Edwin

by Edoardo Albert

  “You could give one of them Deira and the other Bernicia?”

  “And have one of them supplant the other, as Æthelfrith did my father?”

  Guthlaf shook his head. “May wyrd weave many years yet for you, lord. Then the question may not need answering.”

  Edwin looked grimly at his warmaster. “Do you know any old kings?”

  Guthlaf pursed his lips in thought. “I do not.”

  “Neither do I. Only Cearl of Mercia is older. Forty years ride upon my shoulders, and my hair feels winter’s touch.”

  “But you are still young enough to sire a child,” said Guthlaf with a grin.

  Edwin started. In the press of the day’s business, he had all but forgotten his wife’s labour. “Guthlaf, send for word – how goes the queen?”

  “No need, father.”

  Edwin turned around to see Eadfrith approaching, clad in the finery of the son of the king of Northumbria. His cloak was the rich red of Frankish wine, the garnets that inlaid the brooch and buckles were as red as fresh blood, and his tunic was bright woad blue.

  “I sent a servant to inquire: Æthelburh still labours, but the midwife says there is no reason to fear; the child is not breach and Æthelburh is young and strong.”

  Edwin nodded. He looked around. “Where is Osfrith?”

  “Still dressing. Being the elder and slower, it takes him longer.”

  Edwin kept his face impassive, although he felt a smile tickle the corner of his mouth. Eadfrith needed no encouragement from his father when it came to teasing his elder brother.

  “We will wait for him at table. Time for a song. Acca!” Edwin looked around. “Where is Acca?”

  “He is not here, father. I saw him earlier today, whispering. He told me the vapours and mists rising from the river had robbed him of his voice.”

  “No doubt he prescribed many cups of wine as a restorative?”

  “I believe he is sleeping off the effects.”

  Edwin grimaced. There were times when the temptation to cast Acca into exile became almost overwhelming, but then he would sing a song of such mastery and eloquence that he redeemed himself. Still, if the scop was not available, many others could be called upon to provide some entertainment through the feast.

  “Coifi, give us a riddle while we wait for the food.”

  The priest, squatting by the fire, his cloak of raven feathers hanging dully over his shoulders, looked around at the call, his head moving sharply and his eyes black bright, like a bird’s.

  “A riddle, Coifi,” repeated Edwin, “as Acca sleeps in the arms of the daughters of Ægir.”

  Coifi hissed, and the men nearest him unwittingly drew away. “I saw in the fire, in the flames, that you would call on me, lord, to answer for that drink-addled fool.” He shook his bone rattle, and it too hissed. The men around him inched along the benches away from the priest, leaving him in a circle of space.

  Edwin inclined his head. “As you foresaw my scop’s indisposition and my calling on you, you no doubt have a riddle prepared for us.”

  Coifi shook his rattle again, weaving it through the air in intricate patterns that drew the eye, as its sound called the ear. Not for him the shout of “Hwæt!” Slowly, amid the hubbub of preparation, the waiting, hungry men fell into the closest approximation to silence that was possible.

  At that moment Osfrith entered the hall. Eadfrith, noticing him, elbowed his father. “See,” he said.

  It was true: Osfrith was dressed magnificently, with gold and silver chains and belts accentuating the weld yellow of his tunic and the red madder of his cloak. And by virtue of being the eldest son, he wore a circlet of worked wound gold around his head.

  “He certainly looks like a king,” commented Eadfrith as his brother made his way over to them. Edwin chose to ignore the undertow of criticism in Eadfrith’s voice, and he welcomed Osfrith to the table.

  “Have I missed anything?” Osfrith asked, reaching for a cup of beer.

  “The king of the West Saxons wants you to marry his daughter,” said Eadfrith.

  Osfrith spluttered beer over the table. “What?”

  “No,” said Edwin, glaring at his younger son. “But Coifi is about to spin us a riddle.”

  “Oh, his riddles are excellent,” said Osfrith. “Much better than Acca’s.”

  “I wager I answer Coifi’s riddle before you,” Eadfrith suddenly cut in. Before Edwin could stop the rivalry, Osfrith spat on his hand and thrust it across to his brother. “Two white mares.”

