They climbed the stairs to the west wall. Many of the timbers along the wall were scorched and some bore the charcoal of proper burning, but none now were in flames. Nor did the flames rise up over the wall as they had before. Climbing up the stairs, they felt the wind blowing hard and steady past them: an east wind. Reaching the walkway at the top, the king and queen looked down to where Penda had made what he had intended to be the castle’s pyre, and beyond, to his camp.
The camp was in chaos.
The change in wind direction had sent long trails of flames over the men gathered to watch the fire, scattering them. Then, leaping over the dry grass and setting fire sprites sprinting across the plain, the flames had reached out to Penda’s camp. The Mercians had placed their tents and wagons far enough away from the rock that no ordinary fire could have reached them. But this was no ordinary fire, and the wind that blew it neither relented nor deviated, but pushed the flames onwards to the leather and waxed tents, and the wooden wagons.
Such materials were food to the fire. It fastened its fingers on the first tents and pulled them apart. The smell of burning wax and burnt leather filled the air. Seeing their camp and, more to the point, all the plunder and treasure they had won through the season of war under threat, the Mercians had abandoned the siege and streamed back to their tents and wagons, pulling clear what they could and leaving the rest to burn.
From the wall, Oswiu and Eanflæd looked down at the chaos and confusion as men strove desperately to drive panicking horses and oxen to safety while carrying their own goods out of the fire’s way.
Oswiu pointed to where a man sat astride a horse, some way apart from the destruction. Beside him, another horseman flew the wolf banner of the Iclingas.
“Penda.”
Although it was too far for man to hear, even if the day had been as still as a moonless night, yet the horseman looked up at the castle’s walls when Oswiu pointed to him. He looked up a long time, before drawing his hood over his head, turning his horse and riding away, the banner bearer following.
The siege of Bamburgh was broken.
Oswiu looked to his wife. “We live, who should be dead – or taken.”
“Through God’s grace, for he sent this wind to blow the fire back in Penda’s face, and by the courage of your daughter.” Eanflæd looked into the distance, after the withdrawing wolf banner. “I think he will return.”
“Yes,” said Oswiu. “Yes, he will.” The king stared after the receding banner. While he looked, Æthelwin joined them upon the wall.
“Where is Ecgfrith?” the queen asked him.
“He is safe,” said Æthelwin. “He wanted to go and help finish off the man who held you hostage.”
“You didn’t let him go, did you?”
“No. There will be stragglers outside the stronghold, and desperate men may attempt desperate acts. But I told him he could watch from the wall. I left three men to guard him.” The warmaster smiled grimly. “He will make a fierce king.”
“I would not have my son rejoice in the death of another.”
“Even one who would have killed his mother?” asked Æthelwin.
“Even so. Send for him.”
“Eanflæd.” Oswiu turned from watching after the departing siege army. “To be a king is hard. Time he started learning the lessons of kingship.”
“Are you telling me one of the lessons of kingship is watching men die?”
Oswiu looked at his queen. “Sometimes,” he said.
Eanflæd looked away. “Mayhap it were better if he does not become king,” she said.
“Mayhap,” said Oswiu. “But he will never have the chance if such a day as this happens again.” He turned to his warmaster. “I take it we do not have the strength to stand in open battle against Penda?”
Æthelwin nodded. He pointed to the withdrawing army. “He has three men, at least, for every one of ours.”
“Then we must find another way to stop him attacking us.” Oswiu looked into the courtyard. Some people were beginning to clear up, while others sat in exhausted silence, faces turned in relief to the sky. From the church, which alone had escaped the fire, chants of thanksgiving went up. And over by the entrance to the passageway down to the gate, the king saw his son and daughter. “They saved us, Ahlfrith and Ahlflæd, but particularly Ahlflæd. And now I must repay her by marrying her to Peada.”
“You can’t,” broke in the queen. “You know she despises him.”
“He is Penda’s son. Marrying Ahlflæd to him will detach him from his father.” The queen made to interrupt, but Oswiu held up his hand. “Besides, I will insist that he forsake the old gods and become a Christian before he marries Ahlflæd. That way, Aidan can teach him how to behave.”
Eanflæd looked to the distant figures of Oswiu’s children. “She will not be happy.”
“She swore it. Before many witnesses.”
“And she saved us by doing so.”
“I know.” Oswiu’s face was suddenly stricken. “I know. But I can see no other way.”
The king fell silent.
“Lord,” said Æthelwin. “You said there was more that we must do.”
“Yes.” Oswiu shook his head. “We must make it harder for Penda to reach us.” He looked to warmaster and queen. “We must put another king on the throne in Deira. One who will not allow Penda to ride across his land or – if he is not strong enough to face him in battle – will harass him as he goes, as the Brigantes did to Cadwallon’s army, when first we took the throne.”
“But Oswine withdrew from the field,” said Eanflæd.
Oswiu turned on her. “That does not matter. He led Penda to us, he joined in the reiving of our lands and people. Enough. I have waited too long for the witan of Deira to see sense. Now I will make a new king in the land of waters. Let Oswine fight. We saw his army. He has not the men to stand against me.”
