“You gave your word that you would let live whoever I called into this church,” Briant said. “Would you have it known that Edwin, king of Northumbria, is faithless? Do you want men to say that Edwin gives his word only to break it? For know this, if you should hurt my brother now, I will spend all the years remaining to me on pilgrimage through these islands, proclaiming the news to whoever will hear me that Edwin is a faithless king.”
Edwin turned to Briant. “You would have to be able to travel round these islands first to do that.”
Briant nodded, as if her suspicions were being confirmed as they spoke. “Only death will stop me telling of such faithlessness. Kill me then, and have done with it – only kill me before you kill my brother, that my own part in his death be hidden from my eyes.” And as she spoke she pushed herself forward, so that the point of Edwin’s sword rested upon her breast.
“Briant, no,” called Cadwallon, but Edwin had already lowered his sword. The king stared levelly at the nun, and his face had become a mask.
“You think I would kill you?”
“You viper, you’ve done worse to her before,” shouted Cadwallon, beginning to struggle against the men holding him. But almost without looking, Edwin slammed the pommel of his sword back into Cadwallon’s head, and the king of Gwynedd slumped into a state of semi-consciousness.
“Well?” said Edwin.
“Should you kill my brother here now, after I have brought him to you on your assurance of his safety, then I would be the greatest of traitors and my infamy known to all: you would have killed me, Edwin, more surely than with any sword. Is that what you desire?”
Slowly, Edwin shook his head. “No, that is not what I desire, Briant. My wish was to see you and my daughter, and that I have done. I gave you my word once that I would not speak, ever, of what passed between us, and I have kept that promise through all these years. You should know I am no oathbreaker.” Edwin turned to his men. “Wake him,” he said. And while they slapped the king of Gwynedd into consciousness, Edwin stepped closer to Briant and spoke to her softly. “Does my daughter ever ask after her father?”
Briant whispered in return. “She believes her father to be dead, and her mother too – and that she was raised by the sisters here, their favourite child.”
Edwin nodded. “It is for the best.” He took one final look at the nuns gathered upon the sanctuary. “The second from the left?”
“Yes, that is her.”
“Lord.”
Edwin turned to see Cadwallon groaning back to consciousness. “I will keep my word, Briant, but your brother has a debt to pay to me now, and I will extract it, although he lives.” Edwin strode over to Cadwallon. The king of Gwynedd hung limply between the men holding him, his eyes glazed. Edwin swept the bowl from the font and threw the water into Cadwallon’s face, jerking him back into awareness.
“You stole from me my bride’s price. Now you will pay me in return.”
Cadwallon spat, and the blood-specked spittle dripped down Edwin’s chest, but the king of Northumbria made no move to wipe it off.
“Go ahead, kill me. My God will take me to his holy place, and he will cast you into the fire forever, serpent that we nurtured at our bosom.”
“Oh, I am not going to kill you, old friend and brother. I owe you your life at least, this time, for did you not spare mine once, many years ago?”
“Yes, and I curse the day I did so.”
“But do you remember how you left me that day you spared my life?” Edwin stared at Cadwallon. “I see you do. It was small mercy to leave a man unarmed and naked, tied in a boat cast upon the sea. More execution by other means than mercy, it seems to me. But it was not my wyrd to die then, brother, and the gods carried my boat to shore and I lived, and survived, and grew strong, and now I am here, in your land that I claim for my own. I will take from you recompense for what you took from my wife, her bride price, the great treasure of the men of Kent, that I will have. But you will live, brother; live on in the knowledge that you owe your life to me.”
The king of Northumbria glanced at his men. “Strip the king of his weapons, his treasures and his clothes. There is more on him than in a dozen churches.”
Cadwallon began to struggle, but another blow to the head sent him reeling to the ground, and then the men fell on him like the ravens that picked flesh from battle corpses. The armlets, the great gold torc that marked Cadwallon as king, the gold buckles and jewel-studded pin that held his cloak were tossed into a growing pile upon the floor, onto which followed the mail jerkin and padded jack that Cadwallon was wearing. Edwin picked up the mail; the links were among the smallest he had ever seen, and the oiled metal flowed over his fingers like water.
