you for the blessing, Eanflæd, for I am years more than he, so I must be old indeed.”
“Old and wise, Mother; old and wise. Would that the same may be said of me by my daughter some day.”
The queen squeezed Eanflæd’s hand. “I pray it shall be so.”
Eanflæd pointed ahead. “We are near to land now. But I see nowhere to moor the boat.”
“There is a beach on the far side of the rock that remains above the waves in all but the fiercest storms; we shall land there, and drive the boat up onto the sand. Then we climb.” The queen shook her head in rueful memory. “It is a long climb and, in memory, every time I climbed it, the wind was blowing rain in from the north-east and I was wet and cold. But this is a lovely day.” And she waved her hand to take in the grey sea, flecked blue in places where the sun broke through the clouds.
“Dhis id a lubbly day?” mumbled Romanus. He peered out from under his hood as the boat crested a wave, breaking the foam ridge and flinging it back down the length of the ship into the priest’s face.
“Dho!” he cried. “Dhot again.”
“Cheer up,” said Utta, slapping Romanus on the back. “We’re nearly there. The queen is right – this is a lovely day: barely any wind, no rain, just beautiful.”
“Oh, dho,” moaned Romanus, disappearing under his hood once more.
The queen, seeing Romanus take shelter again from wind and wet, smiled. He would get used to it. She had. But his hiding reminded her of something. Æthelburh reached for the pouch at her belt and brought out a
cloth, thin worked in gold so that, as she held it up, the sun shone through it.
“I brought this for you,” she said to Eanflæd. “When we land, fix it to your scarf, so that your face is covered. That way, the king shall be the first here to see your face.”
“But I won’t be able to see where I am going.”
“You will. Here, look.” Æthelburh held the cloth up to Eanflæd’s face and she looked through it.
“I can see!” said Eanflæd.
“Yes, but no one can see you. Not until you wish them to.”
So after the boat had landed beneath the great rock of Bamburgh, and the master and the men had pulled it up onto the strand and were busy unloading, Eanflæd pinned the veil to her scarf and looked out onto a golden world, while the queen fussed over her clothes, straightening here, pinning there, until…
“Yes.” Æthelburh stood back. “You are ready.” She stopped and looked more closely at her daughter. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” Eanflæd took a breath. “Yes, Mother. I am ready. Let us go to meet my husband.”
*
“How do I look?”
Oswiu emerged from his chamber, servants fussing round him, adjusting belt and buckle and clasp, while one attempted to run a comb through his hair. The king held up his hands.
“Stop,” he said. “Hands off.”
The servants froze, hands poised. Oswiu glanced from side to side, checking for stillness, then, reassured, he looked to the person whose judgement in these matters he most trusted.
“Well?” he asked. “How do I look?”
“Hmm,” said Ahlflæd, looking her father up and down, a finger pressed to her lip.
“No?” Oswiu looked down. “What’s wrong?”
“I am not sure about the cloak,” said Ahlflæd. “Or the belt. And that buckle – don’t you have something better?”
Oswiu peered, cross-eyed, at the great golden buckle upon his shoulder, which held his cloak in place. Made of gold, inlaid with garnets swirling in dance, the buckle was heavier than a sword and worth more than some kingdoms.
“Better than this?” Oswiu asked. He looked aghast at his daughter. “Where could I get something better than this?”
Ahlflæd broke into laughter. “I was joking, Daddy,” she said between giggles. “You look magnificent. Like a king.”
“Just as well, since I am one.”
Ahlflæd pointed at the poised servants. “Let them finish.”
“All right, all right,” said Oswiu. But he fixed them with a glare. “No prodding, mind.”
While the servants adjusted belt and seax, buckle and brooch and arm ring, and even managed to run the comb, carved from whale ivory, through the king’s hair, other servants hurried around the great hall, carrying tables and benches into place, kicking dogs out of the way and yelling at the excited children who crowded in, getting in everyone’s way. The hall was alive with a cheerful, excited hubbub, and Oswiu noted it well. Many of the people had loved Rhieienmelth and spoken darkly when he had put her aside – for all knew the truth of it, though the king had had it proclaimed that she entered the holy house by God’s calling – yet the news that the king was to marry Princess Eanflæd of Kent, daughter of King Edwin, had brought great excitement and some understanding of the decision the king had made. For it was through such an alliance that King Edwin had become High King, and many now whispered that the alliance, renewed, would bring such days to Bernicia once more.
“Acca!” Oswiu called to the scop, who was busy sweetening his voice in readiness for the demands of the feast with smooth, sun-filled wine, brought from warmer lands by one of the merchants who crossed the narrow sea and sailed up the coast, selling wine and garnets and gold, and buying furs and dogs. Always dogs, so that the boats could be heard, sailing back south again, by the barking of their cargo. Once Oswiu had asked a merchant about the dogs and been told that he sold every dog he could carry to the Franks and the Frisians and the peoples of the Low Lands, for they considered the dogs bred in Britain to be the best hunting dogs alive.
“Acca!” Oswiu called again, and the scop put aside his cup of wine.
“Lord?”
