Oswiu, seeing the fresh surge of floodwater, grabbed Ecgfrith’s hand and began to make his way towards where he could see Ahlfrith and his men, torches burning, sweeping through the ragged defence of the guards and into the camp. Holding his sword ready in one hand, while the other held his son, Oswiu made a cautious way onwards. Men and women, and some children, streamed past him clutching the hastily grabbed remnants of the season’s plunder. He saw, as if caught by the freeze flash of lightning, bags bumping against a warrior’s knees as he dropped his sword rather than leave what he carried; a bucket, held to a woman’s breast as tightly as a baby but filled with wool for weaving; brooches and buckles and rings festooning a man’s arms so that no flesh showed through. Some of those fleeing carried treasure enough to buy a throne; others, clutching their trove just as firmly, had not enough to buy a chicken: it seemed not to matter what they carried, only that they took something with them from the rout.
But the more they carried, the heavier they were. Oswiu saw one man fall into a flood channel, but rather than let go of the sack he was carrying he attempted to find purchase and climb out: the water carried him away, still clutching the sack as if it were more dear to him than life.
The floodwaters were rising and Oswiu felt them pulling at his legs as he splashed between tents, looking for higher ground and heading towards where he could see the purple and gold banner of the Idings.
Purple and gold. He could see colours. Oswiu looked east. The sun was rising over a world of water.
As Oswiu neared the banner, he saw that his men had put aside their torches and were wielding swords and spears now, driving what defenders there were before them or passing them by to ride in among the rout.
“To me, to me!” he yelled, waving his sword above his head to attract attention.
“Ahlfrith! Brother!” Ecgfrith added his own, highpitched yell to his father’s.
And they saw and they heard.
A hand pointed to them. The banner bearer, and the men beside him, rode towards where Oswiu waited, with his son by his side, amid the ruin of Penda’s camp.
Ahlfrith pulled his horse up in front of them. He pointed at the rout, at the men laden with plunder attempting to swim the river in their panic and being swept away, at the banners of kings that floated in the black water.
“You said you’d give a signal, Father, but I didn’t know you meant this. What did you do to them?”
Oswiu looked at his son. “I killed their god,” he said.
Chapter 15
Acca picked his way between the bodies. Men, women and some children lay scattered over the streaked and muddy ground left behind by the flood, their skin as pale as the sky. Others moved between the corpses, but they had come to rob the dead of anything left to them by the flood, while Acca sought only to find one man among the fallen: Coifi.
The flood had receded near as quickly as it had risen, but by the time it had withdrawn, well nigh all the great army Penda had led north was destroyed. Most had died while trying to swim the river, washed away by the flood or pulled down by the plunder they tried to carry across with them, but many had been killed in the crush around the bridge, trampled underfoot in the panic to get away. Acca had seen armies disintegrate before, but never had he seen anything to compare with this. A gut fear had seized all Penda’s army so that experienced warriors threw aside their swords and, while still weighed down by their armour, had flung themselves into the Winwæd in their desperation to get away. In the river, they drowned, their bodies floating downstream and then, as the river overflowed, carried with the outrush over the water meadows and pastures only to be left there, twisted and pale, when the flood withdrew. Among all the armies that had followed Penda, Acca had seen only one unaffected by the panic: as Ahlfrith’s riders swept through the outer reaches of the camp, he had seen a force of men draw away to a hillock some half a mile distant and remain there, watching and unmoving, as the slaughter unfolded before them. As the sun rose, Acca saw the boar banner of Deira flying above those men. Œthelwald had stood aside from the battle. He stood aside still, the boar banner dipped in acknowledgment of the victor, while Oswiu and his men scoured the field of slaughter searching for their wounded and despoiling the dead of their weapons.
Acca knew the king would have to deal with his nephew, but for the moment, that was no concern to him. As the last stragglers fled or, throwing down their weapons, sued for mercy, he was already off his horse, searching through the captives and the dead for Coifi.
