The king indicated the man standing beside him. “We have word from Cearl. He has taken ill on the journey, and is recovering. He says that he will come to us as soon as he is able to travel on, but for now he is resting at Hatfield Chase.” The king turned back to the messenger. “Take our answer to Cearl, king of Mercia. We ask that he remain and rest at Hatfield Chase until he is well, and only then to make the journey to us. Tell him that we earnestly desire his good health and enjoin him not to travel until he is completely well. And tell the king that he is wise to keep Penda with him at this time.” Edwin stopped and looked up at the messenger, who stood with the blank face and moving lips common to all men committing words to memory. “There. Repeat.”
The message accurately repeated, Edwin dismissed the messenger. Eadfrith began to speak, but Guthlaf held his finger over his mouth for silence. Rising soundlessly from his stool, the warmaster moved to the tent’s entrance and peered out. Half turning, he made the sign for all clear.
“We have him,” said the king. There was no satisfaction in his voice, merely a blank statement of fact.
Guthlaf, keeping an eye open for anyone close enough to overhear, agreed.
“But we cannot keep the kings waiting any longer,” said Eadfrith. “They grow restless, and nervous for their realms.”
“They shall perform their obeisance to me today,” said Edwin. “We feast them tonight, they leave on the morrow and we ride to Hatfield Chase overnight and come upon Penda in the morning.”
“I would have us take some of the retainers of our allies on that ride,” said Osfrith. “We know not how many men ride with Penda and Cearl.”
“No,” said Edwin. “The kings must not know of this matter, for they will fear for their own crowns should they think I may turn against them. For though we seek to remove a warmaster, not a king, yet there would be rumour and fear such that alliances against me might fester and breed. No, this must be done quietly and swiftly. My hope is that Cearl may yet even thank us for clearing the path to your inheritance, Eadfrith.”
“We should have sufficient men in our households to meet any army Penda is likely to field,” said Eadfrith. “After all, the kings of the land are here, with their best men. We would face only Cearl’s and Penda’s retainers.”
Edwin looked to Guthlaf. “Did you not tell me that many young men have come to Penda’s banner over the last year?”
“That is the word I have heard, lord.”
“Perhaps we should send a scout. Guthlaf?”
“A scout runs the risk of being discovered,” said the warmaster. “Then Penda would retreat to Mercia: far harder and a much bloodier business to run him to ground there.”
“How many men now follow Penda’s banner?” asked Edwin.
“I know not for sure, but it cannot be more than thirty.”
The king nodded. “Even that is many for a warmaster, but it is not too great a host for us to overcome with the men of our households. What do you say?” He looked to his sons.
“Men’s pledges to warmasters are not as firm as those given to a king,” said Eadfrith. He glanced at Guthlaf. “No offence.”
The warmaster smiled. “There is no offence in the truth.”
“I would expect many of Penda’s men to take flight or even to join us,” said Eadfrith. “We should take gold as gifts to detach those keener on riches than glory from Penda’s side.”
“We will,” said Edwin. “Any further questions?”
Osfrith shook his head. “I do not like this,” he said. “There is too much left unknown. Besides,” and the prince looked uncomfortable, as if he were bringing up a taboo subject, “should we attack Penda when he has not attacked us?”
There was silence for a moment, the silence of absolute surprise such as happens on a battlefield when an ambush is sprung. It seemed none knew the answer, for no one had even considered the question. But then Edwin spoke.
“Would you have Penda take the throne of Mercia from your brother?”
“No! No, of course not. But is it just that we attack him without provocation? After all, do we know he will try to seize the throne from Eadfrith?”
The other three men looked to each other, and then back to Osfrith.
“Yes,” they said in unison.
The tension between them broken, even Osfrith laughed. “It’s true, I also think Penda will try to take the throne. But maybe we should wait until he acts and then attack?”
Edwin looked at his son. “Why?” he asked.
Osfrith shifted uncomfortably. “I – I do not know. It just seems like it would be right.”
“It would be wrong for the extra men who would have to die to take the throne away from him when he has claimed it. At the moment he is warmaster and his authority derives from Cearl. But let him take the throne, and the men of Mercia will be sworn to him. They will fight and die and kill for him then. No, we strike now, while he is still weak.”
Osfrith nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I will be ready with my men.”
“Good.” Edwin looked to Guthlaf, who still stood guard by the entrance to the tent. “Does it yet rain?”
The warmaster looked out of the tent, then went forth and peered into the west before sticking his head back through the opening.
“Yes, but the clouds are breaking. Should we begin?”
Edwin looked to his two eldest sons. “Are you ready?”
By way of answer, Osfrith and Eadfrith stood up.
“Then let us begin,” said Edwin.
Chapter 6
It was a sight such as had never been seen before in the length or breadth of the land, nor in any of the years of its long past. Not even when the emperors reigned was any such sight seen, though the emperor himself came to Britain and put the land beneath his purple heel.
