Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “I – I did not mean the Red Hand, but Wulfhere,” said Wihtrun.

  Penda nodded. “He would be a sacrifice, it is true. But Woden does not ask blood of me, for I have given the Lord of the Slain lives and to his fill in my battles. No, the God of Victory asks my dearest possession of me: he asks my fortune.” And Penda held out his hand.

  Wihtrun looked at the hand, then back to the king. “Dice?”

  Penda closed his fingers over the dice. “My fortune,” he said. “Woden is subtle and full of guile. These I would give to no man – no, not if he offered me all the treasure of this world. But now the War Father asks that which I would not give.” Penda looked to his priest. “Should I give him that which he asks?”

  Wihtrun looked upon his king and saw him holding fortune in his hand as gift to men and to the gods, and he fell upon his knees before him.

  “Lord, I had not known you before. I thought it but the mark of your favour. I beg your pardon.”

  Penda looked down at the priest scrabbling on the ground in front of him. Wihtrun was pulling his nails through the dry earth atop the mound, digging it up and throwing the dust over his face and hair. The king, for his part, had not the faintest idea what the priest was speaking of, but he looked down and gave no sign of his lack of understanding. He waited for Wihtrun to speak further.

  “Lord, you are right: strike me down for my blindness.” Wihtrun leaned back upon his haunches and ripped his tunic open so that his thin, pale chest was exposed. “For you were ever before me and I did not see you; I sought answer to my prayers and you were ever beside me. It is only just that you strike down so blind a servant. But if, in your mercy, you should let me live, I would ever serve you now that I know you have heard and answered my prayers.” Wihtrun stared up at the king and his eyes were shining. “My lord and my god.”

  And Penda understood.

  He began to reach out his hand to raise up the priest and tell him his mistake, but then he stopped. If one as close to him as Wihtrun, a man who had seen him bleed and sicken and heal, believed him to be Woden, then how many others, who knew only the tales of Penda, the One Eye, might believe such a thing? And men who believed their king a god would be a mighty army indeed – for had not the emperors of old been worshipped as gods and their armies had brought the whole world under their dominion? Such a belief, widely spread, would be valuable to him, more valuable than any treasure. More valuable, perhaps, even than his fortune.

  Mayhap that which the god proposed to give in exchange for his fortune was worth it after all.

  “That you should come among us…” Wihtrun looked up at Penda, his eyes shining with the brimming tears of hope realized beyond hope. “That you should come among us to restore the old ways among men who have fallen away from them; that is beyond any hope, any prayer I offered you, lord.”

  Penda put his hand on Wihtrun’s head. “I would that you not speak of this,” he said.

  The priest bowed his head. “I will speak of it to no one,” Wihtrun said.

  *

  “Would you have me bring you someone?”

  The voice was familiar, the question less so. Cynewisse, so sensitive to her husband’s desires, did not normally have to ask if he wanted to slake the desires of the body. Penda seldom chose, now, to slake those desires on his queen, for the marks of childbearing lay heavy upon her, and the first frosts of ageing had touched her hair. It had been four years since Cynewisse last gave birth to a child, and that, a girl, had lived only a short time. There was still chance that she might produce another child, so sometimes the king would have her stay with him in his chamber, but that chance lessened with each passing month.

  “No.” Penda gestured to the queen. “Stay with me.”

  He saw how her face brightened at his command. But he desired something other from her than the chance for another son.

  Cynewisse came to him and began to unfasten the buckle that held her dress. But Penda put his hand over hers.

  “I would speak with you here, where we may not be heard.”

  The queen stopped, her hand still upon the buckle, but her eyes upon her husband, quick with understanding. “There are strange rumours,” she said. Cynewisse looked at her husband questioningly, for she saw the knowledge in his eyes. “You know of these?”

  “Yes, I know.” Penda smiled. “If you would have the whole world know something, then tell it as secret to a priest.” The king’s smile grew broader. “It has taken only half a day for my secret to be told round my hall. In a week, the whole kingdom will know; in a month, every kingdom.”

