THE POWER AND THE GLORY

by H A CULLEY

  It was a lucky throw and it pinged off an empty cauldron outside one of the other tents. The man turned in that direction and one of the assassins ran towards his exposed back whilst the other threw a knife at his chest. It was a good throw and the man collapsed into the first assassin’s arms with no more than a grunt of pain before he died.

  The knife-thrower recovered his blade and used it to cut a slit in the tent. To his annoyance he found that the tent was double skinned; an outer layer of leather and an inner one of woven wool. He cut a second slit before poking his head through the two slits to look inside.

  He could tell from the soft snores that the man lying on the heap of furs in one corner was asleep. The second occupant had the slight build of a youth – a servant presumably – but he was making no sound. The two men crept into the tent and approached the bed cautiously. They had ignored the servant which proved to be a mistake.

  As one clamped his meaty hand over Ecgfrith’s mouth, the other raised a dagger ready to plunge it into his heart. It started its descent but it never reached its target. The man with the dagger suddenly felt a paralysing pain in his back and he collapsed on top of the king, his blade falling harmlessly onto the furs beside them.

  The other man whipped around to see the servant tugging at a sword, trying to free it from his fellow assassin’s back. He went to pull his seax free of its scabbard but, just as his hand curled around the hilt, he felt his hand spasm open involuntarily. The king on the bed was trapped by the dead body but he’d managed to free an arm and had grabbed the fallen dagger. He’d used it to plunge the point into back of the man’s right hand.

  Ignoring the pain, he reached across with his left hand for his seax but the noise and the cries of the servant had been heard by the two sentries and they came rushing into the tent.

  ‘Don’t kill him,’ Ecgbert yelled at them. ‘I want to question him.’

  With two spears levelled at his throat he knew when he was beaten. His life was precious to him and he’d been able to preserve it in the past when caught by offering his services to his captor.

  Once the body was removed and Ecgbert had dressed the interrogation began.

  ‘Who paid you?’

  When it was obvious that the man didn’t understand either English or Brythonic, he tried Latin but, although he knew a few words, it wasn’t enough. Then Ecgbert’s chaplain thought to try Franconian, the language of the Franks. Relieved, the man responded in a rush of - to Ecgfrith - unintelligible gibberish until he kicked his kneeling body to shut him up.

  ‘Ask him who paid him.’

  ‘He says a man in a tavern. He doesn’t know his name but he’d seen him before.’

  ‘So? Where?’

  ‘In the entourage of the Northumbrian prince, Alchfrith. He thinks that he’s the captain of his gesith. He’s offered to go back and kill Alchfrith if you let him go, Cyning.’

  Ecgfrith laughed. ‘Why should I trust the word of a paid assassin? No, take him outside and kill him. Throw the two bodies into the river; let them feed the fish. And you had better check the sentries. I suspect that we’ve lost more than the man guarding the back of my tent tonight.’

  The next morning the small army crossed the swollen river at a well-used ford. Because of the recent rain the river was deeper than usual but the horsemen took a rope across for those on foot to hold onto. The last man had crossed before it started to rain again, but by midday the sun had put in an appearance and the wet cloaks started to steam as the water evaporated. By nightfall everyone had dried out and they had reached Aviemore without encountering any opposition.

  The settlement was deserted but it showed signs of recent occupation. In one of the vegetable patches outside a hut a pig was digging up turnips with unconcealed delight at this unexpected treat. A hen ran hither and thither squawking its disapproval of the new arrivals and in one hut a cauldron containing the peasants’ staple diet of root vegetable and lentil stew thickened with barley bubbled away merrily. Presumably the people had taken fright when they saw so many armed men approaching.

  They stayed at Aviemore overnight and Morleo left behind payment for the slaughtered pig, chicken and two goats they’d found eating straw in the stables. Instead of retracing the steps that Morleo had taken when he fled, they followed a track through the mountains via several more settlements – all of which had been deserted in haste, like Aviemore – until they reached the mouth of the River Ness at nightfall.

