Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “What means this, priest? Tell me now, if you would be my priest longer.”

  “It means…” Wihtrun, who had before been hunched over, his hands twisting together, began to stand upright, stretching high, and his hands spread wide while a great understanding came over his face. “It means, lord, that the Lord of the Slain has taken the offering you made him, the offering of a slain king, and accepted it. For all know that Oswald followed the new god, leaving the ways of our fathers, and did only what the priests of the new god told him. Would Oswald come to you, in dream, in the guise of the Lord of the Slain? No. I tell you truly, the Wanderer wears many faces, those of enemies and friends, the better that enemies be deceived and defeated. Yes, I tell you truly, lord. Woden has shown you favour once more; he has come to you in dream and promised you victory in battle – for among all the dead, you lived. Is that not sign of victory?”

  “A poor victory, if I alone live.”

  “The Father of Victory pays no mind to the fallen, save to send his daughters to gather them to his great hall. He turns his eye to the living, and each day sends his ravens to gather the tale of this middle-earth from men’s minds and from their dreams. The One-Eyed has marked you as his own. Now, in taking the face of the champion of the new god, the All-Father appoints to you a new task: to win the people of this land back to the ways of their fathers and to heap up the corpses of the followers of this new god as a great offering to the Lord of Battles.”

  Penda nodded slowly. “So, you say that is what the god asks of me. Tell the Lord of Battles this, priest: I will fight his wars on this middle-earth, but he must look to his own warriors to fight the war in heaven. Men follow kings who win. Gods do the same. Let him give me victory in middle-earth and the Slaughter God will have victory in heaven. Tell him that, priest. Tell him that.”

  “He knows,” said Wihtrun. “He knows.”

  “Very well.” Penda stood up. A winter light filled his eye, although the season was summer, and a winter smile spread over his face. “War it is. But while I make ready, I would have you do something first, Wihtrun. Take message to the king of the Bernicians, telling him that unless he ceases forthwith all attacks, raids and forays against the thegns and halls of Deira, and pledges homage to me, then I will take up arms against him and lay waste his land and slaughter his people.” Penda’s smile broadened. “He will, of course, refuse. But in delivering the message, you will find where Oswiu is. Also, seek out the old priest. Speak to Coifi. See if he wishes to protect the ways of our fathers and renew the pathways to the gods. Should that wish be in his heart, then offer him what he would – gold or women or fame, whatever you priests wish for – that he might send word to us of Oswiu, and his whereabouts and his strength. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, lord.” The priest’s face shone. “I thank you, for my heart has burned at our falling away from the paths of our fathers. Now, the old ways will return and we will be secure in this land, until the serpent rises and the wolf breaks its fetters.”

  “Go and make ready. I would have you leave before the sun reaches its height. But send to me the messenger from Deira. I will send my reply to his king.”

  As Wihtrun went to make ready and find Hunwald, Penda set to dressing, calling in his slaves to garb him.

  Hunwald found the king dressed, a cloak edged with gold thread hanging from his shoulders, clasped in place by a brooch of such weight and richness that it must surely be enough to buy some of the poorer thrones.

  Penda turned to him, and Hunwald made the courtesy.

  “Lord, I have come at your summons.”

  “I have answer for your lord, Hunwald, thegn of Deira. But first I would speak with you.” Penda looked to the chief of his slaves. The man nodded: they had searched Hunwald before bringing him through to the king’s chamber. A king that would not face Penda in open battle might seek victory by other means.

  Satisfied, Penda signalled his slaves to leave.

  “You are Oswine’s warmaster?” asked Penda.

  “Yes, lord,” said Hunwald.

  “None knows a king better than his warmaster. So, Hunwald, tell me of Oswine, whom some name Godfriend. What manner of king is he? For he asks me to go to war on his behalf. Yet I have heard no tales of his wars, and little rumour of his battles. What say you of him?”

