Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  Aidan, grabbing hold of Finan, pulled himself up.

  “There,” he said, “that’s bett…” But before he could finish the word, a fit of coughing took him, so that Finan had to hold him, lest he fall. And when the fit had passed, Aidan wiped his arm across his mouth, and the mark the saliva froth left on his habit was pink. Finan saw the stain too, and turned shocked eyes on his abbot.

  “You must sit down… rest,” he said. “Sometimes, I have heard, rest and good air can heal consumption.”

  Aidan shook his head. “You know as well as I that only God can heal consumption. But I must go. I must see the king.”

  “The king? King Oswiu? But he is gone. The siege is ended and he left soon after.”

  “Where has he gone?”

  “I did not think to ask. Perhaps to Ad Gefrin.”

  “Then you must take me there.” Aidan paused, wheezing for breath. When breath had returned he looked to Finan. “I think we had best be quick.”

  Chapter 9

  “Oswine asks men of me?”

  Penda sat upon his judgement seat. The seat was set by the side of the road, for Hunwald had found the king journeying between the royal estates at Tamworth and Lichfield and, as was the way with such journeys, a wagon had broken its axle and blocked the road. While the wagoners lifted the wagon up on blocks, amid much swearing and blame, the local people had come seeping from field and hut and hall, bringing with them suits and arguments and judgements, all for the king’s attention. So, while he waited for the wagon to be repaired, Penda sat upon his judgement seat by the side of the road as a succession of farmers and peasants and slaves came before him to ask for the king’s justice.

  There Hunwald had found him, after two nights’ and two days’ hard riding, asking after the king at every hamlet, inn and hall he passed along the way. In Bernicia, it would not have been possible to find the king so quickly, save with the greatest fortune, for there were few roads there and to travel quickly men went by boat. But Mercia, the land of the marches, was criss-crossed with roads and paths and trails: some made, of gravel and flagstone, by the emperors of old; others trodden into the ground by the feet of men long forgotten, but who had found the driest and best paths across the country.

  Penda regarded Hunwald from the shadow under his hood.

  “You say Oswine asks men of me?”

  Hunwald made the courtesy. He had already done so, but now he did it again. “Yes, lord. He even dares ask that you might come yourself – for Oswiu is sprung from his holt and, together, you might catch this slippery otter that escaped you before.”

  Though Penda had but one eye, Hunwald felt as if the High King were looking into his soul. But he made no effort to conceal his soul from the High King’s scrutiny, for he would that Penda knew he spoke the truth.

  The High King stood up. “Come, walk with me,” he said.

  With Hunwald by his side, he left the milling mass of supplicants and suitors, and started up the road, the gravel grinding rough beneath their feet.

  Penda stopped. They were far enough now from other people that none might hear what they said. “I would send men, and gladly, to a king who would stand beside me in battle… and in siege.” The High King turned his single eye upon Hunwald. “Is there such a king in Deira?”

  Hunwald paused. He too looked to see that none might hear them.

  “There are… whispers. The witan has seen the halls of many of its thegns burn. Many marched with you, lord, into Bernicia, thinking to find there glory and gold. They returned with nothing. Mayhap the mind of the witan turns to a new king in Deira.”

  “And is there a man in Deira who would stand beside me in battle and in siege? To such a man I would gladly give my support, should the current king meet some misfortune.”

  “Could the High King support a king who is of noble blood but not himself royal?”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find that the king is always of royal blood, whoever his parents were.”

  “Then I can say there is such a man in Deira.”

  Penda looked at Hunwald with his one eye.

  “Then I fear you must disappoint your king. Penda will send no men in his defence. If he is God’s friend, then let God defend him, for I will not.”

  *

  “He’s not coming.”

  Hunwald, after three more days upon the saddle, had found King Oswine camped with his men at the foot of Wilfar’s Hill, ten miles north-west of the village of Catterick. Riding into the camp, Hunwald had made rough count of the men the Godfriend had under his command: no more than fifty. Oswiu was marching south with twice, possibly thrice, that number, and the rumour of his coming, and the burning and looting that accompanied it, filled the countryside, for all knew that Oswiu came to take vengeance, and none expected quarter from him.