“Bishop Aidan will say it is wrong that two Christian kings should fight one against the other,” said the queen.
“Then let Aidan stop him marching with Penda!”
“I know he has tried.” Eanflæd nodded. “Very well. But who would you have as king in his place? It is clear the witan of Deira does not trust you. And if it does not trust you, then it will not accept your son, Ahlfrith, as king either.”
“That is true,” said Oswiu.
“It must be someone you trust completely, lord,” said Æthelwin. “But one who has less connection by blood to you than your son. Someone whom you know will hold the land on your behalf and stop Penda riding across it.” The warmaster paused. “Perhaps… Œthelwald. As Oswald’s son, the witan may accept him where it will not accept your son. He is old enough now and, I hear, learned much during his time with Talorcan, king of the Picts.”
But Oswiu shook his head. “I have seen little of the boy – though he is now a man – these past few years.”
“And he is close to Rhieienmelth,” added Eanflæd. “I – I am not sure that she would counsel him to our good.”
“No.” The king smiled. “But there is an answer – one I should have seen before.” He turned to the warmaster. “Æthelwin, you tell me I should make king a man I trust completely; one who is not related to me but who will defend the land against Penda?”
“Yes, lord. Do you know such a man?”
The king’s smile broadened. “I do. You.”
Æthelwin stood in silence, as if struck by the lockjaw. But the queen said, “Of course,” and the king’s smile grew even broader.
“You, Æthelwin. I will make you king of Deira.”
“Me.” The warmaster finally breathed. “But lord, I am not of royal blood…”
“It’s amazing what a scop can find in a man’s background should he look. You will be royal, or royal enough, old friend.” Oswiu clapped his warmaster on the back. “And at last I will be able to reward you as you deserve for your faithful service.”
The warmaster smiled then, but it was a strangely strained smile.
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br /> *
On the island of his solitude, Aidan saw the flames blown back. He knelt upon the cliff top amid the sorrel and campion and grass, while about him wheeled the birds of the sea, the gannets and fulmars and guillemots and skuas, giving cry to his silent thanks.
He held his hands up to heaven, to the God who had heard his prayer and delivered the king from his foes. And he began to sing.
But as the words came from his mouth and joined with the unceasing praise of sea and wind and the wild birds, Aidan felt a claw, a dark, scaled claw, reach deep into his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs, and he clutched at his throat, searching for the breath that would not come, and the song died in his mouth and he fell forward upon his face.
The monks found him there. Finan had sent the boat early, for the news of the breaking of the siege had come quickly to the Holy Island, and Finan sent the monks to bear the glad tidings to Aidan. But when the bishop made no answer to their hailing, the monks had come ashore and searched for him. They found Aidan where he had fallen. He yet lived, but try as they might they could not wake him. So they carried him down the steep path to the cove and put him aboard their boat. Then, cradling their abbot’s head, they took him back to the Holy Island.
Chapter 8
“Where is the king?”
Hunwald, the sweat and dust of the ride staining his face, threw the question at the door warden. But the warden did not point within – rather to the city of ruins.
“The king prays,” said the warden. “At the stone church.”
Hunwald stifled a curse. The news would not wait, and now he had to make his way through the wraith-haunted streets of the city of the emperors. Steeling himself, Hunwald set off into the city. It was strange: he could stand in the shieldwall without fear while all around him men mewled for their mothers, but set him to walk alone at dusk through the works of the men of old, and his bowels turned to water and he found himself starting at every sound and movement. Surely he would meet the king, returning to his hall, without needing to go all the way to the church?
But he did not meet the king.
The shadows grew and his pace quickened. He tried to keep his eyes ahead, not skittering into the yawning dark of door and window, but with each movement he looked, eyes jumping from side to side. For many creatures lived among the ruins of the men of old, bats in particular, and as the day waned, they woke and took wing.
At last, although Hunwald suspected that the time had not been long, he saw light ahead, pin bright in the gathering gloom: a torch, set outside the church. Its flames flickered over the fresh stone of the church. For among the stone buildings of this city of the men of old, only one was new built, its stone gleaming and white. Edwin had begun it, Oswald had continued it, but Oswine had completed it.
It was dark, though, as Hunwald approached the church of St Peter, and the light shone from the windows into the dark world outside. The warmaster was glad for that light, for it pushed the fear shadows back among the slouching, broken buildings that surrounded the new church.
There was a guard standing outside, and hearing Hunwald’s quiet approach, he emerged, blinking, from the torchlight, trying to see into the shadows. Holding his spear out in front of him, the man called out, “Who is there?”
“It’s Hunwald, you idiot.” The warmaster stepped into the light.
Seeing him, the guard relaxed.
“Where is the king?”
“He’s in the church,” said the guard. “He’s been there all day.” As the warmaster went to go past him, the guard asked the question that had been preying on his mind for the last two hours: “Do you think he’ll stay much longer? Only, I’m starving.”
“No,” said Hunwald, opening the door. “No, he won’t be much longer.”
The king was kneeling before the altar.
Some of his bodyguards knelt too, but others stood at the back of the church. Their whispered conversations ended when they saw the warmaster, but the monks who lined the church did not falter in their chant, for they were praying the office of the setting of the sun, when they commended the dark world to a new rising.