  “Done!” said Eadfrith.

  “Coifi!” yelled Osfrith, his voice cutting through across the hall. “Start the riddle again. My brother and I have two white mares riding on which of us can solve the riddle first.”

  Coifi shook out his raven cloak and the old dry feathers rustled like dead leaves. The priest held out his hand and waited until someone put a cup of beer in it. With the added interest of two white mares – a huge fortune – riding on the riddle, the hall fell into almost complete silence. Edwin, though, saw the messenger from the West Saxons look with hooded eyes between his sons and he knew that the man had noted their rivalry.

  Coifi drank the beer in one long, throat-bobbing draw, to the cheers of the men in the hall. He was about to hold out the cup for a refill when Osfrith called, “Get on, Coifi.”

  The priest fixed the prince with his black eye. “I drink for the god,” he said.

  “So do I,” muttered Eadfrith. Edwin fixed his face straight, but felt his lip twitch.

  Coifi solemnly drained another cup of beer, drinking more reflectively this time, but still without pause or apparent breath. The men cheered again, but Coifi silenced them, turning on the spot, his bone rattle hissing. The priest looked around the hall, daring any man to speak.

  “As I looked upon the weavings of wyrd in the fire, in the smoke, in words heard and in the patterns of shadow and light, the god spoke, and told me this riddle.” Coifi spread his arms out and with his raven cloak looked more than ever like a great, dark bird. “Let anyone here who thinks he can see the mind of the gods unweave my words and tell their meaning.”

  Coifi drew himself up. The men in the hall looked on in silence – even the slaves stopped their preparations for the feast.

  “What good man is so learned and so clever that he can say who drives me forth on my way?” Coifi’s head snapped from one side to the other with the sharp, percussive movements of a carrion bird.

  “When I rise up strong, at times furious, I thunder mightily and again with havoc I sweep over the land, burn the great hall, ravage the buildings.” Eyes so wide they showed white, Coifi stared around and the men, watching, hushed, could see the bare bones of the hall, ravaged and brought down, by war perhaps or a party of raiders.

  “Smoke mounts on high dark over the rooftops. Clamour is everywhere, sudden death among men.” Whispers spread around the hall as men gave their guess and others nodded in agreement. At the high table, Osfrith looked smug.

  “When I shake the forest, the trees proud in their fruit, I fell the boles. With my roof of water, by the powers above I am driven far and wide on my avenging path.” Faces that were confident suddenly looked puzzled, while others pinched tighter in concentration, realizing that the riddle contest was still open.

  “I bear on my back what once covered the forms of the earth-dwellers, their body and soul together in the waters.”

  Coifi fell silent. He turned in the accustomed and expected way of the riddle game, right around the listening, silent men, seemingly looking each in turn in the eye before coming to a halt, looking at the high table and the watching, breathless brothers.

  “Say what covers me or what I am called who bear this burden.”

  Silence filled the hall. Edwin, sitting between the brothers, glanced from one to the other. Each had his brow furrowed; their lips mov
ed as they muttered and discarded answers.

  Then Eadfrith spoke out. “As you are the eldest, Osfrith, you should answer first.”

  Osfrith, his face pale, rose to his feet as was required. He licked his lips. His mind had gone completely blank. He could not even think of any wrong answers. He shook his head.

  “I – I do not know,” he said. “I will give you the horses tomorrow, brother.” Osfrith slumped back upon his chair and Eadfrith, smirking, began to raise his cup to him.

  “So, what is the answer, Eadfrith?” Edwin looked blandly at his younger son. “I take it you know?”

  Eadfrith swallowed. “Er, give me a moment…”

  Osfrith, suddenly raised from gloom, glared across at his younger brother. “Stand up and tell us then if you know,” he said.

  Eadfrith slowly got to his feet. Then a broad smile spread across his face. “Coifi,” he said, “the mind of the god is opaque to me, which is why we have you as priest: to interpret wyrd and its workings for us. I have no idea what the answer is.” He turned to his brother. “I think we both owe Coifi two white mares.”

