Oswiu, King of Kings

by Edoardo Albert

  Eanflæd then did something her husband had never heard her do before. She giggled.

  Oswiu looked at her. “You laugh?”

  “Oh, husband, do you think I would have waited here if Rhieienmelth were here too? She is brave and headstrong and beautiful and I would not have her within five leagues of you. Rhieienmelth is not here. She has gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “To Rome. On pilgrimage. She sent to me, asking if she might go, telling how she fretted at the confines of this place. I did not need to ask your sister what she would say, so I gave her leave. She rode forth two weeks past.”

  “Rome?” Oswiu shook his head in wonder. “But she did not set out alone, did she? It is a long road, and there are many dangers along the way.”

  “No, I did not send her alone. A young thegn, Benedict Biscop, came to me, saying he wished to travel to see the house of the holy apostles, Peter and Paul, so Rhieienmelth travels with him.”

  “Rome.” Oswiu breathed the name of wonder. He looked at his son, still demonstrating to his sister how he had single-handedly defeated Penda and his army. He looked to his wife, her face turned to him in joy.

  “I told Aidan this dream once, and now I tell you. I see myself, old, my hair frost touched, lying upon a bed. You are beside me, and Ecgfrith, a grown man, and I am dying. I am dying in my bed, not coughing my life away on a field of slaughter, drowning in my own blood.” Oswiu looked to Eanflæd the Wise. “Is this a true dream?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  Historical Note

  Although scholars nowadays bridle at calling the time when the events of this book are set the Dark Ages (it’s the Early Medieval in today’s academic literature), there is a reason for the name, but it’s not the one most people think. Yes, the Dark Ages were often brutal, and life expectancy was short, but it was by no means an era of unrelieved ignorance. No, where the name remains appropriate is in the lack of historical sources for the centuries after the legions sailed home, in AD 410, leaving the peoples of Britain to fend for themselves against the Saxon raiders that plagued their shores. For the three hundred years between the Romans leaving and Bede, the father of English history, we have precisely two contemporary documents dealing, albeit as a sideline to their main purposes, with the events after the end of empire: De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae (On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain) by the monk Gildas, and Patrick’s Confessio. Not much to show for three hundred years.

  What happened?

  The short answer is: the English – although they weren’t English yet, but Saxons, Angles, Jutes and probably some other tribes from the flat countries of north-western Europe. These Germanic peoples had been raiding Britain since the end of the third century and, in response, the Romans built a series of forts around the coasts of Britain and north-western France. But when the legions withdrew, later authors tell us, the kings of the petty kingdoms that had formed in Britain after the withdrawal made a fateful decision: to employ some of these Saxons as mercenaries in their own internal wars. The Saxons – led by the brothers Hengist and Horsa – seeing a rich land ripe for the taking, set about taking it, revolting against their employers and setting up as kings in their own right.

  Seeing the suspicious parallels with another pair of legendary founders (Romulus and Remus), scholars question the story, but the underlying narrative remains true: bands of pagan, Germanic warriors began expanding their rule, pushing the native Britons, who considered themselves the heirs to Roman civilization, westwards. This was the time of Arthur, if he existed: the champion of the Britons who for a time pushed back the Saxon advance. But although the newcomers continued to advance, it was a slow-motion conquest, spread over hundreds of years. It was Oswiu’s father, Æthelfrith (d. 616), who decisively shifted the balance of power from the Britons to the Angles and the Saxons. After Æthelfrith, the key battles would be those fought between the contending kings of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms.

