Oswald shook his head. “Such faith. Brother, you should place your trust in God, not me.”
“But don’t you see, Oswald? God gave me you as a brother so I could have someone to trust. Maybe your job is to understand, and mine is to trust you and do what you say. So what should we do about Osric, and Cadwallon?”
“I – we will speak of this later. As to Cadwallon: what word is there of Eanfrith?”
“He has returned with men from Pictland, and claimed Bernicia for his ancestral right, taking Bamburgh. There he remains, making only short trips for supplies, and those mostly by boat, sending men to take birds, eggs and seals from the Farne Islands or Lindisfarne, and waits for Cadwallon to come to him.”
“That is a good strategy. Even if he had an army ten times the size, Cadwallon could not take Bamburgh. Our brother learned well from Father.”
“I never liked Eanfrith. He ignored me.”
Oswald smiled. “He must have been the only person who did. You were the loudest boy I have ever heard.”
“But do you think he will be able to defeat Cadwallon? Penda has taken his men back to Mercia, but young warriors flock to Cadwallon, and his army swells. I have heard rumour that he sends messengers to the kings of the Britons, anointing himself their High King and proclaiming that he is the answer to their prophecies of long ago, that a king would arise from among them to cast the Saxons into the sea.”
“We are not Saxons,” said Oswald.
“They call us all Saxons,” said Oswiu, “as we call them all wealh.”
“We do not call the monks of Iona wealh, or the warriors of Dal Riada, or the Uí Neíll.”
“It would be stupid to do so, as we are their guests. But you have not answered, Oswald. Will Eanfrith defeat Cadwallon?”
“How many men did he bring from Pictland?”
“Enough to take and hold Bamburgh, but not enough to march against Cadwallon.”
“And with the ear that you put into other people’s conversations, have you heard rumour of whether young men ride to join him?”
“None from Dal Riada or the Uí Neíll. There may be some from Strathclyde and the Gododdin, but I have not heard so.”
“And what of God or the gods? In whom does Eanfrith place his trust?”
“Paulinus has gone south to Kent. I have heard tell that the other priest, James, remains, quietly praying and teaching around Catterick, but that is far from Bamburgh. The Picts have their gods; Eanfrith most likely sacrifices to them.”
Oswald nodded, and turned his back on the Sound to look back to the abbey church. It was a long, low building, thatched, with white walls and small windows, and he had known no happiness greater than that which he had found within it.
“I pray he will succeed,” Oswald said quietly. “I fear he will not.”
*
“Abbot Ségéne, there is a messenger to see you.”
The abbot looked up from where he kneeled in prayer, although in truth he realized that the prayer had turned into anxious thought about his community.
“Oh, it is you, Aidan,” he said as he struggled to his feet, his knees cracking as they straightened. “Who is he from?”
“King Cadwallon,” said the young monk.
“Cadwallon?” The abbot looked for confirmation and Aidan nodded.
“Yes, Father Abbot.”
“Bring him to me,” said Abbot Ségéne. “I will hear his message. Oh, and Brother Aidan…” The monk stopped in mid stride. “Stay with us. I want you to hear what this messenger has to say.”
“Yes, Father Abbot.”
While Brother Aidan hurried off to fetch the messenger, the abbot stretched and bent his knees, working hard to keep his face impassive as twinges of pain shot up and down his legs. He tried not to think what the saints would have said about the fuss he was making from legs aching through kneeling, when they would stand for hours in the winter sea, or fast for a month and a day, or cast themselves upon the waves in a curragh with no oars, that God might take them where he would, be it to the depths of the sea or new islands upon which to make their cells and live in communion with the Lord of sea and sky, wind and wave.
Abbot Ségéne grimaced. They might have thought little of such pain, but could they have brought the Irish, a people so far beyond civilization that even the empire never reached it, to the faith if they had not been able to walk anywhere because of failing knee joints?
He would ask one of the brothers to bring him a stool, that he might pray sitting down. After all, the apostle had said to pray always – he did not specify what position in which to do so.