  “He…” Hunwald paused. “King Oswine, all say, is a good man, a generous ring giver. He gives to the people too, for he seeks to follow the lead of his priest, Aidan, who gave the fine horse the king made over to him to a poor man asking alms. Therefore, the people of Deira love him dearly and proclaim their devotion to him, although in truth their love does not mean they give the renders due the king with any more eagerness than those given to a king less loved and more feared – indeed, I think, the opposite.”

  “So, men love him. But, you say, they do not fear him?”

  “The king was fierce against the robbers and bandits who plagued the kingdom after…” Hunwald glanced at the watching king. “… after you killed Oswald.”

  “Any king will slay robbers and bandits. Do his neighbours fear him?”

  Hunwald looked at Penda. “Do you?”

  Penda shook his head. “He is sworn to me. But the other kings: has he ridden against them?”

  “No. He is content to rid his kingdom of evil, but though I have often asked, he will not ride against other kings – not even Oswiu, though he makes war on us.”

  “Why will he not ride against Oswiu?”

  “It is the doing of that priest. He tells Oswine he must not make war against another Christian king, and thus people name him Godfriend. But Oswiu does not listen to the priest, and makes war on the Godfriend, although they both follow the new god.”

  “And you? Do you follow the new god?”

  “I? I follow the god of my king – as do we all in Deira.”

  “So, if the king were to return to the ways of his fathers, you would do so too?”

  “Oswine will not return to the old ways.”

  “I did not ask of Oswine. I asked whether, if the king were to return to the old ways, you would do so.”

  Hunwald gave a tight, thin smile. “I would, of course, do as my king does.”

  “Is it true that the Godfriend has no children?”

  “Yes, that is true.”

  “And this despite his taking wife?”

  “Yes. The Godfriend married five years past, but the queen has not even quickened in that time.”

  “If this is how his god treats his friends, I would not wish to be his enemy.”

  “I have told him to put aside his wife and take another, but he will not.” Hunwald shrugged. “The priest forbids it.”

  “Has he got any children on slaves?”

  Hunwald shook his head, an incredulous expression upon his face. “He does not take slaves to bed.”

  “Really?” If any of his thegns or his wife had been in the chamber, they would have seen something they had not seen before: Penda, surprised.

  “Yes, it is true. Even when I offered him the choicest girl, a little dark-eyed, dark-haired thing, he refused to take her. I said he must needs get a child on some woman, even if it be not the queen, that there be a son in some way throne-worthy. But he would not.”

  “He is not one of those men who prefers boys?”

  “No, I think not. He desired the girl I brought for him, but then he forced his eyes away from her and would not look upon her again.” Hunwald allowed some of his bafflement to appear on his face, testing it against Penda’s reaction.

  But the king gave no sign that he had seen. Instead, he remained quiet in thought for a while. Then he looked to Hunwald again.

  “Without a son to the king, who else is throne-worthy in Deira?” Penda asked.

  “Should the king die, then it would be for the witan to decide. Without the kingdom, there are many who might claim the throne. One, we know: Oswiu, king of Bernicia. But then there is the son of Oswald. Œthelwald was fost
ered by Talorcan, the king of the Picts, but I hear that he has lately returned to Bernicia and seeks men to follow him and gold to give them. And Oswiu has a son now, with the daughter of King Edwin. Ecgfrith is a child yet, but he will be most throne-worthy when he is older.”

  “I know of all these. I do not ask who might claim the throne from without Deira, but from within. Is there one in the kingdom whom the witan would hail king?”

  “There… there is none by blood. Should the king die, then the witan must needs turn to someone they know and trust; someone they know to be fierce in war and generous in peace, loyal to friends and bringing death to foes.”

  “Is there such a man in Deira known to the witan?”

  Hunwald paused. He looked at the king and saw his keen gaze. “That is not for me to say, lord.”

  “No. I suppose it is not.” Penda nodded. “Well, no doubt we shall not have to ask the witan such a question, for I have an answer for your king, Oswine Godfriend. Say to him I have sent messenger to the king of Bernicia, telling him to cease all raids and forays against the thegns of Deira, and demanding he pledge himself to me. The king of Bernicia will refuse. Then I will wage war against him, and Oswine with me. Tell the Godfriend to raise his men. He will be going to war.”

