“My lord, when the king of Gwynedd, Cadwallon, stopped and cruelly robbed us on our journey here, killing Oslac, my captain, he told me that he hated you for…” Æthelburh hesitated, then plunged on with her explanation: “…for what he said you did to his sister.”
Edwin’s hand dropped from Æthelburh’s face. “What did he say I did to his sister?”
“He – he said you raped her and got her with child.”
“Did he say this publicly, or to you alone?”
“To me alone, lord.”
Edwin bent down towards his new wife, his eyes searching. “Have you spoken of this?”
“No, my lord,” said Æthelburh.
“To anyone?” Edwin gripped Æthelburh’s arm. “Think. Not to your maids, your guards?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Your priest?”
“No, my lord, not even him.”
Edwin bent closer, looking deeply into Æthelburh’s eyes before nodding and releasing her arm. “Good. Speak of this to no one.” The king half turned away, lost in thought. Æthelburh waited, but when he made no further effort to speak, she could not but ask.
“Is it true, my lord?”
Edwin looked up, and his face showed that he had been dragged from some deep well of memory.
“Is what true?”
“Gwynedd’s accusation, my lord.”
A veil came down across the king’s face. Looking at him, it was if Æthelburh looked into the face of a dead man, so waxy and stiff were his features.
“I said you are not to speak of this.”
“My lord…”
“No!” More softly, “No.” Æthelburh’s face fell and her head dropped, but Edwin pushed a strand of hair that had fallen from beneath her kerchief aside. “Do not doubt me, wife.”
Æthelburh looked up, and her smile was as sudden as it was dazzling. “I do not doubt you, husband.”
Later, when Æthelburh lay sleeping beside him, her arm draped over his chest, Edwin stared up into darkness and tried to see again, in memory, the face of Cwenburg. But the more he reached for her, the further her memory slipped away until he could not even remember the sound of her voice or the smell of her skin. And then, alone, in the silence of the night, Edwin wept.
Chapter 7
“Anglesey!” The ship’s master pointed through the sea spray to the wave-flecked island ahead.
Edwin rose from where he had been sheltering against the rain and wind. Behind him, in the centre of the boat, the horses shifted nervously, unsettled by the motion and the spray that occasionally burst over the side of the ship. The men given the task of quietening the horses through the sea voyage from the Isle of Man had had a difficult job, and on one occasion a horse had come near to panicking and throwing the rest of the beasts into disorder. But the men had worked hard, even the warriors who had thought to rest during the sea passage, and now Anglesey was within sight.
To the east, the mountains of Gwynedd cloaked themselves in cloud, with only the occasional tear in the mist revealing their lowering faces. Even now, after so many years, Edwin shivered at the sight. His ancestors came from the flat lands that lay east of the North Sea, and they had sailed far up the rivers that scored the low-lying eastern half of this new country to make kingdoms and homes for themselves. He was a man at home in a boat, or on land that stretched to distant horizons, where an enemy could be seen from afar and the weather’s turn from even further. The mountains, these unforgiving teeth of rock and scree that gnawed the west of the country and ran down its spine, were different. In them the day could turn from summer to winter in the time it took to spark a fire and huddle against the storm. Upon them were the wraith-haunted tombs of old, tombs that were already old during the days of the emperors, and their cold presence had terrified the soul of a young man, little more than a boy, learning the ways of warriors beneath their unblinking stare.
Edwin remembered one rain-soaked day – all his memories of his time in Gwynedd were steeped in water, be it mist or rain – riding into the mountains with Cadfan, king of Gwynedd, his retinue of warriors and a single, excited boy, chattering to Edwin as they rode behind. Edwin, the elder, tried to ignore the boy’s talk, for he wanted to listen to what the men were saying, but the boy insisted on asking him who he thought would win in contests between the various warriors, until finally Edwin had told him to shut up, emphasizing the point with a slap to the back of the head. But the blow caught the side of the boy’s head and knocked him from his horse.
