Edwin

by Edoardo Albert

  “In view of your valour in service of Cearl, wife father, I give this ring, taken from the West Saxons, your enemies of old, now defeated, and pass it to you, Penda, warmaster, thegn to the king.” Edwin drew from his arm the richest, most intricately carved and thickly jewel encrusted of all the armlets that had been stripped from the dead at Duxford and held it out to Penda. Looking past the gift held in his outstretched hand, Edwin saw the gold lust glitter in Penda’s eyes, the dark and deep desire, slower burning but fiercer even than the woman fire. But Penda too looked past the gift into Edwin’s surprised eyes, and as quickly as the fire had sparked it was extinguished, to be replaced by a cool amusement.

  In one smooth movement, Penda took the armlet and placed it on the table in front of Cearl.

  “This gift is truly that of a king and worthy of a king, so I pass it to my lord, Cearl, king.”

  The old man stared at the armlet. It glowed and glistened in the firelight, the inset jewels casting shards of brilliant red and blue light upon the rich, deep gold. Cearl reached a trembling hand towards the gift.

  “This – it has been so long…” He looked to Penda and began to speak, to ask permission, but the warmaster answered the question before it could be asked.

  “It is yours, lord. Put it on.”

  Cearl drew the band over his hand and pushing up his loose sleeve he moved it upwards. The muscles of his forearm were too wasted now to hold the metal, so Cearl pushed the armlet past his elbow. He stared down at the armlet with the wonder of a boy receiving his first seax, turning the ring first one way and then the other.

  “Penda, you are a good and faithful thegn, and if you were of my blood you would be my heir,” said Cearl, stroking the armlet now as gently as a man might stroke a woman. “Ever have you served me faithfully, and I am right glad that you have come this day, that you might see and meet and make obedience to the heirs of my blood, the sons of my beloved daughter.” The old king left off fingering the armlet and put his arms around Edwin’s sons. “These two young men are Osfrith and Eadfrith, sons of the High King, sprung from Cwenburg, brave warriors, leaders of men, my heirs and your future king. What a kingdom they will wield, uniting the thrones of Northumbria and Mercia; all the thrones in the land must needs bow before them. Therefore, I ask you, give them your welcome and pledge them your allegiance, Penda, warmaster of the kings of Mercia.”

  While all other eyes were on Cearl, Edwin watched Penda throughout the old king’s speech. The warmaster’s gaze had flicked from Cearl to the two young princes, but then it had returned to Cearl, where it remained. Penda’s jaw had tightened as Cearl proclaimed the young princes his heirs. Watching, Edwin could feel the tension in the man, the almost overwhelming desire to look at him, Edwin, the architect of the sudden elevation of two unknown princes into heirs, but not once did the warmaster’s control weaken. His eyes remained fixed on Cearl throughout. And then, when the hall fell silent, waiting upon his reply, he still kept his gaze upon the king.

  “This… I admit, this is a surprise. I had hoped…but no, of course not. It would not be meet for the son of a thegn and a slave woman to think on thrones…” Penda turned his head smartly, sharply, from Osfrith to Eadfrith, nodding to each in turn. “I greet you, Osfrith and Eadfrith, sons of Northumbria, heirs to Edwin, High King.” Penda turned back to Cearl. “Of course, if you have nominated these Northumbrians as your heirs, I will follow and serve them, lord, and I will strive to ensure that the witan of your people, the people of Mercia, accept and acknowledge them as your heirs and successors.” Penda gave a slight shrug. “After all, as you know better than anyone, the Mercians can be a stubborn people. Some may be reluctant to accept outsiders as king.”

  “But you will speak for them, Penda? The people, my thegns, they fear and admire you; if you stand before the witan and announce that you will follow my choice and accept these young men as my heirs, then many others will follow your lead.”

  “Of course I will carry out your wishes, Cearl, king, for have they not always been as commands to me, dearer than the orders of a father?”

  The old king smiled. “You have been better and more faithful than a son to me, Penda. Would only that you were of my blood too, that you might share in the kingdom.”

