Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  “Until the serpent rises,” said Coifi.

  “Until that day,” agreed Wihtrun. “But so long as men stand fast beside their gods, that day may long be postponed. Help us stand firm, Coifi. Tell where we may find your lord – for without him, and his protection, this new way will quickly wither and die.”

  “I – I…” Coifi’s eyes darted into the west, to where the sun was setting. And though the mist of unseeing veiled the distance, he saw the red that stained the sky and knew that it was blood.

  “I will show where you may find him,” said Coifi. “But is that all your king requires? Does he wish no other knowledge?”

  “He would know where the other members of the king’s family may be found. For it is the High King’s wish to destroy the Idings, to wipe their blood from this middle-earth, that the old ways may return.”

  “Would the High King destroy women too? And children?”

  “That their blood line fail: yes.”

  Coifi shook his head. “That is not the true way of kings.”

  But Wihtrun held up his hand. “That which a man may not do, a god may.”

  Coifi looked into his memory. “It is true some men name Woden the Slayer. But I had not thought the killing included children.”

  “Men also name Woden the Revenge Taker. By the actions of the Idings, the Lord of Battles has been displaced in men’s hearts; the sweet sacrifices that filled this land with their smoke, reaching to high heaven, have been quenched. Now, the High King shall take vengeance on the father of the faithless.” Wihtrun grasped Coifi’s hand. “Help us root out this viper’s nest.”

  “What would you have of me?”

  “We know where Oswiu’s sister lives, in her house upon the rocky head north of Bamburgh. But what of the rest of his blood line? Where are they?”

  “There are few left, save those that remain with the king. His daughter, you know, has wed the Red Hand. Would the High King slay the wife of his son?”

  “The son who ever delays to join his father, with one excuse after another? Penda has other sons, and worthier. Once the king of Bernicia is put down, the Red Hand may find his hand wiped clean.”

  “The king’s nephew marches with you. His mother died some years ago. His sons fight alongside him. Who else would you know of?”

  “There is also the mother of the woman who married the Red Hand. The High King has heard tell that she lives in the house established by the king’s sister. Is this true?”

  Coifi stared at the priest of the old gods in front of him. The setting sun cast its blood light upon his face. “Yes. She lives there,” he said.

  Wihtrun smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Surely the king’s nephew has already told you?”

  “There are some things that are better asked twice.”

  “The holy house where they live is far from here. It would be no easy march to reach.”

  “Mayhap far by land. But not so far by river and sea.”

  Coifi nodded, his face blank. “That is clever. They look not to the sea for threat, but only to news of what happens elsewhere in this land – sea travellers are always welcomed.”

  “The High King has already sent his men forth. The king of Bernicia shall soon know this is a war like none he has ever faced before.”

  “What will happen to the king’s nephew – when this is all over?”

  “The High King is faithful to those who serve him well.” Wihtrun looked hard at Coifi. “When there is a new king upon the throne in Bernicia, there will be need of a priest there, to re-establish the ways of our fathers among the people. It were better it was a man known to them already, one whom they trust.”

  Coifi nodded. He said no word but pointed back towards the camp. “Although my eyes grow weak, my ears still retain their sharpness. My friend has not forgotten me. He has returned.”

  *

  Acca lay the chest on the ground in front of the assembled kings and thegns. He looked around, and saw all of them, the gold lust lighting their eyes, staring at the chest by his feet. But then he looked to the judgement seat and saw Penda, his black eye looking not at the chest but at the man who had brought it.

  As he had carried the chest into the camp, Acca had planned how he was going to tease the greed of the kings, how he would describe the richly worked gold, the cunning of the silversmiths. But now, seeing the black eye glitter from the shadows, the words he had thought of dried in his mouth and would not come. Instead, Acca simply bent down and opened the chest.

  Many of the kings, and most of the thegns, gasped. But Penda did not even look down.

  “The gift of my lord, King Oswiu!” Acca let the gold light, bathing his face and body, speak its spell into the hearts of the watching men. And it did.