  And so we come to Oswiu. Oswiu: King of Kings is, as much as I could make it, a true story. Most of the people in it were real, living, breathing people (the dramatis personae at the front indicates which are historical and which are invented characters). Most of the historical information we have for Oswiu and his reign comes from Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Bede finished it around 731 – that is, some sixty years after Oswiu’s death. Bede himself was a Northumbrian – he never moved much from the twin monasteries at Jarrow and Monkwearmouth – and he had access to eyewitnesses and records of Oswiu’s life. Being Northumbrian, Bede was partisan towards his home kingdom, but this partiality did not extend to his portrayal of Oswiu. While Bede treats Oswald, Oswiu’s elder brother and predecessor, as a saintly king he is much sterner towards Oswiu. It is from Bede that we learn of the civil strife with Oswine, king of Deira. I have taken the incident, where Oswine remonstrates with Aidan for giving away the horse he had presented to him and then, in turn rebuked, kneels before the priest, from Bede: it is one of the vivid anecdotes that pepper his text, bringing this distant people into the imagination of the reader with all the immediacy of a great novelist. And it is from Bede that we learn of how Oswine, faced with Oswiu’s superior forces, disbanded his own army, but was then betrayed by Hunwald and killed. No propagandist for the Northumbrian monarchy, Bede made clear how strongly he disapproved of Oswine’s murder.

  One of the great virtues the reader of historical fiction shares with a child is the question that comes from both when presented with a vivid story: is it true?

  So, is it true?

  In answer, I have tried to keep to the historical record as much as possible. The task was complicated by the record being, frankly, pretty confusing in places. So here’s what we do know.

  Oswiu was born sometime around 612 and, when his father was killed in 616, went into exile with his mother, Acha, his elder brother, Oswald, and his sister, Æbbe. They sought refuge in the sea-spanning kingdom of Dal Riada, which took in roughly modern-day Argyll in Scotland and Antrim in Northern Ireland. St Columba – or Colm Cille to give him his Irish name – had founded a monastery on the island of Iona in 563 and Oswiu and his family converted to Christianity sometime during their exile. Although Oswiu, unlike his brother, seems to have struggled with some of the stricter elements of Christian morality (he fathered a child by an Irish princess while still in exile), his conversion was sincere and he remained an unswerving proponent of the new religion. While in exile, Oswiu and his brother Oswald fought alongside the warrior bands of the kings of Dal Riada and probably other kings too (hence the pregnancy of Fín, a princess of the Uí Néill dynasty).

  When King Edwin was killed in battle by an alliance between Cadwallon of Gwynedd and Penda of Mercia, the throne of Northumbria was up for whoever could claim it. Eanfrith, half-brother to Oswiu and Oswald, made the first attempt, reigning over Bernicia for a year, until he was killed by Cadwallon.

  Then it was the turn of the brothers. Oswald, presumably with Oswiu alongside him, although this is not explicitly stated in our sources, defeated Cadwallon in 634, and claimed control of both Bernicia and Deira. The events of Oswald’s reign are covered in the Historical Note at the end of Oswald: Return of the King.

  Once Oswiu comes to the throne, things become, at the same time, clearer and more obscure. Clearer, because we have more information about the events of Oswiu’s reign than we do about Oswald. More obscure, because it’s sometimes difficult to make sense of these events.

  Working forward from the start of Oswiu: King of Kings, we begin with the raid into Mercia, when Oswiu reclaims the relics of his brother. Bede tells us that a year after Oswald’s death, Oswiu went with a great army and retrieved Oswald’s head and arms. This seems most unlikely. Many, if not most, of the available warriors had been killed alongside Oswald when Penda defeated him at the Battle of Maserfield. Furthermore, reaching Oswestry would have meant marching through Mercia – and Penda would hardly have taken kindly to an enemy
army marching through his kingdom. So, it seems much more likely that Oswiu recovered his brother’s remains by leading a swift raid into Mercia, aiming to outride the news of his presence and escape before Penda could catch up with him. But, for the purposes of this story, I decided to investigate a different option: an undercover operation.

  By their very nature, such operations often escape notice in the historical record, but we do know that Anglo-Saxon kings used subterfuge and even assassins in their dealings with each other; so I made Oswiu’s raid into Mercia an undercover expedition. In all honesty, it probably did not happen like this, but the historical description seems even more unsatisfactory.

