Some blood returned to the watching faces, for the gold lust was as fierce as the woman lust. Edwin was a generous king, who gave rich gifts freely – indeed, the men clustered around him bore witness to his generosity in the belts and buckles and torcs and armbands that they wore – but all kings, even the greatest, needed gold and searched for it as greedily as a new born searching for its mother’s breast. Riches were most often torn from the bodies of the dead, in the shape of their armour and trappings and weapons, or earned with the bodies of the vanquished as they were sold as slaves, but now the watching men grinned, and their smiles grew vulpine as they slowly realized the true worth of the plan their king sketched out for them. Oh, he was a crafty one, this one; a worthy successor to Æthelfrith the Flesaur, and he would make them rich.
Edwin led the group of riders up out of the beach area. To their left, Aberffraw, the demesne of the kings of Gwynedd, was beginning to burn as the assault led by Forthred and his sons swept aside the few defenders. It was going so well that Edwin saw no need to stop, but rode inland at the head of his small troop, following the footpaths that cut between the long strip fields, ridged and furrowed into parallel rows by generations of ploughmen and their teams of oxen. There were men, and some women and children, in the fields, weeding and scaring away birds, but they fell back when they saw the armed men riding towards them. Those who could do so fled for the relative safety of the copses and marshes that interspersed the fields; those who saw the riders too late to find safety strove to make themselves as inconspicuous as possible. On another occasion Edwin might have sent some men to round up a few peasants to be taken on board the ships, but on this day he had other priorities. As he and his men were on horseback, there was no way the peasants could send a warning faster than they would arrive and, being peasants, they would have no more idea where to send to find their king, Cadwallon, than they would to find their gods.
“God,” Edwin corrected himself under his breath. Most of the Britons worshipped one god, of course, not many. As the horse waded across a shallow ford under the shadow of a wooden cross, he recalled that the Britons did seem to know where to find their god, be it beneath his sign, or in the strange meal that they shared in their churches, where they even ate their god.
Edwin shook his head. He had never understood that. Surely gods consumed the offerings and sacrifices of men, not the other way round?
But that could wait for another day. Waving his men to a halt, he rode towards a watching peasant who had mistaken stillness for invisibility. The man, seeing Edwin ride towards him, made to run, then realizing the futility of flight he shrugged and waited.
Edwin drew his horse to a halt. “Where lies the monastery of kings’ daughters?” he asked, using the language of the Britons.
The peasant shaded his eyes as he looked up at the horseman. “There be no monastery of kings’ daughters here,” he said.
Steel rasped, and in an instant the peasant went slightly cross-eyed as he tried to focus on the blade touching his chest.
“I speak your tongue, peasant,” said Edwin. “Do you not think I know your land? Where is the monastery of kings’ daughters?”
“I were about to say, while there be no monastery of kings’ daughters in these parts, there is a nunnery nearby.” Edwin lowered his sword and the peasant tugged his hair in acknowledgement.
“Whereaways?”
“Yonder,” said the peasant, pointing north and further inland. “See thou the woods, shaped as a whale breaking the waves? The nunnery be yonder.”
Edwin urged his horse back to the waiting men, and the peasant stood watching, leaning on his staff as they rode away. Once the riders were safely out of sight, many of those who had hidden ran up to him.
“What did the Saxon want?” they asked.
The peasant shrugged. “King stuff,” he said, and went back to his hoeing.
The peasant spoke truly. As they rounded the wood, the nunnery came into view: a collection of low buildings clustered around a central, higher one, with a roof that reached, impressively, as high as a tall tree. Almost as soon as the riders saw the nunnery, the nunnery saw them, for a bell began to toll urgently, and they saw a frantic boiling of human activity that resolved itself into watchful stillness as they came closer.
Edwin held his hand up and drew his horse to a stop. The men behind him did the same.
“Shields,” he said, drawing his own round shield over the left side of his body. His helmet in place – the king alone wore a full face helmet, its cheek guards and face-covering intricately carved and with a flaming red boar’s hair tuft set upon its crest – Edwin signalled for the men to advance at a walk. Every man came on with sword drawn, eyes scanning for danger, but no one moved among the scattered buildings. As they drew closer to the nunnery, Edwin felt the same sense of oppressive heaviness that always attached to the brick buildings of the Britons. The Angles and the Saxons and the men of Kent built in wood, raising great halls as tall as trees, but the Britons still attempted to follow the ways of the emperors, although their structures had none of the desolate grandeur of the Romans. Edwin had seen the ruins of many towns, he had walked among their remains, and it seemed to his wondering eyes that giants must have built them and lived in them. But such was not the case with this nunnery: it was human scale, and most of the buildings were rude affairs of wood and wattle. Only the church, at the centre of the huddle of buildings, was made of brick, and closer inspection revealed that even the church was brick only in part: the mortared walls reached only to head height and then, as if someone had run out of bricks and resorted to more readily available material, the rest of the building’s height was provided by wattle and daub added on top of the low round of bricks.
