“So Jesus told her, ‘Woman, what has this to do with me? My hour has not yet come.’ But Mary, she knew her son, and she went to the servants and said to them, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ Now, the people in this part of the world kept huge stone jars for filling with water, jars so big I could empty all the cups here in the hall into one jar and it still would not be full. There were six of those jars nearby, six of them mind, and Jesus told the servants, ‘Fill the jars with water.’” Paulinus spotted one of the slaves quietly refilling a cup, and pointed. “A servant like him. So, of course, the servants filled up the six stone jars, though they must have been wondering why they were being asked to fill jars up with water when the wedding had run out of wine. When the servants had filled the jars right up to the brim, Jesus told them to fill a cup and to take it to the master of the banquet. The master of the banquet was a worried man. He had run out of wine. The guests were calling for more to drink and he had nothing left with which to fill their cups. What would you do if that happened here?”
“Cut off the steward’s head!”
“Feed him to the dogs.”
“Feed him to the Britons!” This last retort drew laughter from around the hall, and taking advantage of it Paulinus held up his hand and waited until silence returned.
“The servant took a cup filled with water from the jar to the master of the banquet, who was thinking about running away at this point, and gave him to drink. Now, the master of the banquet did not know where the drink had come from, so he tasted it and it was wine.” Paulinus paused and looked around the hall. All faces were turned towards him.
“The water, ordinary plain water, had been turned into wine. And not just any wine. No. The master of the banquet, thinking that this new wine must be from some secret store the bridegroom had, drew the bridegroom aside and whispered to him, ‘Everyone serves the best wine first, and then brings out the cheap wine when the guests have had too much to drink, but you have saved the best wine until last.’” Paulinus straightened up. He looked around the hall and heard the silence and the soft drawing in of air. The silence continued. And continued.
“Well? What happened then?” Coifi was standing at the high table, his hands on the wood, leaning towards the silent priest with eyes as agog as a child hearing the tales of his ancestors for the first time.
“Yes, what happens?”
“Tell us!”
Paulinus licked his lips, his mind a sudden blank. There wasn’t anything more to the story, was there? But then the next lines of Scripture came back to him and he knew what to say.
“That was just the first of the signs that my Lord Jesus did; there were many more wonders that he performed, wonders more marvellous than anything you have heard, and I will, if the king permits, tell you of these wonders in the days and weeks and months after the wonderful wedding we are here celebrating.” Paulinus picked up his cup from the table and raised it to the king and queen. “You have saved the best wine for last, my lord,” he said, whereupon he drained the cup and, as he had seen others do in this barbarous land, returned it upside down to the table and resumed his place at table, to the cheers of the men of Kent and table thumping from the Northumbrians.
At his words, Æthelburh blushed. Paulinus could not help feeling a small thrill of justification at the sight, after the mortifications the queen had inflicted upon him earlier. She dipped her gaze before stealing a glance at her husband. But while the rest of the hall cheered Paulinus’s words, Edwin’s face was distant and withdrawn, pale with memory, and just as suddenly the blush left Æthelburh’s face.
“Did I miss something?” Acca, restored, returned and ready, looked around questioningly at the roaring crowd of men in the hall. Only Coifi did not cheer, but sat darkly beneath his raven-feather cloak, a spectre at the feast. His lips moved silently, and beneath the table, under the noise of the hall, a bone rattle clacked.
The king waved Acca to him. “The priest told us a new story, Acca. Now tell us one of the old tales. I have the matter of Cadwallon to discuss and settle with my counsellors.”
While Acca took his place in the centre of the hall, Paulinus returned to the table given over to the men of Kent. James greeted him there with a broad smile and proffered a cup of wine, which Paulinus gladly took. Spreading the gospel was, he decided as he drained the cup and held it out for a refill, thirsty work.
James nodded surreptitiously towards the high table. “The feathery one does not seem happy with your words. Do not turn around, but when you can, look. He is speaking quiet words under his breath, laying a curse on you, perhaps.”
