“Then, made, we sent them out to hunt for themselves, and the Idings sailed and rode with the kings of the islands, with Dal Riada and the Uí Neíll, winning renown, forming friendships, gathering young men, brave men, men seeking glory to their name. King Domnall Brecc gave Oswald the name Lamnguin, Whiteblade, and bards sang his deeds in the sea halls of the kings of the isles. And all the time, the power of Northumbria grew, pushing back the kingdoms of the Old North, cousins and kin to us, until Rheged and Strathclyde and Dal Riada acknowledged Edwin High King; a pagan lord to the Baptized. But then God, we hear, sent his word to Edwin, and wrought his conversion out of the forge of his power, and here, on our Holy Island, I offered thanks that the High King too had been given knowledge of life.
“But Edwin is dead. You have heard – we have all heard. Cut down by Cadwallon of Gwynedd and Penda of Mercia, an unholy alliance between one who calls himself the avenger of the Baptized and a pagan. Already we have received messages from Cadwallon, calling on our prayers and the intercession of the Blessed Colm Cille, that he might demand the allegiance of the kings of the Old North, and the islands, and all the Baptized.”
Abbot Ségéne stopped. “I lay an oath upon you, Brother Aidan. Speak not of this if you value your soul.”
Aidan nodded, his mouth too dry to utter assent in words.
“I too have sent messengers forth, to Dal Riada and the Uí Neíll, to Rheged and Strathclyde. Their kings are proud, and ancient. They will bow to none among them, nor will they kneel to Gwynedd, I think. Rather, they wait. To see what power Cadwallon accrues, whether Deira and Bernicia will submit to him; they wait upon Penda – will he withdraw, or remain? The kings, like all kings, wait when they can and fight when they must or they believe they will win.
“And we, we have a hawk, trained, ready to set wing, ready to claim a kingdom and bring the Angles into the hall of life. But now the hawk refuses to fly.” The abbot shook his head. “This must not be allowed to happen. The hawk must take wing. But to hunt, the hawk must hunger. You must give Oswald back his hunger, Brother Aidan, his hunger for glory and renown, for gold and power and the homage of men, that he might take the throne and bring it to the boat that sails safe through to an eternal harbour.”
Abbot Ségéne looked closely at the young man staring blankly at him. “You do not understand, do you?”
Brother Aidan shook his head. “I am sorry,” he said.
“No, it is I that am sorry. I wish all was as simple as it seems to you: a young man gives his heart to God, and wishes to follow him; that is what you see. I see it too, but I am abbot of the monastery of Colm Cille, and charged with the care of the souls of many, many men, here and far. If Oswald enters the monastery, he will no doubt save his soul, but many others will die without ever hearing the tidings that brought him to salvation. Let Oswald return to Northumbria and claim his kingdom, then I will send him many helpers, that he may claim souls as well as glory, and his glory shall be all the greater, and extend beyond the bards to the highest heaven. Now do you see why he cannot be allowed to become a monk of Colm Cille?”
“But Cadwallon and Penda are great warriors. I have heard tell of their deeds. What if Oswald fails?”
The eyes of the abbot grew bleak. “Few æthelings live to rule. The hawk flies. We cannot know if it will make its kill; we can simply set it to wing.”
“But maybe it is God’s will that Oswald should be a monk.”
The abbot’s eyes grew even colder. “Can you discern his will? Do you claim that knowledge, as the druids of old, with their blood casting and runes?”
“No.” Brother Aidan held up his hands. “Not I, Father Abbot. But – but Oswald is my friend. I would not have him die.”
“Nor would I,” said the abbot. “For friendship, for faith and for the effort that has been expended upon him. But you know as well as I: men will follow him, for already the whispers grow loud that fortune – that idol of warriors – favours him. In words, warriors seek glory and gold, but in their hearts they cleave to fortune, and seek any man upon whom fortune’s favour rests. Let him but call, and many will follow, even should the kings of the isles and the Old North stand back from him. And I, I charge you with helping Oswald to accept this. I know of a certainty that it is no easy thing to gainsay what you believe to be God’s will, but I tell you, and tell you solemnly, that it is better this way. The hawk must fly; you must set it to wing.”