Cadwallon had lain, slightly stunned, beside his horse, his shock turning to shame as the men began to laugh and he had seen his own father shake his head.
“Go back,” said Cadfan to his son. “I cannot have with me someone unable to remain on his horse.”
“But, Father…” Cadwallon began, but the king of Gwynedd held up his hand and the boy fell silent. It did not do to contradict a king, even if he was your father.
“You, go with him,” Cadfan said to Edwin.
“I don’t need…” Cadwallon tried, but again Cadfan cut him off.
It was a silent pair of boys, one just old enough to ride, the other pushing manhood, who headed back to camp. They threaded between the peaks, the mountains as quiet as they were, but while the boys refused to look at each other, they each individually felt the hills looking down upon them. And then the fog came.
“We must stop,” Edwin said. He was the first to speak, but being the elder he had charge of the young prince and heir to Gwynedd.
“You stop, I go on,” said Cadwallon.
“No, we must stop.” Edwin grabbed the bridle of Cadwallon’s horse and forced it to a halt. In the shelter of an overhanging rock, the boys made a cheerless camp, their horses acting as dripping screens against the damp, the boys themselves too proud to take any warmth from each other, and slowly feeling the heat leeching from their bodies into the rock.
And, slowly, Edwin became conscious of the rock taking more from him than heat. A dreadful lassitude came over him as he thought of how fine it would be to rest here, against the stone, and move no more. By the silence and stillness of Cadwallon, Edwin knew that the boy too heard the whispers and was settling into the shadow world. There they would have stayed too if the fog had not parted for an instant, allowing them to see that the stone they rested against was one of the door pillars to a barrow of the dead, and the dead were calling.
The boys ran, not caring that they left their horses behind, and their pride. Soon the fog began to tear and thin, but they still heard the deadly cold voices bidding them return to take their ease in the halls of the dead. It was only when they stood beneath the sun, on green grass, that the boys stopped running. The horses, sensible beasts, swiftly followed and set to quiet cropping while their riders inexplicably rolled on the grass, laughing with shared relief.
Standing beside the steersman, Edwin shook himself out of memory as the clouds closed around the mountains of his youth. He had not expected to return to them. He touched the steersman’s arm and pointed.
“Steer us west, around the island.”
The helmsman dug the steering oar into the dark water, the wind tugged the square sail, making wood creak and rope snap, and the boat skimmed over the waves, running parallel to the shore. Edwin checked behind and saw that the boats commanded by Forthred, Osfrith and Eadfrith were matching their course to his. Satisfied, he stood upon one of the war chests that lined the bottom of the boat, providing seats for the men when they were needed for rowing and places to stow the weapons of war and later the plunder that the weapons reaped, and looked to larboard, over the dark water to the fertile island beyond. Anglesey was the bowl the rest of Gwynedd supped from, its well-watered fields and rich soil providing the wheat and barley that allowed the people of the rest of the kingdom to scrape through times of dearth to the few occasions of plenty. Without Anglesey
Gwynedd would starve – forcing Cadwallon either to come to battle with exhausted, hungry men, or to flee. This strategy was the fruit of Edwin’s knowledge of Gwynedd, knowledge reaped through his growing years at the court of King Cadfan. As he looked at the waves gurgling up the yellow beaches that surrounded much of the island Edwin smiled without mirth at the weavings of wyrd. The sisters of fate had spun a bitter childhood for him when Æthelfrith had killed his father and taken his birth kingdom, Deira, from him, but the time in exile in Gwynedd meant that he knew where the weakness of Cadwallon’s otherwise impregnable mountain realm lay.
“There is another, smaller, island west of Anglesey, separated by narrow channels from its parent. The Britons call it Ynys Gybi.” Edwin pointed ahead and the helmsman peered through the spume thrown up by their skudding progress across the choppy waves. “Steer around it and follow the coast south-east. We will come then to a narrow sand mouth, where our ships can be beached.”
