“Upon the beach, where the boats pull up for market. There is nowhere to hide men there. And if there is need of help, then you can call it from the castle.”
“You’ll come with me, won’t you, Drest?” asked Eanfrith.
“It would be better that I remained here. Then should the talking miss its mark and weapons be drawn, I could bring help quickly.”
“Any fool can answer a call; I need you with me when we face Cadwallon.”
“I – it would be better otherwise, but if that is what you wish.”
“It is what I command, Drest. It were well that you remember who is king here.”
The warmaster nodded, a tight, controlled nod, and Eanfrith turned his attention back to Acca. “Tell Cadwallon we will meet him on the beach tomorrow. Tell him I will bring twelve men with me – that is the customary number for negotiations between kings – and they may be armed, but with sword and knife alone; no shields. And tell him, as further surety, to bring you to the meeting as well, in addition to his men, so that we may have there the messenger who brought us together, that he may speak if there be any misunderstanding as to what was agreed between us. There, do you understand?”
Acca’s lips moved silently as he rehearsed the message under his breath. A scop schooled in recalling the history and tales of his people found little difficulty in committing such a message to memory, and he repeated it to Eanfrith’s satisfaction.
“What of my friend Coifi?” asked Acca. “Where will he be?”
“I will bring him with me,” said Eanfrith. “Do not fear.”
*
Coifi, watching from among the tired sentries, saw the sun rise on the morrow, and men essay from the gate with the light to set up tents and shelters upon the beach. He had no appetite with Acca gone, and Eanfrith had not called upon him to read the future in the blood of a sacrificed animal, for which he was grateful.
But as the day rose, Eanfrith did call him, not to prophesy but to propitiate, giving the priest a white goat for the knife and the flame.
“I would give cattle, but we have none here upon the rock, for they would eat more than they milk with the dry hay that we have. But I give you this goat for the gods, with the promise that I will give many more, and cattle too, when I have secure hold of this kingdom. And tell the gods that I will cleave to the ways of our fathers, and not go seeking after new gods from far away.”
Coifi had told the gods this as he held the goat down, using his knee to hold it immobile upon the stone altar while he held the knife ready. Edwin’s priest, Paulinus, had used this altar for his sacrifices, and Coifi had stood with the others, watching and wondering at what he did and the strange language in which he did it, but now he took the altar and made blood sacrifice, a sacrifice the gods would understand. Drawing the knife across the goat’s throat, he emptied its life upon the altar and smeared the stone with red, chanting to honour the gods and call their blessing down upon the day, and the king.
Now, as the sun climbed towards the sky’s summit, Coifi followed Eanfrith, his warmaster Drest and ten sword companions, as they made their way down the steep, rock-hewn steps to the gate. The door warden opened the gate and they stepped out upon the beach. The tide was out, and sand stretched level and gold to either side of the rock upon which the stronghold squatted, commanding land and sea and sky.
From the south, riding up the beach under the dragon banner, were twelve horsemen and one other, perched uncertainly upon a following, braying mule.
Cadwallon had come, and he had brought Acca too.
Coifi was glad to see him coming and happier to see him alive. He had not realized, until the parting that had been forced on them the night before, how much he had come to rely upon the scop’s presence and his spirit. Seeing him approach, however uncertainly he balanced upon the mule, brought unexpected lightness to his heart.
The walls of the stronghold were lined with men, but as they marched out to the tents and shelters, Coifi realized the mistake Eanfrith had made by ordering his warriors to keep watch on the proceedings: his forces were on display and Cadwallon, approaching on horseback, could not fail to count them. But with the stronghold at Bamburgh, it barely mattered how many men there were: a handful could hold the castle against an army. But to take and hold a kingdom… That was a different matter. That needed men, and there were precious few on display at Bamburgh. Coifi shook his head. Cadwallon would drive an even harder bargain now.