  One of the men, Æthelhere, king of the East Angles, stepped forward.

  “This is a mighty gift, lord,” he said. “I have not seen its like before.” He glanced around and saw, in slight nods and the blinking of eyes, confirmation of what he spoke in the faces of those who listened. Emboldened, he continued. “With so much given to us, mayhap it were best to take what is given – for to make war is ever to risk everything upon a man falling in the shieldwall.” This time, the nods were supported by some murmurs. “It is, as I said, a mighty gift, lord.”

  “You are right.”

  At Penda’s words, whispers ran around the watching, listening men.

  “It is indeed a mighty gift.” Penda looked to Acca. “Tell me, scop, how many days did the Iding take to gather this great gift? Three? Four?”

  Acca shifted upon his feet, unsure of what to say.

  Penda looked to the kings waiting upon his words. “Think well on this. If the Iding could gather so much in so short a time, how much more may he gather if he be given longer? And what might we find when we enter his kingdom? I have seen the splendour of the palace of the Idings at Ad Gefrin; I have seen the height of the walls at Bamburgh. More gold and more silver than any king dreamed of might be hidden behind those walls, or beneath the palace.” Penda rose from the judgement seat and started towards Acca. “If the Iding would buy peace with me, let him pay the price.” He put his foot against the chest and kicked it over, spilling the gold and silver out upon the earth. “This is but the start. If the Iding will buy peace, tell him that it will cost him everything: all that he has. Tell the Iding that, scop. Ask him if he is willing to pay so much to save his throne – and his life.”

  Acca made to answer, but Penda held up his hand.

  “There is no more to say. Return to the Iding with my message. If he would answer, tell him to make it soon. We march into his kingdom with the new day.” The king started to turn away, then stopped. “Oh, and tell the Iding one more thing: his priest is staying with me.”

  Acca stared at Penda. “Bishop Finan? He is here?”

  “No. The priest of the gods of our fathers.”

  “Coifi?” Acca looked around wildly, searching for sight of the old priest. “But we came as messengers, under the flag of truce.”

  “You think I am forcing him to stay? No – ask him. He stays by his own will.” Penda looked round himself, searching among the gathered men for a face. “Wihtrun. Fetch the Iding’s priest, that he may tell the truth of this to the scop. But see that the scop leaves before the night has fallen. I would not have him here on the morrow.”

  Penda turned to go.

  “But what about the gold?” asked Æthelhere, king of the East Angles. “What will you do with that?”

  Penda did not even look round. “Share it among yourselves,” he said.

  Later, as he hurried back to King Oswiu, Acca remembered well what he saw then: the kings of the land fighting over spilled gold and silver as if they were boys tussling in a field. Only the stricture that Penda insisted upon, that no one bear sword in his presence, prevented the brawl ending with several of the thrones of the land vacant.

  But even such a sight did little to distract Acca from what Pen
da had told him. He looked, through the heaving scrum of men, for some sight of Wihtrun. But the priest found him first, pulling his arm and turning him so that he faced Coifi. The old priest was twitching and his eyes were rolling, as they did before a seizure took him and his spirit went wandering.

  “Here, ask him if he stays by his own will,” said Wihtrun.

  “Is it true?” Acca took hold of Coifi’s thin shoulders. “Is it true?” Under his hands, he could feel the old man’s bones shaking. Coifi’s eyes began to roll upwards. “No! Stop! Tell me, is it true?”

  But Coifi’s eyes rolled white. His trembling muscles suddenly went still, and he slumped, as limp as cloth, in Acca’s hands. So sudden was the cutting of the cords that held his muscles that Acca, holding him, was pulled off balance and, as Coifi fell, he fell on top of him. So bony was the old priest that his body made no cushion beneath him, but rather it seemed that he fell upon a bag of sticks and stones.

  Upon the floor, the muscles began to shake once more as the old man’s back arched. But as his back arched, his arms flexed, tightening around the scop, pulling him back as he tried to get up, pulling his head close to Coifi’s drooling mouth.