Brother Aidan said nothing. Beyond the abbot he could see the monastery laid out before them, the monks busy about their tasks, curraghs drawn up upon the beach, others skimming across the Sound. This was his world, and had been for as long as he could remember. He had hoped his friend would share it with him.
“He will not fight his brother,” said Aidan.
“Eanfrith is a pagan. Let us pray that his bid fails. Besides, Oswald is faithful to his friends. Were he to become a monk, he would perforce have to abandon his friends, and one in particular.” The abbot looked meaningfully at Brother Aidan.
“I?” asked Aidan, holding his hand to his heart.
Abbot Ségéne smiled. “No, not you, but that damnable bird that cleaves to him. I would no sooner have a raven in this house than I would have a wolf. Make sure he understands that. Better that he accepts God’s will and returns to claim his throne.”
“God wills that Oswald be king?”
“If Oswald takes the throne, then God wills it.” The abbot folded his fingers together. “Our decisions and God’s providence are bound together as tightly as my hands.”
Aidan nodded. “You said that if Oswald won the throne, you would send him helpers to bring in the harvest. Would you send me?”
“Oswald needs a bishop, who can consecrate priests and teach the new life.” The abbot looked at Aidan. “You are not a bishop.”
“But the bishop you send will need hands, and legs, to do his work; may I be his hands and legs – I do not ask to speak, for I have not the gift of eloquence and teaching, but I am young and healthy.”
“It – it would not be wise for you to go.” The abbot laid his hand upon Aidan’s shoulder, and there was compassion in his glance. “You are friend to Oswald now, ætheling as he is, but landless: a man without power. Should he come to the throne, that friendship would be dangerous to you, for seldom does a king remain uncorrupted when power passes into his hands. The temptation to take what he desires – be it land, or women, or gold – grows strong, and you would be called to stand, as Samuel stood before Saul, and call the Lord’s judgment down upon him, and the Lord’s curse. Seldom does a king stand correction, and even less so from a friend of his childhood, to whom he looks for friendship and confirmation in his evil-doing. At such times, a king’s wrath is terrible, for it is born from the promptings of the evil one, and it burns with the fury of the damned. Better by far that I not put such a load upon you. No, Brother Aidan, you will stay and he will go, and God’s will will be done.
“Now bow your head.” Abbot Ségéne placed his hands in blessing upon Brother Aidan, murmuring the words, and the wind took them away over sea.
Chapter 4
“I have learned your tongue well these past years.” Cadwallon of Gwynedd spoke without looking at the man next to him at table. The white nights of midsummer were past, and the sun set, and set properly, casting darkness over the land. In the nights without moon, men huddled in the yellow light of the hall, and told tale and battle memory, setting fear and blood into boast and rhyme, that they might be faced anew when the time came.
“You have not learned mine.” Now Cadwallon turned to the man beside him. Penda of Mercia stared ahead. Their alliance had brought them glory and gold; it had all but brought him the throne of Mercia. Some of the older and more stubborn thegns still held for an Iclinga – a descendant of Icel – to take the throne, but each victory gained and hoard won brought him closer to bringing the witan of Mercia to his cause.
But it had been a half-year and more since he had rode from Mer
cia and, meeting Cadwallon, pledged the death of Edwin, High King of Britain. Alliances soured if shared too long.
Penda made no answer as he sat beside Cadwallon in the great hall of York, the hall they had taken from Edwin, with his life and his head. His brother Eowa had taken half their men and gone reiving through Deira and Bernicia these past four week. It had been a hard choice for Penda: allow his brother freedom to gather men to his standard and reward them with gold, or leave Eowa with Cadwallon while he himself went gold gathering. But he had spent many months riding hard between Mercia and Northumbria, gathering support from the thegns of Mercia, reaping the gold of Northumbria; now he needed rest, and to gauge the temper of his ally. He would no more have trusted Eowa with such a task than he would have trusted a hungry young ætheling. Penda smiled grimly. Of course, Eowa was ætheling, throne-worthy by reason of the blood he shared with him. The witan of Mercia, its ties to the old king still not broken, had muttered against him when he stood before it and called upon the grey hairs to call him king. And still they waited. Some had looked to Eowa, known to them since he was a young man and he had gone to seek glory and gold in the old lands across the sea, returning with both, but in measure not sufficient to win a crown. Not quite.
