Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “We go to take some air,” Oswine said quietly.

  Stifling a yawn, the warden unbarred the door and pulled it open. The night air greeted them. It was cool and carried the scents of this hot summer: ripening wheat and barley, the dust thrown up by the day’s hot wind, the faint taste of smoke. Even without the burnings of Oswiu and his army, there would have been smoke in such a tinder-dry season: sparks from metal horseshoe on stone, a dry lightning strike, embers left untended – each of these might start a fire. But now, men burned their way through Deira.

  Oswine stepped out from under the eaves of Hunwald’s hall and looked up at the sky. Although the night was clear and cloudless, the stars seemed veiled and indistinct, as if the finest of nets had been hung over the sky. Try as he might, he could not see the Milky Way. The king walked further away from the hall, with Tondhere following, letting his night sight develop. But when he stopped again, with the hall but a distant shadow against further shadows, he still could not see that which he was looking for. Oswine turned to his guard.

  “My mother told me that when the world was young and there were as yet no stars in the sky, a young boy was sent by his stepmother to climb a tree, for there was a hive in its topmost branches. But the boy, being wise, thought that the bees would sting him for taking their honey. So, before he climbed, he went in secret to his stepmother’s cow, the one that she never allowed him to drink from, and filled a bucket with sweet milk. Then, putting the handle of the bucket around his neck, he began to climb the tree. He climbed and he climbed, yet the hive at the top of the tree seemed to get no nearer, even though he had been climbing all day. For though he did not know it, his stepmother had set him to climb the tree that holds up the sky. Looking down, he saw the world far below, and his stepmother looking no bigger than an ant and waving a stick at him, shouting that she would beat him if he did not bring the honey from the tree. So, despite his fear, the boy kept climbing, higher and higher, until the day ended and the night came. But there were no stars and the boy could not see his hand, even when he held it in front of his face. Holding the tree, the boy clung on. Then, in the quiet above the world, he heard a hum: the sound of bees, sleeping in their hive. They were close, very close. So, feeling his way, he crept closer. But as he got closer, he could hear the hum getting louder and angrier, for the bees could hear him, and they would not have anyone steal their honey. Then the boy reached for the pail, telling the bees that he had brought them sweet milk to drink in return for their honey. But in reaching for the pail of milk, he slipped and fell, and the milk spilled from the bucket. As it fell from the tree that held up the sky, it made the Milky Way that we see to this day.”

  Tondhere waited. But the king said no more.

  “What happened to the boy?” Tondhere said eventually.

  “He died,” said Oswine.

  “And the stepmother?”

  “Went without honey.”

  “Oh,” said Tondhere. He stared up at the sky too, trying to make out the Milky Way. “I don’t like that story.”

  Oswine laughed. “Nor me. My mother said I cried when she told it to me.” He breathed the cool night air. “It is good to be outside, even if we can’t see the Milky Way.” He turned to Tondhere. “Do you think me mad, or a coward, for disbanding the army and sending them home?”

  Addressed with such a question, Tondhere was glad that the night concealed his expression.

  “I – I know you had true reason, lord, for what you did.”

  “Yes. Yes, I did. I would not, as that boy did, be made to climb a tree without end for a prize beyond reach. There would have been no victor in the battle we would have faced, only different defeats. Therefore, it were better not to climb the tree at all.” Oswine laughed again. “My mother always said I would understand the story when the time came. It seems she was right.”

  But Tondhere did not hear the king’s answer. Alert to every sound in the night, he heard the crack, as of a branch breaking when some unwary foot steps upon it. He turned, searching for the source of the sound, trying to pierce the dark that lay over the world and see into its shadows.

  There, just west, beyond the hedge and fence that marked Hunwald’s hall from the farmland surrounding it, were the small humps of the houses of Gilling. No lights sparked from them, nor any movement, for there was as yet no hint of dawn in the eastern sky and the people slept as best they could against the weariness of the long heat of the day to come.

  But then, turning towards the hall, Tondhere saw shadows moving towards them.