  Moving on to Oswiu’s marriages. Bede omits all mention of Rhieienmelth, although it is clear that the children of this marriage were too old to have been born to Eanflæd. But we do know that, within two years of becoming king of Bernicia, Oswiu married Eanflæd, the daughter of King Edwin. This was clearly done to strengthen his claim to the throne of Deira, although in the end the marriage does not seem to have helped Oswiu’s claim. However, what happened to Rhieienmelth in the meantime? Of course, the simplest explanation, at a time when death could be caused by an infected finger, is that Rhieienmelth died, by disease or childbirth. Bede’s slightly uncomfortable silence on the matter suggests something else though. If Rhieienmelth was put aside in favour of a more politically advantageous marriage, she would have needed somewhere to go. The monasteries and convents of the new religion offered a safe and secure retirement for widowed or unwanted queens, so I think it likely Rhieienmelth went to one of these houses. It’s my writer’s fancy that places her in Coldingham, for Bede notes that the monastery later burned down – a result, he thought, of the conduct of monks and nuns given over to “eating, drinking, gossip, or other amusements”: Rhieienmelth’s influence continued long after her departure!

  It seems clear that Oswiu married Eanflæd for the political weight she might provide him. As the daughter of King Edwin, whose power base lay in Deira, Oswiu and his advisers hoped that marriage to her would allow them to win the support of the witan of Deira and install Oswiu as king. Despite the marriage, the witan of Deira refused to support Oswiu, instead continuing to follow Oswine as king.

  Although there is nothing in the record to support this, I find it plausible that, when Eanflæd journeyed north to meet her new husband, her mother, Æthelburh, would have gone with her. After all, Æthelburh had given birth to all her children in Northumbria. On such a trip, a stop at York would not be out of place.

  As for Æthelburh, once she had seen her daughter married, she returned to Kent. The Kentish Royal Legend has her founding the twin monastery at Lyminge. In one of those unexpected survivals of the seventh century into the twenty-first, Lyminge has proved to be one of the richest Anglo-Saxon archaeological sites in the country, with the team led by Dr Gabor Thomas finding not only evidence for the monastic site but also the traces of a royal hall. The work is continuing; if you get a chance to visit, it is well worth doing so.

  There is one area where I have diverted from the historical record: in the confused, and confusing, relations between the royal houses of Oswiu and Penda. In the long struggle between the two kings, Bede records that Penda’s son, Peada, did indeed marry Oswiu’s daughter, Ahlflæd; but he also tells us that Oswiu’s son, Ahlfrith, married Penda’s daughter. In an already crowded narrative, I decided that this was one dynastic marriage too many, and chose to ignore it for the purposes of this story.

  Speaking of Peada, I fear that my portrayal of him does not do him justice. Bede speaks well of him and, after the death of Penda, he became king of Mercia. But his reign did not last long. At Easter the following year he died – poisoned by his wife, it is said. As for Ahlflæd, we do not know what happened to her after Peada’s death, but the most likely outcome is that she too retired to one of the royal monasteries.

  And what happened to Ahlflæd’s brother, Ahlfrith, after the events of this book? He became king of Deira, reigning there while acknowledging his father as overlord. As king, Ahlfrith became a supporter of a young priest, Wilfrid. Wilfrid was very different from the priests who had come over from Iona with Ahlfrith’s father; he had travelled widely through Europe – Wilfrid came from a wealthy and noble family – and he was determined to bring the church in Britain into line with the church in the wider world. Cut off from the rest of the church by the Anglo-Saxon invasions of the previous centuries, the church in Ireland had developed a number of distinctive practices and structures. Growing in a land never conquered by Rome – and one without cities – it was based on monasteries rather than on bishoprics. Irish monks tonsured their hair in a distinctive way, shaving the front of the head and allowing their hair to grow long at the back (I fear it might have looked like a rather severe mullet). Greatly influenced by the Desert Fathers, Irish monks sought in vain for a patch of desert in their own, well-watered land. But while Ireland lacked deserts, it was certainly not short of bogs and wild, wet and lonely islands. So that was where they went, sometimes trusting themselves so completely to God that they would set off in a boat with neither sail nor oar, letting God take them where he would.

