Edwin

by Edoardo Albert

  “The wind, it is so cold, not like in my home.”

  The king was about to answer, when Coifi fell on his knees, arms upraised, and shouted out, “May the gods be praised! You are well, lord, and you have a son!”

  “A son?” Edwin turned to Eadfrith and Osfrith, his face shining. “A son. So it was true what I heard before. I thought it might have been the fever.”

  “Ah,” said Osfrith.

  “Er,” said Eadfrith.

  The king went pale. “It’s not the queen?”

  “No, no, the queen is well, father,” said Eadfrith. “It’s just… You tell him,” he said, looking to Osfrith. “You’re the elder.”

  “Tell me what?” asked Edwin.

  “Um…” began Osfrith, and then his voice trailed away.

  “Is there something wrong with my son?” asked Edwin.

  Osfrith stared across helplessly to his younger brother. The king looked from one to the other, searching for an explanation. As one, the princes turned on Paulinus.

  “You tell him.”

  “After all, you started it.”

  Edwin, baffled, looked to the priest. “Started what?”

  “Lord…” Paulinus swallowed. “Your son is a daughter.”

  Edwin made to answer, then shook his head. “What did you say?”

  “The baby – it is not a boy, it is a girl.”

  “But…didn’t you…?”

  Paulinus blushed even more brightly. “I did.”

  “The stranger lied to you, lord.” Coifi pushed past the princes. “He said the baby was a boy.”

  Paulinus hung his head. “May God forgive me.”

  But Eadfrith began to laugh. “Father, he only told you it was a boy because the fever had gripped you and the news pulled you back. If it was a lie, we should get you to tell some more, priest.”

  “So my son is my daughter…?” The king looked for confirmation, and three heads nodded vigorously.

  “But the queen is well? That part is true?”

  “She is well, lord,” said Paulinus.

  Edwin breathed out a long relieved sigh. “Thank the gods.”

  “Yes, yes, thank the gods!” echoed Coifi.

  “Ahem.” Paulinus coughed. “The gods, your gods, had nothing to do with it, lord. Ask your sons – who was it who called you back from the banks of the black river? Was it the priest of vain gods of dead wood and dumb stone, or the minister of the living God, the true God, who hears and answers our prayers? Tell.” Paulinus looked to Osfrith and Eadfrith.

  The brothers grimaced at each other. “It’s true,” said Osfrith.

  “The assassin’s knife was poisoned,” added Eadfrith. “Coifi was no help, but the queen’s priest knew the venom and he cured you.”

  “Through God’s grace,” added Paulinus.

  Edwin looked long at the priest. “I thank you,” he said.

  “The thanks are not due to me, lord, but to God. He is power and truth and wisdom.”

  Edwin fell silent, his face withdrawn. To his watching sons it was clear that he was thinking hard. Then he looked up at Paulinus.

  “Will your god give me victory over Cwichelm and the West Saxons? Has he the power?”

  “Lord, my God threw down Pharaoh in all his strength and magnificence. He will give you victory over this king.”

  “If he should, then I will follow him.”

  The room fell silent. Coifi shrank into the black embrace of his raven-feather cloak. Osfrith and Eadfrith stared at their father, for where the king went they needs must follow.

  “My God is a jealous God, lord. He is not one among many, but reigns alone. He will not accept you if you worship him among other gods. You must reject and abandon the vain gods of wood and stone, these demon offspring that tempt you and taunt you and threaten you.” Paulinus, his face pale and thin, his hair startlingly black against his skin, stared fixedly at the king.

  “The god that gives me victory is the god I will follow.”

  A profound silence filled the room.

  “You must pledge it,” whispered Paulinus.

  “I so pledge,” said the king.

  Paulinus breathed out a breath as long as the wind.

  “As surety, I give my daughter to your god. Consecrate her to him.”

  Paulinus bowed. “I – I will tell the queen.”

  “When she is able, ask her to bring my daughter to me. I would see her.”