Edwin held his hand up and the men stopped. The only sound was the shifting of their horses; even the nunnery’s animals, cooped in rough enclosures and pens to the north of the buildings, held a watchful, waiting silence. Edwin could feel the weight of eyes upon them, hidden gazes staring fearfully from behind screens and over doors, but he could see no one. Where would they be? He scanned the buildings and then alighted on the obvious choice. They would be in the church, praying to their god for deliverance. Moving his horse forward at a steady walk, still scanning to left and right, Edwin rode towards the church, his men, their armour clinking, riding behind. The church’s wooden door was closed.
Then from the left the twang of a bow string and the hiss of an arrow, its fletching cutting the air. Edwin caught the flight at the edge of sight and shifted his shield upwards just in time. The arrow glanced off the limewood. Even as it was looping slowly back down to the ground, the men nearest to its source had leapt from their horses and run to the small outhouse, shields covering their approach, and battering open the door they dragged out the archer. He was a boy, dark haired, dark eyed and pale with the surety that he was about to die. Edwin saw that the bow he had fired was a child’s weapon, the sort of thing he had used himself when he was eight and went hunting duck.
“Shall I kill him, lord?” The warrior held his seax to the boy’s throat – being a child there was no glory in his death, so the warrior was going to use the knife rather than the sword to draw the life from the boy.
“Was he alone?” Edwin looked towards the outhouse.
The other men emerged from it, signing the all clear.
“Lord?” asked the warrior.
“No! Do not kill him. He is a stupid, brave boy.” The voice rang clear from the direction of the church and the Northumbrians turned to see a woman standing at its now open door. She wore a long, dark habit, tied around the waist with a leather belt, and a veil covered her hair. “As brave a boy as you were.”
The king held his hand up – a sign that his men should wait and hold their positions – then he rode towards the church.
“Briant.”
“Edwin.”
Neither moved
. Behind Briant, women, all wearing the same style of clothes as her, were peeping fearfully from the church. Edwin’s men, although they remained on watchful alert, exchanged meaningful glances as they looked at the women.
“Are any of Cadwallon’s warriors here or on the island?” Edwin asked, using the language of the Britons. “Speak quickly and speak truly.”
Briant hesitated and was about to turn to look at her women when Edwin urged his horse closer. “Answer truly!”
Briant straightened and looked Edwin in the face. “Here there are none; the men here present are servants and labourers.”
“On the island?”
“I have had no news of Cadwallon and his men these past two months, not since the Feast of Pentecost.”
From behind, Edwin heard his men murmur as those who spoke the tongue of the Britons translated what had been said to the others. He held up his hand for silence.
“There is no one here to oppose us?” Edwin switched to the language of his own men.
Briant paused. She looked past Edwin at the waiting group of heavily armed men. And then, speaking Edwin’s tongue as fluently as he did, she answered. “If you take or harm any of my sisters, God will cut you down in your pride and your women will weep for you and your sons will not know their fathers. This I promise, by the blood of he who saves us, though we die.”
The clink of mail and the hiss of metal told Edwin, without having to look around, that the curse had disturbed his men.
“In my experience the gods are not so reliable. But let us say your god will do as you threaten – I and my men have sailed far and ridden long; we will not leave empty handed. I will sell you your sisters’ lives and freedom if you will buy them from me.”
Briant stared long and hard at Edwin before answering. “I – I will buy them.”
“You choose well. Come, show me your price and I will see how many lives it buys.”
“What of Uwain?”
“Who?”
Briant pointed past Edwin. “The boy who shot an arrow at you. He is only a child. Will you let him live?”
“If you have the treasure to buy his life, I will sell it to you, and the others. Now, where is the blood price to be found?”
“Our treasures are in our church,” said Briant. “But it is a holy place and no pagan may enter.”
“I will enter, or if not I alone, then all of my men and me together. Which is it to be?”
In answer Briant stood aside from the door.
Edwin turned to his men. “Wait and watch – there is no threat within, but I am uneasy. I feel in my bones that someone is coming.” Then, dismounting, he strode into the church and Briant followed Edwin.
The nuns clustered like frightened children in the sanctuary at the far end of the building. Their wide eyes peeped through the gaps in the brightly painted rood screen that separated the high altar – in reality a rude and roughly worked block of stone – from the nave. Lined up in front of the nuns were a group of poorly armed men wielding spears and clubs and cudgels, but with little more than leather jerkins for protection and no shields. Although they outnumbered his men, a glance told Edwin that they were not warriors, and however brave they might be they offered no defence against his escort. He swiftly took in the rest of the church, its walls painted with scenes from the holy book of the Britons, and the three high small openings in the walls that allowed light in from without. To help with illumination, rush tapers burned smokily along the walls, and smoke gathered in the thatch, moving like mist over marsh. There was no sign of any trap.
Edwin spoke to Briant out of the side of his mouth without turning his head, so that those watching from outside would not realize he was conversing.
“Is she here?”
Briant answered in like fashion.