Eowa would be back from his reiving soon. Time to be going home.
“It is the language of mountain and sea, of bird and beast, and of the Baptized. It is holy; there is no wonder that you have not the wit to learn it.”
While Cadwallon spoke, from his place in the drink and the dark, Penda looked to where Edwin’s head sat, set upon a pole rammed into the hard-packed earth of the hall’s floor. Cadwallon had taken Edwin’s head; Penda had taken his sword. He fingered the hilt of the blade. He fancied he could hear it whisper to him, in the voice of dead, dry leaves, telling of blood and souls and the music of war. He listened to the sword now far more than he listened to Cadwallon.
“Cian.” Cadwallon gestured a man forward from the hall. “Sing to King Penda in our tongue, that he might hear its beauty. Sing him one of the songs of our heroes of old – sing him one of the songs of Arthur.” The king of Gwynedd turned to his ally. “In our tongue, we call such men bards.”
“We name them scops, but they each say of men who sing what they are told to sing.”
“No, no,” said Cadwallon. “A bard is the memory hoard of his people, the marker of law and battle and glory; without his tales and his recking, we are people no more, but mewling infants, without benefit of wit or history. Come, Cian, sing.”
“I have tales of Arthur, that is true; but lord, I have a new song, a song of victory, not long defeat, that I would sing for you, the author of our new-found glory.”
Cadwallon smiled. “You have a song of me? I would hear it.” He turned to Penda. “It is a shame your brother is not here to hear it too.”
Penda shrugged in answer, and the bard stepped out, but he stayed to the side of the kings; no man wished to have Edwin’s head at his back.
“He takes many weeks.” Cadwallon paused. “I have heard he rides to Mercia.”
Penda, for the first time, looked properly upon his ally.
“Who told you this?”
“Riders heading home to Gwynedd must needs pass by the borders of your country.”
“You know this of a certainty?”
Cadwallon stroked a finger across his lips. “Death alone is certain, friend.” He turned to Cian, raised his cup and drained it. “Sing! Sing praise.”
The bard fingered the harp, pulling notes from it as he sang. Penda, hearing words familiarity had not rendered any more intelligible, took his cup and drank, while beside him Cadwallon listened in rapt admiration, beating out the rhythm with his palm upon the table. The Britons, Penda had learned, could sing and listen for hours in hall, growing increasingly tearful as song turned to lament and beer filled bellies.
But Cian’s song was, by his standards, short, although it drew from Cadwallon the gift of a heavy gold ring. The bard slipped it upon his arm, then went to find refreshment for his voice, while Cadwallon too drank, draining cup and then cup in silence.
Penda waited.
Cadwallon pointed at Edwin. “He knew my tongue. He learned it from my father. He learned it from me. Now, tell me, what is your word for us?”
Penda slowly turned to look at Cadwallon. “You are drunk,” he said.
“Of course I am drunk.” Cadwallon stood up, but he did not sway upon his feet. “See, I stand. He,” he pointed at Edwin, “set me upon the sea, without sail or oar, to die, but here I stand, alive and drunk! Here.” Cadwallon held out his cup and gestured to a slave. “Give him to drink.”
The liquid dribbled from Edwin’s mouth and ran down the pole, staining the earth dark. In the dim light of the tapers, it looked like blood.
“My priest doesn’t like me doing that,” Cadwallon said. “You know, he wants to bury Edwin, give him prayers and blessings. What about your priest?”
“My priests do what I tell them,” said Penda.
“You are lucky.” Cadwallon swayed a little, then straightened. “But you are pagan. Not so lucky.”
“Why so?”
“When I die, I will live forever. When you die, you will be in hell.”
“What of my fathers?”
“They will be in hell too.”
“Then I am content. I will follow the ways of my fathers, whether it be to hell or Woden’s hall.”