“Have you a new song for us? Or a riddle? I enjoyed the one you told…” Oswiu shook his head. No, that would not be a good idea. Acca had told a riddle at the feast for his wedding with Rhieienmelth – a riddle whose solution was a key, but whose clues were enough to make a bride blush (although, he remembered, Rhieienmelth had not blushed, but laughed as loud as any man in the hall). “No, not a riddle. A new song. Have you one? Remember, the princess is the daughter of Queen Æthelburh and, like as not, the queen brings her daughter to us: the queen is now mother of a holy house. Make the song something suitable.”
“Yes, yes, of course, lord.” Acca waited, smile fixed, until Oswiu turned away to answer a question from the steward. Then his smile broke, and he turned and gnawed his knuckles. “No, no, no,” the scop muttered. “I had it ready, all worked out, and now he says no, he wants a new song, and one suitable for the mother of a holy house, and a princess.” Acca groped for his cup and drained it. “Wine,” he said, holding it out. What was he going to do? He looked around. “Wine, I said.” A servant, rushing past, sloshed wine into the cup, then continued on his errand. “Well,” said Acca, “I shall just have to compose a new song – a song fit for a king’s marriage feast and the mother of a holy house – in an hour. It shall be my greatest feat.” The scop pursed his lips. “Where’s Coifi?”
Coifi was sitting in a corner, out of the bustle of preparation, his raven-feather cloak, now so old and worn that much of it looked like a bird in moult, pulled tight around his thin shoulders. Coming closer, Acca saw Coifi’s eyes, darting round the hall, flicking from point to point, restless as a mouse. He knew that look of old. Although Coifi had abjured the gods he had once served as priest, yet still he sought, in the rise of smoke and the play of light, in leaf fall and water play, to see the workings of wyrd, the fates of men and thrones told in signs and, sometimes, vision.
The old priest’s eyes snapped up to Acca, fixing upon him as he approached. Coifi rocked upon his heels.
“Ha!” he said. “Ha! You want my help.”
“What gives you that idea?” Acca turned his back to the wall and leaned upon it, looking into the press of people preparing the hall. “I just thought I’d get out of the way. Like you.”
Coifi rocked back, looking up at the scop. “You need a song,” he said.
“Yes,” said Acca.
“A new song,” said Coifi.
“Yes,” said Acca.
“And not a dirty riddle.”
“No.” Acca stared down into his cup. “That I could come up with before they finish climbing to the gate. It’s got to be something fit for the mother of a holy house.”
Coifi put his hands over his head. His rocking grew faster. He said nothing.
Acca shook his head. “Thank you,” he said, and began to walk away.
“I dreamed.”
Acca stopped. He looked round and saw Coifi’s eyes, staring white through fingers spread over his face.
“You what?”
“I dreamed.” Coifi spread his fingers wider. His eyes were very white, but this was not the white of one of his trances, when his eyes would roll to the back of his head and only the white would show. “I was watching the wind move. It was playing with a leaf, an oak leaf, and I followed it, into the holy house here, the house where they keep the king’s arm.”
“Oswald’s arm?”
“Yes. The leaf went in there, and I followed. It blew to the altar and settled there, beneath the king’s arm. I watched it settle. I watched until I slept. And then I dreamed.” Coifi shivered, suddenly, violently, as a man does when the final struggle is upon him. “I will tell you the dream and you will make it a song for the mother of the holy house, and the princess, and the king. You will make it a song –” and here the old priest looked up at Acca with a great earnest
ness in his eyes – “that will be sung when this throne is dust and this stronghold has been thrown down.”
“Yes, yes, yes,” said Acca. He glanced towards the great doors of the hall. The commotion there suggested that they would soon be thrown open to welcome the king’s new queen. “You tell me the dream; I’ll decide whether it makes a song.”
As the scop squatted down by the old priest, listening to a dream, the warmaster and the king’s steward went to the doors of the great hall.
Ahlflæd turned to her father, who was sitting, waiting, in the great judgement seat of the Idings. “I wish Ahlfrith was here.”
“Pardon?” Oswiu looked at his daughter.
Ahlflæd giggled. “I said, I wished my brother was here, but you are thinking on other matters, Daddy.”
Oswiu smiled. “I too wish he was here. But Ahlfrith is doing well. The last report I had from him, and this not a week past, said that he was now friends with Penda’s son, and that there was little love between Penda and Peada. That is good for me, for us, to know.”
“I understand, Daddy, but I just wish he was here.” Ahlflæd paused, looking carefully at her father. “I wish Mother was here as well.”
The king’s face stiffened. “You understand why I had to put your mother aside – at least some of it? If we are to stand against Penda, we need allies, strong allies, and Rheged has become weak; the wolves prowl its borders. With Kent, we start to put a net around Penda, surrounding him with kings allied to us. After Kent, the West Saxons and the East Angles; I believe they will come over to our side, for they all fear Penda. Then, when the net is complete, we pull it tight, leaving Penda struggling inside like a boar in a thicket. Do you understand?”
“Of course I understand, Daddy. And I know, when the time comes, it will fall to me to marry an ætheling from one of the kingdoms, to draw it tighter to us. But… but I still sometimes wish Mother was here.”
Oswiu turned his face from his daughter and looked to the door of the great hall. “So do I,” he said, but the words were so soft Ahlflæd did not hear them.
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 21