  Penda smiled ruefully. “The fate weavers wove, and I came out from the wrong side of the bed.” He turned to Edwin and his sons. “But for those born to the throne, I pledge my strength.”

  Edwin and his sons rose. “I would have pledge of your wit more even than your strength,” said Edwin.

  The warmaster looked up at the king with unruffled eyes. Edwin could see no trace there of the bitter disappointment that must have come from hearing Cearl announce his heirs. But nor could he discern anything at all below the surface calm that Penda chose to present to them. The warmaster might have pledged his allegiance, but he warranted attention; Edwin found it difficult to believe that Penda would relinquish being the effective power in the kingdom so easily.

  “I pledge my wit,” Penda said.

  Edwin inclined his head in acknowledgement, turning over possibilities in his mind. There was a formidable cunning to this young man – he could see that already. It would be meet to co-opt him, rather than have Penda acting against their interests when they returned to Northumbria and waited upon Cearl’s death to claim the inheritance.

  “And I vow that you will remain warmaster of Mercia and, should wyrd work to our favour, be king under us as well.”

  Penda bowed gracefully to the High King.

  “I had heard that Edwin was generous as well as wise; now I see the truth of it.”

  Edwin would have liked to step forward at that point, to stand eye to eye with Penda, as a man fought an enemy in the shieldwall pushing tight against him in the embrace of death, for there was an edge of steel to his pleasant words, a gall in the honey of acceptance, but one he could not locate. However, the width of the high table was between them, and Penda was stepping back from it, increasing the distance between them.

  “Penda, join us in feast,” said Cearl.

  “Of course, lord, and gladly. Allow me first to wash away the dust of travel, then I fancy I will drain a cup of ale faster than any man in this hall.” As Penda made this boast, his voice rose, spreading through the gathering and drawing a ragged cheer.

  “This torc says you won’t,” called out one of the king’s retainers, taking it off and waving the gold ring above his head.

  “And this parsnip says I will!” In one swift movement, Penda grasped a raw parsnip from the king’s table and threw it through the ring. The innuendo was clear, the laughter instantaneous – even the man who had challenged Penda started laughing.

  The tension in the hall broken, Penda departed to wash, swapping words and laughter with one or two men as he left. Edwin watched him go, then turned to Guthlaf. Cearl was telling tales of his youth to his grandsons.

  “What do you think?”

  Guthlaf picked up a parsnip, tossed it in the air and caught it. “If Penda throws a spear as well as he throws a vegetable, he will be a fine ally.”

  “Or a dangerous enemy.”

  “Indeed.”

  Edwin dropped his voice further. “When Penda returns and he has drunk his fill, duel him. I want to see how he fights.”

  Guthlaf nodded. “What sort of duel?”

  “Three shields, but no blood. A trial of warmasters.”

  “Very well.” Guthlaf smiled. “Now at least I have something to look forward to tonight.”

  Chapter 16

  Penda won the ale-drinking contest – at least, the first one. He won the second too, and the third, but the fourth saw him bested by an old grizzled warrior who warmed his bones by the fire in winter and sat in the sun through the summer. Edwin noted that Penda took the defeat in good heart and gave the old man more than he had bet. The aged retainer’s face bro
ke into such a beam of delight as he slipped the arm rings on that Edwin saw echoes of the boy and youth he had once been breaking through the lines of age. He marked well the few quiet words Penda shared with the retainer when the cheering had died away and the men in the hall went back to their eating and drinking and talking, and the way the old man grasped Penda’s wrist in thanks. Edwin looked to Guthlaf.

  “Formidable,” said the warmaster.

  “Show me how he fights,” said Edwin.

  Guthlaf nodded.

  “But later, when the men are in their cups and ready for some entertainment.”

  Guthlaf drained his own cup and made a face. “There’ll be more entertainment from a duel than from this Mercian beer. Our beer is much better.”

  “The waters of Deira are sweet waters,” said Edwin.

  “‘The land of the waters’ indeed. Even now I still taste the sweet and cool water of the River Wharfe, and remember how we used to splash and play in it like young otters on hot summer days, my brothers and me.” Guthlaf grimaced at his empty cup. “And it makes better beer too.”

