Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  With those words, the king urged his horse into a canter alongside the slow-moving column, towards the banner that streamed at its head. When Oswiu had reached the head of the column, Æbbe turned and looked into the cool shadow space they had made over the wagon to take the body of Acha.

  “Did you hear?” she said into the shadow.

  “Yes,” said Rhieienmelth, pulling the cloth back so that she might see the abbess. “I heard.”

  *

  The clouds massed through the dawn and on into the morning, gathering in the west into great mountains. While the monks and priests chanted, and beat upon skin drums to chase away the devils who sought to drag the queen to their domain, the clouds began to flash from within, as lightning fought its sky wars. Then Oswiu and the queen came in solemn procession from the great hall, and all their thegns and ladies with them, and they went in a great circle around the inner ward of the ancient stronghold of the Idings until, at the door of the church, Bishop Aidan met them and they went within to bury the old queen, daughter of Ælle, wife of Æthelfrith, sister of Edwin, mother of Oswald and mother of Oswiu.

  When Oswiu and Eanflæd entered the church it already seemed all but full. They were followed by their son Ecgfrith, their firstborn, old enough to walk, although unsteadily, between his halfbrother and half-sister, Ahlfrith and Ahlflæd. Many had sought the position of honour after the royal children, but such was the squabbling as to who should hold first place that the king, in frustrated desperation, had placed another first. Over Æthelwin’s protests – for he repeated loud and often, for all to hear, that he had no wish for such honour – he chose the warmaster to follow after his children. Not a few among the assembled thegns, knowing full well that Æthelwin’s blood was mixed with that of slave girls and vanquished kingdoms, threw daggers of contempt into the warmaster’s back as he walked in front of them. But others among the people watching saw the strength of his bearing and whispered to those around them that the warmaster appeared more kingly than those, supposedly more noble than he, who followed behind. The dagger looks grew all the more pointed when many who had thought to enter the church with the king were denied entry.

  “It’s full,” the monks, big burly men who were stationed at the doors to the church, told the thegns who pooled outside, trying to force their way in. But in the king’s royal stronghold, none might bear arms save with the king’s leave, and though some voices were raised in anger, they were soon stifled, and the offenders dragged away, while the sound of chant flowed from the church and settled upon the crowd. Nor were the waiting thegns made any happier when they saw a scraggly, decrepit man, wrapped in an increasingly patchy raven-feather cloak, and the king’s scop, lips moving in silent rehearsal of a funeral lament, pulled through the press to enter the church.

  But within, Acca and Coifi began to wonder if they might have been better off remaining outside, such was the sweaty heat rising from the mass of people who filled the church. The scop, wiping the sudden and immediate beading of sweat from his brow, took the chance of a break in the chant to whisper to his friend, “Do you want to go back outside?”

  Coifi shook his head. Acca saw that despite being wrapped in his raven-feather cloak, the old priest was not sweating – a slight flush was all that indicated he felt any hotter than normal. The scop also saw Coifi’s eyes begin to roll, turning over in their sockets so that they showed white, before locking back into place.

  Acca had seen this before. It meant that Coifi was about to fall limp and unconscious, possibly after first thrashing around in a frenzy, only to wake later, clear eyed and babbling of what he had seen – and in Acca’s memory this usually involved buildings burning and people dying.

  So, quietly, smoothly and without anyone seeing, Acca unpinned the brooch that held the fold of his cloak as he liked it and pushed the pin into Coifi’s scrawny shoulder.

  It was just as well he did – it took near two phrases of the monks’ chant before Coifi made any reaction at all, slowly turning to look with mild interest at what was sticking into his shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare,” Acca hissed, as the priest’s eyes began to glaze and roll upwards again. This time, he stuck the pin lower – somewhere no one watching would see, but where Coifi would certainly feel.

  He did. Eyes that had been rolling back into his skull snapped forwards and glared at him.