  Despite himself, Coifi gasped. His already pale skin went white and the bone rattle shook in a suddenly palsied hand. Four white mares were riches that only a king might dream on.

  Noticing the priest’s surprise, Eadfrith said, “Surely you saw what wyrd had weaved for you before you told this riddle?”

  But Coifi’s eyes rolled up until only the whites showed, froth spewed from his lips and his limbs began to shake like a man struck on the helmet in battle.

  Edwin sighed. This always happened when one of the gods entered the priest, but if the god remained in possession they would never find out the answer to the riddle. They could simply wait for the god to leave, or they could take more direct action. Edwin signed to a servant carrying a bucket of water. Direct action.

  Coifi came spluttering out of his trance. The raven feathers hung lankly about his shoulders and dripped upon the floor. He stared open mouthed at the high table.

  “Did you say you would give me four white mares?”

  Eadfrith laughed. “Well, brother?”

  But before Osfrith could answer, Eumer, the messenger from the West Saxons, stood up.

  “Can a stranger and visitor enter the riddle contest?” he asked.

  Eadfrith turned to Eumer. “Of course,” he said.

  “What?” shouted Coifi. “No! No, he can’t. I won fair and square. He can’t…”

  Edwin signed to a servant, and a second bucket of water splashed square in Coifi’s face, leaving him gasping and breathless.

  “Mayhap you will still win the wager, Coifi,” said Edwin, “but let us hear the guess of our visitor. Eumer of the West Saxons, what say you?”

  “I say it is a storm, a great storm of thunder, lightning, wind and rain. What say you? Do I speak truth?”

  Coifi gaped like a stranded fish. The whispers of delight that accompanied a true guess began to sweep around the hall. In his mind the priest saw the unimaginable wealth represented by four white mares being ridden south, away from him. But he would not let the treasure be taken so easily. “You did not answer ‘who drives me forth on my way’. That’s part of the riddle too.”

  “You want to know who sends forth the storm?” Eumer laughed. “Thunor, of course.”

  “Ah, ah,” said Coifi, waving his bone rattle, “of course he does, but the king has allowed men in this hall who deny the gods; men who do not believe that it is Thunor who sends the storm.”

  Edwin stared grimly at the priest, but Coifi, in the agony of his lost wealth, did not mark the king’s regard.

  “So who do these men say sends the storm if it be not Thunor?” asked Eumer.

  “I do not know. But according to them it is not Thunor. That means that not everyone agrees you have given the right answer, so therefore you have not won and the horses belong to me. Those are the rules of the contest!”

  “Where are these men? Let them speak for themselves,” said Eumer.

  Coifi made to send a slave for Paulinus, but Edwin held up his hand. “No. The priest prays to his god, and the god of my wife, for her safe delivery from labour. He is not to be disturbed.”

  Eumer turned to Edwin. “Your wife is in labour? That is wonderful news! Whence came she?”

  “She is the sister of Eadbald, king of Kent.”

  “Kent? Northumbria waxes great indeed. The kingdoms of Elmet, Rheged and Lindsey, the isles of Man and Anglesey all already hold Northumbria as lord.”

  Edwin ignored the messenger’s statement. Instead, he turned to his sons. “When Eumer returns to the West Saxons, he takes with him two white mares from each of you.” Before Coifi could protest, and without looking in his direction, Edwin added, “We may send Cwichelm a priest too.”

  Suddenly deflated, Coifi sat down. A sympathetic hand passed him a cup of beer. To have such riches snatched away… The priest drained the cup and held it out again. This time wine, rich red wine brought by boat across the narrow sea from the sun-drenched lands of the Franks, filled the cup. Coifi drained it but he barely even noticed the richness of the wine. He sat hunched by the fire, a black and brooding figure, the flames reflected in his eyes, as he sought in vain for some intimation of the wyrd that had snatched wealth unimaginable from his arms.

  “Forthred, call forth the feast,” said Edwin. “I am hungry, for food and for news from the south, and the latter waits on the former.”

