While Cadwallon’s men continued to sack the wagons and carts, Æthelburh ordered her retainers to dig a grave for Oslac.
“Will you bury him, father?” she asked Paulinus.
“Was he a Christian?” The Italian looked, rather dubiously, at the dead man.
“He was of my brother’s people, the men of Kent, and by my brother’s and our father’s choice they are a Christian people. Bury him so.”
“Very well, my lady.” Paulinus paused. “My lady?”
“Yes?”
“I sinned by asking that we come this way, by land, so that I could learn more of this strange country. This man paid for my curiosity with his life.”
Æthelburh looked bleakly at him and her face suddenly looked much older than her years. “He did.”
“I am sorry and I will do penance for my sin.”
“Start your penance by sending his soul to God, father. Oslac died trying to protect me.”
So by the side of the road, on the marches of the kingdom of Lindsey, as the men of Gwynedd laughed and joked over their spoils and the men of Kent watched in glowering silence, the words of requiem flowed outwards, and the first man to receive a Christian burial north of the Wash and east of the Pennines since the coming of the Anglo-Saxons was received into the earth.
Chapter 5
“You did what?”
Edwin rose from his throne – the intricately carved and painted wooden throne that his men carried from one royal demesne to another on the never-ending royal circuit around the kingdom – and advanced on Paulinus. The priest, although as tall as the king, felt his soul quail before the grim man approaching him, his arms wrapped in glistening torcs of gold, a wolf pelt wrapped about his neck with shoulder clasps of blood-red garnets, and belt and buckles of rich if savage workmanship. A thought flickered through Paulinus’s mind, of Pope Leo I facing down Attila the Hun and, armed only with faith, forcing the barbarian chief to withdraw from Italy.
Edwin stopped in front of the priest. “What were you thinking?”
“I-I wanted to learn something of this strange land,” Paulinus stuttered.
“Your curiosity cost me dear. King Eadbald sent many, many gifts with his sister, and they are taken.”
“Yes, yes, I am sorry. At least your bride is here.”
Edwin paused in his questioning. “Yes.” He shook his head and turned his back on the priest. “I had thought to learn more from you of this new belief that has come to us from over the sea.” He gestured to the fire pit in the centre of the hall and a man, a strange creature draped in a raven-feather cloak, rose from where he squatted and came to the king’s side. “This is Coifi, my priest, my caster of runes and traveller to the high halls of the gods. If you had been worthy, I would have asked you to face him, to place your magic against his that I might see which belief is the stronger. But you had not even the wit to bring me my queen over the sea; I do not put men up against boys.”
Coifi shook his bone rattle before the priest’s face; it made a noise like dice tumbling in a cup. Paulinus did not flinch, but he could not stop a flicker of alarm passing over his face, nor the look of quick triumph that flashed over Coifi’s, and he cursed himself for his weakness.
“Go to the queen,” Edwin said, “if she still cleaves to you who brought her into such peril, and tell her that her husband will tolerate no further delay. We marry today, or she returns to her brother. Tell her she has until the sun sets to decide.”
Paulinus made to speak, but there was nothing he could say for the moment. He bowed and withdrew, pausing at the door of the hall to look curiously at the man by the king’s side, whispering to him. He had read Tacitus’s description of the religion of the German tribes in the days of the emperors, and these people were descendants of those tribes.
For his part, Coifi stared as frankly at the departing Italian, noting how his skin was bark brown rather than the clay white of his people or the silver-birch pale of the Britons, and the tall and stately way in which he walked, very different from the scuttling gait of the priests of the gods in this land. But then Coifi had heard tell that the priests of this new god did not look for the falling out of patterns in the casting of bones or the way blood, spilled in sacrifice, might pull aside for an instant the veil of the future and allow the devotees of the gods to prophesy victory or defeat, and thus win favour and riches with kings. Not needing to keep constant watch for what wyrd might be saying, no wonder the stranger walked in such a calm manner. Coifi, catching the fall of a burning log in the fire pit from the corner of his eye and spinning upon it, wished he could. He stared into the embers, looking for something there, and wishing that this time the gods would tell him clearly the answers to his king’s questions. For the king had need of counsel, and although Coifi was by no means his only counsellor, he knew that to the man who gave the king the best advice great gifts would be given: rich presents, and honour, and wealth…
“Coifi?”
Caught up in his priestly reverie and the attempt to read the fall of logs in the fire pit, the priest had forgotten that he was talking to the king. He jerked, shook himself and pulled upright.
“Yes?”
Edwin laughed. “I thought you could prophesy. Couldn’t you tell I wanted to speak to you?”
“I – there was something in the fire.”
The king’s eyes narrowed. “What?”
“I – I don’t know,” Coifi admitted. “It was almost clear. I could almost see, when you called.”
“So the fault was mine?”
“Yes – no! No, of course not, lord.” Coifi made a shambling obeisance and snatched a glance at the watching priest. Paulinus, still smarting from his own encounter with Edwin, could not help sharing a rueful smile with the man before hurrying from the hall on his own task.