Brother Aidan led a travel-stained and weary man into the abbot’s cell. He made the courtesy and Abbot Ségéne nodded in acknowledgment.
“I hear you come from Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd.”
“And king of Deira, and Bernicia, of all the lands north of the Humber, the High King, the prophesied one, dux bellorum, the once and present king: Arthur, the deliverer, who will drive the Saxons back into the sea and take back the lost lands for us and our children and our children’s children.” The messenger recited the titles and promises with the faintly distracted air of a man who has rehearsed the words over and again through days of travelling.
“Really?” said the abbot. “Cadwallon was plain king of Gwynedd when I last met him, a title to satisfy most men. But I see he is not most men. Now, what is the message you bring from him?”
“My lord, King Cadwallon presents his greetings and wishes you to be informed that he is, through God’s blessing and by his divine signs, the deliverer long promised to the baptized people of this land, to rid them from the pagans that have taken what was once theirs, to unite the many kingdoms of the Baptized into one great kingdom. He furthermore asks your prayers and blessings upon him and his people, that God’s grace may further flow upon him, and he asks that you send him relics of the holy Colm Cille, founder of this monastery, that he may bear them before him in battle and, with the saint as his standard bearer and protector, meet the remaining armies of the pagans and utterly defeat and destroy them. He furthermore asks that you use your good offices and send messengers of your own to the kings of the Britons, to Strathclyde and Dal Riada, to the Uí Neíll and the Picts, announcing that the deliverer long promised by God and his saints has arisen among us, and that they should accept him as High King over them all, and pledge themselves to his cause, that together they may drive the Saxons from this land and know a unity and peace unknown since the days of the emperors.” The messenger, message delivered, gasped for breath, but underneath his panting he bore the unmistakable relief of a man who had unburdened himself of a heavy load of words.
The abbot nodded slowly. “This is news indeed. What is your name?”
“Pedrog, Father Abbot,” said the messenger.
“Of the Ceredegion?”
“Yes.” The young man smiled at the abbot. “You know them?”
“Of course,” said Abbot Ségéne. “What man alive has not heard of Clinnoch and his feats?”
“I – I thought it was just among the sons of Ceretic that his fame had spread.”
“You will find it has spread much further than that. Now, you will stay with us, taking food and drink and rest.”
“Er, the king wanted me to return with your reply as soon as possible.”
“And you will, you will. But is it possible for a man to travel far and fast on an empty belly, with thirst cracking his lips and weariness turning his limbs to stone? No, of course not. Therefore you must remain with us for a while, eating and drinking and resting, and then when it is time to return to the king, you will travel all the faster. I wager a well-fed and well-rested Pedrog will arrive much sooner than a Pedrog who takes boat now and falls ill upon the long journey home. Now, I will find a monk to take you to your quarters – we live simply here, but it is better than an open curragh – and then to the refectory; you are fortunate not to arrive on a day of fasting, but even if we had been abstaini
ng from food, we should have found for you to eat.” The abbot turned to Brother Aidan. “Take young Pedrog and find a monk to look after him, and then return to me here.”
While Abbot Ségéne waited for Brother Aidan to return, he thought through Pedrog’s message once more.
“Come,” he said, when the young monk, red faced from rushing, appeared at the door to his cell again. “Let us walk. My knees are cracking and my legs grow weary from lack of use. Besides, I think better when I walk.”
The two men, Brother Aidan following a slight but respectful distance behind the abbot, walked over the machair down towards the Sound of Iona. Keeping the sea to his right, the abbot led them along the path towards the northern tip of the island.
“What do you make of this, Brother Aidan?” the abbot asked when he was sure they were away from the ears of any but sheep and gulls.
“There has long been a prophecy, said to have come from Merlin, that Arthur would return and lead his people to final victory against the Saxons. I heard the bards sing of Arthur and his return when I was a boy, and my father before me.”