  “Deira is my home too.” Edwin looked into his memory hoard. As he grew older he realized that he guarded this treasury more closely than any gold, returning to it when alone, or in company, and running his fingers over its accumulated riches. “For my part, it is the Don that I recall, and the Ouse, of course; stealing my brothers’ boat and setting off to sea – I was five at the time. How they beat me when they caught me! I went howling to my father. When I said I was sailing for the sea, he asked me how far I had got. ‘Fulford,’ I replied. How my father laughed. ‘Next time you set sail for the sea,’ he said, ‘at least make it as far as Thorp!’” Edwin smiled at the warmaster, taking Guthlaf by surprise. “I wonder what my sons will remember of me when I am dead.”

  “May the fate weavers give them many years to remember you through.” Guthlaf held out his cup to a slave for it to be refilled, however poor the local beer might be. “Do the shades in the underworld remember their fathers? My boys were bare old enough to walk when the flux and the pox took them.” Guthlaf took a swallow of the beer, not noticing its thinness. “Will I even know them when my shade goes down into darkness?”

  “My friend, the All-Father will surely send his daughters to take one such as you, a great warrior, to his halls when you die.”

  Guthlaf stared truculently at his king. “My sons have no place in the feasting hall of Woden – they died before they were old enough to wield even a wooden sword. But lord, when I die I would rather be where they are than feasting with the gods.”

  Edwin looked in surprise at his warmaster and saw that he was serious. “In Woden’s halls, they say, there is feasting and battles and deeds until the seas rise and the moon falls. You, a warrior through and through, would you not be there?”

  Guthlaf swallowed his beer and grimaced into the cup. “It does not get better with drinking.”

  “Guthlaf?”

  The warmaster looked to the king. “As you say, lord, I have been a warrior through all my days. But in death, if it were possible, I would be a father, as you have been to Osfrith and Eadfrith.”

  “Do those who die as children… do they grow older?”

  Guthlaf shrugged. “The stories do not speak of such matters. I have asked Coifi, and sometimes he says one thing, sometimes another. If he knows the answer, he has not told me.”

  “When he first entered my service, the gods spoke often to Coifi, and sometimes clearly. But now, I fear, it has been long since the gods spoke to him. His answers, when I ask him of the weavings of wyrd, are in his own voice, not that of the gods.”

  Guthlaf nodded. “The queen’s priest has the best of it there, for if his god is not speaking to him, Paulinus can find the answer in his book. But for Coifi, when the gods are silent…”

  “Not that the gods’ silence renders Coifi mute.” Edwin winked at Guthlaf, who grinned back.

  “Would sometimes that it did.”

  Edwin looked over to where Penda was sitting at the other end of the high table, with his friends and retainers clustered around him. They had eaten and drunk in apparent good spirits initially, but there had not been the usual laughter, boasting and insults that accompanied the best spirited of feasts. Now, with the food mostly eaten, Penda’s men sat over their cups, joining in quiet conversation or listening to Cearl’s scop as he told a long and involved tale of their forefathers.

  “I think the time is right,” said Edwin.

  Guthlaf swung his legs off the bench, stood, stretched and belched, loudly enough to garner some appreciative grins.

  The arm ring, a band composed of interwoven strands of gold ending in the twin heads of serpents, rattled onto the table among the cups and knives of Penda’s men.

  “Time for some proper entertainment. This arm ring, taken from a West Saxon king, for a three-shield duel, Penda. One warmaster to another. What do you say?”

  The hall fell silent. Even the scop, in the midst of telling how Cearl’s grandfather, Creoda, had first fortified the mound by the confluence of the rivers Tame and Anker when he was attacked by the men of Rheged, stopped his telling.

  Penda picked the arm ring up and dangled it from his finger, feeling its weight.

  “Gold?”

  “The dearest love of kings,” said Guthlaf.

  Penda smiled. “Mine, however, is fighting: the play of swords, the hiss of spears.”