Cadwallon’s men were also stripped of their goods, the two dead men being left naked upon the floor, while the one still living was herded from the church and hog tied over the back of his horse – he was young and strong, and would fetch a good price.
“Wake him,” said Edwin, and the last of the water from the baptismal font was poured over Cadwallon. Edwin’s men hauled the king of Gwynedd to his feet. He stood naked in the church, his arms tied behind his back, but still there was an air of majesty to him.
“Take him,” said Edwin, “and cast him into a boat upon the sea. Let us see if your god saves you as my gods saved me.”
“I will kill you,” said Cadwallon. “This I swear. One day you will see me cutting your sons from you, leaving them dead upon the ground, and only then will I come for you.”
“You will have to live first,” said Edwin.
“Oh, I will live. My God will save me.”
“We shall see – but I have kept my word.” Edwin gestured to his men. “Take him.”
“Wait!” Cadwallon shouted, and even the Northumbrians paused in carrying out their orders. Cadwallon turned to Briant and very deliberately spat upon the ground in front of her. “You are no sister of mine.”
“Take him!” said Edwin, and his men jerked Cadwallon out of the church. The king, alone in the church, turned to Briant. “You saved him,” he said quietly, but she did not hear.
“Go,” said Briant. “Please go, and do not come back.”
Edwin nodded. “I would that this had not happened, Briant. But I will keep my word. Your brother will be set upon the sea in the straits between Anglesey and Gwynedd; unless your god turns his face from him and his boat founders, it should be no great matter for him to come to shore.”
Briant turned away.
“Farewell,” said Edwin, but she did not reply.
Returning to the ships, Edwin found Forthred, Osfrith and Eadfrith loading the vessels.
“How went the day?” he asked Forthred.
Forthred waved a disgusted hand at the meagre store of plunder they had raised from Aberffraw. Behind him smoke rose into the sky as the buildings burned and the assembled crows and ravens squabbled over the flesh spoils.
“At least we did not lose any men,” said Forthred. “It would have stuck in my throat to lose anyone for so little.” He turned to look at his lord, and his eyes narrowed as he saw the tightness around Edwin’s eyes. “What happened at the monastery?”
“We caught a fish, the biggest fish, but then we put it back in the water.”
Forthred gasped. “Cadwallon?”
Edwin could contain his amusement no longer. “He walked straight into us,” he laughed, “and we took him and stripped him. There,” he pointed to where his men were laying out the extraordinarily rich treasure they had taken from Cadwallon, to the gasps and cheers of the others.
Forthred grasped his master’s forearm, his fingers tight on the gold band around his wrist. “You took Cadwallon?”
Edwin laughed again. “We did, and you are holding one of his bands now. Here,” Edwin took it off, “take it.” And he handed the beautifully wrought gold band to Forthred. But his old retai
ner did not even put the band on, so astonished was he at the news.
“What did you do with Cadwallon’s body, lord?”
“Oh, he is not dead. We cast him, naked, upon the sea.”
“Lord, that was not wise. If he should live, he will seek revenge most bitterly.”
Edwin laughed. “Even if the sea finds him too bitter a food to swallow, Cadwallon’s power is ended. His people will not follow a king brought so low.”
Forthred grimaced. “It may be so, but for my part I would that you had killed him. For it seems to me that his people love him greatly and hate us the more, and will follow him if he lives.”
Edwin clapped a hand on Forthred’s back. “He said his god would save him. I saw how the tides raced in the straits where we set him upon the waters – if his god saves him from that, then we should think on taking this god for our own! Do not fret, old friend. Wyrd brought Cadwallon low and delivered him into my hands; he will not rise again.”
Forthred shrugged. “I hope so. The fate singers weave as they will and sometimes the weft rises after it falls – it did for us!”
