“Edwin’s hall, Ad Gefrin.”
Cadwallon reined in his horse and looked upon the hall.
“They are right; it is a marvel,” he said, but quietly, that no one might hear.
*
Many weeks’ walking, a few days upon wagons and even fewer upon a horse, which coped with having two men astride by moving slower than they could walk, had brought Coifi and Acca to within sight of Ad Gefrin. Here, in the shadow of the hills, they hoped to find Eanfrith. Acca had insisted on singing as they walked the final miles. For his part, Coifi went in silence, his bedraggled raven-feather cloak drawn tight around his shoulders despite the warmth of the season. He turned eyes to hilltop and the motion of cloud shadow, he heard the call of meadow pipits and skylarks, the distant bleat of sheep, grazing the high meadows of the hills, and he had no peace, for all of these were signs of wyrd, of the weavings of the fate singers, and he could no longer trust the meaning he saw in them, for the victory he had seen in the sacrificed ram had proven a defeat.
“I am glad you are happy,” he grumbled, as Acca launched into the tale of the Battle of Tears, “but when are we going to get there? My feet are sore and my legs ache.”
Acca laughed. “You mean you have been so busy searching for signs of wyrd that you did not see what lies ahead? There it is, the golden hall of Ad Gefrin, palace of Edwin.” And he pointed to where it glowed in the late sun.
Coifi stopped and shaded his eyes against the glare, then turned to Acca.
“The golden hall is burning,” he said.
“What do you mean, burning?” said the scop. “It’s the sun shining upon it.”
The priest passed a trembling hand over his eyes, then looked again. “It burns,” he said, turning a frightened gaze to the scop. “In its wyrd, it burns. I see the flames.”
“You mean like you saw Osric’s victory?”
Coifi stiffened. “You said the gods did not say when victory would come.”
“And in the same way there’s no telling when the palace will burn. It’s made of wood; wood burns.”
Coifi looked doubtfully back towards Ad Gefrin. “I – you may be right. I do not know when.”
“Of course I’m right. Let me tell you, the palace will be standing long after we’ve gone into the shadows; who would burn it? It is beautiful, magnificent. Not even the emperors of old built like this.” Acca pointed. “Look at the door columns, how the animals carved there climb upwards, and the gold of the pillars.” The scop stood with his hands on his hips, his lyre hanging on his back, breathing deep. “Ah, it is good to be back. I gave some of my greatest performances here. Did I tell you about the time I sang the tale of the Scyldings for Edwin and everyone here – this was after Paulinus had been standing in the river for a month and then took fever – and they all cheered so loudly I thought the roof might split open, and the king gave me a golden armband as thick as my thumb. That was my favourite of his gifts, his many gifts, to me.” Acca passed a hand over his face. “I had to sell it to that outlaw of a shipmaster to gain us passage up the coast – a journey I made in better times for a handful of clams and a promise to sing to the crew as they rowed.” The scop shook his head in disgust. “I would have sung as many songs as they wanted, making light work of the rowing for the crew, but all that whoreson wanted was gold, and of course you didn’t have any gold to give him, so I had to pay, hey, Coifi? Coifi?”
The scop turned to see the priest staring back the way they had come.
“Er, Acca…” Coifi pointed and the scop followed his finger to a column of riders approaching fast, their spearheads glinting in the slanting sunlight.
“No,” said Acca. “No, no, no. This cannot be; it is not fair. We have come so far.”
“I don’t know about you,” said Coifi, “but I’m going to wait for them here. There’s nowhere to hide and they’ll have seen us already. If we run, they’ll only come after us.” And he flopped down, in a heap of bedraggled black feathers, by the side of the track.
But the scop continued to stare at the approaching riders. “I – I think they are Britons,” he said. “Their shields are rectangular, not round like ours.”
Coifi shaded his eyes to look. “It will be Cadwallon and his men, come to burn the palace of Edwin.”
“No, it can’t be,” said Acca, but as the riders drew nearer, he saw the dragon banner flying from the leading horseman.
