Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “Ah.” The hand came off Eanflæd’s shoulder. “You’ve seen her. I did not think you knew her.”

  “I did not. But I sought Ecgfrith and could not find him until I went from the hall and saw a sister I knew not taking him by the hand.”

  “Rhieienmelth?”

  “Yes.”

  “But…” The king slowly straightened and his face hardened. “Was she going to hurt Ecgfrith?”

  “I…” Eanflæd looked back, searching her memory of the woman she had spoken to for some subtle sign of lying or dissembling. “No,” she said, deciding. “No, I do not think so. Or she is a better liar than I think.”

  “Oh, she can lie. When we tricked the Gododdin into letting us into their fortress on Edinburgh rock, it was Rhieienmelth who did most of the talking.”

  “But she had you with her then; for her, I think, it would have been as much game as untruth.”

  Oswiu nodded. “I think you are right. She was alive then as children are when they play.”

  “If I am right, then we must think on this: she says she did not send those men who attacked you in Mercia. If not her, then who? Who else knew where you were going?”

  “No one else. Only my mother and sister – and Aidan.” Oswiu glanced at the bishop, talking to one of his monks, and shook his head. “No. It is impossible.”

  “Could he have told another, one of his monks perhaps, so that rumour of where you were going spread?”

  “Trying to get anything out of Aidan these days is like trying to prise open a clam without boiling it first – more likely to notch your knife than open the shell. But I will speak to him.”

  Behind them a man coughed for attention and Oswiu turned to see the steward. “All is ready, lord,” he said.

  “Very well.”

  While the steward went to martial the servers, Oswiu turned back to the queen. “Take the cup around. As you do so, I will speak with Aidan.”

  The bishop, hearing the announcement of the feasting cup, had stopped his conversation with his monks – and with Romanus, the queen’s priest, Oswiu noticed. The little Frank was not looking happy. Despite being surrounded by priests and monks who let their hair grow long down the back of their necks, Romanus had retained his distinctive tonsure. And there were rumours that there might come a season when Romanus and the queen celebrated Easter and the Lord’s rising on a different day from the king and his priests. But until the matter arose, Oswiu was content to put it aside. He had once asked Aidan to explain to him how Easter might arrive one year when there was still snow on the ground and yet on another it would wait until the willows were in leaf and the oaks beginning to break bud. The explanation had taken from the sun’s zenith to its setting and at its end he understood no more than he had at the start, although he could add to his ignorance a pain across his head that had begun behind his eyes and spread across his forehead to both ears. No. He was well content to leave such matters to the priests, so long as he and the queen both ended the fast and began the feast together.

  “Aidan.”

  The bishop made the courtesy to the king. “Lord.”

  Oswiu looked at his old friend and saw how the lines of his smile were now ever present around his eyes and how his hair was streaked with white.

  “While we wait for the queen to take the cup to my thegns, I would speak with you. It is long since we spoke, the two of us.”

  “I am always happy to speak with my king.”

  “Then why does it take the death of my mother to bring you to me? I can see the Holy Island from here, yet I have not seen you this last year, old friend.”

  “I know. But you are not always in Bamburgh, and when you have been I have not.” Aidan shook his head. “I fear the lot of a bishop is to travel near as much as a king.”

  “If you did not go to Deira you could spend more time with your people here, in Bernicia.”

  Aidan pursed his lips. “I… you know it were best we not speak of this. Until they have a bishop of their own, I must needs see to their care, lest I go before God and he should ask me how so many of the sheep he gave to my charge I lost to the wolves of the enemy.”

  “If you were not my oldest friend…”

  “But I am.” Aidan smiled, and in that instant Oswiu saw again the shy, uncertain monk of Iona. “And you are mine. Now, what would you speak on? Other than the memories of days gone by, when we could each do as we would wish.”

  “Two matters. First, a question. Did you say aught, to anyone, of my journey into Mercia to bring back my brother?”

  “No,” said Aidan. “Of course not.”

  “You are sure? No word, not even to one of your monks?”