“Do you know aught of the priest Coifi?” Acca asked one of the captives, a young man, sitting in the mud with his head bowed as his captors threw dice for his spear and his shield and his brooch. The man did not look up.
“Coifi.” Acca seized the captive’s hair and pulled his head back. “The priest. Have you seen him?”
The young man – Acca saw he was barely more than a boy – shook his head. “I – I do not know the name.”
“You will know him by sight if not name – he always wore a raven-feather cloak although, in these last years, there was more cloak than feather to it.”
“Oh, oh yes. Him.” The young man nodded. “I know him.” His head dipped again. “I ran away,” he muttered.
Acca pulled the boy’s head back again. “Do you know what happened to him?”
The boy stared up blankly. “To who?”
“To Coifi. The priest.” The boy still looked blank. “Raven-feather cloak.”
“Him. Oh yes. He fell in the river. He pulled the other priest with him.”
“Other priest. What other priest?”
“Wihtrun, the king’s priest. Queen Cynewisse called them to come. I was sent to get Wihtrun, but he wanted to bring the raven-feather priest too. I told Wihtrun to hurry, but he said he must get the raven-feather…”
“Coifi,” said Acca. “His name is Coifi.”
“Yes, get Coifi, so he woke him up, but I saw them fall in the river.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was dark, maybe I didn’t see right, but it was as if Coifi grabbed Wihtrun and pulled him into the river. I ran to try to save them, but the river had already taken them – and then I saw the fires start and the shouts that the king was dead. I – I don’t know what happened to me then. I – I just started running. The next thing I know, something hit me on the head.”
“Show me where you saw Coifi fall in the river.”
The young man pointed at his feet. They were tied together.
Acca looked round for the guards. “I’m taking this one,” he said, as he drew his seax and began cutting through the rope.
“Hang on,” said the guard. “He’ll fetch good silver, he will. I don’t reckon the king’ll be much pleased if you go off with his plunder just like that.”
Acca drew himself up – although that still left him half a head below the guard. “Do you know who I am?” he said.
The guard sighed. “The king’s scop. You don’t happen not to know my name, do you?”
“I know you. I know you well,” said Acca, “and if you don’t want your name sung with the cravens and the stand backs, then you’ll let me take this boy.”
“Right, right,” said the guard. “Just mind you bring him back. They’ll expect the same number as they left me with.”
Acca pulled the boy after him. “Come,” he said. “Show me where you saw Coifi fall.”
The guard watched them head towards the river. Puzzlement slowly spread across his face. “Hey, you never said my name,” he called after them.
“That’s because I don’t know it,” Acca called back, “and I hope I never will.” He pulled the boy on and pointed. “Now, where was it?”
The river churned again within its banks. The boy looked up and down it, searching his memory against what he saw. Then he turned, helplessly, to Acca.
“It all looks different now,” he said.
“If there is one thing I know, it is how to remember,” said Acca. �
�Now… what is your name?”
“Hutha,” said the boy.
“Now, Hutha, clear your mind of what you see now. Close your eyes. Think where you had come from, how many steps and what you passed. Then remember again what you saw when Coifi went into the river. There must have been a gap in the sedge there for him to pull Wihtrun in. How big a gap? You ran to the bank. What did you see on the far bank? Now, open your eyes and look again.”
Hutha opened his eyes. He looked upriver and downriver, searching.
“There,” he said, pointing downriver. “I think it was there.”
They ran to where he pointed.
“Yes, yes, it was here,” said Hutha.
But there was no sign of the priest.
“He’d have been washed downstream,” said Hutha. “The river was flowing fast.”
“Help me search for him,” said Acca.
They made their way downstream, moving between the debris of the camp and washed-up bodies. Many of the bodies were naked, their clothes stripped from them first by the flood and then by the human scavengers who had descended upon the battlefield even while men were still fighting. When they came to such a corpse, if it was lying face down, Hutha would turn it over so that Acca might see the face. But they were all unknown to him, and soon they came to the ends of the camp.