The ship crossing the River Ouse was hung with gold and crusted with jewels; it glittered in the brilliant light that burst through the rain-washed sky. Arm rings and brooches and amulets and torcs were strung over prow and rudder and mast; indeed any object that would take them. But more remarkable even than the riches that adorned the boat were the oarsmen: the kings of the land sat each upon a bench and heaved, as a plain sailor, upon the hand-smoothed wood of an oar. Sitting enthroned at the centre of the boat, the only man who did not labour, the only man who looked in the direction the boat was travelling was Edwin. He sat with the tufa behind him, the bulls’ heads that formed its four prongs dressed with torcs, and above them the crowned purple globe.
The kings laboured in silence, their heads bowed before Edwin, who gazed straight ahead at the city of York, now thronged with people awaiting his arrival, when before it had been but the ghost of a city, filled with the memories of its glory. The two kings of Kent were there, bent over their oars, and the king of the East Angles, the rulers of the West Saxons, the lord of Lindsey and the master of the Rock of Dumbarton, the kings of Elmet, and Powys, and Goddodin. All the kings of Britain and the island realms rowed the High King in silence and majesty across the river to his home city, the city where Constantine had first been proclaimed and acclaimed emperor.
Following the royal boat across the river came a host of smaller craft. Foremost among them was the vessel carrying Osfrith and Eadfrith, who like their father sat immobile in the centre of the ship, surrounded by toiling ranks of princes and lords wielding oars with unaccustomed hands. The dignity of their progress was slightly marred by the inexperience of their rowers, with oars snagging on each other and either biting too deeply into the water or flashing over the surface, sending up plumes of spray.
Paulinus awaited them on the far bank, standing at the head of a row of robed figures, James the deacon foremost among them. The Italian had spent many frustrating months trying to prepare men for the diaconate and ultimately the priesthood, but the teaching was slow: Latin did not come easily to men whos
e native language shared no common roots. However, James had fared better when it came to teaching men and boys how to chant: he had produced a choir whose voices and tone came close to the purity achieved in Rome. Now, as the flotilla splashed across the river, the choir began to sing, the Latin chant spreading out as mist upon the water. Clouds of sweet-smelling smoke rose in columns from the swinging censers, and the chant became mixed with the shouts and acclamations of the crowd on the York bank of the river: farmers and peasants and slaves, thegns and merchants and boatmen all sent up their cheers as the kings rowed Edwin to shore.
The landing was awkward. Oars snagged on each other and the quay, but the stevedores waded waist deep through the chill October water to secure the boat and make it steady. Then, one by one, the kings of Britain and the islands disembarked, forming a column towards Paulinus and his companions. When all the kings had left the boat and formed up, Edwin rose from his seat. Walking a little stiffly, for the seat had been uncomfortable and the sceptre he was holding was heavy with gold, Edwin stepped onto the land.
The waiting crowd, which had hushed into expectant silence, broke into shouts and cheers, while the choir sang on, their chant rolling serenely beneath the tumult.
The princes Osfrith and Eadfrith took up station behind their father and accepted the tufa. They held the standard aloft between them, and the princes and lords who had rowed them across the river formed up, a slightly chaotic group following in their wake.
Drums and whistles and lyres struck up a cacophony of sound. The choir, herded by a harassed James and still singing, turned and began to process up the incline towards the great hall. Edwin, staring up the slope at the singers, spotted a familiar face clad in unfamiliar garb burrowing into the procession: Coifi. The priest of the old gods had abandoned his raven-feather cloak in favour of something similar to the robes worn by James and Paulinus. He was singing lustily with the choir, but even from a distance Edwin could hear the crow-like note of his singing making a harsh and abrasive counterpoint to the sweetness of the melody. The king, although he felt a smile tug at his lips, kept his face still. He was on display here: to kings and warriors and all the people. He was offering himself up as their king and they were accepting his offering. It was incumbent upon him to present himself as king alone.
As the choir approached the great hall with its doors open wide, Paulinus and his acolytes, their censers swinging, followed in its wake, the afternoon sun glinting on the golden and scarlet robes, and the stole hung around the priest’s neck.
The procession of kings came afterwards. The ground, usually made muddy by damp boatmen dripping their way up the slope, had been covered in a thick layer of rushes. The kings glittered in their finery; alone among the people watching, they wore their swords at their hips. All other swords had been sequestered outside the great hall, and guarded. Warriors of the king’s household lined the procession route, keeping the crowd from rushing forward, and their spears were employed to good effect when people grew too enthusiastic or pushed too close: a swift blow with the shaft was enough to force most people backwards and, if that failed, the prospect of the glittering head of the spear was enough to make the most enthusiastic of sightseers retreat.
Spreading out from the narrow column of kings, and following behind it, were the princes and thegns and warmasters, the nobility of the land: lords whose rule had been won at sword point and who kept their land with the blade in one hand and the promise to their overking in the other. But at the fulcrum of kings and warriors, alone in a bubble of space, was Edwin.
The choir entered the great hall, retaining some semblance of order but making judicious use of elbows to move the more obstinate bystanders out of the way. The wooden walls of the great hall immediately smothered the sound of chanting, leaving the procession of kings to advance accompanied by cheers, and the occasional catcall as drink-emboldened spectators hurled insults at ill-favoured kingdoms.