“But it is one thing to hear of a prophecy and another to live in the time of its enactment. We must ask this Pedrog what the signs were that convinced Cadwallon that he is the fulfilment of prophecy and the hope of the people. For myself,” the abbot turned away and looked out over the grey-backed sea, “I am not so certain.”
“Why are you not certain?” asked Brother Aidan. “Cadwallon has defeated the High King, he has taken Deira and killed Osric its new king. The rumours are that he rides north to Bernicia, to take that kingdom from Eanfrith. Should he succeed, he would indeed be king of all the lands north of the Humber and south of the Tweed, and not even the emperors of old ruled there. Does that not make him Arthur?”
“Arthur is the hope of a defeated people to whom we are cousins; a people who would rather fight among themselves than unite against the Saxons. You know the tale of Urien of Rheged, the last great king of the north? He drove the sons of Ida back, expelling them even from their stronghold at Bamburgh, until they waited in fear for the turning of the tide around Lindisfarne and their final destruction, for Rheged was camped on the shore with a great army of allies – the kings of Strathclyde, of Elmet and the Gododdin. But then, in the night, King Morgant, rather than acknowledge Urien of Rheged as his lord and High King, sent an assassin and killed him, and the morn saw the last great army of the Britons dissolve in suspicion and skirmishing, and the sons of Ida, watching from Lindisfarne, could not believe what their eyes told them when they saw the hosts of the Britons marching away and leaving them alive. So the Idings reclaimed Bamburgh and one by one defeated the kingdoms that were on the point of defeating them. So it has ever been among the Britons since the emperors left – one king turning upon another and calling in the Saxons to do his killing for him and thinking himself superior for his baptism, when God calls upon him, by reason of that baptism, to be more than a barbarian. Arthur is their hope, but he is not my hope.” The abbot turned back to Brother Aidan. “Do you know who my hope is, Brother Aidan?”
“Oswald,” said the young monk.
“Yes, Oswald,” said the abbot. “Let him claim the throne, and then we might send among the Saxons men to win them to eternal life, and through them the pagan barbarians, their kin, who live across the North Sea. That is my hope, and it is a great hope, and Cadwallon is no part of it.”
“But what message will you give to Pedrog to take back to Cadwallon? Surely you will not say that?”
“No, of course not. Oswald may be my hope, but hopes are often times dashed in this world, and kings fall by the way more readily than a horse casts its shoe. Should Cadwallon prevail, should he for a while reign as High King, it would not do for him to know that he had not the support of the Holy Isle. But for myself, and for the Blessed Colm Cille, our father in faith, I will not give it. But I will prevaricate.” The abbot smiled ruefully at Brother Aidan. “For the sake of your soul, brother, I hope you are never burdened with the rule of a monastery, for what you think of as an outpost of the kingdom of heaven is mostly a foundation of this earth, and an abbot spends more time on rustled sheep and importunate kings than he does upon his knees.”
“Who would want me as abbot?” asked Brother Aidan.
“You would be surprised,” said the abbot.
Chapter 8
“Have the kings answered? Any word from the abbot of the Holy Isle?” Cadwallon rode with his men north, the hooves of their shaggy horses loud on the cobbles of the old road, but still the king’s mind turned to his messengers, dispatched four weeks ago or more, and the answers they would bring. But none had returned.
“It could be they went first to York, where we were, missing us upon the road,” said Cian. “Only when they have gone past us and received word that we have gone will they know to turn north and follow us upon the old road.”
Cadwallon twisted in the saddle to look back along the road, but all he saw were his own men, in column, with the ox wagons of their camp followers forming the long, drawn-out tail of an army on the move.
To the east, the sea glittered under the late summer sun, moving as easily as a horse under saddle. To the west, the land rose in ascending ridges to the humps and whalebacks of the Cheviots. Many of the hills were garlanded with tumbledown fortifications, the walls of the forgotten men of the hills, a people so old that even their name was forgotten: all that remained were the stones they had set in rings about the mountain tops, the rock flashing pink where a scrambling sheep displaced a boulder and revealed the fresh quarried colour beneath. This was the land of the Old North, a land so old that even Cadwallon, who knew his family back to before the days of the emperors, felt young in its shadows.