  Ecgfrith now deployed many more scouts. He had no intention of being caught in a trap. At first all was normal as they advanced along Loch Ness, but then the plethora of bird calls faded away and an eerie silence descended on the woods that lined the loch.

  Ecgfrith halted and deployed the warriors on foot into a long line to sweep through the trees whilst the horsemen cantered over the grass covered hill side above them to cut off any escape. The so-called Mormaer of Ardewr had laid an ambush, expecting his enemies to walk into it. Instead, he was caught out.

  The mormaer’s men were hidden fifty paces back into the woods in a line parallel to the lochside. Ecgfrith rolled them up like a rush mat whilst Morleo’s horsemen charged into the routed majority who tried to flee over the hills or back to the crannoch. The upshot was that the mormaer and two hundred of his men were killed and another one hundred captured, many of them wounded.

  Morleo strode along the walkway back in the deserted king’s hall on its platform above the water with a mixture of emotions: exultation that he’d won back his kingdom so easily mixed with sadness and regret. In Prydenn he’d been happy whilst this place would always be inhabited by the ghosts of Genofeva who had hated him and his father who’d only had the courage to recognise him after Genofeva was dead. The place was also tainted by Bruide’s cruel treatment of Morleo’s people. Sorrow for those who had died lay on his heart like lead. Perhaps Ecgfrith was right when he said that he didn’t have the streak of ruthlessness you needed to be a good king.

  ~~~

  After a long time when he could do very little, Oswiu felt some of his original vigour returning. He would have dearly loved to have gone on a stag hunt to celebrate but Eanflæd was adamantly opposed to that idea.

  ‘Are you mad? Do you want a relapse?’

  ‘I’ll just watch. The young men can take all the risks.’

  ‘No. I’ve been married to a living corpse for the past two years. If not exactly virile, you are more like the Oswiu I used to know. I won’t allow you to put that in jeopardy.’

  Not many things depressed Oswiu but his wife’s description of him and her comment about their enforced celibacy due to his ill health struck home.

  ‘No,’ she continued, ‘if you want to get out and about we’ll take a leisurely tour around the kingdom. You can show your face and counter the rumours about your imminent demise. However, you’ll travel sitting in a chariot.’

  ‘I will not,’ he replied equally vehemently. ‘That’s for women and small children, not grown men. Besides, you always complain of being jolted half to death in them. I’ll ride a horse and I’ll not be dissuaded.’

  After a leisurely journey north Oswiu and Eanflæd arrived at Whitby in the late summer to see his daughter Ælfflaed, who was now sixteen.

  ‘I’m too old to carry on ruling Northumbria, Hild,’ he told his cousin who had been the abbess since the monastery’s foundation.

  As he spoke he chewed on the hard brown bread that had been served with an equally hard cheese as the evening meal. He found the absence of half his teeth a distinct disadvantage and eventually gave up, resigned to going to bed hungry.

  Hild was only a year younger than Oswiu but she had retained the vitality of someone much younger. She also had most of her teeth.

  ‘Will you retire to a monastery?’

  ‘No, I’d like to go on a pilgrimage to Rome and meet this Pope Vitalianus.’

  Eanflæd, to whom Oswiu had said nothing of this, was speechless for a few moments, then she reacted with anger.
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  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? Even this short journey has tired you out. You’d be lucky to make it to Frankia.’

  ‘Not if I go by sea.’

  ‘By sea? How?’

  ‘You are well educated, wife, but it seems that geography isn’t a strong point. I can sail down past Frankia and Iberia and through the Pillars of Hercules into the Middle Sea. Rome is only twenty miles or so from the port of Ostia, so I’m told.’

  ‘And how far is this sea voyage?’

  Oswiu was on less certain ground now.

  ‘It should take no more than a month, with favourable winds.’

  ‘And you feel up to the privations of life on board a ship do you?’

  ‘Mind what you say, woman,’ Oswiu retorted, conscious that he was being hen pecked in public.

  Once on their own in a small hut that had been set aside for their use, Eanflæd returned to the attack.