  Cynewisse stared at Penda with eyes that, to the king’s surprise, were suddenly questioning. “Is it true?”

  Penda thought to answer, then seeing the doubt still upon his wife’s face made answer into question. “What think you? You, who have known me longest.”

  “I? I think you are king, High King.” Cynewisse looked at Penda through narrowed eyes. “The father of my sons. But does not every royal house claim descent from the All-Father? Then should I wonder that men might think you the Lord of the Slain, walking among the living? For me, it is no great surprise.”

  Penda looked at his wife. She returned his gaze.

  Even she believed the truth of it.

  “Very well. But it is of other matters I would speak with you.”

  Cynewisse nodded and Penda saw at once that she understood.

  “Peada?”

  Penda nodded. “Word came to me, this day only. He has married the daughter of Oswiu and taken oath to the god of the Northumbrians. Already, he has returned to his halls amid the Middle Angles, and is gathering men to him, giving the gold that his father-in-law gave to him.” The High King looked to his wife, and the mother of his son. “Think you he will rise against me?”

  Cynewisse closed her eyes. A shudder ran through her body. “That I should see such a day.” She opened her eyes and looked to her husband. “Will you kill him?”

  Penda looked, with interest, at his wife. That even she thought he might kill his son told well the fear he held over his people. And how much more, now that men suspected he might gather the slain to his hall? But Cynewisse at least could be trusted to hold tight to her tongue.

  “No,” he said. “No, I will not kill him. A wolf does not kill its own pups, nor does a raven cast its young from the nest. But if he takes up arms against me… Ah, that is a different question. And that is the question I ask of you. Do you think Peada will rise against me?”

  At Penda’s first answer, the tension that held the queen in its quivering grip relaxed, and great was the relief that showed upon her face. Then, at his question, she took thought, searching through memory for answer.

  Slowly, the queen shook her head. “He will not rise against you. Peada hates you, but he fears you more. He hopes, in his heart, that you will strike against him, that he might face you, but he fears that also and he knows his fear to be greater than his hope, and hates you the more for it.”

  Penda nodded. “So think I also. But in this at least Peada has shown wit: his wife. Ahlflæd I remember well, from when her brother was foster son with us. She was a fierce girl then, and a wild one, but she had great spirit and courage. It is no wonder that Peada was drawn to her – I would have given her to him if I could. But now he has bought her himself. Think you Peada has wit enough to make such a match?”

  “Not on his own.”

  “I think likewise. But now that match is made, there is one in his bed who might counsel him to do what he would not do otherwise.”

  “I too saw much of Ahlflæd when she was younger,” said Cynewisse. “Such a girl will not learn to bend a man with wiles, but will tell him to his face what she desires. But Peada has never been one to bend to the will of another.” The queen looked to her husband as she said this.

  Penda sighed. “It is the lot of the father to bend the son to his will, to break him as a horse is broken to bridle and to whip.”

  “You have neve
r wielded whip against Wulfhere, nor sought to bridle him.”

  “He has not needed it! You must see this also: Wulfhere has wit and courage. Peada has no wit, and his courage is the courage of the bully, and most of it comes from beer. He ever reeked of drink before battle, even the smallest skirmish against some band of brigands.”

  “It was not the battle he feared, but your eye upon him,” said Cynewisse.

  “If not my eye, then whose? But if he will not strike against me, will he stand with me?”

  “No. He would never stand with you, not unless you went to him and begged him. Then he would stand with you, and gladly, against all the thrones of this middle-earth and against the powers of heaven, and against all giants and monsters and fell creatures. If you would ask him, then he would stand with you, lord.”

  Penda smiled. “I know it well. But a father shall not ask aught of his son – and particularly not when I have other, and better, sons.”

  “Wulfhere is too young to lead the wolves,” said Cynewisse.