“Good, I am glad. If the fault was mine, then no doubt the gods would look unfavourably upon me as I decide what to do about Cadwallon. As it is, I require you to cast the runes and read the auguries on him, that I might better know the workings of wyrd, and to bring me the answers this evening, when I meet my counsellors.”
“Yes, my lord, I will unpick the weavings of wyrd for you and lay them at your feet.”
Edwin looked at Coifi. “Yes, you do that.”
*
“My lady, if you will not tell me why you are reluctant to marry the king, I cannot help you.” Paulinus looked around at the gathered women. “Would it be better if we were to speak in private?”
Æthelburh shook her head, although her eyes sparked with amusement. “On the day of my wedding, I do not think it would be a good idea for me to be alone with a man, even one who is a priest, father.”
“Ah. Of course. Quite right. Yes.” Paulinus blushed, his blush deepening when he saw the queen smile at his reaction.
“As to my hesitation, do not worry, father. I know my duty and I will marry. Besides, for such an old man, Edwin is… quite handsome, don’t you think?”
Paulinus blushed again. He knew that Æthelburh enjoyed teasing him, but he was as incapable of sparing his blushes as he was of losing his accent.
“Father?”
“Pardon? Oh, yes, handsome. Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“My maids tell me he is forty! Can he really be that old?”
“Forty. Yes, he is forty. That is right. Quite old.”
“But if he is that old, will he be able to… you know?” The young queen looked innocently at the old priest, who blushed puce, his blush burning all the hotter as he heard the queen’s women giggling among themselves.
“I-I am sure he will do his duty,” said Paulinus.
Æthelburh stiffened and the maids fell silent. “Do you think I will be a ‘duty’ for him?”
“No, no,” said Paulinus, wondering why the Lord, in the shape of Bishop Justus, had seen fit to appoint him a
s spiritual guide to a young woman as high spirited as the queen. “No man could find you a ‘duty’, my lady.”
“No man?” asked the queen, staring at him innocently again.
Under his breath, Paulinus cursed himself as he felt his face burn with embarrassment once more. He had to change the topic of conversation before he was rendered incapable of speech.
“You have not told me the reason for your reluctance to marry the king.”
The half-smile disappeared from Æthelburh’s lips. “I – I cannot speak of this, father.” She looked around the room and the maids all busied themselves in their sewing and preparations, striving to give the appearance of a complete lack of interest.
Paulinus nodded. “Maybe… maybe if we walked and saw the preparations for your wedding feast, that would allow your maids to continue their work in peace?”
“Yes, yes, father.” Æthelburh gave swift instructions on what she expected done to her dress by the time she returned, then accompanied the priest towards the great hall. But before they arrived she grasped Paulinus’s arm.
“Is he there?” she asked.
“I will go to see,” said the priest. The queen waited, and when he turned back to signal the all clear he saw that she was jiggling from one foot to another like a nervous child.
The two of them walked up and down the hall, inspecting the long tables, the rich hangings upon the walls, the fresh-cut straw strewn upon the floor. The servants and slaves were busy about their work, sometimes all but bumping into the queen or the priest in their rush.
“Well, child, can you speak now?” asked Paulinus.
Æthelburh shook her head. “I promised,” she said. “But… I gave no promise on taking advice. Father, if someone told you something dreadful about somebody else, would you believe them?”
“It would depend on who told me, and upon the person whom they were telling me about.”
“But if you knew little of either?”
“Then I would not make up my mind until I knew more.”
Æthelburh nodded to herself. “Yes. Yes, thank you, father.” She looked up, her indecision now gone, and smiled. “I must make myself ready for my husband,” she said.
Chapter 6
The wedding feast was sumptuous, made more so to undo the disgrace of there being no gifts that Kent had to give to Northumbria, beyond the bride herself. But the assembled thegns, seeing the girl standing beside the tall, grim figure of their lord, agreed that that gift was great indeed. For his part, Edwin smiled briefly when the queen’s veil was drawn aside and he looked upon her face, but apart from that he barely looked at her. Throughout the feast the king had a distracted and distant air, as if his thoughts and heart were very far away. As for the queen, with her head covered and for much of the feast her face veiled, it was well nigh impossible for an observer to tell how she viewed her nuptials.
The food was lavish, with the centrepiece, placed upon the king’s table, being roasted cranes that had first been plucked and skinned, and then, after cooking, refeathered to appear like living birds for the feast. The food renders of many royal demesnes had been called upon to fill the bellies of the king’s guests – his thegns, his warband, his bards and priests – and despite their great numbers, they all ate and drank so well that the king’s cooks had barely any work to do until lunch the next day.
The queen, however, ate sparingly and the king glowered down the hall at the assembly, drinking far more than he ate. But Edwin was one of those men on whom drink had little effect, try how he might, and to take his thoughts from the humiliations Cadwallon had heaped upon him, he slapped his hand down upon the table.
“Acca! Give us a song.”
The scop sprang up from where he had been sitting. In preparation for the king’s call, he had been avoiding the rich, fatty food, for it sat upon his liver and impaired his voice, but drinking liberally of the rare, rich red wine that had been brought from the land of the Franks for the feast, for its velvet touch soothed the throat and made it easier to sing.