Acca stopped and looked ahead. The river ran on eastwards, sullen and brown, but there was no sign of flooding here, away from the bridge.
“He must have been carried downriver,” Acca said. “He’ll be riding the whale road back to the lands of our fathers.”
But Hutha pointed ahead. “See those willows and alders? I think one has fallen into the river. Anything floating downriver would like as not have been caught by it.”
“The flood was too great; it would have carried him away,” said Acca.
“It is only a few steps, master. It would be a shame not to look.”
“Oh, very well.” Acca had an abstracted air. He was already composing his lament for Coifi in his mind. “Lead on.”
Hutha made his way through the slippery rushes and sedge towards the bank of willow and alder. The last straggly leaves of the year clung to the trees. Trailing branches hung down into the river, screening the bank from view. One alder, its roots undercut by the current, had half fallen into the river, only to jam into the river bed and hold fast. Hutha scrambled over the trunk, slick and slimy with mud, and stopped.
“Master,” he called. “Master, I think you should see this.”
“Have you found something?” Acca called. Faced with slipping and sliding over flood-soaked deadfall, he had let Hutha go ahead. Besides, he was halfway through composing his lament.
“Master, come and see,” called Hutha.
“Oh, all right,” said Acca. Holding the song in memory, he clambered over the trunk and pushed his way through the screen of willow branches. “What is… oh.”
There, squatting beside the river, was a thin, pale figure. For a moment Acca could not tell who it was, then the figure moved, its head snapping one way then another. The movement told him who it was.
“Coifi.”
The old priest did not look round. There, in the trail of willow in water…
Acca sagged. Relief vied with a fleeting, but intense, disappointment that he would not be able to sing the lament he had composed.
“You’re all right,” he said. “I – I didn’t recognize you at first without your cloak.”
At that, Coifi looked down at himself – at his naked, scrawny chest – and shivered.
“The river took it,” he said. “Weregild for my life.”
Acca sighed. “I should have saved myself the worry. I might have known you’d be somewhere, looking for the working of wyrd.”
“I have a new name for wyrd now,” said Coifi. “One Aidan told me: providence.”
Chapter 16
“Before you render judgement, uncle, think on this: I did not betray you to Penda when I might have, nor did I take part in the battle, but took my men away and awaited the outcome here.”
Œthelwald, king of Deira, stood beneath the boar banner of his throne, facing his uncle.
Oswiu, with Ahlfrith and their bodyguards, had ridden across the mud-streaked water meadows, their horses’ hooves splashing through the remains of the flood, to where his nephew waited. Œthelwald had been flying the flag of truce all morning, but Oswiu had dispatched a messenger, telling him to wait, while he and Ahlfrith saw to their wounded – precious few – and gathered the spoils of victory. They had set the wagoners who had survived to dragging together what remained of Penda’s plunder, while the prisoners were set to work digging graves for the dead.
Only when that was all in hand did Oswiu, with his eldest son, ride to where his nephew waited on him.
“You call me uncle now,” said Oswiu, “but before, you were willing to drag me from my throne and despoil my land. Think me not rude if I call thee not nephew, but traitor.” The king stood beneath the purple and gold banner of Bernicia, the colours flying in the breeze.
Œthelwald shook his head. “I was ever a voice for you in Penda’s camp, uncle, arguing before the High King that we should withdraw even before you made payment.”
Oswiu shook his head. “You have the look of your father about you: seeing you, I see him again. But you have not the sound of him.” Oswiu sighed. “If you had but kept silence, then I would have thought better of you, for it would be as if Oswald stood before me again. But no, you chose to speak. Even in speech you might have won mercy, for it is true you kept peace when you might have betrayed me, and withdrew when you might have fought. If you had only told me what I know to be true: that you marched with Penda because you believed he must prevail and you would hold your throne, then I would have looked more kindly on you. But no, you lie, as you have ever lied to me.” Oswiu stared at the man in front of him, so like his brother. “Oswald did not lie.” He looked to his men. “Take him.”