Cadwallon and his companions reached the tents first, dismounting and picketing the beasts on the beach, bridles loosely tied to posts. Coifi knew that Eanfrith would rather have been there to receive Cadwallon, but custom dictated that when two kings met, the senior should greet the junior, rising from his seat to welcome him, but then being again the first to sit. Coifi saw Eanfrith whispering to his warmaster Drest as they approached the cluster of tents. Beneath their feet, the sand was hard packed, ridged and dark. If the negotiations were not over within six hours, the kings would find the sea lapping around their ankles. Coifi smiled. However great his power, a king could no more turn back a tide than he could turn back wyrd.
Wyrd.
Coifi heard the word, deep in his spirit, the weaving of the fate singers, the will of the gods, the workings of forces and powers he did not even know the names for, and the unfoldings of the human heart. And as he heard it, he fell into it: wyrd engulfed him, swallowed him into vision in a way that had not happened for many years – not since he had sat beside Mul and learned from him to fly in vision and walk in dream. The priest’s eyes rolled black into white, his limbs collapsed as if the threads holding them were all cut at once, and he fell upon the dark sand. Drest, ever alert to unexpected movements, poked Eanfrith and pointed.
“Leave him,” Eanfrith said.
Drest nodded agreement. “I will see to him when we return.” He would not lose a man to look after the priest.
But the Britons, dismounting by the tents, had also noticed Coifi’s collapse.
“Your friend is ill.” Cadwallon pointed Acca’s gaze to where Coifi writhed upon the sand, in the grip of his vision.
Acca started towards the priest, then stopped and looked back, but Cadwallon waved him on.
“Go to him.” The king looked straight at Acca. “It were best that you remained with him. Do you understand?”
The scop swallowed. He stole a glance towards Eanfrith and his men, nearly come to the meeting, then back to Cadwallon. The king of Gwynedd stared at him, and he quailed under his black eyes.
“Go,” said Cadwallon.
Acca scurried across the sand towards Coifi. His path took him past Eanfrith and his men, but they ignored him, intent upon the men of Gwynedd who had formed in welcome around the tent of meeting.
When he came to him, Acca found Coifi lying still upon his back, face upturned, unseeing, to the sky, and drool leaking from his mouth and trickling down his chin.
The scop chafed his hands, bending low over the priest.
“Coifi,” he called. “Coifi, can you hear me?”
The priest’s eyes rolled back. “Acca?” The priest’s voice was distant, as if it came from beneath a great lake.
“Yes, yes Coifi, it is me.”
“Has it happened yet?”
“Has what happened?”
“Eanfrith.”
“What about Eanfrith?”
“Has Cadwallon killed him?”
Acca sat back on his haunches. He stole a glance towards the tent. Most of the men had disappeared within, but others remained outside, in mutual, silent, suspicious guard. There was no sign of anything untoward.
“Yes,” said Acca.
“Oh.” Coifi reached up for Acca’s arm. “I – I saw. Wyrd showed me. I should have warned him.”
“It would not have done any good,” said Acca, stealing another look towards the tents. “Eanfrith would not have listened to you.”
“I could have tried…”
As the priest spoke, the tent
suddenly boiled. Acca saw men spilling from it, some clutching wounds as they fell to the ground, others falling upon the men outside. It was over in little more time than it had taken Coifi to speak, and with barely a cry. Only when the defeated men lay scattered over the sand, some dead, some dying, did any great sound reach Acca: the cries of the wounded, cut off suddenly as men, moving among them with knives, finished them off. Acca watched, waiting to see who would emerge from the tent. He knew – of course he knew – but he had to see.
Cadwallon pulled the flap of the tent open and walked out. In his right hand he held Eanfrith’s head, his eyes still wide with the surprise of his death. From across the sand there came the moan and wail of the men watching from Bamburgh, seeing their lord killed almost before their eyes. Mounting his horse, Cadwallon rode towards the castle, still holding Eanfrith’s head. He rode alone and unafraid, and none emerged from the gate to meet him, although many men waited there to come to their lord’s aid. But now Eanfrith was beyond aid, and fear filled the hearts of his men.