Cadwallon’s eyes narrowed. “I too. In life, your fathers took this land. In death, they burn.”
Penda reached for his cup. He had had enough of this conversation. “In death, we all burn,” he said.
Cadwallon grasped his wrist. “You did not answer my question.”
Penda stared at the hand holding him.
The men, back from the latest raid into Deira, and resting, eating and drinking in the hall, began to fall silent. Eyes turned to the high table.
Penda relaxed. Now was not the right time.
“What question?” he asked, still not looking at Cadwallon.
“What is your word for my people?”
Penda turned his gaze upon the king of Gwynedd, the most powerful king of the Britons, the most powerful king in the land, and he answered: “Wealh.”
“Wealh,” repeated Cadwallon. “‘Slave.’ That is what you name us.”
Penda stared at him. “Yes, that is what we name you.”
Cadwallon let go his arm.
The hall was silent, watchful. The men of Gwynedd and the men of Mercia looked round for their comrades, all suddenly aware that they ate and drank in the midst of strangers. Fingers inched towards seax and knife, the only weapons men might carry into hall, save for their kings.
Penda laughed. “It is a joke, my friend,” he said. “A joke, nothing more. Names mean nothing; it is deeds that count. Look,” and he pointed out into the hall, “he is called Nothhelm, which means courageous protector, but I saw him puke his breakfast up before his first battle, and his second, and his third. Names mean nothing without deeds. We have brought down our enemy and put his head before us. That is what counts.”
Cadwallon disagreed. His words came thickly, although he still stood without swaying. “There is deep magic in words.”
“Maybe in your tongue. In mine, words are just words.”
“A word made the world.”
“Ha! That is what the scops like to say, but what would you expect of men who wield the lyre better than the sword? Words make worlds, you say? Tell that to me when scops sing songs of scops, and not the kings who fill their bellies with food and who put gold rings upon their arms.”
“You should learn my language – it is beautiful beyond all that you know.” Cadwallon looked earnestly into Penda’s face as he spoke, his gaze frank with the honesty of the cup.
“So I hear when your scop sings; that is enough for me.”
“It is more beautiful than gold.”
“That is why I see the tears upon your face when y
our scop sings.”
“Do you not weep when your scop sings?”
“No.” Penda shook his head. “I do not weep.”
“I weep,” said Cadwallon, standing upright. “I weep for my people, and the heroes we have lost, and the land and the bright kingdoms that are no more. I weep for Arthur, that he might hear my lamentation and return to lead us once more and drive the Saxons back into the sea, as he did once before – before vile treachery defeated him. I weep, and I swear vengeance.”
“Your people have waited for Arthur to return for many years.” Penda looked around. “You are still waiting. The Saxons and the Angles, we do not wait for any of our kings of old. They are dead and feasting in Woden’s halls, paying us no mind. So we fight, and take your land. If this Arthur does not return soon, there will be no land left to the Britons for him to return to.”
“He will come.” Cadwallon leaned forward. “He will.”
“My lord.”
Cadwallon looked around. The words came in his own tongue.
His bard, Cian, sat with harp upon knee, perched upon the table’s edge, and he looked with bird-bright eyes at the king. Penda looked too upon the bard, with eyes veiled and hidden.
“My lord,” Cian continued, “mayhap Arthur has returned. Mayhap Arthur is here…”
Cadwallon stared at the bard as if stricken with the freezing sickness. His jaw worked but no sound came from his lips.
“For the tales tell that Arthur will cast the Saxons from Logres, but since his day we have known only long defeat, until you, lord, cast the High King down and broke him upon your sword, and put his land to waste. You drive the Saxons from our shores, for has not his queen and her whelps taken ship and fled? Do not his thegns flee before us, abandoning their halls and their gold, until your hands run over and your men cannot lift their arms for the rings upon them?” The bard, in the midst of speaking, stood from the table, and his voice gradually took power and presence, until all the men of Gwynedd in the hall fell silent to hear him, their breath an exhalation of wonder as they turned their eyes upon their lord. Could it be so?
Oswald: Return of the King Page 5