  ‘You are no more up to making a pilgrimage to Rome than I am of swimming over the Firth of Forth.’

  ‘I didn’t know you could swim,’ he said, trying to stave off the tirade he knew was coming.

  ‘I can’t! That’s my point. Now you can forget this nonsense. I won’t allow it,’ she stormed at him.

  ‘You won’t allow…’ he began in an incredulous voice but he didn’t get any further before he clutched at the centre of his chest and sat down heavily in the only chair in the hut.

  The pain grew more intense and then spread to his shoulders and down towards his stomach. He felt dizzy and started to pant. At the same time he broke out into a cold sweat.

  ‘Oswiu? Are you alright,’ she asked before realising it was a foolish question. Plainly he wasn’t.

  She screamed for her slaves and sent one of them to find Hild and the other to find the infirmarian. The latter confirmed what she had feared.

  ‘The kings’ heart is worn out, Síþwíf.’

  He’d merely confirmed what she’d feared.

  ‘Will he recover?’

  ‘Some men do, others don’t. Every case is different.’

  ‘It may be best if you pray to God but make provision for the worst,’ Hild told her gently.

  ‘Yes, you’re right, of course. I must let my son know.’

  ‘Where is Ecgfrith?’

  ‘Somewhere in the north, I don’t know where exactly.’

  ‘It’s important that he returns as soon as possible, just in case the worst happens. It might take longer for a messenger to reach him and for him to return than it will take Alchfrith.’

  A look of alarm crossed the queen’s face. She’d almost forgotten about her stepson. If he became king she didn’t think that either Ecgfrith or nine year old Ælfwine would survive for long.

  ‘You’re right. Send for Redwald.’

  At that moment Wigmund, Prior of Whitby arrived.

  ‘I’ll let my cousin, Alweo, know that the king is seriously ill. It may be sensible to advise the other nobles.’

  The queen nodded and the prior bustled away to be replaced by Redwald. He took one look at Oswiu and sighed deeply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Síþwíf. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘I don’t honestly know. I’m out of my depth.’

  Suddenly she chuckled, which drew a strange look from the Hereræswa.

  ‘I’m sorry, Redwald. I’d just remembered what the king said moments before he fell ill. He was reminding me that I couldn’t swim.’

  Redwald was no wiser but he smiled dutifully nonetheless.

  ‘We must guard against our enemies taking advantage of this situation. With Ecgfrith hundreds of miles away we are vulnerable if Mercia seeks to take advantage.’

  ‘Don’t forget Alchfrith.’

  ‘Alchfrith?’

  ‘Yes, he was said to be gathering an army and a fleet earlier in the year but for now they seem to have dispersed again. No doubt he could quickly re-assemble them.’

  ‘For that he’d need money,’ she scoffed.

  ‘Yes, well, he appears to be getting enough of that from somewhere.’

  ‘From someone on the Continent? Do we have enemies over there?’

  ‘Not on the Continent, no. I was thinking of someone a little closer to home.’

  Eanflæd looked startled.

  ‘Who?’ Her voice trailed away, then her eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t mean Bishop Wilfrid? You can’t do!’

  ‘He hates Ecgfrith and he was Alchfrith’s protégé.’

  ‘And mine,’ she snapped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Now get out and do something useful.’

  He bowed and left, sighing over how blind people could be sometimes.

  Ecgfrith arrived back in October. His mother was relieved to see him, now he could take the burden of running the kingdom off his father’s shoulders and perhaps Oswiu would then have a chance to recover.

  However, the person most delighted to see him was the nine-year old Ælfwine. He worshipped his elder brother and had been bitterly disappointed when he refused to take him north with him.

  ‘Now you’re back you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘I will, little brother, but not now. The kingdom can’t be governed from Whitby. I need to leave for Eoforwīc tomorrow, now that I’ve seen father. Taking all the scribes and other administrators with me will ease the burden on the monastery too.’

  ‘Can I come with you, please?’

  ‘It might be a good idea. He’s bored here and I can’t devote much time to him. I need to spend as much time with your father as I can,’ Eanflæd said.