Cadwallon pulled his horse to a stop beneath the stronghold.
“Your king!” He held Eanfrith’s head up. “That was his mistake. I am your king! I and no other, and I will suffer no one to rule alongside me. When you crawl away from this rock, back to the places which spawned you, tell your peoples this: Cadwallon is High King of Britain.”
The High King pulled his horse’s head back, and it reared, kicking against the air. From the rock, the men watched in silence. Although many held spears, none thought to throw them, nor the few bowmen to loose their arrows, and Cadwallon urged his horse back across the wide sands to where his men waited, surrounded by the corpses of Eanfrith’s men. But before he reached them he stopped beside Acca and Coifi.
“You brought Eanfrith to me as I asked, so you will live.” Cadwallon circled around them, his horse excited and snorting at the smell of blood, pawing the sand. “Live, and think on this: I have killed the æthelings of Northumbria. When I have killed Oswald, all will see there is no strength left in the Idings, and then I will drive the Saxons into the sea and take back our lost land.” Cadwallon laughed. “It was so easy – Eanfrith truly believed I wanted him to be king under me! He was still talking of how much he would pay in tribute when I slid my knife between his ribs – I feared he would keep talking, but that at least silenced him, and of his men only the warmaster fought. So I thank you again. You have served me well, though you did not know so.”
Cadwallon and his men rode off across the sand, heading south along the broad path left by the low tide. The priest and the scop watched them go.
“When I asked, Eanfrith was not dead, was he?” Coifi asked.
Acca did not look at the priest. “You told me once that the fate singers will not change their weaving, neither for men nor for gods. It would have made no difference.”
Coifi watched the riders diminish into the distance.
“I had worried the tide might return and catch the kings as they talked. It has bare turned and Eanfrith is dead.” He turned to Acca. “I saw wyrd. It spoke to me as it has not spoken these many years, since I sat at the feet of Mul and learned to dream-walk and spirit-fly. Wyrd spoke to me, and I lay witless upon the ground and Eanfrith died.” The priest shook his head. “I asked the gods to hear me, but for what end? The ætheling is dead and Cadwallon has all Northumbria under his sword. Would that they had never spoken, and we might have died alongside Eanfrith, rather than be left, lordless men once more, to wander as wraiths upon this middle-earth.”
“I would not have died,” said Acca. “Not for Eanfrith.” He shook his head. “He had not the wit of his father, nor the courage of his mother, but was as a man led by fears and the counsel of others. Without Drest by his side, he would not even have taken Bamburgh, though there was none there to hold it against him. Did you not see how few men he had? Few indeed must have gone with him into exile, and fewer followed when he returned. Such a man could not be king long, and we did well not to die alongside him, for he had not given us rings to make us his men; all we had from him was the hospitality of a night, and that is owed to any visitor.” Acca turned to Coifi. “Besides, there is one more, and him I remember from when he was a boy: bright, brave and a lover of my songs. Oswald is ætheling too, and now surely he will return.”
“He would be foolish to come now, when Cadwallon can turn all his army against him. For many will hear of Cadwallon’s victory, and young men, hungry for gold and glory, will flock to him. I fear that Oswald, should he come, will meet a fate no different from that of Osric and Eanfrith.”
“Do you see that, or do you fear it?”
Coifi shook his head. “Everything has become as it was: unclear, as on an autumn day when the sea mist rises. But I fear it, Acca. Oh, I fear it.”
Chapter 9
“What should I do, Aidan? What should I do?”
Oswald had sought out his friend, as he cured the stinking hides of cows for the scriptorium, and told him the news: Eanfrith was dead, and Cadwallon ravaged Northumbria, driving thegns from hall and land, and leaving those dead who would not flee.
Aidan scrubbed his arms in a bucket of seawater. The warmth of summer was past now, and some trees were tinged with the colours of autumn, but a memory of warmth lingered yet in the sea, lessening its normal chill. Washing gave him time to think as Oswald paced up and down, telling him what had happened.