Naturally, Paulinus turned around. He saw Coifi staring at him through hooded eyes, lips moving and arm quivering, and, slowly and deliberately, Paulinus cast a blessing over him, his own hand with finger outstretched moving to zenith, nadir, west then east as he inscribed the figure of the cross between them and over the pagan. At the gesture, Coifi blanched and the hands that were hidden beneath the table rose up and moved in counter motion, lips muttering a charm.
Edwin’s fist came crashing down on the table.
“Stop!”
The hall, which had been settling into a new tale from Acca, careered into silence. The king glared at the priests of both old religion and new.
“I will not have magic done in this hall.”
Coifi pointed his bone rattle at Paulinus. “He started it, my lord.”
Paulinus, a picture of outraged innocence, rose to his feet, stuttering his denial.
“I care not who started what. That is enough. Enough.”
Paulinus sat down slowly, conversation resumed and Acca restarted his story.
Edwin turned to Coifi. “I have a task for you: read the signs and find what wyrd holds for Cadwallon of Gwynedd – will the gods aid me against him?”
The priest bobbed an answer, his eyes skittering around the hall for the signs that might fall now, anywhere, from anything or anyone, and scurried to the fire pit where he squatted, swaying slightly, his face lit by the flames.
Æthelburh watched him go, then turned to her new husband.
“I know I am young, and you are a great king and wise, but may I ask of you a question?”
Edwin, surprised, looked at his wife, then nodded. “You may.”
“I thought you commanded that no magic be done in this hall?”
“I did.”
“But isn’t he” – she pointed to where Coifi squatted, shaking himself and passing his bone rattle over the flames – “doing magic in this hall?”
The king made to answer, then stopped. He looked at Coifi, who chose that moment to rise up like a raven, with outstretched arms before the fire, then back to Æthelburh, who was staring at him with all the wide-eyed innocence of her few years.
“As you said, you are very young.”
Æthelburh nodded. “Yes, very.”
“There are some things you will only understand when you are older.”
“I am sure.”
“Yes.”
“How much older?”
Edwin chewed his upper lip. “It is not a matter of time, but understanding.”
Æthelburh inclined her head. “You will help me understand, my lord?”
“Of course. Yes.” Edwin gestured to two young men to come over. “You must meet my sons.”
Æthelburh’s face paled. She looked up at the two young men who came to stand in front of the king and his new, young queen, and saw them look down at her with guarded, unfriendly eyes.
“Osfrith.” Edwin indicated the taller and older of the pair. “And Eadfrith. My sons with my first wife.”
The princes made the courtesy, but in such a way that it was impossible to tell whether it was directed to their father or his bride.
“They were hunting when I met your brother Eadbald and arranged the marriage contract.”
&
nbsp; Æthelburh smiled weakly at the two young men. They were both, she judged, older than her. The princes gazed down at her without expression.
“Forthred.” The king called his friend and chief counsellor over from the end of the table to which his relatively lowly birth consigned him. Then he turned to Æthelburh. She was, he saw, looking suddenly pale and ill.
“Are you not well? Do you wish to go without and take the air?” he asked.
“N-no. I will be all right.” Æthelburh managed a weak smile, but her mind was churning. Had her brother known that Edwin already had two grown sons from a previous wife? He must have known – the births and deaths of the sons of kings were a subject of greater interest in the royal households than even the outcomes of battles.
“I would ask my sons to tell you something of our ways now, but I have need of them and their counsel. You could… listen to Acca’s tale.” Edwin waved his hand towards the scop, who was in full flow, holding all the hall and most of the high table in thrall. “We have much to decide.”
“May I listen?”
Edwin looked at his wife with some surprise. “We speak of war. This is not women’s work.”
“Of course not. But it is the task of a queen. In Kent, my mother always joined in the councils before King Æthelbert, for that was the custom among the Franks from whom she came to marry my father.”