  “But he is not too young to hunt with them,” said Penda. “And already they love him, as they never loved Peada, for he always turned the hunt to his own glory, where Wulfhere is content to let the hunt bring glory to all the pack – and thus the men love him the more.”

  “Peada knows that,” said Cynewisse. “He knows that too well.”

  “If he would outdo his brother then he must outmatch him.”

  “That is what he seeks to do, I think.”

  “He shall have chance,” Penda said. “I see clearly whose face lies behind this and who seeks to suborn my son from me. Ever he has sought to surround me with enemies, to east and south, that I might not turn the full weight of my arms upon him. He thinks himself secure now he has made Peada into a hedge between us, and one that I may only cross at risk of going to war with my own son. His strategy has been laid clear to me: like a master of hounds, seeking to bring down a boar, he has filled the boar’s valley with traps and blocked the escape with his hounds. But the boar has wiles of its own, and such a strategy is only as strong as the least of the traps he has laid. And now the boar will test his strength against the traps, and his tusks against the hounds, and his wit against the master of hounds. Then we shall see who is the trapper and who is trapped.”

  Penda stood up. “Oswiu has tried to take from me that which is nearest to me. He took my eye and he has suborned my son. Now I shall take everything from him.” He looked to Cynewisse. “Everything.”

  *

  Penda rode through the silver night. He rode alone, for he rode to meet the god. The door warden had risen as he came to the door but, seeing the hooded one, the door warden had fallen back before him and, all but gibbering with fear, had pulled the door open and even more swiftly closed it behind him. Penda left his men asleep in the hall and a girl upon his bed. Only Cynewisse had woken at his rising, standing from where she lay outside the chamber, but he had silenced her with a gesture of quiet, and she had stood aside, waiting upon her lord’s will.

  The moon lit his way. It lay a silver path over the land, marking the way to the grove where Wihtrun made sacrifices to the gods, and farmers hung gifts for harvest, and wives made offerings for birth and health and life.

  The ring of posts tied with the small offerings of poor men marked the line where the middle-earth ended and the high heaven of the gods began. When they crossed the boundary, men might walk over grass and earth and under trees, as in the middle-earth, yet they walked then under a different sky and beneath a different sun.

  Reaching the boundary markers, Penda pulled his horse to a halt.

  The night was very still.

  Dismounting, Penda stood beside the beast. Despite the ride, the horse remained unmoving, neither tossing its head nor shifting upon its hooves. Penda ran his hand down the animal’s flank. In this stillness, he felt for the horse’s breath, and its heart, lest he find all the world had stopped beneath the moon. But his fingers told that the horse yet breathed and its heart still beat. The world lived, and he in it.

  Penda put a hand to his belt and felt for the pouch. Within its smooth leather, he felt the two stones of his fortune.

  He had come to lay his fortune on the altar of the god.

  For a moment without time, Penda stood poised outside the grove. He looked at the pole nearest to him. The moon lit the offerings tied to the pole: corn dollies, dollies of barley and rye and grass, the mean offerings of poor folk asking more children of the gods, that they might have the hands to plough and till and harvest, to mend and weave and make.

  Poor offerings? He had two stones.

  Woken from his stillness, Penda stepped forward and crossed the boundary between this middle-earth and the high heaven of the gods. Taking the pouch from his belt, Penda took out the dice.

  The altar, a dark wood table, stood before the tree of the world, the ash that held the heavens from the middle-earth and whose roots held the underworld from the light. Although the altar stood clear in the moonlight, yet it stood dark. The smell of it told why: the throat clutch of blood spilled in sacrifice. The wood was stained with darkness, beyond even the silver touch of the full moon to lighten.

  Penda went to the altar.

  Standing before it, he looked about him. This high heaven of the gods looked no different to his eyes than the middle-earth of men.

  Penda tossed the dice upon the altar. The stones rattled upon the hard wood.

  The night breathed in.

  The dice rolled to a stop. “There, you have it. My fortune. I give it to you.”