  “Yes, lord, certainly.” The priest bowed his way from the chamber. Coifi made to say something, but Eadfrith, seeing him, held his finger to his lips.

  “Leave us,” he said.

  Coifi shuffled from the room, his cloak trailing upon the ground like the feathers of a bedraggled bird.

  Eadfrith waited until Coifi was out of earshot before turning to Edwin. “Is this wise, father? Many of your thegns follow Thunor, or Tiw, or Woden. They will not easily acknowledge a new god.”

  “I know my thegns,” said Edwin. “They will follow the god that gives them victory. We will see if this new god is more powerful than the old gods.” The king began to cough, his body wracked by the fit.

  “You should rest, father,” said Eadfrith.

  “Yes,” admitted Edwin, laying back on the bed.

  “One question, father,” said Osfrith. “What should we do with Eumer?”

  “Give him to Guthlaf,” said Edwin. “He will find it useful to have someone alive for his exercises with the men. When he’s finished with Eumer, tell Guthlaf to feed his body to the dogs.”

  Chapter 11

  “Are you well?”

  Æthelburh looked up, surprised, from the baby nursing sleepily at her breast, and shaded her eyes against the morning sun. She sat upon the platform before the great hall, taking for herself and her child the new warmth of the spring sun.

  Eadfrith stood before her, shifting slightly from foot to foot. “And the baby? Is she well?”

  Æthelburh looked down at the baby and smoothed her hand over the head. “She is well.” She squinted up at the young man. “You are in the sun.”

  “Oh. Sorry.” Eadfrith shifted to his right, coming into the shade beneath the eaves of the hall. “Er, does she have a name yet?”

  “Eanflæd. If my lord wills. How is the king?”

  Eadfrith shifted again, like a man skipping from foot to foot in the shieldwall. “That is why I have come to see you. The king… weakens. The poison saps his strength. He drifts between dream and sleep. Perhaps if you could come, and the baby, you might call him back from the shadows.”

  Æthelburh looked down upon her child and made no answer.

  Eadfrith, his lips tight with contempt, turned to leave.

  “Did you not think that I, his wife, should see the king and know his health before?”

  Eadfrith turned back to see the queen, her face set with fury.

  “How long have I sat waiting upon news of my husband, told that he was too ill to see me – to see us – and now, now only, you tell me he is passing into the shadows.” Æthelburh unlatched the baby from her breast, paying no heed to her squawk of protest, and passed the child to the wet nurse who waited upon the queen’s command and the baby’s need.

  “I – we – thought he was getting better,” said Eadfrith.

  “Pray that you are not mistaken.” Æthelburh fixed her veil in place. “Let us go to him. Godwif, bring the baby. And Eadfrith…”

  The young prince paused in mid step. “Yes?”

  “When next you come seeking me, you will call me ‘queen’.”

  Eadfrith stared at the woman, younger than he was himself, but Æthelburh returned his gaze with a self-possession he had not seen before. “Very well.”

  “There are enemies who seek ill for your father, Eadfrith, but I am not one of them.
”

  “So you say. Queen.”

  Æthelburh made to answer, but then shook her head. “Let us go to the king.”

  Eadfrith led the way, but he paused upon the threshold of the king’s chamber. “Be not shocked when you see him.”

  Æthelburh pushed past the prince and entered the room. The king lay unmoving upon the bed, his body covered in furs. His eyes were closed, but his lips moved weakly, although he made no sound. The flesh had drained from his bones, leaving him as a man of famine. The room reeked of smoke. Coifi, squatting by the fire, hissed at the interruption. He passed his hand through the flames, and sparks flew, spewing fresh smoke into the thick air.

  “What is this?” Æthelburh looked to Eadfrith.

  “Coifi searches for the king’s spirit, to call it back to his body.”

  The priest hissed again, his eyes rolling white.

  “No, no, no,” said Æthelburh. “There is no air here. Bring the king forth, let him breathe the spring.”

  Eadfrith looked from the queen to the priest, torn between the two.