  “Why did you do that?” Coifi asked, surprise making his voice sharp. One or two of the people around them – high-ranking thegns who had managed to push aside others – looked askance at them, but most did not hear the old priest over the chant of the monks of Holy Island.

  “To stop you falling over,” Acca whispered. “And don’t tell me you weren’t going to. Besides, I want you to see someone.”

  Acca eased Coifi round a little, so that they stood with their backs against the wall.

  “Look,” he said, pointing with his eyes to where the sisters from Æbbe’s holy house stood in a block, surrounded by the perspiring ranks of thegns wrapped in their finest clothes.

  Coifi followed the scop’s gaze. “What is she doing here?” he asked.

  “What’s more, she’s here but Œthelwald is not,” said Acca.

  “Oh, I know that,” whispered Coifi. He looked, with apparent innocence, at the scop. “You do not?”

  “I… of course I do. You’d better tell me what you’ve heard – it’s most likely wrong.”

  “I hear tell Œthelwald has sworn battle oath to his cousin Talorcan, king of the Picts, and gone to live among the men of the Old North.”

  “Talorcan? But he is the son of Eanfrith, half-brother to the king.”

  “Yes,” Coifi nodded. “He is.”

  “Did the king allow it?”

  “I do not hear that the king knew of it; not until Œthelwald had gone. But he has since sent word, pledging his loyalty to the king, but saying he seeks the knowledge of war his father gained from the men of the Old North. Of course, you know all this.”

  “Naturally,” said Acca. “But I’m surprised you’ve heard it too.”

  “Oh, it’s surprising what I hear. Men seem to think that when my eyes roll over my ears stop working.”

  “Yes, well.” Acca nodded towards where they could see Rhieienmelth, standing among the sisters of the holy house. “What have your ears heard of her?”

  “That she was the one who sent messengers to Talorcan saying that Œthelwald, son of Oswald, sought a battle lord to earn glory and honour and men ready to follow him.”

  “But she has a son of her own: Ahlfrith. Why would Rhieienmelth support Œthelwald over her own son?”

  As Acca spoke, the chanting monks fell into silence. Coifi, hearing the silence, put a finger to his lips. Acca, almost beside himself with curiosity, had to wait while Aidan slowly rose from where he was kneeling, to begin anointing the body with oil and water.

  As he did so, the monks of Lindisfarne began to chant once more, and Acca, leaning close to the old priest, hissed, “What have you heard?”

  Coifi tapped a finger to his nose.

  Acca looked as if he might burst.

  And, seeing that, Coifi smiled, but relented.

  “I hear men say that Rhieienmelth’s children take the part of their father, holding the whispers men make about her conduct in the holy house against her. I hear that Ahlfrith himself went to her, and said that if she continued then he would have no more to do with her. Of course, Rhieienmelth said that the hunting and the merrymaking would end, but… well, you must have heard. Is there a wandering scop in the land who has not found welcome in her hall?”

  Acca stared at the old priest, his eyes wide, and such was his surprise at this news that he barely heard the words Bishop Aidan spoke – words of blessing and guidance – as he gave the old queen into the keeping of her lord, the lord of all, with the constant plea that he would forgive where she had failed, but reward her faithfulness.

  Then, as the words ended, and the body was slowly lowered in
to the ground, the heavens opened. The thunder was so great, the lightning so bright, that most of those in the church, and all those without, cried out in terror and distress. The dogs, skulking around the edges of the great press of people, sent up a volley of barking and howling, which, as the second crash came, fell away to whimpers and silence.

  After that, the rain. Such was the violence of the storm that those people without the church were forced to run to shelter. Those nearest the king’s great hall streamed inside, shaking off the rain within, alongside the dogs. Others hid in the storehouses and workshops and sheds that were dotted around within the inner ward, while an unfortunate few had to find shelter alongside the pigs in their sties.

  They buried Acha while the rain came down, giving her into the earth’s embrace. Oswiu stood for a long minute on the edge of the grave, looking down at the shrouded figure within. He held in his hand the first clod of earth to seal her return to the earth, but he did not release it.