“You can feel it, can’t you, Cian?” Cadwallon’s gesture took in the hills and lush plain they rode through, its fields worked into careful strips by the peasants who stopped their tasks to watch the horsemen riding past. “There is a strength still in this land that the Saxons haven’t understood. It is only a matter of time before the kings rise up together, and cast the invaders back into the sea.”
Cian wiped the sweat from his forehead and flicked it onto the cobbles. “On a day like this, I would be cast into the sea myself.”
Cadwallon laughed, and the bard gave silent thanks for the joy of the king, for he had been grim and silent since the messengers were so long in returning.
“But to answer your question, yes, there is power in this land. Talk to some of the peasants – I do it, lord, so men such as you do not have to – and you will learn that there are places they will not go, for they believe the wraiths of the Old Ones, who lived here before reck of kin, haunt those barrows and mounds still, waiting to take the living down with them into the cold earth. There are hills they will only pass upon the east, for to the west lies a door that leads under hill to silent halls filled full of the treasure of the first walkers of this land – yet none would touch such treasure, were it laid out in front of them, for it comes at cost of wits, and kin, and soul. Even the rock upon which the Saxons make their fort is old beyond any reckoning, and I have heard some say that once it looked over great plains to the east as well as the west, a land rich in game and fish from its many lakes. But a great flood came and took the land, and it has been sea ever since, and the land that once was lies beneath it, lost to men. Yes, this is an old land, lord, and a strong one. One day, and that day draws nigh, it will remember its strength and its pride, and cast the newcomers back into the sea.”
“That is what I think,” said the king. “May the Lord grant that the day come soon.” But as he spoke, he looked back again, and still no messenger appeared upon the road.
“They will find us at Ad Gefrin,” Cadwallon continued. “I have heard men tell of Edwin’s palace in the shadow of the hills – they say it is the most marvellous hall in the land, longer than many boats laid stern to prow and higher than a tree, with gold pillars and silver tapestries. I w
ould see this marvel – before I burn it.”
“We must be close. There’s one of our scouts.” Cian pointed ahead: a rider approached from the west.
Cadwallon signalled his warmaster closer and Hwyel urged his horse on until it walked alongside the king’s mount.
“Take the wagons and enough men to protect them, and keep on the north road until you reach Bamburgh – Eanfrith will be there, skulking on the rock. We will meet you there, but first I have to attend to a task of my own. Cian will come with me; he will have something to sing about after today.”
So as the wagons made their slow, ox-pulled, way north, Cadwallon rode with Cian and a hundred men towards the line of hills in the west. It seemed as if every summit was ringed with fallen walls, and the men rode in silence, the antiquity of the hills silencing them. The king, for his part, talked with Cian as they rode, pointing out the thick sprinkling of white upon the hills.
“There are many sheep here, and cattle. Edwin built his palace that he might have somewhere to gather the render of the hills, and looking around us that render must have been rich indeed. I will have it for my own soon. After all, the people of the hills are of our kin, not Edwin’s.”
Cian shrugged. “May that be so. But in my experience, the men of the hills hold no one kin if he has not been born in the shadow of the mountains and sucked their stone teats in infancy. It may not be so easy a matter to gather their render.”
“They cannot be harder than the men of our own hills – never have I seen greater innocence than that on the face of a peasant when he assures you he really only does have one sheep, and that an old, colicky beast good for one summer more before being put into mutton. Holding a sword to a few throats uncovers all manner of things that they would have hidden. These will be no different.” Cadwallon sat up in his saddle and stared ahead, then pointed.
“There, what do you see?”
Cian shaded his eyes against the sun that was swinging low in the sky. To his gaze, it seemed as if the sun itself had come down from the sky and blazed from the walls of the great hall that had appeared as they breasted a rise and looked down into a long, low valley between the hills.
Oswald: Return of the King Page 9