But then the king had died; the promises of the new god failed. Where was the new life? Where was the victory he claimed, over death? Edwin had abandoned the gods of his fathers to follow the new god, and his vows had proven empty and his teaching false.
“The gods no longer hear me.” Coifi looked up at the scop. “They stopped listening to me long ago, but I made to others, made to myself, that they heard still, for though I might see no longer, mayhap they smelled my offerings and heard my prayers. But now…” Coifi gestured around him. “They have gone from here. I drove them away and I do not know where to find them.”
“Osric would have the gods of our fathers return.”
“Tell me where to find them, then I will bring them. Until then, leave me be.”
Acca shook his head and, squatting himself, he looked into the shadows beneath Coifi’s raven-feather cloak, finding the man’s face there.
“It seems to me there is little to tell between a scop and a priest: we each tell kings what they wish to hear. I sing praise of their past; you promise victory to the future. Osric shows bright and bold to the witan, promising to drive Cadwallon from our land, but inside he is fear full. Cadwallon killed Edwin, a king Osric never dared to challenge; how should he now face him? Yet he must, and he seeks heart filling in the songs of his deeds and in the promise of the gods. Will you not give it to him?”
“I cannot. The gods do not speak to me.”
“Nor did Osric stand in the shield wall against Lindsey, nor wield sword against Æthelfrith, but those that did are dead, and I am the memory of this people, and I make it anew, that we might live. The gods listen, Coifi, even if you do not hear them. Osric seeks their aid; promise it to him.” Acca held out his hand to the priest. “Osric will bring the old gods back. Will you not clear their paths, that they might return?”
Chapter 6
Coifi looked up from the bloody entrails of the ram, his hands dark with its blood. The bone handle of the sacrificial knife felt slippery in his grasp, for the animal had struggled against its death, taking three men to hold it down with its throat turned, that he might pull the blade across the artery and spatter the spurting blood across the strewn willow. He had seen nothing there, only meaningless daubings of blood. Then, his voice drying in his throat and words falling from his mind, he had taken the knife and cut the beast, laying its inside open, so intent that he scarce noticed the usual stench of spilled intestines. And there, in among the twisting segments of stomach and intestine, he had seen it: the will of the gods laid out in blood and gristle.
“Victory!”
Coifi pointed with trembling hand to what he saw, and the waiting men, the great voices of the witan, gathered around him and looked to where he indicated and saw there only death.
“Victory,” Coifi repeated. “It is there, I see it. The gods have spoken to me again.”
Osric shouldered the thegns aside and peered into the animal’s body. He looked at the priest, kneeling beside the sacrifice.
“You are certain?”
“Yes,” said Coifi, and as he spoke he felt the warmth of that certainty spread through his body, as a man come in from the storm feels the hall heat seep through his skin. “Yes,” he said, “I am certain.” And Coifi, abjured priest of the old gods, felt the knowledge deep inside him, and knew that he was a priest once more.
Osric stood straight and looked around at the gathered men. They had come at his summons to the old sacred grove at Goodmanham, riding in the darkness of the new moon along tracks that they knew from childhood, and now they waited upon the fall of blood and the favour of their old gods – the gods they had forsaken and whose aid they sought anew.
“The gods hear us!” Osric turned so that all might hear. “The gods hear us! They remain faithful to us although we were faithless to them. Here now, make pledge to them so that they will know we cleave to them once more, and forever, keeping to the ways of our fathers and forsaking new gods and new ways come over the whale road. The gods hear us; let them hear you!”
And the gathered men put up a roar, beating their chests and striking sword hilt to shield edge, such that the gathered rooks upon the trees took to the air in protesting clamour.
Osric raised his arms for quiet. The rooks slowly settled once more upon the treetops.