  “His spirit drifts away from life,” said Coifi. “Would you stop me calling him back?”

  “He needs air.” Æthelburh turned to Eadfrith. “Bring the king out.”

  Eadfrith called the guards from outside the room. “Carry the king without.” He turned back to Coifi. “You have been trying to call the king’s spirit back these past two days.”

  They lay Edwin down where Æthelburh had sat before. A quiet ring of fearful, mourning people formed around the bier, but none dared to approach closely, for the queen sat beside him, with her child, while Eadfrith waited next to them.

  “Edwin.” Æthelburh smoothed the hair from his forehead and, doing so, the touch of his fingers on her face during her labour came back to her. “Edwin.”

  The king’s eyes opened. They rolled, then slowly settled on the queen. Edwin’s hand flopped upon the furs that covered him, as if he tried to raise it but had not the strength. Eadfrith, seeing his father wake, came closer.

  “Cwenburg?”Æthelburh stiffened. The smile that had greeted the king’s waking froze upon her face.

  “No, father…” Eadfrith began to speak but Æthelburh shook her head. She looked fiercely at him, holding finger to lips for silence, then stroked the king’s cheek. Edwin’s eyes fought for focus, trying to steady themselves on the shadowy face before him.

  “Cwenburg?” he repeated, his voice fainter.

  “Yes,” said Æthelburh. “Yes, I am here.”

  The king’s eyes slowly closed. But now he slept the sleep of healing.

  Eadfrith looked over the still but now calm body of his father to the queen, gently drawing a damp linen over his brow.

  “You let him think you were my mother.”

  Æthelburh did not look up, and only a break in the rhythm of her movements showed that she had heard Eadfrith’s words. Her face was pale.

  Eadfrith took Edwin’s hand in his own. “You brought him out of the shadows.”

  Æthelburh shook her head. “Not I. It was the memory of your mother that brought the king back.”

  “Nevertheless, I thank you.” The prince released his father’s hand and stood up. “You said earlier that you were no enemy of ours. I see now that you speak the truth.”

  Æthelburh looked up at him. “It has taken you long enough. I pray for all our sakes that your judgement in other areas is swifter.”

  “I trust it is.” A grin twitched Eadfrith’s lips. “At least, it is faster than my brother’s.”

  “You could tell him not to fear me.”

  Eadfrith nodded. “I will, my queen. But…” he shrugged. “It will take time. Osfrith honours our mother, and remembers her. He is also stubborner than a mule and but a little cleverer. But I will bring him round. I always do.” Eadfrith’s grin grew broader. “It will be easier for the baby being a girl.”

  “I love her not the less for that,” said the queen.

  Eadfrith looked to where the babe lay sleeping in the arms of her wet nurse, a bubble blowing upon her lips. “I as well.” He turned back to Æthelburh. “But make the next a boy – then I would have a brother I could order around!”

  A blush coloured the queen’s answering smile. “I – I will try, if God wills, and may he be as biddable to his elder brother’s will as you are to yours!”

  Chapter 12

  The bleak cold of the year’s early Easter had given way, forty days later, to sunshine and warmth. Edwin, still recovering from his wound and the effects of the poison, sat in the sunshine upon a stool beside the River Derwent. Despite the warmth, he drew his cloak around his shoulders. Since Forthred’s death, a chill had entered his body and not even the early summer sun was able to displace it. Most of his men were out hunting or bringing in food renders from the more distant farms. Because of his convalescence, the royal party had stayed at the vill on the Derwent far longer than normal, and the food stores, collected and preserved by the local thegn, had become depleted.

  Some of the men remained, however, and they had gathered around Edwin in curious silence to watch what their king too was watching. Eadfrith was with him, but Osfrith had averred that he had to see to his horses, one of which had gone lame. The king had not insisted he stay.

  Paulinus stood up to his thighs in a natural shallow pool of the river. He had tucked the end of his robe into his belt, to stop it trailing in the river, but still the wool was darkening as water soaked into it. The queen, with the people of her household, stood upon the small beach that led to the pool, and she carried her baby, Edwin’s baby, in her arms.