Edwin ran his fingers through his beard. “You say it is the custom of the Franks?”
“Yes, my lord.” Æthelburh primly lowered her eyes as she answered.
Edwin turned to his sons. “What say you?”
Osfrith shook his head. “Our mother never took part in war councils.” He did not look at Æthelburh as he replied. The younger brother, Eadfrith, for his part gazed down at her with frank interest and, Æthelburh thought, some sympathy.
Edwin nodded. “True, true. But she was Mercian, and times change. The Franks are powerful and rich, and they claim the inheritance of the emperors of old.” Edwin turned back to his young wife. “Yes. We will follow this new way. Join with us, listen. After all,” and here he turned back to his sons, “she has seen and talked with our enemy most recently. Let us hear what she has to say.”
Edwin gestured his men to gather and waved Coifi away from the fire. However, the priest, lost amid the flames, took a while to realize he was being summoned. It took a thump on his shoulder and a thumb jerked towards the waiting king from a grinning warrior to jerk Coifi from his reverie and send him scampering through the mead hall.
The king, still standing, looked down at the approaching priest. “From my difficulty in attracting your attention, I take it you have seen the paths of wyrd?”
Coifi made no answer with his mouth, but he shook his rattles under the eyes of the king, his eyes rolling back to reveal their whites. Spittle drooled down into his beard.
Æthelburh, seeing Eadfrith staring at the display with a half-smile on his lips, whispered to him, “Is he mad?”
Eadfrith covered his surprise at being thus addressed and whispered back, “Watch this.” Then, with no one but the queen aware of what he was doing, he slipped an armband from his wrist and flipped it towards the writhing priest. With scarcely a break in his contortions, a thin hand darted out and snatched the gold from the air, thrusting it into the dark safety beneath Coifi’s cloak. Edwin threw a glance towards his younger son, who smiled back innocently. Then Eadfrith leaned towards Æthelburh and whispered, “If Coifi is mad, it is the gold madness that afflicts him.”
Edwin reached out, suddenly, swiftly, like a striking snake, and grabbed Coifi’s arm. The priest, as suddenly, stopped his writhings and stared up at the king.
“What net has wyrd cast for us, Coifi?” asked Edwin. “Is the time ripe to attack Cadwallon?”
“Oh, ripe, ripe as barley in autumn, as apple on tree, ripe, ripe,” said the priest, and Æthelburh saw the tension drain from her husband. But before it could drain completely, Coifi shuddered convulsively, almost breaking Edwin’s hold on him, then stared white eyed into the distance and, rigid with foreboding, announced, “But beware, beware, the leap of salmon and raven’s call, the plots of women and” – Coifi’s eyes focused sharply on the king – “new gods who have no power in these lands.”
Æthelburh stifled a gasp. Edwin looked hard at his priest, drawing him in closer. Under the king’s scrutiny, Coifi’s eyes rolled again and he went limp. Edwin let him slide to the floor.
“Well, the old gods appear to be in our favour,” said Edwin. “We will not this time ask the priest of the new god to divine his god’s favour.” He stepped over Coifi’s prone body – Æthelburh realized, from the way nobody in the hall paid the slightest attention to his collapse, that it was not an unusual event – and returned to the high table, gathering his thegns, sons, councillors and wife around him.
From their place down the mead hall, Paulinus and James kept a weather eye on the proceedings at the high table, but there was little to see beyond men speaking animatedly, and besides, they found themselves being distracted by the story Acca was telling. In this tale, the great hammer of Thunor, the god of thunder, was stolen by giants. Thunor, with his brother Loki, travelled to the land of the giants to win it back, but to gain entrance to the giants’ court, Thunor had to pretend to be the beautiful and much desired goddess, Freya. The men loved this story, particularly the part when the giant lifted Thunor’s veil and made to kiss him, thinking he was Freya, and they pounded the table in appreciation.