  “Lord,” he whispered, taking Oswine’s arm. “Look.”

  Oswine, seeing, whispered to Tondhere, “It is most likely the door warden, come to see if all is well. But…” He pointed towards a nearby shadow. There, trees and bushes tangled together so that two men hiding might never be found on a night so dark.

  As they began to make a silent way towards the trees, a voice hailed them from the darkness.

  “Lord.”

  A familiar voice.

  “Lord, it is I, Hunwald.”

  Oswine straightened from his crouch and turned towards his warmaster. Tondhere followed, but since the hail was not meant for him, he looked beyond the approaching shadow of the warmaster and saw there many more shadows, spreading quietly to right and left, and he heard the faint hiss of metal sliding from oiled wood, and he leapt for his lord, seeking to get his hand over the king’s mouth before he could reply and give away their position.

  “Hunwald, over here.”

  Too late.

  The shadow, hearing Oswine’s call, straightened its path towards them. Tondhere, looking beyond, saw the other shadows each align towards them, and approach. Slipping his sword from its sheath, Tondhere stepped to the king.

  “Lord, this is not right. Hunwald brings too many men with him.”

  Oswine, seeing the shadows closing in around them, called again.

  “Hunwald?”

  “It is I, lord.”

  And out of the darkness, the warmaster emerged. But he was not alone. At his shoulder stood another.

  “Æthelwin.” Oswine looked to his own warmaster. “I do not suppose you have brought Æthelwin here as prisoner?”

  “You shall be the prisoner taken here,” said Hunwald, drawing his sword.

  From all around there came the sound of metal sliding over wood. Tondhere, standing with his back to his lord, saw that they were surrounded. He scanned around, counting. A score or more of men. Against two. And with Hunwald among the attackers, there would be no help coming from the men of his hall. They were alone.

  “So, you would betray me, old friend?”

  “You are no friend to Deira,” said Hunwald.

  “I am its king. And you are pledged to me, Hunwald.” The king stood with his hand upon his sword, but he had not yet drawn it. “There is still time. Mayhap not to save me, not when you have brought so many to take one man, but to save your soul. There is time for that.”

  “I will have saved Deira, by ridding it of a coward king.”

  Oswine stood still. For the moment, Hunwald and Æthelwin were advancing no further, but he could hear the slow, stealthy movement of the men encircling them. There was no escape.

  “Lord,” whispered Tondhere, his back to his king and his eyes looking behind, while his sword slowly tracked from right to left, “I will attack. Come behind me. In the dark, you may escape.”

  “No,” said Oswine. “No, I would have no more men die for my sake, in body or in soul.” He looked to Hunwald and the silent figure of Æthelwin beside him. “Spare Tondhere. He has no part in this.”

  “No!” said Tondhere. “I would not live at your expense.”

  “Oh, do not worry,” said Æthelwin. “You won’t.” He looked to the warmaster standing beside him in the dark. “Finish this, Hunwald, and prove your loyalty – prove that you are throne-worthy.”

  “So they promised you a throne, did they?” Oswine laughed. “For such little things we se
ll ourselves – and I no less than you. I would give you the throne myself, Hunwald, if it would save you. But I fear that it will condemn you instead.”

  “You are the one condemned!” Hunwald rushed forward, sword raised, ready to bring it down in the killing cut that ran from where the neck met the shoulder crosswise across the body.

  But Oswine the Godfriend did not raise his sword to meet the charge. He looked steadily at the onrushing thegn and there was no fear in his eyes at death’s approach. There was no hatred either; only pity.

  And before those eyes, Hunwald’s charge faltered.

  He stood before the king, his sword raised, but unable to bring it down. “Fight me,” Hunwald screamed. “Fight me!”

  But the king slowly shook his head. “I will not fight a friend, Hunwald.” He spread his arms. “If you will, do what you came to do.”

  “Take your sword,” said Hunwald. “Fight me.” Across his face, emotions warred. “Please…”

  But Oswine stepped towards his warmaster and embraced him. The sword dropped from Hunwald’s hand.