Taking his lyre, Acca turned a practised eye upon the rowdy assemblage, with the tables still thick with food and the drinking horns being drained in contests and companionship, and decided against anything too long or too sad. The elegies, the laments, the tales of battles lost in magnificent defeat when thegns sold lives dearly around their fallen lord, were for late in the evening, when drink made men maudlin. Now it was time for something rousing – he glanced at the newly wed couple – something rude.
Acca strummed the lyre, stamping his foot in accompaniment.
“Hwæt!” he called. The hall didn’t exactly grow silent, but the noise, the talking, boasting and arguing, lulled, and for this early in the feast it was as much as he could hope for.
“Riddle me this!” This call drew an increasing circle of silence around the scop. There was nothing the king’s retainers loved more than to argue and discuss and chew over a good new riddle. And Acca had a new riddle, perfect for a wedding feast, to tease them with tonight.
“I’m a strange creature, for I satisfy women, a service to the neighbours! No one suffers at my hands except for my slayer. I grow very tall, erect in a bed,” and here Acca glanced coyly in the direction of the newly weds, to the accompaniment of raucous cheers from the men in the hall.
“I’m hairy underneath.” Laughter erupted, and Acca strummed the lyre at double time, milking the merriment. “From time to time a good-looking girl, the doughty daughter of some churl, dares to hold me, grips my russet skin, robs me of my head and puts me in the pantry!”
Catcalls rang out and Acca, with his back to the high table as he played with his audience, did not see the blush deepening to crimson upon the queen’s face, nor the darkening mien of his king.
“At once that girl with plaited hair who has confined me remembers our meeting and her eye moistens.”
“Enough!”
Acca, disorientated, spun around. He had reached the climax of the riddle and the audience was baying for the answer. He had been ready to tease and taunt them for as long as they could bear, when the shout, like a whip, cracked over his shoulder. Edwin stood glowering at the high table, his face pale with anger, and his queen sat blushing furiously beside him.
The laughter and crude jokes that had filled the hall a moment before were abruptly cut off. Acca gulped, his glance skittering from Edwin to Æthelburh and back again, and he gabbled.
“It was an onion, lord, an onion. I meant no offence.”
Edwin made to speak, then stopped. The riddle’s answer was being passed in whispers around the hall, accompanied by suppressed guffaws and occasional groans.
“An onion?” asked Edwin, caught up, despite himself, in the solution.
“Yes, yes,” said Acca. “Onions grow tall in a vegetable bed, with their hairy roots beneath, and they make their killer cry. Just an onion, lord.”
“I see, I see.” Edwin slowly sat down, and Acca felt the life draining out of his legs as relief overwhelmed him. “Carry on,” said Edwin. “Give us a story now.”
“My lord.” Acca felt the room spinning around him. The wine was more potent than he had realized, and with the shock he had just received, he knew he needed some time to recover. “My lord, may I, may…” Acca felt his gorge rising and, clutching his hand over his mouth, he ran pell mell from the hall, accompanied by a round of good-natured jeers.
Edwin looked around the hall.
“Is there anyone else here who can give us a tale? A new story, one that we have not heard before.”
The thegns and warriors looked to their neighbours, but none stood up. They all knew the old stories, most of them by heart, although Acca always managed to introduce some fresh element to each telling. But a new story? None of them had any to tell.
“No?” Edwin looked over to the table down one side of the hall. “Men of Kent, ha
ve you no tales to tell us from your land? Something to divert our attention.”
At the invitation, the men who had accompanied the queen north began to whisper among themselves, seeking to nominate a storyteller. But before they could do so a figure slowly rose, and all eyes went to him.
“I have a story to tell,” said Paulinus.
The king looked around the hall, but there were no other volunteers. New stories were rare in the hall, and the thegns and warriors all looked curiously at the stranger to see what story he brought. Even the servants and slaves, bustling around the feast, forbore eavesdropping on conversations to hear what Paulinus had to say.
“Very well. Tell us a story,” said Edwin.
Paulinus licked his lips and looked nervously around the hall. Although he was used to saying Mass, and preaching, this was different. But then he saw that the queen was looking at him, and she smiled and nodded, and the priest was encouraged.
“There was once a wedding feast, very like this one, but it happened far away in a land where the sun is so hot it burns the skin of the people dark. But something terrible happened at that wedding, which of course would never happen here: they ran out of wine!” Paulinus paused and looked around the hall. All attention was fixed on him. They had never heard anything like this before.
“One of the guests at the wedding was a woman named Mary, and when she realized that the hosts had run out of wine, what do you think she did? Did she denounce the groom and his family as misers and hoarders? Did she leave, vowing never to come back?” Paulinus swivelled around, including everyone in the story. The hall had grown still and all but silent. Even the servants and slaves were listening.
“No! This woman, Mary, went to her son and told him, ‘They have no wine.’ Now her son, Jesus, was no ordinary man, but nobody apart from his mother knew that yet. It was a secret.” Paulinus whispered the word, but the hall had become so quiet that everyone heard him.
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