by H A CULLEY
‘I don’t know; how could I?’ Guret squeaked. ‘Please let go, you’re hurting.’
‘Why say it then?’
‘Let go and I’ll tell you.’
Domangart relaxed his grip but didn’t remove his hand.
‘He’s not the sort of man to let Oswiu get away with burning down Dùn Breatainn and capturing me. He’ll want revenge, but I don’t know what he’ll do exactly.’
‘That’s what he said,’ Domangart told Oswiu a moment later.
‘How did you get him to talk?’
‘I threatened him and he retaliated by saying that his father had planned to get his revenge on you. So I grabbed his miserable excuse for a scrotum and pulled and squeezed it until he talked.’
‘I see. Remind me never to upset you.’
The two grinned at one another.
‘So, what will you do?’
‘I see that I haven’t managed to teach you to respect your elders yet; your father is going to be disappointed.’
‘He’ll be furious when he finds out the danger you keep putting me in.’
‘Perhaps I won’t bother to get him back then. We’ll just chuck poor, abused Guret over the side.’
‘Good idea; then I’ll be king.’
Oswiu looked shocked for a moment until he realised that the boy was teasing him. He cuffed him about the ear and told him to go and give Guret some food and a drink of water.
It wasn’t until he had walked away that Domangart realised that Oswiu hadn’t told him what he planned to do to avoid Owain’s trap.
On the morning of the appointed day Oswiu set out from Rothesay on the Isle of Bute to sail the four miles to Toward Point on the Cowal Peninsula. He suspected that Owain would have ships ready to row out from the opposite shore, which was in Strathclyde, to cut off his lines of retreat. He was not disappointed.
As he approached Toward Point a large birlinn appeared around Cloch Point where the Firth of Clyde turned through ninety degrees and headed east towards the blackened ruins of Dùn Breatainn. The wind was blowing directly northwards up the firth and so Owain’s men were having to row hard to make progress.
‘What do you think?’ Godric asked Oswiu.
He was the shipmaster of the birlinn and stood beside him in the bows studying the approaching craft.
‘See anything?’ Oswiu called up to Domangart who was perched up on the yardarm from which the sail hung.
He’d put him up there, both as lookout and to keep him out of the way in case he reacted badly when he saw his father. Oswiu would be very surprised if Domnall hadn’t been tortured, and even possibly maimed. Domangart had a short fuse and tended to act first and think later.
‘Nothing yet, lord.’
‘Well, if I were Owain, I’d wait until we were grappled together and had exchanged prisoners, then I’d have my fastest birlinns waiting out of sight, perhaps in Largs harbour, ready to sail across and cut us off from Bute. I’d have more ships waiting around Cloch Point ready to block our escape that way.’
‘How would you coordinate them?’
‘Perhaps a signal fire on top of Creuch Hill over there?’
As he spoke smoke started to rise from the hill.
‘They’ve lit it too early,’
‘No, it’s easier to put a fire out that to light it. The signal will be when they douse it.’
Owain’s birlinn hove to a mile north of Toward Point, its rowers just pulling enough to keep it in position against the wind and tide.
‘They’re trying to draw us further away from Rothesay.’
Oswiu nodded. ‘Bring the boy here and heave too.’
A few minutes later Godric grinned as he lowered the struggling Guret over the bows of the stationary birlinn so that his father could see the boy with his feet being lapped by the waves. Suddenly a larger than normal one soaked him to his waist and he shook his head trying to clear the few splashes that had got in his eyes.
As soon as he saw the other ship moving towards him again he told Godric to haul him aboard.
‘You, you… bastard.’ Guret eventually got out as he stood on the foredeck dripping wet.
‘Nothing personal, boy. It’s just that your father seemed reluctant to come and get you for some reason.’
Guret looked puzzled. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because he wanted to draw us further north. I wonder why?’
‘Domangart told you. I shouldn’t have said anything, now you suspect it’s a trap.’