  The world exhaled.

  Penda felt the mist rising about his feet, reaching up to his ankles and shins, its grey fingers winding upwards.

  Penda stepped forward. He looked down at the dice. Seeing the throw, he nodded, then turned and walked from the sacred grove, from the high heaven of the gods, into the middle-earth of a still, quiet night. He mounted his horse and urged it back towards his hall.

  The sacrifice was made and accepted.

  Behind him, upon the altar, two eyes stared up at the black sky.

  Chapter 3

  “The High King would speak with you.”

  The messenger stood before Œthelwald, the king of Deira, in his hall at Beverley. The king, for his part, looked warily at the messenger, and just as warily at the thegns and counsellors who stood around him. Only the warriors who had followed him from the lands of the north, where he had ridden with Talorcan, were friends of old. The thegns of Deira were still mostly unknown to him – and he to them.

  But then Œthelwald, son of Oswald, had not been king in Deira long. And while the witan had acclaimed him king, there had been some who whispered against his imposition and some who held silent but fingered their swords – and these Œthelwald was the more wary of.

  “The High King would speak with me…” Œthelwald rose from his judgement seat. Let the men who doubted his throne-worthiness hear this. “Why does Penda, king of the Mercians, wish to speak to me?” Œthelwald asked.

  “The High King would give you greetings… and counsel. For there are many who seek the ear of a king new come to the throne, but some among them will speak with honey tongues that have been dipped in bitter poison. The High King would not have you hear lies spoken of him by those who have causes in their heart above that of Deira. Therefore, he would meet you, one king speaking to another, so that you may know the truth of him, and learn the falsehood of others.”

  Œthelwald nodded. He looked round the ring of counsellors. Some of them inclined their heads at the messenger’s words, others gave no expression to the thoughts of their hearts, while one or two shook their heads at what he had said. But there was no counsel from any of them. So Œthelwald turned back to the messenger. He was, Œthelwald saw, unusually young to be entrusted with such a message, a man who had barely left boyhood. Still, he carried himself well, with the dignity due a messenger from the High King.

  “In this realm there are many who w
ill speak cold words of the king of the Mercians, for he has treated Deira harshly. For my part, I have reason enough to treat ill the king of the Mercians – reason you know full well: he killed my father. Some will say that this invitation be no honest parley but a ruse, for we have heard strange tales of the king of the Mercians. What say you, messenger of the king?”

  “I say the High King speaks to all men according to their worth: to he who is true, he speaks truth, but he who is without truth he answers in wiles such that no man might escape them.” The messenger regarded Œthelwald full and frankly. “It is true, he killed your father. Penda is willing to pay the blood price for the killing, to end the enmity between our houses, for he is a man of rare generosity, a king over kings. Are you a man of truth, King of Deira? If so, you have nothing to fear from the High King.”

  At the news that Penda was willing to pay Œthelwald the blood price for his father, many whispers went through the hall. Such payment would be great indeed, and Œthelwald was no less aware of this than any of his thegns. But first he must answer the messenger. Œthelwald waited for the whispering to die down, then gave answer, but he uttered it as much for the benefit of the men in the hall.

  “You will find I speak truly, messenger. But like your king, I too answer like with like: honesty with truth, lies with anger, treachery with vengeance. Still, it is true, I am but new come to the throne and I must needs lack the wit that has sustained the High King upon his throne these many years.” Œthelwald turned to his gathered thegns. “What say you, men of Deira? As men of experience, what answer shall I give?”

  Slowly, the thegns gave their counsel, some saying that it was an honour for the High King to speak to one new come to a throne, others urging caution, for it might be that Penda would impose a different king on Deira, one of his own choosing.

  “Say you aught to this?” Œthelwald asked the messenger.

  “I say, if the High King’s word and the High King’s pledge be not sufficient for the men of Deira and their king, then they scarcely merit to be called men and he is too craven to be king.”