The helmsman, a man of few words like all his breed, nodded his understanding. Edwin looked along the length of the boat. It was a large craft, over 80 feet long, with sufficient space for plunder and the slaves he expected to take in this war. Most of the horses they had brought with them were being carried in Forthred’s ship. His own vessel, being the first to land, was thick with warriors. It was easy to tell which of the men were experienced and which new: the old hands sat wherever they could find somewhere dry and out of the wind, sleeping, while the young men, hungry for glory, stared over the sides of the ship, alternating boasting and thoughtful silences. As the vanguard, Edwin mostly carried experienced men with him, but it was always good to blood a few youngsters with the old hands. His sons, Osfrith and Eadfrith, brought with them higher proportions of young men, but that was to the good. They would be blooded together, and the new-born warriors welded to each other and to his sons, forming the next generation of kings.
At least, that was the intention. Edwin thought of the king lists that Acca loved to recite, genealogies going all the way back to Woden or Thunor or one of the other, lesser, gods. In the lists, king followed king in dizzying, bloody procession. As strength and fortune failed one, another would rise up, all according to the weavings of fate. Before they set sail, Edwin had sacrificed to the fate singers, the pale sisters, while Coifi shook his bone rattles and his new wife and her priests looked on in what he took to be horror. A white heifer, sheep, a white goat, all slaughtered and their blood thrown upon the ground in the sacred grove where Coifi gathered his power. But Edwin knew that the fate weavers wove what they would, unmoved by sacrifice or tears, a warrior’s bravery or a child’s plea. Despite Coifi’s assurances, he doubted that the fate weavers’ favour could be bought with the blood of animals. He knew that there were some among his people and his ancestors who sought favour by giving greater gifts, be they richer treasures or human blood, but he had seen such sacrifices rejected as often as they were accepted. No, the fate weavers wove wyrd as they would and neither men nor gods might change that pattern; mortal or immortal, they could only endure.
As the small flotilla of ships sailed around Ynys Gybi, Edwin called upon some of the younger men, who had the sharpest eyes, to keep watch on the land. With the sun risen, it was inevitable that sooner or later someone would see the boats and raise the alarm, but now they were on the final stretch, he hoped his boats, driven by a freshening west wind, would outpace any messengers. The only way the Britons might get word to his destination before he arrived was by horseback, and any riders should be clearly visible to his lookouts.
Rounding the final headland, Edwin saw the remembered beach open between the two headlands that concealed and protected it. There were a number of boats drawn up upon the sand, but they were of the meaner sort, the vessels of poor fishermen rather than the long-prowed warboats of kings. For a moment he felt a stab of disappointment – he had hoped to catch Cadwallon unprepared and unawares. But he must be elsewhere in Gwynedd. No matter, the plan was to take Anglesey – Cadwallon’s presence would have been an unlooked for favour from the fates.
Pointing to where he wanted the boat to land, Edwin kicked the leg of the nearest sleeping man, who jerked awake and looked up at his king.
“Paddles,” said Edwin quietly, and the man, an old and experienced warrior, nodded and went about waking and making ready the rest of the men. The helmsman dug the steering oar into the water and the ship began to turn, the westerly wind helping more than hindering as the boat headed north, driving into the southern underbelly of Anglesey island. As Edwin kept watch, the men unshipped the paddles that lay along the bottom of the boat. There were oars lying there as well, vital if the wind should fail and the ship be becalmed, but the paddles were more effective at driving a boat up upon a beach – and they made much more useful weapons should they have to push out from the beach while under attack.
The boat rode over the swells that rose higher and sharper as they approached land, the men poised to begin paddling, and then, as they started cutting through the white-tops, the helmsman gave the signal. As one, twenty paddles bit into the sea and the boat leapt forward, through the creamy swirls until the prow scraped onto sand, at which the men gave the final convulsive heave, those in the front using their paddles as poles upon the wet sand, and they thrust the boat up upon the strand. The vessel strained, but before the boards had a chance to settle into their own unsupported weight, the men were out of the boat and, swords in hand, sweeping outwards to check for sentries.