  “Penda sends a boat to Æbbe’s house.”

  The message was drool covered, flecked into Acca’s ear as he struggled to get free, but he heard it. Through the shouts of the brawl and the noise of the camp, and Coifi’s own grunts and squeals, he heard it and knew what to do.

  Chapter 7

  Oswiu drove his horse into the rain. The summer had broken into storm and he rode into it, the rain stinging his face, the thunder ringing about his ears. Lightning flashes, so frequent as to almost make a new sun under the overpowering gloom of the storm clouds, lit the roiling darkness above him. Wiping the rain from his eyes, he glanced back. They were still following. Oswiu rode at the head of a small group of men, galloping as fast as their horses and the storm allowed, across the farms and marshes that ran east of the hills and west of the sea, to his sister’s holy house at Coldingham.

  It was hard to tell in this storm light how much of the day was left, but it could not be long before the sun set behind the walls of cloud. Then the night would come and, if the lightning abated, it would be dark indeed. But he could not wait, even were the ground in front of his horse invisible.

  Acca had arrived at the royal estate at Wooler as one dead and lashed to his animal. The horse was worse; when the gate warden lifted Acca from its back the beast fell dead.

  “The king, the king.”

  The king was brought to him, and Acca told Oswiu that Penda had sent men by boat to the holy house at Coldingham, to take from there Æbbe and Rhieienmelth. He told how Penda held Coifi from returning home, but how the priest, feigning seizure, gave Acca the news of the raid Penda sent against the king’s kin. He told how the treasure had bought them no time.

  Acca fell back upon the bed, unable for once to speak further.

  “You have done well, Acca,” said the king. He took the scop’s hand. “Know this: Penda thinks wrongly if he believes he may take my sister Æbbe from the holy house, for she has gone to visit the house at Ebchester. It is a wild and lonely place and they will not find her there. Now rest.”

  “But what of Rhieienmelth? Is she not there?” asked Acca.

  “Yes,” said Oswiu, “she is there. Where I sent her.” He leaned down and kissed Acca on the brow. “Take the rest you may, friend. I have some hard riding to do.”

  Ahlfrith had wanted to go. “She is my mother!” he had said. “I must go to her.”

  But Oswiu, already arming himself, shook his head. “I need you to gather all you may and take them, by secret quiet ways, up into the hills. If the tale Acca tells be anywhere near the truth, if we had ten times the number of men, we might not stand before the army Penda has assembled.” Oswiu drove his knuckles into his forehead. “It seems that everything I try goes amiss: the kings I brought to the new life Penda has killed; he has burst the net I spun around him.”

  “Then spin a new net, Father. Let me go to Mother.”

  But Oswiu shook his head. “Your mother is there because I listened to a man’s lies. Now I, who threw her away before, must go to her, to save her if I may.

  “Then let us both go,” said Ahlfrith.

  “No. You know one must stay and lead the people.” Oswiu took his son’s arm. “I will not fail her again.”

  Ahlfrith stared at his father’s face, then slowly nodded. “Very well.”

  “Thank you.” Oswiu let Ahlfrith go and continued arming himself, belting his mail about the waist. “Send messengers to every thegn you can: warn them of the storm and tell them to fly before it. We may outlast it; we cannot outfight it.”

  Ahlfrith had turned to go, then stopped. With his back still turned, he asked, “Do you want me to tell the queen where you go?”

  Oswiu shook his head. “No. I will tell her.”

  He had found Eanflæd with her women. She was weaving, making a cloth, white and pure, for the baby that was swelling her belly. Hearing him enter, she had looked up from her work, her mouth still pursed in concentration, and a smile had begun to form upon her lips. Hanging on to his horse as he drove through the storm, Oswiu remembered that well. She had smiled when she looked up to see him.

  But then, seeing the expression upon the king’s face, the smile became grave. Eanflæd looked round her women.