  “What do you mean, he’s not coming?” said Oswine. Hunwald had been led to the king as he took sight from the top of Wilfar’s Hill, searching the horizon for the signs of Oswiu’s approach. As Hunwald had climbed the hill, he had found those signs all too easy to see: columns of smoke rose into the still August day. No rain had fallen through the summer and the sky was bronze with foreboding. There would be a great burning before this summer ended.

  “Penda will not come, nor will he send any men.”

  “But Oswiu is here, in the open. He is ours for the defeating. He just needs to send me some men.”

  “He will not. I tried, lord. I made every argument I could; I offered him all the spoils of victory, but he would not have them. He said that he would not come to the aid of a man who had abandoned him.”

  Oswine shook his head. “I – I did not abandon him. But I could not stand and see the land and its people despoiled.”

  “I do not think any words of man will change his mind, lord.”

  Oswine the Godfriend passed his hand over his face. He was looking north, looking at the smoke of Oswiu’s coming.

  “That it should come to this.” Oswine shook his head, and Hunwald saw that there were tears streaming down his face. “Men call me the Godfriend and when I first learned of what God had done for us – done for me – I thought it true. The more so when, though I had desired it not, I was set upon the throne. I wished to be God’s good friend, that his word be heard throughout my kingdom and men come to the new life that I had found. But now I think that God’s friendship is not as that of men or kings. It brings neither gold, nor glory, nor the promise of victory. All it brings is… hope.”

  The king turned his face to his warmaster. He shed no more tears now, but their tracks still marked his skin. “I will not lead my men to death. Give order, Hunwald. Disband the army. Tell them to return to their halls and their women and their children. For my part, I will go to your hall at Gilling, for it is not so far away. There, if God grants me time, I shall give thought to what we may do next: whether we should wait until Oswiu’s anger is spent, then rise against him; or whether I should do as Sigeberht, king of the East Angles did and step down from the throne and seek an eternal crown.”

  Hunwald stared at the king as one staring at a thing unknown. He opened his mouth, but no words came forth and, seeing him, Oswine knew mirth for the first time in many days, and laughed.

  “Is what I say so strange, old friend? I fear it may be – but we live in days when all we thought fixed and secure has become as leaves, blown from the tree. These musings are but a fit of mine. Take no mind of them, friend. But give the order, that my men may live.”

  Hunwald shook his head. “Lord, it is not meet that you should flee before the foe. Even were you – were we – to die, it were better than… than this!”

  “Ah, the glory and honour of men. It is what we strive for. The songs of the scops, the regard of men.” Oswine squatted down and dragged his hand through the dry earth. Standing, he opened his fingers. “Dust. Dust and ashes. The dream of boys, playing with practice swords.” He wiped his hand over his tunic, drawing a dust smear down the cloth. “Send the men ho
me, Hunwald. I will take Tondhere, for he knows the ways round here, and make for Gilling. We will meet there, if God wills.”

  Hunwald watched the king make his way down the hill. “Yes, we will meet there,” he said.

  Chapter 10

  “Hurry, brothers. Please hurry.”

  The brothers, four monks each holding an end of the hurdles upon which their abbot lay, were too breathless to answer. The sun had burned down on them on the journey from Lindisfarne, blinding them in the morning and cooking their backs through the long afternoon heat. When Aidan had insisted that, despite his weakness, he must go to the king, Finan had first tried him upon a horse, the calmest, most sure-footed beast they could borrow from the farmers who worked the land across the strait on the mainland, for the monastery kept no horses of its own. But though Aidan had been helped upon the beast, after only a few steps the coughing fit had come upon him again, and he had all but fallen from the horse. It was only the swiftness of one of the younger monks that had caught him. Seeing that the abbot could not ride, Finan had the monks make a hurdle of two ash poles and woven hazel and willow wands. Onto this he lay cloth and straw, so that the ride might not be a corporal penance, and asked whom among the monks of Holy Island would be willing to bear their abbot to the king at Ad Gefrin.