  Guthlaf nodded. “That is why we are not kings. Let us make sport.”

  The Mercian swung up from the bench and sent one of his men to the back of the hall. “He will bring us duelling swords, and shields.” He looked to the centre of the hall, where the men were already gathering and making excited predictions about the contest, with many a whispered wager being laid. “Make room, and someone, lay out the ground.”

  There was no shortage of men eager to lay their cloaks upon the ground as the duel arena. Penda, receiving the duelling weapons, carelessly took the first that came to hand and passed the rest to Guthlaf for his selection. The habit of years meant that Guthlaf carefully weighed each sword in his hand, holding it out level to feel its balance and whipping it through the air to test its flex. They were all workaday swords, their points and edges dulled, good for practice duelling but little else. Choosing a plain but reasonably well-balanced sword, Guthlaf followed Penda to the centre of the hall.

  “Shield.” Penda held out his arm and a leather-covered limewood shield, painted the blue and yellow of Mercia, was handed to him. A yellow dragon writhed upon the shield given to Guthlaf. The warmaster grasped the leather strap over the hand space. It was a good, round shield, light, but with enough flexibility to absorb most blows. Guthlaf consciously relaxed the muscles in his arm. The trick was to absorb the blows with a loose arm, allowing the wood to do the work, rather than tense up and stop the force with your own strength.

  The two men took up positions on either side of the pegged-out cape. Stepping off the cape, either through being forced back or from being unaware of its position, meant a shield loss. The shield itself cracking or breaking was a point lost, as was having a knee forced to the ground.

  At the high table, Cearl stood up for a better view. Osfrith and Eadfrith stood too, but Edwin left the table and pushed through the crowd so that he could watch at close range.

  Guthlaf and Penda faced each other, sword in one hand – they were both right handed – and shield in the other. Neither was helmeted, nor were they armoured.

  “Ready?” asked Guthlaf.

  “Ready,” said Penda.

  The swords clashed in the space between the two men, the iron clang ringing through the hall to announce the start of the duel.

  The opening, time-hallowed move made, both men settled back into low stances, shields held up to the neck line, swords steady and poised. Already, from the weight of the
initial exchange, Guthlaf knew that he had the weight on Penda, but he had known that would be the case simply from looking at the smaller man. Their quickness of hand was similar, but he suspected that Penda’s sword might be slightly quicker through the air. The younger man was certainly faster, but he was not as strong, a deduction Guthlaf tested with his next blow, a heavy overarm slash onto Penda’s shield. The shield took and deflected the blow, as Guthlaf had expected, but he had struck downwards to test Penda’s upper body strength. The slight give in the shield and the way Penda turned it to deflect rather than absorb the blow suggested considerable but not excessive strength. Guthlaf stepped back, satisfied with his first, probing attack, then had to bring his shield sharply down to block an underarm slash at his knee. He only just brought the shield down in time. Gods, the man’s sword arm was fast.

  Guthlaf nodded his respect to Penda, but the Mercian’s face remained blank and unmoved, his eyes like dull, uncut jewels. As they circled slowly over the pegged-out cloak, Guthlaf realized that Penda was one of the bare handful of warriors whose face could not be read. Most men found it impossible not to foreshow their attacks in some way, be it through eye direction, shifts in body weight or alterations in their stance. Penda, though, gave no indication whatsoever of where his next attack would be directed. It was only because he was scrupulous about maintaining distance between them that Guthlaf had been able to block his first few strikes.

  Now, however, it was time for the warmaster to impose himself upon his opponent. Guthlaf, who had been careful to subtly signal his initial attacks, struck in fast, heavy succession overarm and roundarm blows to the upper body and head, forcing Penda to raise his shield, and by upping the rate at which he struck, Guthlaf made the Mercian raise his shield that fraction too far, so that it slightly blocked his eyeline. The mistake made, Guthlaf immediately followed the next sword strike with his shield, putting his weight into the hard iron boss at its centre. Catching Penda off balance, the shield advance left him no option but to step back to retain his footing, and the shout that resounded around the hall told the tale: Penda had stepped out of the ring.