“The gods hear us, and they are the gods of our fathers, the gods that helped us drive the Britons, the wealh, from this land and make it ours. Edwin, my cousin, was a great man and a great king, but he forsook the ways of our fathers and adopted the god of his queen; the same god that the Britons follow. Is there any wonder he fell to the Britons, when he followed the same god? Edwin, my cousin, was a great man and a great king, but I have not forsaken the ways of our fathers and the gods have not forsaken us! Cadwallon, the despoiler, sits in York, bleeding our land and taking our gold; let us go there and face him, our gods against his god, the ways of our fathers against the ways of his fathers.” Osric smiled broadly. “And we all know whose fathers won, don’t we?”
The men cheered, and even Acca, who considered it his task as Osric’s scop to rouse the men to battle, raised his fist in salutation. Only Coifi remained silent and still, crouched over the sacrificial ram. The gods spoke victory, but a sudden dread gripped his heart: did the gods speak true? Fear gripping his heart, Coifi looked for counsel and saw Acca applauding with the others as the men ran to their horses. He signed him over.
The scop approached, smiling, but the smile dropped away as he saw Coifi’s face.
“What is wrong?” Acca hissed, pretending to inspect the dead ram.
“I – what if the gods lie?”
“Lie? Why would they lie?”
“Why do gods do anything? The fate singers weave wyrd, the gods raise kings and bring them down, and we know not why.”
“That I know. But lie?” Acca looked around to make sure no one was listening. “Lies make bad stories, and if there is one thing I am certain of, it is that the gods tell the best of tales. Besides, why would they lie when we come back to them? This also I know: a tale needs an audience and a teller; the gods need our praise as we need their favour. They do not lie: it would be as if I, finding a lord, refused to speak or, worse, turned weasel words against him; all men would surely call me cursed then, and declare me outcast; can the gods do different? No.” Acca put his hand on Coifi’s shoulder. “Do not fear, but trust in the gods of our fathers and they will give us victory.”
*
Cadwallon looked out at the men encamped beyond the walls of the city. The old ramparts of York that the emperors had built in the days of their strength were still intact in many places, and he had had his men fill the gaps with rubble and bricks pillaged from the remains of the imperial city. The makeshift barricades amounted to little more than unsteady mounds, yet the Saxons stayed outside the city walls, content to yell insults in their uncouth tongue at his men, while more men arrived, swelling the small army into something more formidable. If he had had his whole forces with him when the Saxons had first appeared then he would have attacked immediately, but the best part of half his army were out in the field, bringing in supplies for the men and, more importantly, for the horses. The longer they stayed in one place, the further afield the foraging parties had to roam, but Cadwallon was loath to leave York. Here, among the glorious ruins, he knew himself for what he was: a Roman, defending the empire against barbarians, the leader of the Baptized fighting the pagans. “Where did these men come from?” He turned to his warmaster, Hwyel. “They must have buried themselves in the woods; surely we received submission from all the thegns in Deira?”
The warmaster shaded his eyes against the summer sun. “They hid in their halls, lord, and covered themselves with lies: I know many of the shields that lie against tent and pole. Thegns who swore themselves to us, who submitted to you and to whom you gave rings – they are faithless.”
“Just as well I did not give them too many rings then, and those of little worth.” Cadw
allon shook his head. “After I killed Edwin, they came to me as supplicants, pleading for their halls and land. Do you think I did wrong by giving them rings, Hwyel?”
The warmaster shrugged. “In battle, men’s hearts are tested, and when the blow comes they ring true or they break. There are no lies there. But when the wolves and ravens have fed and men come before the king, then words turn in upon themselves, and men who pledge prove false, while others who say nothing may show true. We had too few men to take and hold this kingdom then, lord; we must needs call on others to hold it for us.”
Cadwallon laughed. “And now here they are.” He pointed to where the men grouped thickest, around the boar banner. “That is the mark of Osric. So it is he who leads them against us. I wonder if they would follow Osric so readily if they knew how he came to me and covered my hand with his tears as he pleaded for me to leave him his hall and his lands. ‘I have a son, bare off the breast, at last, after so many daughters; would you take his father’s land before he has had chance to walk it?’ That was what he said, and I had to dry my hand afterwards, so wet did he leave it with his tears. Do you think those men would follow him if they knew how he had pleaded with me?”