The boy looked crestfallen.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s a trap. I’d expect nothing else from your father. He’s even using you and King Domnall Brecc as bait. Doesn’t that tell you something about the man?’
Guret nodded, looking miserable. A few moments later the other birlinn came alongside and the crews threw each other a rope to hold them together.
‘Why did you dunk my son in the sea?’ Owain was plainly furious.
‘Because I’m not playing your little games. Now, where is Domnall?’
Oswiu hardly recognised him. He was still covered in blood and he was being held up, unable to stand on his own.
‘Father!’ Domangart’s yell of distress reached the men on both ships and Oswiu looked up sharply.
‘Domangart, your father will be fine. Now, do what I told you.’
‘Yes Oswiu.’ The boy tried to pull himself together and looked around him again. ‘The signal fire’s gone out. Oh, and there are several birlinns coming around Cloch Point. Oh shit, and several more have appeared from the south of us.’
‘Now hand over my son, Oswiu, and you can have this miserable excuse for a man. I wish you joy trying to get away from my fleet though.’
Oswiu smiled at him. ‘Domnall first or your son dies.’
‘What difference does it make?’ he scoffed. ‘You won’t get away.’
He nodded at his men who carried the King of Dalriata to the gunwale and Oswiu’s crew lifted him over the side onto their ship.
‘Here’s your son, who’s a better man than you’ll ever be. Guret, I hope to meet you again one day in happier circumstances.’
With that he picked the boy up and threw him into his father’s arms. Owain staggered back and would have fallen if it wasn’t for one of his warriors steadying him.
‘Cut the ropes.’
Guret looked at him as the two ships drew apart, smiled and nodded a farewell. Obviously he’d been pleased by Oswiu’s parting comment. A minute later Oswiu’s sailors trimmed the sail to make for Rothesay and the rowers started to pull with a will. However, it was evident that the three birlinns approaching from the south would cut them off before they could reach safety.
‘Change course and head for the Kyles of Bute.’
Godric acknowledged the order with a grin and the birlinn picked up speed now that they were sailing on a broad reach. Instead of heading to intercept their course towards Rothesay, the Strathclyde ships were now on their stern quarter and had no hope of catching them before they passed Ardmaleish Point and entered the narrow straight that separated Bute from the mainland.
The three enemy birlinns continued to pursue them, as Oswiu had hoped, but as they sailed passed Kames Bay north of Rothesay four more birlinns appeared. However, these belonged to Fergus, King of Islay.
‘Right, Godric, bring her about and head back down towards those three birlinns.’
As they did so two more of Fergus’ ships appeared from the top end of the narrow straits and joined them. The three enemy birlinns were now trapped by seven Dalriadan ships. They took the wise course and surrendered.
It was only then that he noticed that Domangart had deserted his post up the mast and was gently washing the blood from his father’s face and body. He smiled to himself and looked around.
‘Sigbert, up with you lad. Take Domangart’s place as lookout.’
Owain couldn’t see what was happening around Toward Point but, when his three birlinns didn’t re-appear with the captured Osw
iu he began to worry. Signalling to his other four ships he set off to find out what had happened. As he cleared the point he could see into Rothesay Bay but there were only a few fishing boats there. Puzzled he carried on around along the southern tip of the Cowal Peninsula and, as he came opposite Kames Bay, he could see eight Birlinns coming towards him, three of which were his. They were in amongst the others and he came to the inescapable conclusion that they had been captured.
Cursing he turned around as quickly as he could and headed back to the Clyde, vowing to be revenged on Oswiu and Domnall Brecc someday.
Domnall slowly recovered as they voyaged back to Dùn Add. Domangart had asked to return to his father and Oswiu realised with surprise that he would be sorry to lose the boy’s company. However, the news that awaited him there soon drove all other thoughts from his mind. His father-in-law, Royth, had died. He was now King of Rheged.
CHAPTER NINE – THE SAXON CONFEDERATION
639 AD
‘What do you make of the events in Wessex?’