The Italians looked at each other. James shrugged. “Well, I suppose it is not as bad as Jupiter turning into a swan to ravish a maiden.”
The king stood from the table, and his chief men and thegns stood with him. They had made their decision.
The hall fell silent. Edwin spoke.
“The king of Gwynedd has done us great harm. He sought to dishonour my friend and ally, King Eadbald of Kent, by stealing the rich gifts he sent with his sister.” Edwin paused. “My wife.” Even as he uttered the words, they sounded strange in his throat and he could not bring himself to look at Æthelburh. The queen, although her eyes were demurely downcast, felt the lack of weight that came with his regard, and wondered at it, for she was young and knew herself to be beautiful.
“We will not endure such an insult,” Edwin continued. “And though Cadwallon and I be brothers, sworn, bonded in blood, this night I abjure our brotherhood and swear before you and before all the gods that I will take his lands from him, take his riches from him and cast him from his halls into the night! What say you?”
The men cheered, rising from their seats and pounding the tables with their fists.
The king looked out into his men, the men who would ride with him against Cadwallon, and his eyes blazed with a cold fire. Whispers spread like ripples as the men speculated over the treasures they might gain, for rumour had it that the kingdom of Gwynedd still had many treasures from the days of the emperors.
“Patience, men, have patience,” said Edwin. “We will depart soon, and there will be rich gifts for all. But before we depart, I have some business of my own to attend to.” The king turned to Æthelburh. The men erupted into raucous cheers, with not a few choice or crude comments thrown into the general hubbub.
Æthelburh stood up. The veil that had covered her face was now thrown back, and glints of her golden hair glittered beneath the rich cloth of her kerchief. She followed her husband as he walked from the hall but, watching from their places, Paulinus and James saw that Edwin never once looked back at his bride. For her part, Æthelburh walked stiffly, striving not to hear the ribald advice of the king’s now very drunk men.
Paulinus turned to his countryman. “We should pray for her, James.”
And so, while the rest of the hall dissolved into a drink-induced stupor, one corner was filled with the quiet murmur of prayer.
*
Edwin closed the
door of his chamber. It was the one room in the hall that offered privacy, for apart from the king everyone else lived communal lives, with screens and hangings over alcoves the only other form of seclusion. He turned to Æthelburh. She was standing, quite still, in the centre of the room, her eyes downcast, but in the sudden quiet, here behind the thick wooden door, he was struck by her youth. He himself was forty years old now. Some of his hair was turning white, and scars of battle and the leathering of sun and wind had worn his skin. Sometimes Edwin felt weary, a bone-heavy, heart-heavy weariness. The spirits of the men he had killed sat heavily in his memory, for while he had forgotten the faces of most of them, their blood was on him and it could not be washed off. He was old now, and unlike the young men took no pleasure in battle glory, nor did he boast of deeds done and men slain. But looking at Æthelburh properly for the first time, he saw a lightness of heart and spirit that went beyond her youth. But still she did not raise her gaze to her husband.
“Well?” Edwin asked eventually. “Will you not look at your husband?”
Æthelburh shook her head. “I – I cannot,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I… I am a virgin, my lord. My maids told me what I must do, but I am not sure I can.”
A smile twitched at Edwin’s lips. “If it were so difficult, this middle-earth would be an empty place.” He placed a finger under her chin and gently lifted her head, so that she looked him in the face. Meeting his eyes, Æthelburh blushed, but she did not lower her head.
“My… my lord, there is one other thing.”
Edwin nodded. “Yes?” It was as well he was no longer young – in his youth he could not have been so patient. But there was something about this young girl, one moment so vibrant and engaged, the next demure and chaste, that reached into the cold ashes of his heart.
“I could not speak of it in council, for it concerns your honour.”
A frown creased Edwin’s face. This was not the sort of matter he had expected to be raised on his wedding night, but he nodded for Æthelburh to continue.
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