“Is there a man there who did not come before you and plead suchwise? Shame draws them together, and holds them fast against us.”
“It is not just shame. See.” Cadwallon pointed to the pole set into the ground by Osric’s banner. “That is the sign of the demons they worship and call gods – see the skull upon it and the marks? They have abjured their baptism; pagans once more, their state is worse than the one they started with, for Edwin – may he be cursed for this – gave them the truth of life, and they have spurned it. Paulinus the priest opened the doors of heaven for them, and they have turned their back. Now, only the pit and its abominations await them.” Cadwallon smiled. “Praise be to God; he has tested them and found them wanting, and, casting them off, has delivered them into our hands to visit his vengeance upon them.” The king clapped his hands. “I would have had to search them out, hall by hall. Now, they come to me. All I have to do is wait and they will deliver themselves into my hands. God favours me.”
“Why do they not attack?” asked Hwyel. “These walls would scarce stop them and we have not the men to man the gaps.”
“The Saxons fear this place, for it carries still about it the power of the emperors of old. Penda could scarce bring himself to walk within; these men are no different, for they have had hold of this city for our lives and the lives of our fathers, and yet they left it untenanted and empty, the haunt of wraiths.”
“But Edwin built his hall here and the church he raised for Paulinus still stands, though it has yet to be roofed; he did not fear this city.”
“He told me he spent much of his childhood here, exploring the ruins. He knew it, and did not fear it. But those men are not his; they were not with him at Hatfield Chase, when we brought him down, Edwin and his sons. They are thegns of the king’s march, not of his household, the ones who come when summoned but do not remain with him. They fear the city’s ghosts.”
Hwyel grinned. “They should fear us more.”
Cadwallon struck his warmaster’s shoulder. “The men will be ready?”
“They will be ready.”
“Good. Of course, we could wait, but although the kings of the north will come, I do not know when.” Cadwallon turned to his bard, who stood silent on his other side. “They will come, won’t they?”
Cian nodded. “Oh, they will come, lord, for God blesses the new Arthur. It is the time of fulfilment, when the old prophecies come true. Men not born will curse the chance of their birth: that their mother’s womb had not brought them forth that they might see this day.”
“The messengers. You have sent them forth to the kings of the north: to Rheged and Strathclyde, to Gododdin and the Picts; to Dal Riada and the Uí Neíll; and to the kings of our land, the kings of Powys and Ceredigion and Dumnonia and our peoples in Brittany?”
“Yes, they have all ridden or taken ship.” Cian smiled. “I sent them forth with words to call the kings to us, to remind them of the prophecies of old and to see in you their fulfilment. But they have only been gone this past week; it will be a week more before the first return to us, and others will take longer. I do not think they will come to us before the year turns. Ah, but next year, when the seas grow gentle and the sun warm, then they will come, answering your call, and with such an army, united as none have united them before, you will cast the Saxons into the sea and the lost lands will be ours once more.”
“When we have dealt with Osric, send further word to the kings: let them know again that Arthur has returned in me.” Cadwallon looked to his warmaster and his bard. “You will have work in the morning, the best work. For you, Hwyel: war. And for you, Cian: the songs of war, the renown of men. Then, with none left in Deira to oppose us, we will quit this city.”
“Home?” asked Hwyel. “We have been gone from Gwynedd many months now.”
But Cadwallon gestured to take in all the land around York. “This is our home, Hwyel. Too long have we allowed ourselves to shrink back into the hills that we know; these lands were lost in our hearts as well as by the sword. Now, to take them back, we must put them in here too.” Cadwallon held his hand to his chest. “Do you not think I too miss the mountains of our birth, the meadows of Inys Mon and the teeth of Tryfan? But these lands are our lands, and we must find a place for the water meadows of the Ouse and the wolds of Ebrauc if we are to hold them.” He turned to his bard. “Sing these lands into our hearts again, Cian: help us to love the meres and the marshes and the meadows. Will you do that?”