“Yes. There, second from left.”
“I see her. She takes after you.”
“I see you in her.”
“What is she like?”
“She is a good daughter and a good sister. God willing, she will be mother to this community when I am dead.”
“May that be long. For now, I must take something to give to my men, or they will not be restrained. What do you have?”
“The holy vessels and holy book, but they cannot be profaned. I – I have the jewels my father gave the sisters when I came here. Will that suffice?”
“They will need to be rich jewels indeed, Briant, for there are women here that would bring high prices.”
“If you try to take any of my sisters, you will have to kill me first, Edwin.”
“Do you think I would be talking to you now if I wanted to do that? Bring me what you have; be quick now.”
Briant hurried down the nave of the church, her long robes rustling over the rushes that lay on the hard-packed earth floor, and spoke quickly to one of the nuns. But as she did so, Edwin heard swift movement behind. He turned to see one of his men scurry to the church.
“Riders approaching,” he said to Edwin.
“How many?”
“Only four.”
“Hide the horses, have the men take cover in the church. We will provide a surprise of our own for our surprise guests.”
His orders delivered, Edwin strode after Briant, causing frantic whisperings from the watching nuns and the futile waving of spears and cudgels by the old men and young boys who were attempting to guard them.
“Briant, my pagans are going to have to profane your holy place, but with your help no blood need be spilled here.”
The nun hurried back to Edwin. “What…” she began, but Edwin interrupted her.
“Four riders approaching. Do you know who they are?”
The nun gave a panicked glance past Edwin and saw some of his men already taking up position in the church.
“No. Yes. Maybe. Please,” she clutched Edwin’s arm, “if I or our child mean anything to you, do not kill them.”
“Who are they?”
“I – I… my brother said he would come back to Inys Môn this season; most likely these are his heralds, telling his coming.”
“Call them into the church and my men can take and disarm them. Or we can fight and kill them outside. Which is it to be?”
“You will not harm them?”
“We will try not to kill them. I can give no more assurance. But without your assistance they will certainly die, and probably one or two of my own men. And then the others will be the harder to check when it comes to dealing with your women.”
Briant nodded. “I will call them.”
Edwin made to turn away, but she grasped his arm. “If you kill them, the disgrace will fall on me.”
Edwin nodded. “I understand, Briant.” He took her hand from his arm. “Now go, stand in the door of your church and welcome them in.”
As the nun made her way to the entrance, Edwin arrayed his men and gave them their orders. Those nearest the door were to use their shields, with their heavy metal bosses, to knock the newcomers from their feet, while the others were to wait with swords drawn and rope ready, to step in if the fight grew too fierce or to bind the prisoners should it go well.
For himself, Edwin took his place nearest the door, in the little recessed cell that stood beside it, providing shelter for the man who guarded the entrance to the church. It also ensured that he was close enough to hear what Briant said to the men.
A quick glance told him that all was ready, then Edwin eased himself backwards into the shadows and waited.
The horses drew up outside the church. Briant stood, in shadow but visible, in the doorway.
“Where is everyone, Briant?” a cheerful voice asked.
“We are within,” said Briant. Edwin could hear the strain in her voice, although Briant strove to keep it light.
“I did not know this was a feast day. We will jo
in you.” And past Briant, his cloak flung back and his head bare, strode Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd.
The struggle was brief but violent. At the end of it, two of Cadwallon’s three bodyguards lay bleeding out their lives into the rush-strewn floor of the church, as did one of Edwin’s men; the third bodyguard was held, unconscious, dangling between two panting Northumbrians, and Cadwallon struggled upon the ground, held by three men who were using their shields to grind him into the floor. Edwin glanced up and saw the collection of old men and boys who lined the sanctuary girding themselves to attack in protection of their king – they would die, but with so many of his own men occupied, it could get messy. Stepping smartly around the men struggling on the floor, Edwin drew his sword and pushed the point into the hollow at the base of Cadwallon’s neck.
“Take one step forward and your king dies!” Edwin roared over the shouts and confusion in the church.
Cadwallon, suddenly, terribly, conscious of who had caught him unawares, fell still. The old men and boys, muttering, shaking their cudgels and spears, shuffled back to the sanctuary where the nuns whispered and prayed.
“Get him up,” Edwin said to his men, and they pulled Cadwallon to his feet, his arm twisted behind his back.
Briant pushed her way forward. “You promised you would not hurt him,” she said.
Cadwallon started, and the knife held against his throat pricked blood. But it was surprise rather than escape that had prompted his movement.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” he asked. “Why did you betray me?”
Briant shook her head. “You were lost, brother; there were men waiting outside and within and there was no escape. But Edwin promised that he would not kill you.” Briant turned to the king of Northumbria, who was staring at Cadwallon. “You promised,” Briant repeated.
“I did not know that we would land so big a fish,” Edwin said quietly. “A royal fish no less. Ha!” He clapped his hands together, but the sound died away into the rushes of the floor and the thatch of the roof.
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