  “I am sure. I am no man for war, but even I know that to speak of that was to put your life in even greater danger than it was already. I spoke of it to no one. Why do you ask?”

  “Because someone did speak, and I do not know who.”

  “Could… could it have been your mother? I know she would do you no harm, but she was so certain that you were under Oswald’s protection that mayhap she might have said something?”

  Oswiu shrugged. “If it were her, we cannot ask.”

  “Not until we stand beside her again.” Aidan smiled, but the smile turned into a cough – a deep, wracking fit that bent him over, so that the king had to give his hand for Aidan to hold on to.

  “How long have you been ill?” Oswiu asked, when at last the coughing fit subsided.

  “Oh, I am not ill. It is but a cough that comes and then goes. You said you have two matters to speak on? For I also would speak with you, now, before the feast begins.” Both men glanced at the hall, seeing how the queen progressed around it, passing the cup to the king’s great thegns and, in her passing, leaving calm and quiet. But there were still many men for her to greet, so there was yet time for talk.

  “For my part,” said Oswiu, “I would tell you of how I have done the work of a priest.” He saw the look of surprise on Aidan’s face and laughed at it. “Is it so strange?”

  “It is, perhaps, not what I expected, although I know your belief is strong.”

  Oswiu’s smile broadened. “Not just my belief; my wit too. You see him, over there?” The king gestured towards the high table and the men standing grouped at the end of it. “The one richly dressed, with fair hair and moustache but no beard, whom the others wait upon? He is Sigeberht, king of the East Saxons – and through my words, he wishes baptism.” Oswiu’s smile grew even broader at the mingled surprise and joy on Aidan’s face. “Yes, my words – who would have thought it?”

  “Ah, but with God all things are possible!” Aidan laughed too. “That is good news – the best news. How comes he here and what did you say to him?”

  “Sigeberht came, as do all the kings of the small kingdoms that wait in nervous, waiting rings around Mercia, to seek alliance and pledge of help against Penda. And, for my part, I will pledge that help, for I seek to draw tight a ring of oaths around Penda: to hold the kings of the East Saxons and the East Angles, the West Saxons and the Middle Saxons, and the men of Kent in alliance against Penda, that he might not know where to strike, for fear that another will attack his kingdom when he is not there to guard it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Aidan. “That is what I hear from kings as they play their games. Instead, tell me of what truly matters – how you brought the king of the East Saxons to want the new life.”

  “Now, that is a different matter.” Oswiu put his arm around his friend’s shoulder and turned with him away from the noise of the hall. “You see, I was clever, very clever. When I agreed to our alliance, he wanted to make sacrifice in thanks to his god, for he had brought his god with him, from the land of the East Saxons. So I asked to see this god, and he showed me a log, cunningly worked, of Tiw. It was fine indeed, and must have taken the carver many months to cut, but this was where I was clever, Aidan. I asked him, ‘Is this your god Tiw?’ Sigeberht of the East Saxons looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Yes, of cou
rse,’ he said. ‘But,’ I said, ‘what will happen to Tiw when you are dead and can no longer guard and ward him?’ He was still looking at me as if I were mad. ‘My son will honour him then, and his son after him.’

  “‘But what would happen,’ I said, ‘if there were no one to guard and honour Tiw? What would happen then? After all, he is made of wood.’ Then I pointed at my hall. ‘This is wood too, and no greater hall is there. But I have seen halls greater than this reduced to charcoal and cinders. Wood burns, my friend, and it rots. Gods are not made of wood.’

  “Then the king of the East Saxons looked at me as if he feared my madness might spread and, under his cloak, I saw him make the sign against the evil eye. ‘What are gods made of, then?’ Sigeberht asked. ‘In my kingdom, in the grove sacred to my ancestor, Woden, the god is a tree and there are other shrines, to Thunor, where the god is a great stone, raised high.’

  “I shook my head then. ‘Trees can be cut down; stone ground down. But this –’ and I pointed at the carving of Tiw – ‘this is your god. And he can be burned and turned to ash.’