“I will do that, lord. I will sing such a song that all the Baptized will come here, as on pilgrimage, to where the new Arthur first led his army against the pagans, amid the willow meads and marshlands of the old kingdom of Ebrauc.”
*
Coifi woke from nightmare into nightmare. The nightmare of his sleep had been one of loss, searching in the fall of twigs and the swirl of water for a wyrd that danced beyond his sight, playing at the edge of vision but ever and again slipping away when he turned to face it. The nightmare of his waking was one of finding: men screaming, falling into tents and shelters; the Britons, in among the Angles, but armed and awake, cutting rope and bringing down tent and shelter and setting brands to them that the men within might emerge clothed in flame. Black-cloaked, rattle-boned, Coifi gaped at the chaos around, then scrambled back as a man fell, face first, to the earth in front of him, his shoulder near severed from his side by the blow that had killed. The man’s killer looked down at Coifi and for a moment their eyes met, and the man, dark-haired, blue- eyed, thought on death for the priest before turning and dealing it to another who advanced with sword and shield.
Still on his back, the priest scrabbled backwards, pushing with feet and hands, trying to get away from the chaos that had engulfed his waking. Hands reached under his arms and pulled him along, heels rattling over the ground, and he looked up to see Acca above him, face straining.
“This is no place for us,” the scop said as the two men fell into a thicket of stinking, half-rotted rushes, standing in a waterlogged hollow.
Mud-smeared, they stared out from their hiding place at the battle in front of them. Only now was the sun edging over the horizon; Cadwallon’s men had fallen upon Osric’s camp in the shadows that presaged dawn, when men slept heavy and the night lingered, creeping from the city and attacking in silence. Osric had posted guards, of course, but the best men, the most experienced warriors, had been with him on the evening before, planning their own attack and drinking until the moon rose. Those same men, bleary and red-eyed, emerged to the slaughter. For until this morning, Cadwallon had always employed his horsemen to lead his attack, the riders following the streaming dragon banner and launching volleys of javelins against the shieldwall of his enemies before sweeping back for more missiles and sending them afresh into the lime and leather shields.
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But this time, the Britons had attacked before dawn on foot, in silence, cutting the few unsuspecting guards down before engulfing the sleeping camp in flame and death. From their hiding place, Coifi and Acca saw Osric’s boar banner surrounded and pulled down; they heard the roar that announced his death, and the panic of the many, fleeing and being cut down as they ran, and the courage of the few, fighting to the end beside the bodies of their lords.
They saw and they heard the ravens gather overhead, announcing the flesh feast to their fellows. Other birds came too: crows, red kites; all the scavengers of the battlefield, while at the margins of the field human scavengers gathered, ready with sharp knives to dispatch the wounded and harvest buckles and blades; anything that could be stripped from a corpse.
Battle turned into rout, became pillage and slaughter. Among the men who lived, some fell into paroxysms of laughter or held their arms up to their god; others collapsed in exhaustion and slept where they lay; men vomited and voided bowels, and raped and rested, and the quiet of exhaustion was broken by the croaking of ravens and the cursing of scavengers by warriors too spent to defend their gains.
By day’s end, little remained save the naked corpses of the Angles. The men of Gwynedd had gathered their dead and taken them, slung over horseback or upon wagons, back into York, but there were none to gather the dead of Deira. Eventually, on the morrow or the day following, their kin would hear tell of the disaster that had befallen Osric and his followers, and wives and children and parents would come, searching the slain for husbands and fathers, but on that first night, the only watchers of the dead were the night scavengers, and two waiting, fearful men.
Coifi and Acca had not spoken during the long, terrible day, as the bog they hid in grew sticky with men’s blood and the flies clustered thick on them. The priest saw the slaughter overlaying the sacrificed ram; its blood had flowed as the blood of Osric’s army had flowed. The scop made no song for the day, and never after spoke of it, save to list the names of the men who had died.
Oswald: Return of the King Page 7