The kings themselves achieved an entrance that was only slightly more harmonious, for coming to the doors of the great hall there arose the question of precedence. It was only Guthlaf’s brooding presence at the entrance to the hall, backed by a phalanx of his best warriors, that prevented swords being drawn and the procession descending into a brawl.
“Keep in line!” he ordered, helping the occasional king on his way into the hall with the pommel of his sword. Inside, slaves rushed to seat the kings on a long table set parallel to Edwin’s own high table. It had been built especially for the event, and made long enough so that all the kings present might sit facing the High King. The kings took their positions behind their long bench, but they remained standing. The choir arranged itself behind the high table, and the swinging censers soon filled the hall with a fug of sweet-smelling, if slightly choking, smoke.
Then, alone, Edwin, High King, entered his hall.
The kings of Britain and the islands, well nigh all the kings of the land, raised acclaim to their High King, and the assembled choir chanted the Te Deum. A single tall figure, bearded and crowned with a circlet of gold, robed in purple, Edwin advanced down the hall into the face of the acclaim. Behind him his sons stood at the door, the princes and lords waiting without, while their father took his place at the high table. The kings of the land, facing him, raised a final cheer, the choir sang the last line of the Te Deum, and silence came to the hall, broken only by the sound of metal on chain as the censers swung back and forth.
The High King sat. The kings of the land took their places. Then Osfrith and Eadfrith entered, and the princes and lords. The Northumbrian princes sat to the right of the king. The queen entered from the rear of the great hall and took her place on Edwin’s other hand, with Paulinus beside her. The rest of the hall swiftly filled with everyone who could fit inside it, and some who couldn’t, while the slaves and servants rushed around with wine and ale and all manner of sweet, honeyed drinks.
“Hwæt!”
It was Guthlaf who called the great hall to silence, rising from his place at the end of the high table and sending a voice that could call orders over a battlefield resounding through the rafters.
“The High King.”
Edwin rose to his feet. He was a tall man, and all the kings of the land were sitting down. He towered over them.
“Today, in this place, we have shown a unity and a power not known since the emperors sat in judgement upon the world. Today, a woman can walk the length and breadth of the land with her babe at her breast and not be molested. Today, we have sought the blessing of the God that made the gods of our fathers, the God that brought me from exile and fear to be High King of this land.” Edwin looked up and down the table at the assembled kings before him, meeting the gaze of each in turn. Some he found defensive, others cautious, still others bold. But none refused his scrutiny.
“Today, I call on you to join me, and to accept my new God. I call on you to accept his blessing, to put away the fears of the past and enter into a life of knowledge and hope. I call on you to follow the God who has brought me victory, and raised me higher than any king in this land since the days of the emperors.”
Edwin challenged the kings, one by one, in silent gaze. Some fell away before him now, but Odda of the Hwicce stood before the king.
“I hear your words, High King, and give them credence; credence enough to do what you yourself did on this great question: I shall call a great council of the Hwicce and we shall debate this matter and decide whether to give up the ways of our fathers and follow the new religion.” Odda looked up and down the line of kings. “What say you, my brothers?”
One by one, then the rest together, the kings arose and acclaimed Odda’s words. Edwin, his face blank, looked upon them and then nodded.
“Very well. Let it be as you have said. Convene the councils of your people, and present to them the good news. I shall send men, priests, to speak at your councils, that the truth and knowledge of our new religio
n be accurately presented to you. But now, as friends and brothers sworn together, let us eat.”
At the High King’s words, a stream of slaves emerged from the kitchens and from the cooking fires set up behind the hall, carrying roasted meats of mutton and beef and venison, and sweetmeats infused with fruit and honey. As the great hall settled down into rhythmic chewing, Edwin looked to his sons.
“Eat lightly, for we have work on morrow night, and hard riding.”
The queen, overhearing the quiet words, leaned towards Edwin. “What work is that, my husband?”
The king, surprised, turned back to her. “Nothing,” he said. “A minor matter.”
Æthelburh looked askance at her husband. “You are not telling me the truth,” she whispered.
“I cannot speak on this matter here,” Edwin said, speaking behind his hand. “There are too many ears.”
The queen looked at him. “Is it Mercia? Say simply yes or no.”
“Yes,” said Edwin.
“Have care, husband.”
“I will.”
The queen smiled at him. Amid the noise and bustle of the hall, that smile struck the king’s heart. He tried to fix it in his mind and memory, that he might return to it later, but he was called upon to speak in the matter of the wisdom of breeding horses from stock brought in from foreign lands, and the image faded from his memory. When Edwin turned back to the queen, she was engaged in conversation with the king of Elmet, a king whom Edwin had placed upon the throne, and she was turned away from him. There would be other occasions when he could see her smile. For now, there was the accepting of the tributes brought to him by the kings, the riches they laid before him as a token of their status as kings subject to the High King of Britain.
As the kings, one by one, came forward and laid before Edwin their gifts of gold – torcs and rings and brooches and buckles, marvellously worked – James led the choir in chant, and the crowd massing by the doors sent up gasps of appreciation at the treasures laid before the king.
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