  All had cried, “Aye!”

  And Finan saw Aidan, at that cry, turn his face away, that his brethren would not see the tears that started in his eyes.

  Though all had said “Aye”, not all were able to make such a journey in haste. Finan chose eight of the strongest and youngest, gave them food and drink for the journey, then took his place holding one of the poles as they lifted Aidan from the ground.

  Aidan turned to Finan. He shook his head. “I say unto thee, When thou wast young, thou girdest thyself, and walkedst whither thou wouldest: but when thou shalt be old, thou shalt stretch forth thy hands, and another shall gird thee, and carry thee whither thou wouldest not.” He smiled and put his hand on Finan’s arm. “Not that you are old. But you must stay and feed the sheep. I will not say my sheep, for they belong to another, but still they need a watchdog. Watch them well, Finan, and bid me farewell.”

  Finan bowed his head and pressed his lips to the back of Aidan’s hand. “You have been as a father to me,” he said.

  “And I could not have wished for a better son,” said Aidan. He laughed, but the laugh became a cough, and for a moment he was overcome. But he regained mastery of himself and smiled at Finan. “No woman would have had me to husband, I fear, but I have had sons such that any woman would be proud to call her own.” Aidan looked round at the gathered monks of his community. “Help me stand, Finan,” he whispered.

  With Finan holding his arm, Aidan stood in front of his many sons.

  “I leave you in the care of Finan. Be with him as you have with me: ever attentive and kind. I ask you to forgive me where I have failed you, to overlook any offence I have given and to cleave, always, to the example of the Blessed One, Colm Cille, for then you will surely know you tread the right path.”

  Aidan looked around at the sea of faces staring at him. Many, most, wept openly. There were so many of them now, and he had come to this land with so few. Back then, all his monks had spoken, among themselves, the song language of the islands of his birth. Now, most of those entering the community spoke the drumbeat language of the Angles. He had found it crude and uncouth once, particularly when he had struggled to learn it from Oswald, but now he heard its own particular music. Not so sweet a music as his own tongue, that was true, but a music nonetheless. He would leave that music to flow into the hearts of the men of this land and bring them to the new life that called to them.

  “Pray for me. I will pray for you. Always.” As he spoke, Aidan prayed that he might be spared another coughing fit, at least until he was away from the sight of his community.

  One by one, they came to him seeking his benediction and his blessing, and he gave it, with a word to one, a gesture to another, sometimes a smile, or a finger to wipe away a tear. When he had made farewell to all, Aidan sat upon the hurdle. The monks taking him to Ad Gefrin lifted their burden – and it was light, for the disease had consumed much of Aidan’s flesh, leaving him as light as a child – and started on the long walk to the king’s palace in the shadow of Yeavering Bell, the hill of the goats. Aidan watched the waving monks until they merged with land and sea and sky. Then, spent, he lay back upon the hurdle and looked up into the bronze sky.

  The journey to Ad Gefrin had taken three days. The monks sweated carrying him, Aidan sweated beneath the sun. He felt himself sweating his body away. Waking once from a fever sleep, he held his hand up and saw the sun through it, so thin had his flesh become. But at each stop he forced himself to eat and drink, though he had no wish to do either. For Aidan knew he must live to deliver his message lest the king die, and die indeed, for this were death in the spirit.

  “Hurry, dear brothers.”

  Now, at last, the golden hall lay before them. Its great posts, carved and painted, pointed to the sky, and in the great paddock that lay riverward were many cattle and sheep. Aidan, sitting up as the monks approached, saw the offering and knew this for the render of the hills, given by the Brigantes. But if the render were here, the king must be too. The sun was behind him now, so he had no need to shade his eyes, but his sight was growing watery and dim. Aidan turned to one of the monks carrying him.