  In the end, Aidan came to him and spoke quietly to the king, so quietly that none but Oswiu could hear his words. Then, slowly, gently, Aidan took the king’s hand and held it over the grave, parting the fingers. Grain by grain, the earth trickled down onto the king’s mother. Then, still holding Oswiu by his hand, Aidan led him from the church and into the cleansing, cooling rain, and thence to his great hall, for the great feast of farewell. And, one by one, the other members of Oswiu’s family followed. All, it seemed, except one.

  “Ecgfrith!”

  Eanflæd looked around for her little boy. She couldn’t see him in the great hall, but even though the rain had stopped, it was thick with people. Ecgfrith was four now, and fast with it, forever running off after the king’s warriors or hiding in the stables. To keep him from mischief, the queen had set a young girl to follow him and to rescue him when his boldness grew greater than his sense. She had once stopped him trying to clamber over the ramparts so that he could climb down to a boat he had seen moored below. Eanflæd looked around for her.

  “Ah, Inga. Where is Ecgfrith?”

  The girl looked at the queen blankly. “I thought you were looking after him – the church was too full for me to get inside, and I saw Ecgfrith was with you when you came out.”

  “But I told him to come and find you when we got back in the hall.”

  “I… he didn’t come to me. I’ve not seen him.”

  The queen looked around, a sudden clutch of fear gripping her.

  “Ecgfrith,” she called out. “Ecgfrith!”

  “I’m sure he’ll be all right,” said Inga. “He’s probably gone with his brother or one of the men.”

  Eanflæd grabbed the girl’s hand. “Look for him. Call my women and set them to looking for him too. He is too bold…”

  Inga, fear tugging at her face too now, set off, weaving through the throng of men in the hall, casting looks in all directions.

  Eanflæd told herself not to worry. She scolded her heart as it began to beat faster, but nevertheless, she too began to press her way through the crowd, heading to the door.

  “Have you seen my son?” she asked the door warden, taking his arm.

  “Why, I have, right enough,” said the warden. “He went out not a few minutes past with one of the sisters from the holy house.”

  The queen breathed out her relief. If Ecgfrith was with one of the sisters, he must be all right. But she would still know where he was.

  “Whither were they going?”

  “I don’t rightly know, your majesty,” said the warden. “I didn’t think to ask. But last I saw, they were headed that away.” And he pointed across the wide courtyard, towards the upper gate.

  The queen set off across the courtyard, looking left and right as she went for some sign of the boy. All the people of the nearest hamlets and villages, and many from those of two or three days’ journey away, had come to the stronghold of the Idings to bid farewell to the old queen and, afterwards, to partake in the feast of farewell. Long tables had been set up around the courtyard and, the storm having passed, the pantry servants were already beginning to ferry out food from the kitchens – additional, temporary ovens had been built to bake enough bread – while the children played chase and hop step. Many among the assembled villagers hailed Eanflæd as she passed, for she was well known among the common people, and even better loved.

  Some among the folk had seen Ecgfrith pass, not long before, and they pointed the queen on, towards the upper gate.

  Why would anyone, even a sister of the holy house, be taking Ecgfrith out of the castle when the feast of farewell was about to begin?

  Eanflæd gathered her skirts up and rushed onwards, towards the gate.

  “Stop!”

  She sent her voice across the courtyard, over the throng of people assembling at the long tables, past the scurrying servants, to the door warden, pulling back the great gate.

  And he heard her.

  Squeezing past the last knot of people, squabbling over who would sit where, Eanflæd saw the upper gate, half open, the door warden standing beside it and, beside him, Ecgfrith, hand in hand with one of the sisters of the holy house.

  “Ecgfrith!” The queen ran to him and picked him up. “Where were you going? It’s time for the feast.”

  “Let go, Mummy.” Ecgfrith struggled in her arms. “I want to see the ships.”

  “What ships?”