“Wyrd,” said Coifi. “The fate singers have drawn the thread of our lives tight, Acca. It will take but a single cut to sever them. Sit down, enjoy the sun of our last day – there is nothing else we can do.” The priest lay back, staring up at the blue bowl of the sky, and for the first time since Edwin’s death, he felt content. He was going to die soon, he knew that, but he did not mind. He was tired. He would rest. That was enough.
Acca slumped down on the grass beside him. “That it should end like this: cut down by men ignorant of my craft when in sight of a palace fit for the finest songs and tales I could tell. When I die I’m going to tell the gods, or God, what I think of how I have been treated, but I will make my lament so beautiful that the gods themselves will shed tears for the waste of my talent.”
“The gods may, but men won’t,” said Coifi. “Men forget, and those who call on you to sing their praises one day will not remember your name the next. Our time is over, Acca. We are better off leaving this world.”
“You speak such truth, Coifi. If I were but spared, I could tell of the sadness of this middle-earth in words that would have even the most blood-soaked lord drowning his beard in tears.” The scop sighed, and looked towards the riders. They were close now, and to men sitting upon the ground they loomed large upon their mounts, although they rode beasts that were little larger than ponies. “But it is not to be.”
At a command from the man who rode alongside the dragon banner, the troop of horsemen came to a halt by the two men sitting upon the grass. He rode over to them and, looking down, pointed his spear at them, speaking in a tongue they did not understand.
Acca looked up, shading his eyes against the low sun.
“I do not speak your tongue, stranger. If you are going to kill us, it would be meet for you to tell us your name in a language we can understand. But for our part, that you know who it is you will kill this day, I am Acca the scop and this is Coifi the priest.”
The man lowered his spear and looked carefully at Acca, then Coifi.
“I have heard of you,” he said, the words coming from his mouth with the swinging intonation of the Briton.
“You’ve heard of me?” said Acca, brightening suddenly. “This is happy tidings; at least my killer has heard my fame. Tell me, was it for my verses on the Battle of the River Idle, when Rædwald and Edwin slew Æthelfrith the Twister, that you know me? Or perhaps for my elegy for King Edwin, although that is but new…”
“I know you for Edwin’s bard and Edwin’s priest and soothsayer.”
“We call it scop in our tongue,” said Acca.
“And I call you bard in mine. This is a fine chance, for we ride to Edwin’s palace, where you be bound on foot. Come, we will take you there, for I would have a bard of your people on hand to tell the tale of what I will do there this day.”
“And what will you do there this day?”
“Burn.”
At that word, Coifi scrambled to his feet. “I saw it,” he said, his body trembling. “I saw you, raising fire as on the day when the heavens fall and all ends.”
The rider laughed. “So I have heard of you and you have seen me. This is a fine chance indeed. Well, know you that I am Cadwallon, heir to Arthur, High King, and I will drive you and your people back into the sea whence you came.” Cadwallon leaned down closer to Coifi. “Can you see that, seer?”
“I – I see fire and flame, and twelve riders and a great stronghold atop a rock by the sea; I see knives flashing, and a raven flying against the moon. I – I see…” The priest’s voice trailed away and his eyes rolled up into
his skull, leaving only the whites, as the strength drained from his limbs and he slowly collapsed.
Acca shrugged. “He does that sometimes when he sees the wyrd; trouble is, when he wakes up he usually can’t remember what he saw before he passed out.”
Cadwallon signalled to one of his men. “Take him,” he said. “Tie him over a horse – I don’t want to lose him.” Then he called Cian forward and gestured Acca closer. “This is my bard. The two of you will have much to talk on. And later, I would hear you both. It has been many years since I heard a song battle.”
*
Acca sang that night in the fierce blood light of the burning palace. He sang of the death of kings and the passing of all things with the voice of a gull lamenting the sea, and the men who listened, although most did not understand the language of his song, heard the sadness of it and tears glittered on their cheeks by firelight.