  “Leave us,” she said. She glanced back to her husband. “The king wishes speech with me.”

  Oswiu stood aside as the women filed from the building. In this place, Eanflæd preferred to do her weaving, and the other tasks appointed to women, in a house set to the side of the great hall, but sited so that it caught the best of the sun while avoiding the worst of the wind – the hall here managed the opposite feat, being frequently draughty and always gloomy. It was not one of the estates the king favoured, but it was necessary to stop here, as elsewhere in his kingdom, to render judgement in disputes, to remind outlaws and those others who would prey on the men and women who laboured that there was a king in this land who would wreak vengeance on behalf of those who were ill used, and to collect and eat the food renders due to the king and his warriors from the people of the area.

  When the women were out of the room – and after he had checked that they had moved far enough away that they could not hear what was being said – Oswiu turned to the queen.

  “Rhieienmelth is in danger. Penda sends men, by boat, to take her. If I go quickly, I may save her.”

  Eanflæd nodded, looked down at the hands folded in her lap. They rested now upon the curve of her belly, where the child neared term.

  “Might not Ahlfrith go in your place?” she asked.

  “He wished to.”

  “Then let him.”

  “I may not.” Oswiu stared at his wife, but she did not raise her eyes to him. He saw her smooth her hands over her belly, as women did, without knowing, when they neared term. “Is it long?” he asked.

  “No,” said Eanflæd, “not long.”

  “If it were anyone else, I would send Ahlfrith. But I put her there after I listened to a man’s lies. I will not send another to make good my mistake.”

  Now Eanflæd looked up at her husband. “Wish you that she was still your wife?”

  “No!” said Oswiu. He raised his hand, touched a finger to Eanflæd’s cheek. “Not now.”

  Eanflæd took his hand and, turning her face, pressed it to her lips. “Go,” she said. She looked up at him. “But do not die!”

  Oswiu smiled. “Not if my will prevails.”

  Eanflæd pushed him away from her. “Hurry, before my will fails.”

  But as Oswiu went from the door, she called after him: “Be quick.”

  He had been. He had driven them all day, without rest or ease, riding north and east, taking the old trackways that ran north of the Great Wall of the emperors. As they had ridden, the storm had built behind them, the dark banks of cloud outpacing them despite t
he efforts of horse and man. First, the day had darkened, as if the sun was setting, then night itself seemed to fall, so thick was the darkness under the cloud. The very hair on the backs of Oswiu’s arms had stood, such was the tension in the waiting air. Then the storm broke, as if the world ended. But though it seemed the great wolf had broken its chain and eaten the sun, and the serpent had risen from the sea, yet they rode on, the horses too exhausted by their efforts to summon the energy to panic at the storm.

  Wiping the rain from his eyes, Oswiu looked ahead. He thought he heard the sound of dogs baying, as they did upon the hunt. But who would hunt in such a storm?

  The stories of the Horned Hunter came to his mind. Pity the poor man whom that hunter’s hounds scented: they would run him down, though he fled to the world’s ending. If that hunt were abroad this day, then he must indeed hurry. Oswiu urged his horse on, but the beast, though willing, was all but spent. It managed no extra speed at his urging, but continued on, rolling up the ground under its hooves.

  The sound came again. A wild baying. And it came from ahead.

  It seemed as if the storm was slackening. The lightning had retreated to the clouds above, lighting them from within, but no longer striking down to the ground. Even the rain had slackened, so his eyes no longer filled with water when he looked ahead.

  There, where the land rose up to a great hump. That was the dragon’s head where the holy house lay, surely? Then he saw, rising over the dragon’s head, the silhouette of buildings against the momentary glow of the lightning-filled clouds.

  For a moment, Oswiu thought of slowing their approach, but the sound of hounds baying again reached him through the storm and, rising in the saddle, he waved his riders on as the horses, with one final surge, galloped up onto the rise of land that jutted into the sea, and along its ridge to the holy house, its whitewashed walls now clear before them.