  “The ships on the beach. She said she’d take me.” The boy pointed at the sister, who was now standing beside the door warden looking, with level, even gaze, at the queen.

  Eanflæd nodded to the sister. “It was kind of you to take him, but he must come – the feast will begin soon.”

  “Let me go, Mummy.” Ecgfrith began to kick out. “I want to see the ships.”

  The boy, although only four, was strong, and his sharp kicks dug into Eanflæd’s ribs. She put him down and turned to the sister.

  “Would you tell Ecgfrith it’s time to come back. He can come with you later, after the feast has started, if you would take him then.”

  The sister, her eyes cool and level, did not take her gaze from Eanflæd, but spoke to the boy. “It is time to go back, little one.”

  “But you promised!” Ecgfrith’s face began to crumple into tears at this further evidence of adult unfaithfulness.

  “Thank you,” said Eanflæd, and she took hold of the boy’s hand. Without adult support, he began, disconsolately, to follow her. But before returning to the great hall, the queen turned back to the sister of the holy house. “I will look out for you later. What is your name, sister?”

  “My name is Rhieienmelth.”

  Eanflæd stopped. The answer had come when she had already turned back towards the great hall. She gestured towards the nearest party of people, calling towards her a woman, a villager she knew from a case that had come before the king and which she had heard in his absence.

  “Will you take Ecgfrith back to the hall for me, please, and give him into the keeping of my women there. Careful, he’s fast – he’ll try to get away.”

  Eanflæd watched the woman head towards the hall keeping careful hold of Ecgfrith’s hand. Then she turned round.

  Rhieienmelth was still standing by the door, but it was closed now and the warden had returned to his post.

  The two women looked at each other.

  “If you ever come near my son again I will have you thrown from the highest rock I can find into a pack of starving dogs.” Eanflæd spoke the words calmly and softly. Only someone standing close might have heard what she said, and there was no one to hand.

  “Eanflæd the Wise. That’s what they call you. Not wise enough to know I simply wanted to meet my – well, shall we call him my nephew?”

  “My husband, the king, told me you sent men to kill him. I didn’t know whether to believe him before.”

  The icy calm with which the old queen had faced the new one up until now suddenly gave way a little, for Rhieienmelth’s voice cracked in her questioning reply
.

  “What men? I did not send any men to kill him.”

  Eanflæd turned her head away in disgust. “A liar too. It was as well my husband put you aside.” And she turned to make her way back to the hall.

  But Rhieienmelth grasped her arm. Eanflæd looked down at the fingers, then slowly turned back and regarded the previous queen. Eanflæd saw that Rhieienmelth’s previous calm had gone: great emotions worked beneath the surface, sending waves of feeling across the woman’s face.

  “I did not send any men to hurt or kill my husband.” Despite the emotions Eanflæd could see warring within, Rhieienmelth mastered herself to speak clearly. “Why should he think I sent them?”

  “The men who attacked him and his party when they were in Mercia – they were Northumbrians, paid to find and kill the king.”

  “I did not do such a thing. I would not have done.” Rhieienmelth looked back at the new queen, and Eanflæd saw how she regained control over her emotions.

  Eanflæd turned to go.

  “One more thing.”

  Eanflæd looked round.

  Rhieienmelth gave a strange smile, one caught halfway between fear and spite. “If I did not send those men to kill the king, who did? Think on that, Eanflæd the Wise.”

  Eanflæd gave a single, sharp nod, then headed back to the great hall, entering it to find the final preparations for the feast being made. Seeing the king standing and talking with Aidan, she made her way over to him.

  Oswiu, seeing her approach, looked significantly towards the great cup, carved from the curved horn of a great bull and bound around with gold, that it would be Eanflæd’s duty to pass to the most notable of the king’s thegns and warriors. But Eanflæd shook her head, the slightest motion, and, with her eyes, told the king she wished to speak with him. Aidan, seeing the sign, understood and stepped aside.

  “What is it?” Oswiu asked. “The feast is all but ready.”

  “Rhieienmelth is here.”