“Cadwallon will not recover from this. Come, let us go. We have done all that we came here to do, and more.”
It was only as he stood in the belly of his boat, its prow turned away from Anglesey, that Edwin realized he had not asked the name of his daughter.
Chapter 8
“I’m scared.”
Edwin smoothed a strand of sweat-stained hair from Æthelburh’s forehead. For a moment, there was relief from the juddering contractions that seemed to be tearing apart the body of his young wife. Exhausted, Æthelburh fell back upon the bed while her women fussed around, burning incense, heating water and keeping up a constant background of low chants that to Edwin’s ears sounded like spells but were, according to the women, prayers to their god.
“I have sent word for a midwife to be brought to you,” said Edwin. “Your women do not seem best versed in matters of childbirth.”
“Will you stay with me?” asked Æthelburh.
“No! No, it would not be right to do so. This is women’s work, as war is men’s. Would you follow me onto a battlefield?”
Æthelburh smiled an exhausted smile. “I wou…” And then the word was drawn out of her in a long, shuddering scream.
Edwin, alarmed despite himself, grabbed one of Æthelburh’s maids. “Where is the midwife? Go find her, now.” It had been so many years since Cwenburg had given birth to Osfrith and Eadfrith that he had forgotten the pain of it. As Æthelburh’s body slowly stopped trembling, he looked down and saw that she had drawn blood from where she grasped his arm, such was the convulsive strength of her grip.
The pain passed and Æthelburh returned to herself, a fresh sheen of sweat coating her face. Outside, although it was March, a chill wind blew over the North Sea and down the grey cloud-mirroring waters of the River Derwent.
“If I die, will you allow Paulinus to baptize the child?” Æthelburh looked up at Edwin and her eyes were suddenly urgent with petition – the same clarity that Edwin had seen in the eyes of men before battle, when the fates whispered a warning of mortality. At the sight, fear drove long, cold fingers deep into the bowels of the king, but he strove, with the practice of his years leading men to their deaths, to hide that fear.
“You will not die, wife. Here, I give you this pledge against death and the weavings of the fate singers: the child will be yours to raise in your religion come what may, whether you live or whether you… you do not.”
Æthelburh smiled, and Edwin caught himself trying to impress her face upon his memory, in surety against wyrd taking her from him, and he railed against his own fear while keeping his expression calm.
“Move aside, move aside, give the poor child some air!”
Edwin, king of Northumbria, found himself being pushed aside by a bustling old woman with a blue apron round her waist and her hair tied back by a red cloth. The old woman started ordering Æthelburh’s flustered maids around, ticking them off for not having enough water, demanding the swaddling cloths and telling others to steep the roots and stems she produced from her apron in boiling water, so their steam might fill the room. She took not the slightest bit of notice of Edwin, so in the end he was forced to take hold of her wrist.
“You will see that she and the baby are well,” he asked.
“Ach, I’ve birthed more babbies than you’ve brought men down into the dust – I’ll see her well.” The old midwife smiled broadly at Æthelburh. “She’s a fine healthy lass, good hips too; she’ll have the babby out in no time when it’s ready.” Turning back to Edwin the midwife said, “Now, get yourself forth. This is women’s work, and no place for a man.”
Edwin tried to say farewell to Æthelburh, but another contraction juddered through her body, and the women drew around the birthing bed, screening her from his view, so he withdrew from the room.
Gesturing a servant over, Edwin asked, “Where is the queen’s priest, Paulinus?”
“Lord, he and the other Kentish men are in the building you gave them to worship their god.”
Edwin nodded an acknowledgement, but before he could head towards the building the servant spoke again. “Lord, your thegn, Forthred, wishes to speak with you. An ambassador from Cwichelm, the king of the West Saxons, has arrived and desires audience.”
“Tell Forthred to come to the Kentish priests’ building.”