Cian sang too, an exultant song, of the downfall of enemies and the fulfilment of promises, of laments heard in the distance rather than sung within camp, a song to make the heart pound and the blood race. Cadwallon heard the two men sing as he sat, face turned towards the burning palace. Coifi watched too, looking from the flames to the hills that surrounded the palace, and he saw shadows moving there – so many that he could not tell if they were the living hillmen, come to watch the destruction of the palace that took their food render each year, or the dead, come to welcome new shades to their number.
While the fire yet burned, Cadwallon, laughing, gave the winner’s wreath to Acca for, as he said, “It is right he should lament what I have burned, for it was indeed the most beautiful building in the land, and if any but Edwin had caused it to be made, I would have taken it for my own.” At his words, Cian stalked into the night, accompanied by the laughter of his king, while Acca, wreath- crowned, sang on long into the night, until men, craving sleep, threw stones and sticks to silence him.
Coming to rest beside Coifi, Acca took off the wreath and held it for the priest to see.
“This is what they give for a song battle. Twined leaves! I would prefer a thick gold arm ring, but still, did you see the expression on that scop’s face when the king gave the wreath to me?”
“I saw, but I fear he will look the happier tomorrow, when Cadwallon has us killed.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Cadwallon won’t kill us – he wants us to tell the news of his victory. Tomorrow he rides to Bamburgh, where Eanfrith waits. There is no taking such a stronghold, no matter how many men you have, for it has a well dug deep into the living rock, and space enough to store supplies for more years than an army could lay siege. Eanfrith will simply wait upon the rock, and Cadwallon knows there is nothing he can do to bring him down – which is why he lets us live, Coifi. He told me, after he gave me the wreath, that he wants me – wants us – to go to Eanfrith and to tell him that he, Cadwallon, will accept him as his client king of Bernicia, so long as he comes to make his submission to him, and pledges his fealty.”
“Why should Eanfrith listen to us?”
“He knows us, of course. I was scop to Æthelfrith, his father, before Edwin became king, and I remember Eanfrith well – sings like a crow, but a remarkable head for beer – and you were priest too then, were you not? He will remember us and receive Cadwallon’s message.”
“He might receive it, but he won’t like it.”
*
“He wants me to do what?”
Eanfrith sat upon the judgment seat within the great hall of Bamburgh. Looking around, Acca saw that the men who had accompanied Eanfrith from Pictland, men painted after the manner of their people in swirling designs, filled at most half the benches in the hall.
“He wants you to submit to him, and then he will accept you as under-king, to rule Bernicia, while he takes Deira for himself, to add to his own lands. For he told me that the men of Deira broke their faith with him, but King Cadwallon said to tell you that he has no quarrel with the men of Bernicia, for, as is told among men, you have ever kept your word.”
Eanfrith leaned forward in the judgment seat and Coifi, standing silently beside Acca, saw a terrible eagerness in his face. He too had noted the few men the king had with him, and how plain the clasps and buckles of their belts and clothes. These were the leavings of a king, the men who could find no place in a lord’s hall; oft times, they would slip between brigandage and serving whatever lord would feed and shelter them for the night. It was no army, and if Eanfrith had not the stronghold of Bamburgh, he would never have stood against Cadwallon’s hardened men.
But Acca and Coifi had been there, riding alongside the Britons, when they came under Bamburgh rock and looked up in wonder and awe at the stronghold above them, to be reached by a single path that wound down the rock to a fortified gate upon the side that the sea washed. Stone walls topped the rock, and further wooden stockades sat atop them; a weakness in most cases, for wood might burn, but the walls were set so high above the surroundings that even a fire arrow might fail to reach them, and the greater quantity of burning material necessary to set such a sturdy structure ablaze could never be set to it.
Cadwallon, staring up at the rock, whistled through his teeth.
“You say they have a well up there?” he said, turning to Acca.
“Yes, lord,” said the scop. “King Æthelfrith had it dug through the rock to sweet water far below.”
“I don’t suppose it ever runs dry?”
“Never.”
Cadwallon looked up at the rock again. “Take my message to Eanfrith. Tell him that to show good faith I will withdraw my men and meet him with but my own household, at a place of his choosing.”