  “You will live,” Oswine said. “You will…”

  But he had no chance to finish what he had to say.

  “You won’t,” said Æthelwin.

  The blade pierced Oswine, emerging from his chest, and Hunwald saw the king look down at it. There was no surprise in his eyes as he saw his own death. He looked up, one final time, at his warmaster, then fell.

  “No!” Tondhere leapt towards Æthelwin screaming, but before he had moved more than a few feet three blades cut him down.

  Hunwald stared at the two bodies lying at his feet. He heard Æthelwin approaching and he did not have to look to know that the warmaster’s sword was raised.

  “Finish it,” Hunwald said.

  Chapter 14

  The horsemen rode into the king’s camp. They rode under the flag of the Idings, though they passed through Deira, and the sentries on watch knew well their faces and their mission, and let them through the picket to ride in haste to where the king waited.

  Hearing the hooves, then seeing them, Oswiu rose from where he had been playing dice with his son and Acca. Ahlfrith and the scop rose to their feet too, waiting while the dust- and sweat-stained rider hauled his horse to a halt and dismounted.

  Æthelwin, warmaster of Bernicia, made the courtesy to his king.

  “Well?” said Oswiu.

  The warmaster grinned. “There shall be a new king in Deira.”

  Oswiu closed his eyes briefly. Then he looked to his warmaster. “You have done well, Æthelwin. I will not forget this.”

  The warmaster bowed his head. “Thank you, lord.”

  “Hunwald?”

  “He will not be the next king of Deira.”

  Oswiu looked to the troop of riders dismounting, scanning down their line.

  “Any casualties?”

  “No.” For the first time, Æthelwin looked somewhat disconcerted. “He did not fight.”

  “Who? Who did not fight?”

  “Oswine. The Godfriend. He would not draw sword.”

  Oswiu nodded slowly but, hearing this, Ahlfrith stepped forward. “Are you saying you killed the king in cold blood?”

  Warmaster looked at ætheling. “What would you have had me do? Leave him to raise an army against us again?”

  “You could have brought him before the king alive.” Ahlfrith shook his head. “This is murder.” He turned to his father. “You want the rule of Deira? They will never accept you now.”

  “They wouldn’t accept me before!” said Oswiu. “Now they will fear me, and take as king a man they will have reason to fear: Æthelwin.”

  “Æthelwin.” Ahlfrith stared at his father. “You would make him king in Deira? His mother was a slave!”

  “He is loyal to me.”

  “So am I!”

  Father and son, king and ætheling, faced each other, and the camp, hearing them, fell into the listening silence that always came upon men when there was open discord in the ruling family.

  “I have ever served you, Father, faithfully and well. And now, when you would make a king in Deira, you turn to one who is not even of our blood. Tell me, where have I failed you to earn such despite? For fail you I must have done to be treated in such manner.”

  But Oswiu shook his head. “No, no, you have not failed me. Indeed, you have served me too well, for I cannot be without you, even to place you on a throne. Not yet. Not while your brother is still a child and can take little part in ruling the kingdom. But you must also know that the witan of Deira would never accept a son of mine as king. That is why I have chosen Æthelwin to be king, for they will accept him.”

  Ahlfrith stared at his father, then shook his head. “I would not take a throne earned by murder, for it will surely be tainted by Oswine’s death, and blood feud shall follow he who takes the throne.” He turned to the warmaster. “You earned this throne by treachery. Know that treachery will follow you wherever you go.”

  Æthelwin merely smiled at that. “Let it,” he said. “I know how to sniff out traitors. And how to deal with them.”

  “Very well,” said Oswiu. “Send out messengers. Summon the witan of Deira, that it may help choose a new king. And Acca…” The king turned to the scop. “Take some men and carry the good news to the queen. And make a song of this.”

  Acca made the courtesy. “I will take word to the queen,” he said. “But there is no song in it,” he added softly, as he turned away from the king.