Oswald was sitting with Aidan, Ròidh, Jarlath and Cormac in his hall at Yeavering. Aidan and Ròidh had just returned from Lindsey where Hengist, formerly one of Oswald’ gesith, was effectively the ruler. Bubba, who Oswald had put on the throne as sub-king when he deposed his father, had been killed when he was thrown from his horse whilst out hunting. His son was just eight and so Hengist had been appointed as regent until the boy was older. No one was taking a wager on the boy reaching maturity though.
‘Cynegils was devastated when Cwichelm died,’ Aidan replied. ‘As you know, his father made him sub-king of southern Hwicce when he became fourteen and had finished his training as a warrior. Then, barely three months later, he died of a mysterious illness. Not surprisingly everyone is pointing the finger at Penda, saying that the boy was poisoned on his orders.’
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s possible of course, and his death suits Penda. Not only does it leave South Hwicce without a king but Cwichelm had the makings of a strong ruler. The other son, Cenwalh, is only eleven and is said to be, how can I put it tactfully?’
‘Particularly stupid and has poor judgement?’ Oswald suggested.
‘A trifle harsh, perhaps, and not very Christian, but that seems to be the general consensus.’
‘I suppose we have to hope that Cynegils lives to be an old man then.’
Cormac stopped what he was saying as Cyneburga walked in with Keeva.
‘What were you saying about my father, Cormac?’
Oswald got up and went to his wife, taking her by the arm and leading her into the curtained off area that formed their private chamber.
‘I’m afraid I have some very bad news from Wessex.’
‘My father?’ Cyneburga clutched at the cross hanging around her neck.
‘No, not Cynegils, it’s Cwichelm. He’s dead, my love. No one knows how but I understand that it was very sudden.’
‘Oh! Cwichelm? But he was only young; and only recently made sub-king. Fourteen is very young to die, unless he was killed.’
‘Some are saying that Penda poisoned him, but it’s only a rumour.’
Suddenly the news hit her; her brother was dead. He was a year younger and, as small children, they’d been quite close.
‘Promise me one thing,’ she said quietly. ‘Kill Penda for me.’
~~~
‘Cyning, wake up. The Mercians have invaded Hwicce.’
Cynegils blinked the sleep from his eyes, untangled his naked body from that of his wife, and sat up. Blearily he saw one of his gesith standing inside the leather curtain than screened his private chamber from the main hall at Wintan-ceastre. He pushed the sheepskins off him, stood up and pulled the tunic that the man offered him over his head. Wrapping a fur trimmed woollen robe about him he pushed his feet into a pair of leather shoes and pulled the man roughly outside into the hall.
He grimaced at the sound of snoring and the smell of foul air that was a mixture of smoke, body odour and stale farts, and made his way outside. The sentry followed him, beckoning the mud-splattered, weary messenger to follow them.
‘Now what’s this about Hwicce?’
‘This man will tell you, Cyning. He’s just come from Gleawecastre.’
‘Yes, Cyning. The Mercians arrived from the north without warning and laid siege to the town. It fell quickly but the king’s hall behind its tall palisade is holding out. The custos sent me to warn you and I was lucky to slip through the Mercians and steal a horse. Oh, and the eorl is dead.’
Gleawecastre was the capital of southern Hwicce, the small kingdom over which his son Cwichelm had ruled for such a short time. Cynegils had reached an agreement with Penda to partition the old kingdom with one of Penda’s eorls ruling the north and Cwichelm the south. Now it seemed that either the eorl or Penda had broken that agreement.
‘How many Mercians?’
The question caught the messenger off guard.
‘How many, Cyning? I’m not sure. Many more than we have to defend the hall. Perhaps three hundred or so?’
‘And were they all warriors or did they contain members of the fyrd?’
‘Not the fyrd, Cyning. They were all dressed in chain mail or leather jerkins with helmets.’
It wasn’t just the Eorl of Northern Hwicce then, Cynegils thought. Only Penda could provide that number of trained warriors. He turned to the member of his gesith.