  ‘Very well, but you’re to behave. I’ve heard what you’ve been up to here,’ Ecgfrith told him as the excited boy jumped up and down.

  He was referring to his exploits in the monks’ hall where they ate communally, an innovation suggested by the prior a year or so ago. Previously monks had lived in huts in threes or fours and cooked for themselves. They still slept in the small huts but ate together listening to extracts from the bible.

  The hall was heated as usual by a fire in the centre and already the beams above had become coated with soot. When Ælfwine had appeared one day with his tunic and trousers covered in black marks it didn’t take a genius to work out that he’d been climbing up into the rafters. It wasn’t the ruination of his expensive clothes so much as the risk of him falling to his death that had got him into trouble.

  The two came back again to Whitby to celebrate Christmas. Oswiu seemed quite a lot better and even managed to attend mass and the meal that followed. The monks and nuns prayed together but lived separately so Eanflæd joined Hild and the rest of the women whilst Oswiu and his sons ate in the monks’ hall.

  Oswiu didn’t manage to eat much and retired straight afterwards. Nevertheless both Ecgfrith and Ælfwine were encouraged by it. They returned to Eoforwīc two days later with Oswiu confident that he would be able to follow them in a few weeks. However January passed and he was no stronger.

  On the tenth of February a messenger arrived to say that Oswiu had suffered another collapse and this time it didn’t look as if he would recover. He was unconscious much of the time now and he wasn’t eating. He died five days later with his wife and their two sons by his side.

  The icy wind blew near horizontal gusts of snow across the monastery compound as they carried King Oswiu of Northumbria, Bretwalda of the North, in his coffin from the simple hut where he’d died across to the stone church. If anything the building was even colder inside than it was out, but at least those attending the funeral were sheltered from the elements. He was laid to rest in a grave dug in front of the altar after a simple ceremony conducted by Hild and her prior, Wigmund; Wilfrid was pointedly not invited.

  Afterwards, after the earth was shovelled back in to cover the coffin, the slabs were replaced, one of which had been inscribed with his name and the words Rex Regum - meaning King of Kings in Latin.

  Eanflæd had made up her mind to stay at Whitby with her daughter Ælfflæd months before Oswiu’s death and now she lost
no time in taking her vows as a nun. She was destined to outlive both her sons and to succeed Hild as the abbess.

  Oswiu’s eldest son, Aldfrith was in Ireland when his father died and didn’t learn of his death until nearly three months after the event. They had never been close and, as a bastard, he didn’t consider himself a contender for the throne, so it didn’t upset him that the Witan of Northumbria had met and chosen Ecgfrith as their next king without considering him.

  Alchfrith had gathered his warriors and hired a fleet as soon as the news reached him. It mattered not that the Witan had already chosen his half-brother, though he was furious that he hadn’t even been considered. As an Ætheling of Northumbria he had been entitled to attend and state his case. Well, he wasn’t to be disregarded so easily. He would eliminate both Ecgfrith and Ælfwine and then the Witan would be forced to select him as the only legitimate survivor of Oswiu’s sons.

  He set sail from Austrasia in early May 670. The stage was set for Ecgfrith’s first challenge as King of Northumbria.

  To Be Continued in The Fall of the House of Æthelfrith

  Author’s Note

  This story is based on the known facts, but written evidence is patchy and there is some confusion in the main sources about dates, names and even relationships between family members. The main events are as depicted, even if the detail is invented. The chronology of events has sometimes been slightly altered in order to suit the story but this is, after all, a novel.

  ANGLO-SAXON ORGANISATION AND CULTURE

  The leaders of the Anglo-Saxons were constantly at war with one another during this period. Borders kept shifting and smaller kingdoms were swallowed up by larger ones. Kings had to pay their warbands and that took money, hence the need to plunder one’s neighbours. The peasantry were only there to feed the kings, his nobles and their warriors.