“My choosing?” Eanfrith repeated that part of Cadwallon’s message. “He said I could choose where we are to meet?”
“Yes, lord, that is what he said.”
Eanfrith nodded, and looked to the man standing next to the judgment seat. His warmaster, Acca supposed.
“He treats me as a king, worthy of speech. That is more than my mother’s own people did.”
The warmaster shook his head, and looked warningly at Acca and Coifi.
“Oh, do not worry about them. I remember them from my father’s time, when they served him. They are faithful.”
“If they are faithful, why do they serve Cadwallon?” asked the warmaster.
“Er, excuse me,” said Acca, “we do not serve Cadwallon – he captured us as we neared Ad Gefrin, where we sought you, King Eanfrith, as the true king of Bernicia. He spared us not to serve him, but to bring you his message, for he knew that you would receive us, as you have.”
“There, you have your answer, Drest. All kings need reliable messengers. It is not surprising that Cadwallon should choose two men known to me to carry his message. The question is, what shall we do?”
“I would not go to him,” said the warmaster. “Here, we are secure: he cannot come against us; he cannot out wait us; he can do nothing against us. But should we come down from the rock….”
“You saw his army arrayed around us. We cannot stand against him – we have too few men. My – our – only chance is to make peace with Cadwallon; after all, he has done what he wished and taken revenge on Edwin. He cannot rule Bernicia himself, not from Gwynedd, so he will need someone to rule it for him, and how much better a man with claim to the throne, a son of Æthelfrith, a man like me?” Eanfrith turned to Acca and Coifi. “What do you say? Can he be trusted?”
The priest shrugged his shoulders. “Can any man be trusted?” he said. “But I am alive, when I had not thought to be.”
“For myself,” said Acca, “I would say he is a man of discernment; he has shown great interest in the songs and tales I had to tell him, favouring me even over his own scop – a man of meagre talent named Cian – so it seems to me that the rumours of the hatred Cadwallon holds against our people must be false, for would a man who hates us wish to hear our stories? Far be it from me to counsel a king but, as with Coifi, I am alive and had not thought to be. Make
of that what you will.”
Eanfrith pressed his hands together, squeezing the blood from his fingers. Outside the hall, the wind, blowing in from across the grey sea, drew tears from the eyes of the men who stood watch on the walls. Cadwallon had withdrawn his men through the day, the army striking its tents and breaking down its shelters, loading wagons and riding south until, by noon, there were none left investing the castle, but only a long, slow-moving tail of ox-drawn vehicles, leaving.
From the rock, the sentries had heard the curses of men who, arriving the day before, had set up camp in expectation of many days, if not weeks, to recover from the exertions of the journey only to be told to pack up the next morning. Cadwallon’s dragon banner had gone first, leading the column, and the king himself, unmistakable in the fine armour he wore, followed soon afterwards, leaving the rearguard to hurry along the camp followers.
“Send out scouts,” said Eanfrith. “Let us see if they have gone. If they have, then we know Cadwallon speaks the truth, and I will meet with him at a place of my choosing.”
“I’ve already done that,” said the warmaster. “They have gone indeed, and look set to keep on going. There is nothing to suggest that Cadwallon means to return.”
“There, what did I say? It is meet for him to accept me as co-king and ruler of Bernicia, for there will be gold to be paid – he and I know that – but this will be gold that comes without men’s lives lost and warriors slain; its only price will be the time it takes to negotiate with him, and the hostages Cadwallon asks for.”
Acca could not help notice that when Eanfrith spoke of hostages, his eyes flicked to him and Coifi.
Eanfrith, king of Bernicia, whose writ did stretch beyond the walls of the castle in which he found refuge, turned to Acca. “Take word to King Cadwallon of Gwynedd, lord of Deira, High King of Britain, that I acknowledge him my lord and my High King. Tell him that I will meet him…” Eanfrith looked round to his warmaster. “We need a place out in the open, where he can’t hide any men from sight. Where do you think?”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 10