“What should I do?”
Brother Aidan straightened, and brushed the water from his forearms.
“First, before you do anything else, we should pray for Eanfrith, your half-brother.”
Oswald stopped his pacing as if suddenly stricken. “Of course. I am sorry – I gave him no thought, although he is dead. But,” and here Oswald looked to his friend, “I have not heard that Eanfrith was ever baptized, for he took refuge with his mother’s people when Edwin killed our father, and the Picts are, for the most part, pagan still. Can we pray for him?”
“We can pray for everybody,” said Aidan. “There is a tale, of when Patrick first came among my people, telling them of the life that awaited them should they open their hearts to it. For when Patrick stood before the people then, the king and all his household gathered around the heights of Tara, they put this question to him: what of our fathers, and our fathers’ fathers? For if we adopt this new life and this new god, what will become of them? May they enter into this new life, although they be already dead and without benefit of the baptism you offer us? For if they cannot come where we go, then we will not enter in without them, for we are their sons and they are our fathers, and it would not be meet that we separate ourselves from them. And then Patrick, the holy apostle, spoke to the assembly of the people and the kings of the land, and he told them that he would open the gates of heaven to our fathers and our fathers’ fathers, for the sake of those hearing him, and for their children and their children’s children.” Aidan turned to Oswald. “So we can pray for Eanfrith, your brother.”
The two men knelt on the rocks by the sea, and the waves joined their rhythm to the ancient words of commendation, as Aidan and Oswald asked God to receive Eanfrith into his halls.
Aidan got to his feet and held out his hand. “Let us walk. And walking will remove us from the stink here.” Oswald got up and the two men walked along the shore, leaving the tannery behind.
“There are times,” said Oswald, “when I have wanted to speak to you, but the smell has driven me away before I could find or call you.”
“A monk should work undisturbed, but I am sorry to have not heard your call.”
“Why do you do this?”
“The abbot has asked me. And if not me, who? I have no other skills, whereas the other brothers can all contribute to the monastery, whether it be by writing or cooking or carpentry.” Aidan smiled. “My greatest talent is my lack of a sense of smell. There have been times when I have returned, believing I have washed the stink from arms and clothes, only to see the brothers flinch from m
e. I have heard that some suspect I do this deliberately, to persuade the abbot to ask some other brother to take over this task, but the truth is I think I have cleaned myself, and I smell nothing unusual.” Aidan looked at Oswald. “How do I smell now?”
“A little ripe,” said Oswald.
“Oh, no. I thought I had cleaned all the smell away. I should go back and wash myself properly.”
“Would you wait until after we have spoken?”
“Can you speak to one who smells as I do?”
Oswald smiled. “Yes, Brother Aidan, I can; for a few minutes in your company and I no longer notice the smell, but only my delight in your company. Now, you have not answered my question: what should I do? My heart tells me that God wants me to put away the sword and enter this monastery, where I have found a peace and fellowship I have known nowhere else, but now I have received news of Eanfrith’s death. I had told my brother I would not return to Northumbria as long as he lived, for I would not fight Eanfrith for the throne. But now he is dead, and Oswiu came to me and laid my sword, that I had given into his keeping, on my lap.
“‘There is no one else,’ he told me. ‘No one else men will follow. You are ætheling of Northumbria, king of Bernicia by right of our father, king of Deira through our mother. All the thegns that yet live will follow you and fight for you, and they must, or Cadwallon will cast them from their halls and from their land. For what he has done to Eanfrith proves he fights not as other kings fight, for glory and gold and to spread his rule through subjecting other kings to his mastership. No, Cadwallon fights to drive our people from the land and back into the sea; he fights to reclaim the land our father and our father’s fathers took and made their own. There is no one left to do our fighting for us but you, brother. Will you lead us?’
“That is what my brother told me when we received the news, and then he left me, and I came to seek you out.” Oswald walked across the machair alongside the monk. “What should I do, Aidan?”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 11