‘We’ll need to muster the fyrd and gather as many warriors as we can quickly. Send messengers to all the eorls; oh, and to Oswald in Northumbria too. He won’t be in time to help us, but he should know what’s going on.’
Three days later Cynegils marched north-west towards Gleawecastre but he hadn’t gone more than ten miles before a messenger from Oswald found him. He was surprised, there hadn’t been time for his letter to reach Yeavering, where he expected Oswald to be as it was now late April, let alone for a reply to find him. After he had read the missive he halted the column and summoned his war council.
His eorls gathered around him at the side of the road out of earshot of the army. Cynegils unfurled the parchment and, skipping the usual pleasantries at the beginning, he read out the contents.
Aidan had a message from James the Deacon a few days ago. So important were the contents that Aidan contacted me immediately. James has received a warning from Paulinus, who you will recall fled with Edwin’s queen, Æthelburh of Kent, when the latter was killed. It appears that her father has received overtures from Penda to join what he termed a Saxon Confederation. This is the first I have heard of this, but you may already have knowledge of it. Just in case you haven’t, this is what had reached me, albeit at third hand.
Penda and his son, Peada, have put pressure on the Middle Saxons, the East Saxons and the South Saxons to join him in invading East Anglia. He wanted Kent to join as well but Æthelburh’s father, Æthelberht, has refused him.
You don’t need me to tell you that, if Penda succeeds, he will control all of southern and middle England except for Kent and Wessex.
The only good tidings are that Oswiu seems to have checked Strathclyde’s ambitions in the North for now. However, Dalriata grows ever weaker and my strategy now is to try and set the Christian Picts against the pagan Owain.
At least that leaves me free to come to your aid, should you need me. It strikes me that control of Lundenwic may be crucial, lying as it does in the middle of the Saxon kingdoms, and so I’m preparing to bring as many warriors by sea as I can to take the city. If you could strike east to link up with me we may yet frustrate Penda’s plans.
He stopped reading and looked around him.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘What about Hwicce? If Penda is involved in this so-called Saxon Confederation and preparing to attack Ecgric of East Anglia, then that gives us the perfect opportunity to recover Hwicce, and perhaps take over the whole kingdom,’ one of his nobles suggested.
‘That may not be such a good idea,’ a
nother said. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if Penda is using his son’s army from Middle Anglia with those of the other Saxon kingdoms to attack East Anglia while he keeps his Mercians back. If we attack Hwicce he can go around us to attack Wessex,’ another said.
‘Or Hwicce might be a trap.’
‘But if we don’t advance towards Lundenwic Oswald will be unsupported. After all, he can’t bring that many warriors with him by sea.’
Cynegils nodded. ‘We need to know more. We’ll send messengers to the three Saxon kingdoms to try and find out what they intend; another to Kent to see if Æthelberht will move on Lundenwic to support Oswald and one to East Anglia to warn King Ecgric. Meanwhile we’ll march on Tamworth, ravaging the country as we go. Penda won’t expect that. We can return via Gleawecastre and re-capture it.’
~~~
‘Cynegils is doing what?’
Penda was with his son Peada in Leicester preparing for the invasion of East Anglia. He had brought a hundred men with him but he was relying on the Saxons and Peada to provide the bulk of the invasion force. He had several hundred warriors in Mercia itself, but they were scattered and, in any case, three hundred of them were at Gleawecastre waiting to repel Cynegils’ army. Now it seemed that he was already no more than thirty miles south of Tamworth, about the same distance away as Leicester, but most of his forces were mustering twenty miles further east.
‘You’ll never reach Tamworth with a large enough force in time, unless the fortress can hold out for several days.’
‘I don’t think that there’s much chance of that, do you? The garrison consists of the old, the ill, the disabled and boys training to be warriors. The fyrd hasn’t been called out and the warriors who aren’t with me or in Hwicce are in no position to resist the bloody West Saxons. Cynegils will have burned Tamworth to the ground before we can start moving towards him. Doubtless he’ll capture Hwicce on the way home too. Damn him! He’s outwitted me.’
‘What about East Anglia?’