  “At that, I saw the king of the East Saxons look within, as a man before battle looks within to see if he has the courage to make his stand in the shieldwall. Then he told me he would think on this, and we would speak again.”

  “And?” asked Aidan, as agog as a child hearing a story. “Did you?”

  “Yes, we did. The next day, the king of the East Saxons came to me and asked this question. ‘If not of wood and stone, what then are gods made of?’ I told him that God is not made by man but made man, and all the heavens and this middle-earth too. I told him that so great a god cannot be seen by human eye. For who can see all the sea and land and sky? And God made the sea and land and sky. I told him that God is a king greater than any other, a lawgiver and just judge, who gives to each according to his deeds, in this world and the next. This is how I answered the question of the king of the East Saxons, old friend. Tell me, did I answer well?”

  “Better than I would have.” Aidan glanced round at where the king of the East Saxons stood with his companions. “And you have brought him to the new life. Thus, you will have his thanks, in this world and the next.” The bishop smiled. “You are indeed doing my work for me.”

  “Well, it were better I be allied to a king who lives and rules in hope than one whose only hope is to be taken by Woden’s daughters.” Oswiu leaned closer to his bishop. “I would tell you something, Aidan, for you will tell me if this is madness. I begin to hope that I may end my days not as my brother and uncle did, hewn upon the field of slaughter, but with my children around me. What say you? Is this some fever dream?”

  “No, no.” The bishop turned eyes, bright with hope, on the king. “It is a true dream – one sent by God I should think.”

  Oswiu nodded. “Do you think so? I thought myself mad, for what king dies in bed? But if you say…”

  “I do. And I would say more, for there is something I wished to speak of with you before the feast begins, and it answers to this secret desire.”

  Oswiu looked back over the hall, and saw the queen was nearing the end of her duties. “Tell quick, for the feast begins soon.”

  “I ask you to put aside your warring with Oswine Godfriend.” Aidan saw the immediate hardening of the face that had, before these words, been turned to him with friendship, and he fell upon his knees. “On my knees, I beg you to stop.”

  The thrum of conversation in the hall suddenly stopped. Eyes turned to where king stood aside with bishop, and the bishop was on his knees.

  Oswiu felt all those eyes upon him.

  “Get up,” he hissed at Aidan. “Get up. Everyone is watching.”

  But Aidan did not rise. And, looking down, Oswiu saw that there were tears in the bishop’s eyes.

  “Please, I beseech you, stop fighting against a brother Christian.”

  “Get up.” Oswiu risked a sidelong glance. Almost all movement had stopped as well. “Get up,” he hissed. He looked again at the hall and saw Eanflæd, saw her fierce gaze as she sought to tell him something through sight alone. Then, slowly, the queen went down on her knees and made the Lord’s sign over her body while her eyes held his and, suddenly, he understood.

  The king knelt down beside the bishop. He bowed his head briefly, and when he looked up again, he saw that all in the hall were following his lead.

  “Let us give thanks for the food and drink we are about to receive, and for the life of the best of queens, my mother, Acha, queen of Bernicia, queen of Deira.” But as Oswiu spoke of the best of queens, his gaze turned to his wife and Eanflæd understood well his thanks, for he saw the flush on her cheeks. “Bishop?”

  Faced with such a request, Aidan had no choice but to offer prayers of thanks and praise. While Oswiu waited, on his knees, for him to finish, he slowly mastered his anger so that when, the prayers over, the steward summoned them all to feast, he stood up beside Aidan with no sign of the fury he had felt earlier.

  And amid the bustle of men taking their places on bench and seat, Oswiu leaned to the bishop and whispered, “I will never call brother any man who allies with the man who killed my brother. Do not ask this of me again, old friend.”

  When Aidan made to answer, the king held a finger to his lips and, whispering even lower, said, “Besides, I hope that soon I may be able to call the king of Mercia Christian, and son.”

  Aidan looked, startled, at the king. “What do you mean? Penda?”

  “Not Penda, but his son.”

  “Surely not.”

  But Oswiu looked along the high table to where his son Ahlfrith stood, ready to take his place beside his sister Ahlflæd.