  But the most divisive difference was over Easter. The dating of Easter is a complex matter and I won’t go into it here, but the result, in Northumbria, was that sometimes Easter was celebrated at different times, depending on whether you followed the Irish or Roman method of dating it. A problem, particularly when the king’s household was still fasting while the queen’s was feasting – for Eanflæd’s household followed the Roman method of calculating Easter that was used in Kent.

  Under Wilfrid’s influence, Ahlfrith also switched to celebrating Easter according to the Roman calendar and he began to agitate for the wholesale adoption of the continental religious practices.

  Such disunity in the royal household was dangerous. To resolve matters, Oswiu called a meeting, the Synod of Whitby, in 664. At the synod, Wilfrid spoke for the Roman position while Colman, bishop of Lindisfarne after Finan, spoke for the Irish method of calculation. Presiding over the synod, Oswiu famously asked at its conclusion if it was true that Peter had been given the keys to the kingdom of heaven. When both Wilfrid and Colman agreed, Oswiu said, “Peter is guardian of the gates of heaven, and I shall not contradict him. I shall obey his commands in everything to the best of my knowledge and ability otherwise, when I come to the gates of heaven, there may be no one to open them, because he who holds the key has turned away.”

  So Ahlfrith’s party had won the argument. By this time, in fact, most of Ireland had already adopted the Roman method of calculating Easter, although Iona held to its own ways a while longer. Colman returned to Iona with those monks who would not accept the new ways. But what of Ahlfrith? Although vindicated, he all but disappears from the historical record. Bede records some sort of conflict with his father, but whether this was over the matters resolved at Whitby or some other dispute, we do not know. The last mention we have of him is in stone, on the Bewcastle Cross in Cumbria, one of the two great, free-standing carved crosses (the other is the Ruthwell Cross) that are the highpoints of stonework at this time. The inscription on the west face of the cross may read (it is badly worn): “This Victory Cross set up by Hwætred, Wothgær, Olwfwolthu in the memory of Alcfrith a king and son of Oswiu. Pray for his soul.” Did Ahlfrith win a victory near Bewcastle at the cost of his life? We don’t know.

  As for Oswiu himself, his dream came true. First of all the kings of Northumbria, he did not die in battle but in his bed, passing away in 670 at the age of fifty-eight. Ecgfrith, his son by Eanflæd, became king after him, and he seems to have been as belligerent a king as I have made him as a boy, until a catastrophic defeat while campaigning against the Picts at the Battle of Nechtansmere (20 May 685) saw Ecgfrith killed and an end to the northern expansion of Northumbria. In fact, the battle ranks as one of the most important in British history, for it served to ensure that England and Scotland would remain separ
ate kingdoms through the following centuries.

  Eanflæd outlived her husband and her son. After Oswiu’s death, she went to live in the abbey at Whitby, where her daughter had become abbess after the death of Hild. While living in the monastery, Eanflæd oversaw the translation of the remains of her father, Edwin, to the abbey. Eanflæd died sometime after 685.

  Outside the royal families, James the Deacon continued his lonely ministry around Catterick, living long enough to learn the outcome of the Synod of Whitby. Although Acca is an invented character, the song he sings at the wedding of Oswiu and Eanflæd is part of The Dream of the Rood, one of the most sublime of Old-English poems. Acca’s partner in adventure, Coifi, is a historical character, but our sources only record him as Edwin’s priest; it has been my decision to feature him in Oswald: Return of the King and Oswiu: King of Kings. But, with respect to Coifi, I do like to think of a small house that the great archaeologist Brian Hope-Taylor excavated during his work at Ad Gefrin: a modest little dwelling, Hope-Taylor speculated that it might have been Coifi’s retirement home. I like to think of the old priest sitting outside the house as the sun set, watching the movement of the cloud shadows over the green flanks of Yeavering Bell.

  The great palace at Ad Gefrin is a field now, and quiet. Stand on it, the grass whispering around your feet, and listen to the past. It is all around you. It is all around us.