  Hunwald made the courtesy. “I thank you, lord.”

  Penda gave the smallest of acknowledging nods. Hunwald withdrew, leaving the king alone in his chamber. The chief slave checked quickly that his master was all right, then waited outside.

  The king stood staring into space. To wage war against Bernicia was no small matter. He would have to raise men, and call on allies and subject kings. But the main matter concerning him as he thought on war was his son.

  “How am I going to keep Peada out of this?”

  Chapter 5

  “We must withdraw.”

  Æthelwin turned to his king. They were both hidden by the gorse thicket they had wormed into as the moon set, leaving their swords and anything that might strike spark or make noise behind, dug lightly into the soil under a tall finger of stone, taking only their seaxes, rolled in cloth. Oswiu gave a small nod to show he had heard. But when the warmaster began to worm backwards, Oswiu stopped him.

  “I would see more,” he whispered.

  Penda’s army was camped at the foot of the dark hill, on either side of the track. The emperors of old had built no roads here, north of the Wall, but there were many tracks that led from the Wall into the north before finally petering out in the mountains of the Picts. The army had crossed the rivers, the Tyne and the Wear, by the fords over their upper reaches and then ridden up to the Great Wall, with heralds going before, blowing horns and beating drums to announce their arrival. The news had been sent to Oswiu at Stirling: Penda of Mercia marched into Bernicia, reiving and burning as he came, and alongside him rode the Godfriend.

  Hearing the tidings, Oswiu had come south with all haste, but already Penda and Oswine had reached the Simonside Hills. Along the way, they had set torches to the king’s halls, even those far from their line of march, sending troops of men off to burn as the main army headed north.

  But now, looking down on the encampment from their hiding place, Oswiu saw this host was composed of more than just the men of Mercia and Deira. Counting the fires spread out on either side of the north way, and the tents clustered around them, and the shadowed mass of horses, told a tale of numbers beyond anything Oswiu had seen before.

  “How many think you?” he asked the warmaster.

  But Æthelwin made no answer to this question. From the darkness within the gorse where they were hiding, he looked for sign of movement on the slope below them; he listened for it. Such a host had men and enough to post many sentries. If he were in command, he would set regular patrols around the encampment to flush out spies, as beaters flushed wild boar from marsh and copse. But he saw no movement upon the side of the hill; only the light of camp fires – more camp fires than he had ever seen before – and the shadows of men moving near their fires. Perhaps, having so great an army, led Penda and the Godfriend to believe none would attack. Indeed, they were right in their belief: so great a host was surely beyond attack. But even with so many, the host was not yet complete.

  From the south came first the rumour of horses approaching, their hooves sounding dull on the hard-packed, dry summer earth, then the sight of the riders, spear tips glinting in the starlight and catching the yellow of the firelights and scattering them into the night.

  “More,” whispered Oswiu, and the whisper was as much one of awe as of caution. That a king might be able to gather so many men – he had never thought it possible. With the troop now arriving in the camp, there must be…

  “More than five hundred.” He glanced at his warmaster. “Have you ever seen such an army?”

  “No.” Æthelwin shook his head in a single, sharp motion. “Never so many as this.”

  “This is more than Mercia and Deira. Can you see which banners fly?”

  “No. There is no wind. The banners hang limp.”

  “I must know who rides with Penda.” Oswiu looked down from the shelter of the gorse and saw the commotion in the camp as the riders dismounted and sought food and drink, while their horses were unsaddled and led to the paddock the army had set up for the animals. “With so many arriving, they will not notice.”

  Æthelwin looked at the king, the surmise of what Oswiu intended dawning in his eyes.

  “No, lord. It is foolishness – madness.”

  Oswiu looked to his warmaster and smiled. “More foolish than riding into Mercia? Madder than going in disguise to fetch my brother home?”