  The feast was no elaborate affair since, being prepared at short notice, it was the normal fare of the day with whatever dishes the servants could cook quickly to honour their guest. But drink, requiring no preparation, was easier to lavish upon an unexpected guest, and cups were filled with beer, ale, mead and wine, whatever was asked for and however many times thirst called for more. Even Acca, hearing the sounds of feasting from his sick bed, rose and tottered into the hall to partake of some medicinal wine. By the third cup, his voice was restored and by the seventh he could hardly be persuaded to allow anyone else to sing.

  The men and visitors having eaten and drunk their fill, and with the early March night already drawing its thick cloak over the land, further torches and lamps were lit, filling the hall with the red gold glow that Edwin always associated with tales told and songs sung. This was the quiet time of reflection, when talk murmured through the hall, in and around the moving shadows, while some men stared into the shifting heart of the fire and others eased themselves into sleep. This was the time for conversation, for news of distant parts and the breaking of messages.

  But first, Edwin sent for word of his wife. The servant returned shaking his head: the queen still laboured, but the midwife had said there was no need for worry.

  “It has been many hours now,” Edwin said.

  “Cwenburg laboured two days to bring forth Osfrith,” said Forthred.

  “I remember.” Edwin fell silent, staring into the fire. Then he shook his head like a dog shaking water from its fur, and turned to Forthred. “It is time to hear what messages come from the West Saxons. Call this Eumer to stand before us.”

  As Forthred, who had as usual drunk little and therefore walked more steadily than anyone in the hall, went to fetch Eumer from where he sat at table further down the hall, Edwin called his sons to attend.

  “Listen well to Eumer’s message. I have heard that Cwichelm, his king, is a subtle one who achieves as much through cunning and trickery as through strength of arms. Words can be as slippery as fish – grasp these tight and do not let their meaning twist away from you.”

  Forthred led Eumer to the high table and stood beside him as the messenger from the West Saxons came to a halt in front of the king; Eumer pressed his forearm to his chest in salute.

  “To Edwin, lord of Deira and master of Bernicia, the king of Northumbria, of Lindsey, of Elmet and Rheged, of the western
isles of Man and Anglesey, I bring greetings from Cwichelm, king of the West Saxons.”

  The king sat, chin on hand, his eyes shadowed as they surveyed the man in front of him. Edwin inclined his head in acknowledgement of the greeting, but he noted that Eumer’s formal opening address had not included Edwin’s claim to the high kingship of Britain, but instead merely listed the kingdoms that he explicitly ruled. Edwin nodded to Forthred to reply on his behalf.

  “Edwin, High King of Britain, greets the messenger of Cwichelm, king of the West Saxons, and bids him deliver his message.”

  The slightest of glances conveyed to Forthred Edwin’s appreciation: the thegn had heard the omission in Eumer’s greeting and corrected it in his response.

  “My message is in two parts: the first is a proposal and the second is tidings.” Eumer, in his eagerness to deliver the proposal, stepped closer to the table. Forthred stepped up beside him.

  “Cwichelm, my lord, king of the West Saxons, proposes an alliance between the West Saxons and the Northumbrians, and as pledge and surety of this alliance he offers his daughter in marriage to your eldest son, and his sister’s son in hostage to you, to be raised by you, his blood and his breath to be forfeited should Cwichelm break his solemn oath to you. What say you, Edwin, king of Northumbria?”

  There was not a trace of movement on Edwin’s face. Osfrith’s face, on the other hand, betrayed his dismay, but he made no sound, and waited upon his father to answer, although dread had clutched his heart.

  “I say it is a fine and generous offer, but one to which I must give much thought before I can give answer. But first I must ask a question of you. How old is this daughter of Cwichelm, king of the West Saxons, and what will be her marriage portion?”

  “She is still young, that is true, but her marriage portion will be great: eternal alliance with the West Saxons, five horses, one hundred pounds of gold, two hundred pounds of silver, and much more besides, including the finest cloths from the kingdom of the Franks and silks from the lands beyond the middle sea.”

  “You say she is still young. But how young?”

  “Lord, I do not know her exact age.”