Hunwald strode down the nave of the church. The king must surely have heard his approach, but Oswine did not look round.
The warmaster put his hand on the Godfriend’s shoulder and bent down to him. “He is coming for you,” Hunwald whispered.
“Oswiu?”
“Yes.”
The king closed his eyes briefly. “Very well,” he said. He turned his gaze back to the altar and the mysteries upon it. “I will be with you in a little while.”
But it was night by the time King Oswine emerged from the church. Hunwald was waiting for him outside, although the warmaster remained within the circle of light cast by the torches.
It was a warm night, but the king wrapped his cloak around his shoulders. “Mayhap you were right, old friend. I should have stayed with Penda, for my withdrawal from the siege has brought me no friendship with Oswiu. But I thought, then, of what James the Deacon had told me, of the shame that two Christian kings should fight each other, and I saw the devastation being wrought in my name through Bernicia, and I would not have it so. But now, I suppose, Oswiu brings devastation to my realm?”
“He does, lord. He burns as he goes, driving thegns and ceorls alike from their homes and their land.” The warmaster stared at his king. “What will you do, lord?”
“What will I do, Hunwald?” The king returned the warmaster’s stare. “I sought to avoid war. But a king, when he is struck on one cheek, may not turn the other, for the cheek he turns is not his own, but the cheeks of his people, of his thegns and warriors, of his priests and ceorls and slaves, from the highest down to the lowest. If Oswiu will not grant me peace, then I will give him war.” The king started towards his hall, with Hunwald struggling to keep pace beside him. “Tell me, how many men has he, where is he heading, and how long before he comes to our walls?”
Hunwald gave answer as they hurried back to the king’s hall, so that by the time they came to its wooden walls, Oswine knew well the straits his kingdom was in. He stopped outside the hall, under the eaves of its roof.
“So, you say that we do not have enough men to face Oswiu in battle?”
“No, lord, we do not. Not unless you can summon another hundred or more to your side before he gets here.”
The Godfriend paused, looking in thought up at the night sky. “I cannot. I have not the men. But there is another who can, and with ease.”
“Penda?” asked Hunwald.
“Yes.”
“But surely he will not give us aid – not since we left the siege.”
“Penda must surely thirst for revenge. For already the news of how the flames ate his camp has spread far, and the scops make tales of it.” Oswine turned to his warmaster. “Go to him, Hunwald. Go fast. Tell him that the chance to defeat Oswiu has come, and come more quickly than he could have hoped. For coming into our realm, he is far from the sure defences of that great rock, and with some of Penda’s men – mayhap with the High King himself if he will come – we can defeat him in the open where we could not upon the rock.” Oswine grasped his warmaster’s shoulders. “But you must be quick, Hunwald, and you must tell Penda to hurry, whether he comes himself or sends men.”
“Very well,” said Hunwald. “I will go at first light.”
“If the need is as urgent as you say, old friend, it were better you go now.” Oswine looked towards the eastern horizon. “The moon will rise soon. There will be light, and enough, for riding.”
“I – I will go,” said Hunwald. “But where will I find Penda at this season? He spent June and July in war, so the year is out of kilter.”
“But ask. There will be people who know. Now, you must go. I will gather all our men here, but our aim must be to meet the Iding on the open field and defeat him there. But for that I must have more men – the men you must bring back, Hunwald. You understand?” The king held his warmaster in
his gaze.
“Yes,” said Hunwald. “I understand.” He made the courtesy. “I will go.”
*
“I must go.” Aidan sat up on his narrow bed.
The monk who had been keeping watch over him started and fell off his stool. For the abbot had barely stirred since they had brought him back. The monks had lifted his head and parted his lips to trickle water down his throat; when he had stirred and the veils that covered his mind had thinned, they had spooned food into his mouth. But in the weeks since he had been brought back from his island hermitage the abbot had not spoken a word. So it was no great surprise that the monk set to ward him had found his head beginning to nod. And though he caught himself the first time, and the second, yet the day was warm and somnolent, the thrum of bees filled the air, and the third time his chin went down it did not bounce back again, but rested upon his chest.
So when the abbot sat up and announced that he must go, the sleeping monk jerked awake, forgetting in the instant that he was sitting upon a stool and, tipping over, he let out a cry.
The cry had the virtue of bringing others, and quickly, to see what caused it, and first among them was Finan, abbot while Aidan had lived in solitude on his island, and abbot still while Aidan remained unspeaking.
With Finan leading the rush, the monks tumbled into the room to find Aidan sitting up, and the monk on watch crouching by him, offering the abbot water to drink.
“What happened?” asked Finan. “Who cried out?”
The monk, blushing, began to answer, but Aidan put his hand over his.
“It was a bird,” he said.
Finan looked puzzled. “I have lived all my life by sea and on island, and never in that time have I heard a bird make call like that.”
“It was a strange bird,” said Aidan. He began to struggle from the bed. “Help me up.”
Finan and others rushed to him, and in the confusion one monk was knocked from his feet and another fell upon the abbot’s bed.
Oswiu, King of Kings Page 34