As the servant ran off to find Forthred, the king left the hall and headed across the beaten-down earth of the compound towards the small timber building that he had allocated to Paulinus and James and their band of believers. Since his marriage to Æthelburh a year ago, the king had often asked the Italian to sit near him at feasts, that he might learn more of the religion his wife professed and, just as much, to hear tales of the lands over the sea, in particular of the country of the Franks across the narrow sea and, further south, the land of the emperors of old. Much fine jewellery and rich cloth came from the country of the Franks into Northumbria, and in return traders sent south furs, the great hunting deerhounds that were bred in Northumbria, or the fine horses that grew fat and tall on the lush northern grass, beasts fit for a king. The horses of the Franks and the other peoples across the narrow sea were small, shaggy beasts, unlike the tall, sleek-limbed animals of Britain. A merchant could take a single pair of horses, best of all a breeding mare, by boat across the narrow sea, and return with three boats full of the richest cloths, foods, jewellery and weapons, so highly valued were the horses from Britain.
As he made his way across the compound, marked out by a stockade of pointed logs driven into the ground, Edwin checked the moorings on the river. Yes, there was a new boat there, a coastal craft by its upflung hull and short mast, which must have arrived early in the morning. That was no doubt how the messenger from Cwichelm of the West Saxons had arrived. He could leave his servants to deal with the ambassador for the moment – he had other more urgent matters to attend to.
Approaching the building Paulinus used, which was set apart from the stables and warehouses and workshops that studded the royal compound, in the same way a smithy was removed from other wooden buildings lest sparks from the forge set fire upon the roofs, Edwin heard voices raised in song, carrying clean lines of melody out through the windows. The shutters of the building had been thrown wide and the song emerged cleanly, a joyful, clear music, at variance with the doleful dirges he had heard Paulinus and James chanting for the last month or more. It was a sound unlike any he had known before, as calm as a mist-covered sea but filled with the warmth of summer crops ripening beneath a gentle sun and overlaid with the joy of a husband taking his newborn son in his arms for the first time.
As he came closer, the door of the building was flung wide and Paulinus, James and the men of Kent who had stayed to serve the queen processed out, chanting and singing, with James swinging a thurible
from which grey ribbons of sweet, throat-clutching smoke swirled. Paulinus carried a tall wooden cross. The men were smiling, joyful, as they sang, and that joy carried over into their voices. In line, they processed around the compound, drawing stares and whispers and the odd shout from the servants and warriors who emerged from hall or stable or weapons’ field to see what was going on.
Seeing that they were not going to stop on their own, Edwin put himself in the way of the procession. Paulinus gestured for James and the others to continue, while he stopped to speak to the king.
“What is going on?” asked Edwin. “Why are you so happy?”
“Surely I told you – ah, but you have been distracted these last few days. Today is the greatest feast of the year, the fulcrum upon which all our hopes sit and from which our joy rises: today is the day of resurrection, when our Lord rose from the dead, renewed, past all expectation, past all fear, and put down the evil lord of this world and was placed, by God his Father, upon a throne higher than all thrones, dominations or powers. Today is Easter day and death is defeated and the gates of hell thrown wide. Today the children of God in Christ Jesus enter into life eternal, beyond the walls of this world. What else would I be on this day but happy?” And the thin, severe, aquiline face of the Italian broke into a smile as pure as that of a child.
“I wish you joy in your day, and maybe we will speak of what this means later, but for now, call upon this god of yours who defeated death, that he may guard my wife, now in labour, against evil magics and the workings of the fates, so she may be delivered and my child born safely.”
Paulinus, looking into the grim face of the king, saw there something he had not seen before: fear. The worry that comes of laying the destiny of one you love in the hands of blind fates and capricious gods. The priest grasped the king’s arm.
“The queen will not die – she will live, and the child too. God would not allow it otherwise, that this most blessed day be marred by that which he came to destroy: death.”
“I hope you speak truly. But in my experience, what the gods will or will not allow is not so clear. They build up and destroy as they will, and all that is left to men is endurance unto the end.”
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