  *

  Aidan saw him coming. He had seen him even before he came into sight, but the short line of riders appearing and disappearing as the path to Ad Gefrin wound over the dips and ridges of the land told him by sight what he had already learned in his heart.

  He signed to the monk who was caring for him – signed because his breath was so short he could speak at nothing more than a whisper – and when the monk leaned to him to hear, Aidan asked him to fetch the queen.

  “And Coifi,” he added. The old priest would be happy to see his friend.

  Aidan closed his eyes to wait. In this hot summer, he had asked to be left outside, sitting against the hall with sight of land and sky, rather than being brought within where all he could see was walls. There was no danger of him getting cold. Even were the nights not so warm, his own body burned.

  “I’m sweating out my sins.” That’s what he had told the monks who tended him, bathing his brow and applying cold compresses to his wrists and ankles. He hoped it was true. The weight of his wrongdoing hung over him, as much in what he had failed to do as in what he had actually done. When his mind was at its clearest – for sometimes, when the fever grew more intense, he lapsed into a waking dream – he had called a priest to him and, over many hours, told out the extent of his failings, calling down God’s mercy on him, that the Ransomer might know the full extent of the ransom he must pay.

  Now, he waited. He heard steps approaching, then stopping beside him. The queen. Others followed, more hesitant, setting off in one direction then taking another. Coifi.

  “It is Acca,” he whispered.

  In the quiet of waiting, they heard him.

  Through the quiet, he could hear the hooves, drumming over the dry earth. If there was not rain soon, there would be famine next year, for the crops were failing in the fields, withering under the relentless weight of the sun.

  The riders were coming close. Aidan began the long struggle to open and focus his eyes.

  As he succeeded in seeing, the riders drew up outside the hall. Seeing, as it were, for the first time, he saw the foam flecking the beasts’ flanks, for they had ridden long and hard under a cruel sun. Saliva dripped from bits, but not enough – the animals were parched with thirst, their eyes rolling as the knowledge of the nearness of water coursed through them. Their riders were almost as thirsty, with lips dry and cracked, and eyes red with the kicked up dust of their riding.

  Once, Acca would have swung from his horse as lithely as a boy an
d come striding to those watching with all the spirit of a man who has just won three duels on the cloak. But now, older, with his hair near as much grey as gold, he eased himself from the saddle. On foot, Acca held to his saddle for a moment, as he made sure he could stand. Only then did he let go and make the courtesy to the queen.

  That at least was done, Aidan saw, with all the flamboyance of old. Acca had an audience and he was going to play to it.

  “O queen, I come bearing tidings from his majesty, our king.”

  But, unfortunately for Acca, Eanflæd was not inclined to let him drag out the message giving.

  “Yes, yes. Tell me, what news? Is he well? Has he found Oswine? I see no signs of battle on the men with you.”

  Acca, unable to refrain, sighed. News, properly told, required preparation, teasing, riddling and revealing. It seemed, though, the queen did not want it properly told, but simply related. For that, any fool messenger with ample memory and no wit would have sufficed. But no, the king had chosen the scop, and now he had to give the message like an ordinary messenger. However, Acca knew that such were the indignities that attended his calling.

  “Yes, the king is well. Yes, he found Oswine. You see no sign of battle because there was none. Oswine disbanded his army and fled from us.”

  Eanflæd relaxed with the first relief. Her husband lived. But there was the other fear that had been gnawing at her heart, and now it surged anew.

  “You say there was no battle. Has the king taken Oswine hostage then?”

  “No.” Acca shook his head and this time there was no artifice to his sigh. “Oswine was betrayed to us by his warmaster. Æthelwin rode to where the Godfriend was to be found and killed him there.”

  He did not think he had the strength left to him, yet Aidan, hearing his fear made word, groaned, and all heard his pain. The queen, for her part, did not hear, for hearing the news her face had blanched.

  “He murdered him,” she whispered.

  And though Acca would have denied it, he could not.

  “The – the king asks you to join him, and swiftly. He has summoned the witan of Deira to hear whom he wishes to be their king.”