  “Watch them. I have tasked Ahlfrith with asking his sister if she be willing. It should be clear enough when he does.”

  It was.

  The cry, when it came, soared over the hubbub of talk and laughter and song as far as one of the great, yellow beaked gulls soared over the stronghold of the Idings on its rock by the sea.

  “No!”

  Oswiu looked to Aidan. “She will agree…”

  “No, no, no, no, no!”

  “…in the end.”

  Chapter 4

  The riders trotted south, their animals’ hooves sounding loud on the stones of the road. The emperors of old had built the road, laying it straight across the country as if they sliced land with a knife, and now messengers from the throne required all the villages and hamlets that lay near the road to put aside three days a year to work on the king’s road, maintaining and repairing it so that his messengers might travel quickly from one corner of his kingdom to another. As they rode south, the riders appreciated the more the value of this road, for this was a landlocked kingdom they passed through, unlike the sea-washed one they came from, and though its rivers were broad and, for the most part, navigable, yet the old roads brought all its distant parts together.

  The road south from York had been well looked after and, when they reached the Foss Way and entered the kingdom of the Mercians, they found the highway broad and firm, with the bridges so obviously in good repair that they had not needed to send a rider ahead to test them. The same was true on this final stretch, along Watling Street, as they rode east into the heart of Mercia. From the many strips of ridged and furrowed soil that ran alongside the road – and the stands and copses of trees that interspersed the fields, with their edges marked by the straight, rising stems of coppiced stools of hazel and hornbeam – the riders could tell that this was rich land; sight of the men, women and children working the fields or shepherding animals made clear that it fed many people.

  There were five riders. They rode with one hand upon the bridle, and the lead rider carried a banner that proclaimed them king’s messengers. The people working the fields stopped their work to watch as the men rode by, moving fast, then spoke among themselves for a while, wondering whence these messengers came and whither they went, before an old head said to the others that this was all the business of ki
ngs and no concern of theirs, and told them off for wasting the good daylight in idle talk. Such rebukes drew, as always, ribald replies and much pointing out that if old grey hair was so keen to put hand to plough, he was welcome to do so himself and give those who had been sweating through the day’s heat a rest. But after talk and laughter, once the riders had disappeared down the road, the farmers turned back to their work and the serious matters of the day: the prospects for rain and the state of the crops.

  The riders, for their part, paid little mind to the watching farmers; they were as much a part of the landscape as barley and grass, and only of interest when the time came to collect food renders. Then they would endure the usual round of excuses about there having been too much rain that season, or too little; the frost had come late and blighted the crop or it had not come at all and the crop never hardened. Marauding goats, truffling pigs, floods, droughts, giants and dwarves – they’d heard all the excuses. In the middle of the small group of riders, Hunwald, thegn and warmaster to Oswine Godfriend, reflected that these farmers of Mercia were no different from those in Deira. They were, no doubt, just as reluctant to give up the crop of their labours as the men, women and children who farmed the land around his own hall.

  That Hunwald gave thought to the farmers working the land showed how uneventful his mission had been so far. But then the lead rider, the one carrying the streaming banner of Deira with its charging boar, pulled up, his horse tossing its head and snorting at the abruptness of the halt after so smooth a ride.

  “Riders,” he said, circling the horse and pointing ahead.

  Hunwald shaded his eyes – the sun was high and bright – and squinted, to better see into the distance.

  There. Emerging from the haze that shimmered over the further reaches of the road. Hunwald tried to count off the spear tips, but with the riders approaching in straight column, it was impossible to make an accurate count. All he could be sure of was that there were many more spears approaching than he had with him. But then, he was in Mercia as a messenger, not a raider, and as such should be given safe passage to the king. The only fear was that the men approaching might be a thief band, bent on quick plunder and swift retreat into the marsh meres to the east. However, lordless men rarely dared enter a land ruled by a strong king – and there was no doubting that Penda was a strong king. Besides, the riders approached in good order with none of the ill discipline that characterized bandits.