  “Are there wagons there? Many wagons? I cannot see.”

  “Yes, abbot. Many wagons.”

  Aidan, breathing a great sigh, lay back upon the hurdle. “I am in time,” he said softly. And sleep took him.

  “Aidan.”

  The monk opened his eyes. It was day still, but there was no sun glaring into his eyes from a bronze sky, so he knew he lay inside the great hall of Ad Gefrin, the palace of the kings.

  There was a face above his, and for a moment he could not recognize it, for the features swam into memory and he saw, as if it were again true, the face of his mother as she had nursed him when he was a child.

  There was a hand on his and he looked to it. But his memory was wrong, for he saw that his was the hand that was aged, while the one upon him was young.

  “Aidan.”

  The voice told him whose hand held his.

  “Eanflæd.” Aidan closed his eyes for a moment, such was the relief. “It is not too late. I must speak with the king.”

  But the queen shook her head. “The king is not here. He rode south, five days past.”

  “Where…” Aidan began to cough, his torso wracked. “Where does he ride?”

  Eanflæd sat back. She turned her face from the abbot, and Aidan knew then where the king had gone.

  “Deira,” she said. “He has ridden into Deira.”

  Aidan fell back. “Then I am too late,” he said.

  But the queen looked to Aidan again. “It may be that is not so, for I can send a messenger, well horsed and swift. What message do you wish to send him?”

  “Tell him… Tell him that he goes in danger of his soul. Tell him not to do that which the tempter lays before him. Tell him to forbear.”

  Chapter 11

  It was dusk and the sentry was nervous. At this time, when the shadows lengthened and time stood balanced between day and night, the eyes played tricks on the mind. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of camp: the low note of conversation, the shifting of horses, the crackle of fires. But in front, all he could see was shadows. He could swear that something moved in those shadows, shifting in the wood that reached a long finger towards the king’s camp. Most likely a badger or a fox, as wary of him as he was of it, but nonetheless the sentry got to his feet. Cursing the twilight under his breath, for it was easier to see in the night when the stars were out than in this half-light, he shifted his head left and right, trying to see into shadows that grew with each passing moment.

  There. There was something there.

  He raised his spear.

 
; “Hold!” he cried. He wished his voice firm and bold, but it cracked like a breaking twig.

  What he saw did not hold, but came on, and on, growing bigger and bigger…

  “Hold!” His voice was pitching higher, as it had been before it had broken this last year. He looked around for someone close to call, and seeing no one on hand, thought on whether he should fall back into camp and the help of older, more experienced men. But then whatever was coming, be it wight or ælf or ghost, might enter the camp unhindered, and he would have failed in his duty. So he held his spear out in front of him and hardened his voice.

  “Hold!” he cried a third time, and this time it was the voice of a man.

  And the figure, coming from shadow into the glimmer of firelight, diminished and became a man. A man holding his hands out, so that the sentry might see he bore no weapons. A man who stopped and spoke.

  “I have word for your king.”

  The sentry heard the words and knew their speaker to come from this land that they marched through and not the land of high passes that was his home.

  “Who are you, that would speak with the king?”

  “I am Hunwald, warmaster of this land your king rides through.”

  The sentry nodded, trying to keep the excitement from his face. That such a man should give himself up, and to him. This would surely merit the king’s notice, and mayhap even his favour…

  *

  The king looked up. Although there were no clouds the stars were dim. The heat pressed down upon the world even as it slept, and it slept uneasily. There was sound in the camp – motion that told of something happening. He glanced to his warmaster.

  “Æthelwin.”

  “I will see, lord.”

  Ahlfrith looked after the warmaster. He sniffed. “I hope it is something of interest. So far we have done nothing but chase shadows.”

  “At least it is dry,” said Oswiu. “When we campaigned against that clan of the Picts who raided our northern marches, we spent three months riding shin deep through mud and rain with never a sign of them. This is better.”