“No, no wait!” cried Œthelwald as the men laid hold of him. “Don’t. Don’t do it, uncle.”
Oswiu held his hand up, staying his men.
“What do you think I’m going to do to you, Œthelwald?”
Œthelwald looked round wildly. His own men were backing off and showing no sign of coming to his aid. Œthelwald sagged in the grasp of the men holding him. He looked at his uncle.
“Put me to death,” he said. “It’s what I would do.”
“Then it is as well you have not long been king, for in truth you are not worthy of a throne. I am not going to kill you, nephew. My brother’s blood is in you and I will not shed it. No, I will find your blood its true home.” Oswiu smiled. “My brother always wished to lay aside the sword and be a monk. Now you will do it for him.” He looked to his men. “Take him to the holy house at Kirkdale. Tell the abbot he has a new monk and to mind this monk well.”
Oswiu watched his men drag Œthelwald to the horses.
“You know,” he said, watching the party of men leaving, “I’m going to have to find a new king for Deira. Someone loyal, someone who has remained faithful to me through everything. Someone I can trust.” He looked to Ahlfrith. “Do you know anyone?”
Chapter 17
“They’re coming! They’re coming!”
Eanflæd looked up from her weaving. Æbbe was rushing towards her and, in her hurry, she’d hitched her robe to her knees so that it would not trip her. Eanflæd got up. The weaving fell to the ground in front of her.
“They’re coming!”
Æbbe stopped in front of the queen, her face shining.
“You’re sure?” asked Eanflæd, taking hold of her shoulders.
“Yes, yes,” said Æbbe. “They ride behind the banner.”
“I – I must make myself ready,” said Eanflæd, suddenly nervous.
“Oh, don’t be silly,” said Æbbe, taking her hand. “Come on.”
Pulling the queen along, Æbbe brought her to the church. “We’ll wait
here,” she said, cocking her head to listen. “It won’t be long.”
It wasn’t.
The troop of riders appeared on the track, riding behind the purple and gold banner of the Idings, and swept into the holy house at Coldingham, passing between the sisters, who waved and cheered as they came.
Eanflæd peered at the approaching riders, trying to see past the banner bearer to those who rode behind him, but they were hidden. It was only when the banner bearer came to a halt, pulling his horse to one side, that she saw those she had been looking for.
“Mummy!”
The boy jumped from his horse and came running towards her, but just as he was about to leap upon her, Ecgfrith pulled himself to a halt and, looking up at the queen, made the courtesy.
“Oh, come here!” cried Eanflæd, and she swept the boy into her arms.
“Let go, Mummy! Let go,” said Ecgfrith. “The men will all see.” But in truth he did not struggle too hard to free himself from Eanflæd’s embrace.
“He was very brave.”
Eanflæd lifted her face from her son to see her husband looking upon her, smiling.
Ecgfrith pushed himself free.
“You should have seen it, Mummy – he killed Penda, straight through, like this!” And the boy, drawing his own sword, mimicked the fatal thrust.
Oswiu ruffled the boy’s hair. “Go and tell your aunt all about it,” he said. “She’s eager to know. I want to speak to your mother.”
Ecgfrith ran to Æbbe, waving his sword wildly as he demonstrated, with some embellishments, what had happened.
Eanflæd, seeing him, laughed. “I hope Æbbe will be careful. Ecgfrith might take out her eye, the way he’s swinging that sword.”
“She grew up with brothers swinging swords,” said Oswiu. “She will be fine.” He turned to his wife. “It is good to see you again, my queen.”
“And to see you, my husband.”
Oswiu pulled her towards him, and spoke so that no other might hear. “I would rather that you had not decided to wait on me here, at my sister’s holy house. It is true that Rhieienmelth greatly aided me these past months, but I would rather that I did not see her.”
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