  Paulinus turned to face the silent, watching men. He had taken the precaution of facing away from everyone when he first entered the river. The precaution had been wise: the water was colder than even he, a child of the south, had imagined. He had managed to lock his mouth against any exclamation, but he feared his expression had not been so disciplined. But now, used to the cold, or at least with an increasingly benumbed lower half, Paulinus looked up to where the king sat with his men around him.

  “Today is the great feast of Pentecost, when God descended as fire upon the apostles, the first messengers of his good news to the world. I, an unworthy priest, yet am a descendant of these same apostles, and I bear witness to the good news they brought to the world: God, the very God who made all things and holds them in his hands, became man that he might take the weight of our sin upon his back, the punishment for our evil in his flesh, and win for us a new kingdom, God’s kingdom.”

  Paulinus held out his arms. The queen stepped forward. She did not stop at the water’s edge but walked into the pool, until the river came up to her knees. Æthelburh removed the shawl and gave her baby into the priest’s arms. The child slept peacefully, unaware of the attention concentrated upon her.

  “Here in my arms is the first-fruits of the good news in this kingdom. This child, this baby shall be named Eanflæd. By the wish of her mother and through the will of the king, Eanflæd is to be consecrated to Christ. I will now wash away her old life and bathe her in the waters of life eternal.”

  The priest held the baby up for all to see. Then Paulinus bowed and held the child over the water.

  “Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris…”

  And as he invoked the Father, he plunged the baby beneath the water and brought her up. Eanflæd, suddenly, rudely awake, made to scream, but Paulinus dipped her into the river again.

  “… et Filii…”

  For a second time the baby prepared to howl, but the priest immersed her once more, stifling the scream.

  “…et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Eanflæd emerged a third time and this time, given opportunity to draw breath, she screamed, her little body flushed red with the shock of what had just happened to her. Paulinus passed the wriggling, outraged baby back to the queen, who
wrapped Eanflæd in the white shawl and soothed her on the breast. Hugging the baby tight, Æthelburh waded from the river and bowed to the king.

  “Thank you for giving life to our daughter,” she said.

  Edwin inclined his head, but made no other reply.

  Paulinus remained in the river and now, one by one, other members of Æthelburh’s household came forward to receive baptism: women and men, old and young, they walked into the river, and the priest, now up to his waist in the cold water but no longer feeling its chill as a fire of faith lit him, laid them down beneath the surface, only for each to emerge spluttering, sometimes coughing, sometimes laughing but in all cases radiant.

  “At least these ones aren’t howling,” Eadfrith commented. “But the queen’s baby did not seem too pleased about being given life eternal.”

  “Quiet,” said Edwin. Eadfrith was on the point of giving a brisk retort when he looked at his father; Edwin was watching the proceedings with the concentrated intensity that he normally reserved for war. Eadfrith stayed the words in his mouth and looked again, trying to see what his father was seeing. But to him it simply looked like a group of people getting wet.

  As the baptisms drew to a close, most of the watching warriors drifted back to the royal vill, passing jokes with the gate keeper as they went through the stockade. Edwin remained, however, with Eadfrith lingering nearby. The young man did not know why he remained, yet he could not pull himself away.

  As the last of the baptized emerged from the river, shivering and smiling at the same time, and was wrapped in clean, white cloth, Æthelburh approached the watching, silent king. Eadfrith moved closer while pretending an interest in a boat approaching up the river.

  Æthelburh gave an uncertain smile. Edwin remained blank, a watching, brooding presence. The queen came closer, holding out the baby to Edwin, but he did not take her.

  “She is one of you now? A Christian. Like the Britons.”

  “Eanflæd is a Christian, yes, like me. And like my mother’s people, the Franks, and like the emperors and like the pope. Eanflæd is a Christian, and I am a Christian too, husband, and I have not changed into someone else before your eyes this day, so why do you look at me this way?”