In short succession the boats commanded by Forthred, Osfrith and Eadfrith pulled up on the beach. Men unloaded the horses, whispering commands and gentling the beasts. There were not enough animals for everyone to ride, but Edwin’s plan did not call for everyone to ride.
“Well met,” said the king, as Forthred hurried to him, leading a pair of fine horses. Osfrith and Eadfrith rode behind, with some ten men astride beasts and the rest jogging over the sand.
“An easy journey,” said Forthred, handing the king his horse and swinging up upon his own. “Let us hope the land proves as kind.”
Edwin mounted his horse. “It is a rich land, old friend, and a kindly one. It will treat us well.”
Forthred slammed his forearm against his chest, a broad smile upon his face. “It is good to go to war with you again, lord.”
“If I am right, there will be little war but much plunder – Cadwallon is not here.” Edwin pointed at the complex of buildings that overlooked the bay. “That is Aberffraw, Cadwallon’s demesne in Anglesey. But he is not there.”
Forthred squinted at the buildings. “How do you know?”
“When the king and his retinue are there, Aberffraw seethes like an ant hill, with servants and slaves, and local people coming for the king’s justice. Now, see, it is quiet.”
It was true. Only a single thin trail of smoke ascended from the buildings, but Forthred still frowned, for Cadwallon’s house on Anglesey was unlike the high wooden halls favoured by the kings of the Angles, the Saxons and the Jutes. Instead, it was built of brick and covered in grey slate, so that it looked more like a cut quarry turned upside down than a dwelling place for men.
Edwin, seeing his expression, explained. “It is built after the style of the emperors of old. Indeed, some among the Britons still call themselves Romans, and bridle should you name them wrong. Cadfan told me Aberffraw was built for a Roman when the emperors still ruled.”
Forthred nodded. “It is old then.”
“And weak. Its walls are bare, like cloth too long used, and a man with an axe may break the gates in five minutes if he be given the time. But there will be little defence. When the king is not there, only a few servants and slaves remain. They will not fight. Take Osfrith and Eadfrith, and take Aberffraw. When you have reived it, burn it.”
“And you, lord?”
“I have another, richer, destination in mind. A short ride inland, there is a monastery…”
Forthred’s eyes gleamed with gold lust at the very word – some of the most valuable reives they had had in the past had been when they fell unsuspected upon one of the monasteries of the Britons, rich with gold and men soon to be slaves, poor in swords.
“…but this is a monastery for women.”
If anything, Forthred’s eyes gleamed even brighter.
Edwin shook his head. “No, old friend, not these women, for they are the daughters of kings. The women of the Britons value their purity above all things and many choose – and are allowed – to enter a monastery rather than marry. But as the daughters of kings, their monastery will be rich and their ransoms richer – as long as we keep them undefiled. Therefore, I go with few men, and we ride, for we must be fast.” Edwin leaned closer to Forthred and lowered his voice. “See to my sons, Forthred. Osfrith commands, but if he should falter or fail, you must take charge. I leave a man with a fast horse behind – send for me if need arises or Cadwallon is seen.”
“Osfrith is a good boy, and generous. The men follow him willingly.”
“He has not been properly tested. Tell me truly when I return how he fights, whether with wit or wisdom.”
Forthred made the courtesy and fell back, while Edwin spurred his horse to his sons to give them their final orders. Then, as the sons of the king and Forthred, on horseback, led a gaggle of warriors on foot towards Aberffraw, Edwin gathered his mounted men around him.
“We go to a monastery of women.”
Edwin scanned the watching faces and saw many ribald grins and narrowed eyes.
“If any of you try to take a woman, I will cut your throat and leave your body to be eaten by the pigs of the Britons.”
The faces, which had been flushed and expectant, suddenly glazed.
“You will have riches from these women, but this is a treasure that must remain unspoiled for it to be reaped. These women are virgins, the daughters of kings – kings who will pay rich ransoms for the return of their daughters, but only if you keep your hands clean and your trousers on.”
Edwin Page 10