  “Maybe not so mad as that.” And, despite himself, Æthelwin felt a smile creep across his own face. He already knew the king would not be dissuaded.

  “Positively sensible, I’d say.” Oswiu began to worm his way forward, out from the shelter of the gorse. “Coming?” he asked, looking back.

  The warmaster sighed, then followed.

  With the king leading, they crawled downhill, sliding from shadow to shadow. They found the first sentry by all but falling onto him. The man sat with his back against a rock, head turned uphill but with his eyes closed. His breathing, regular and even, and then shifting into a snuffling snore, told the story: the sentry slept.

  Æthelwin slid his seax from its sheath. He would make this a sleep from which the sentry never woke.

  But Oswiu, seeing the seax in his warmaster’s hand, shook his head, making sign with his hand so that Æthelwin could see: leave him.

  The warmaster answered by gesture, asking why. But the king made the sign that said the answer would come later, before pointing Æthelwin on, down the hill and through this ring of sentries, to the camp. Easing the seax back into its sheath, the warmaster followed the king as he wormed his way down the hill to where the first of the camp fires burned.

  Then the king stood up.

  Æthelwin, seeing him, all but cried out, but the discipline of years stayed his tongue. Swallowing sound, Æthelwin crawled towards the king, while his back prickled, expecting any moment a spear to pin him to the ground. But the king saw Æthelwin first and reached down to him and hauled him to his feet.

  “With so many men in camp, they will not know who we are,” Oswiu whispered into the warmaster’s ear. “We can learn much, and quickly, then leave our mark.”

  “Mark?” But Æthelwin had no chance to seek answer to his question, for already the king had gone ahead, moving between the tents, leaving a trailing hand to pull out the limp banners hanging from the poles impaled in the ground so that he might read them quickly.

  With Æthelwin following, Oswiu made his way towards the centre of the camp. For the most part he kept to the shadows, but more than once he was hailed by men sitting around a fire. Then Oswiu answered railery with railery, joke with joke, and question with question, not pausing, that he might not be drawn further into the talk of men far from home and camped in the realm of their enemy.
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br />   Ahead, where the tents were pitched closest, a voice rose, pitched to anger, carrying easily over the quiet talk and occasional laugh that formed the night talk of the camp.

  “When were you going to tell me?”

  The question came to them, and Oswiu and Æthelwin made their way towards it through the tents, stepping from shadow to shadow.

  They stopped and saw ahead, where three fires burned brightly in front of the largest tents in the camp, a travel-stained man standing with helmet in one hand and his other upon the pommel of his sword, facing Penda. Although the firelight shone upon the king of Mercia, yet his face remained in shadow beneath his hood.

  “Peada.”

  The two watching men looked to each other. So this troop of horsemen, hard riding through the night, had been led by the king’s son.

  “I am the lord of the Middle Angles,” said Peada. He held up his hand, the one that had rested upon his sword. “The Red Hand holds your land. Yet you ride through my land when you know I am far away, summoning all your vassals and thegns, even him…” And here, Peada pointed at the man who had emerged from a tent, amid the raised voices, to stand near at hand to the king of Mercia. “Him. Deira. But you send no word to me, oh no. Tell me, Father, when were you going to tell me? When you’d given my land to Wulfhere?”

  “Wulfhere is a boy.”

  “I am not. Why did you not summon me? I can only think it was to keep from me the spoils you think to gain from this war.”

  “No. I intended for you a gift – a gift you greatly desire.”

  “What is there that you can give me, Father?”

  “What your heart desires.” Penda stared at his son. “Ahlflæd.”

  From where they watched they could see the Red Hand stiffen at those words, as a hunting dog stiffens when it first catches scent. But they too grew tense at Ahlflæd’s name, straining their ears to hear every word spoken.

  “Ahlflæd.” Peada breathed the name out. He stared at the hooded man, clothed in shadow, standing before him. “I will take her for myself.”

  Penda stood, cloaked in silence, staring at his son. Then he nodded abruptly. “Very well,” he said. “Ride with us. This time, I will go to war with my son.”