Bran, perched upon the curragh, opened a heavy eye, but when he saw that the boat was being pulled up above the tide line, he closed the eye again. Raven had eaten as well as man at the feast and, belly full, insisted upon riding Oswald’s shoulder back to the boat, where he had climbed upon a bench, tucked head under wing, and promptly fallen asleep. Oswald, when he was not pulling an oar, had joined him in dozing, but land had forced the ætheling awake in a way that it had not wakened the bird.
Meeting Oswald, Brother Aidan pointed towards Bran. “I would swear that he is snoring,” he said.
Oswald, squinting painfully against the sun, nodded. “He is,” he said. He looked around at the few small curraghs ranged upon the beach. “I take it Oswiu has not returned yet?”
“Ah,” said Aidan. “He has.”
Oswald stopped and looked around. “But there are barely any new curraghs here, and those that are are small.”
“That would be because he returned with barely any men. Maybe a dozen?”
“Twelve? Is that all?”
“No, not twelve.” Oswiu straightened from where he had been inspecting the hull of an upturned curragh further up the strand, in company with a tall, wind-weathered man. “Fourteen. I counted.”
“Fourteen.” Oswald blew air through pursed lips. “I expected the Uí Neíll to speak against men riding to our cause, but I did not think their enmity would lie so heavy against us, nor for it to stretch so far across sea. Even at Dunadd, stronghold of Dal Riada, you could not find more men to come with us?”
“Twins.” Oswiu shrugged. “I heard while I was at Dunadd, putting our case to the Lord of the Isles, that Fina gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl.” Oswiu could not help but grin at his elder brother. “How many children have you got?”
Oswald shook his head, partly in disgust, partly in discomfort. He was in his fourth decade now, old for a man still to be without child. But Oswald knew the ways of his people, and the ways of monks too. After his youth, when the desire to be a monk on the Holy Isle had first grown within him, he had abjured the early tumblings of his youth. Besides, that part of him which thought still upon thrones remembered that only children born after a king assumed the throne were considered truly throne-worthy by the witan: any children born to him beforehand would likely be overlooked in favour of younger siblings born once he had become king.
This was the way of his people, but tales and his own judgment told him that it was a path towards war, for an older prince would seldom stand aside for his junior, even if the younger had more claim by reason of being born while his father sat upon the throne. The elder, through his years, would have made alliances and forged friendships against such chance, leaving the witan to plunge into recrimination and bloodshed.
Better not to risk raising any æthelings while his own fate remained unsure. But now that Oswald had given over the thought of being a monk of the Holy Isle, he would have to think on a wife and children. But not now, not yet. First, the throne.
“There was something else I heard at Dunadd.” Oswiu moved closer to his brother. “A messenger, from Cadwallon, had recently left to return to his master. While I kicked my heels and waited upon the king, I learned that this messenger had spent many hours with the king. The messenger had come to tell the Lord of the Isles of Cadwallon’s victory over Osric at York, and of his killing of Eanfrith at Bamburgh – although surely all the kingdoms of the north have heard tell of that already – and to announce to the Lord of the Isles that Cadwallon has proclaimed himself the answer to the prophecies that speak of a king of the Britons that will drive the Angles and the Saxons and the other sea-comers from these lands. Cadwallon has proclaimed himself Arthur, returned, and as such claims the allegiance and the men of Dal Riada and Rheged, of Strathclyde and the Gododdin.”
Oswald breathed out slowly. “Will he receive it?”
“That I could not find out. At least, not for Dal Riada. The Lord of the Isles gave his answer to the messenger in private, and then the messenger rode forth, and none have yet learned what answer the Lord of the Isles gave. But at least he did not order me bound when I came asking for men to ride with us. But nor did he give me aid, and he forbade his men to join our cause. Those that I brought are all lordless men, Oswald, either abandoned for some fault of theirs or so faithless that they live when their lord has died.” Oswiu grimaced. “I would not trust most of them in the hunt, let alone in battle, but they are all that would come.”
“I had best see them. Where are they?”
“I had the monks build a shelter for them, away from the pilgrim accommodation. Looking at them, I thought it likely some pilgrims would return rather poorer than they had come if the men were billeted near them.”
“If that’s what they’re like, we had better get moving quickly. When would they be ready to go?”
Oswiu looked at his brother. “We’re still going? You’re not going to give up?”
Oswald looked surprised. “No. Why should I?”
“I – with just fourteen men… I didn’t think it would be enough.”
“It won’t be. But others will join us, and by the time we face Cadwallon, there will be enough.” Oswald grinned. “Besides, what is the worst that could happen?”
“Er, we could die,” said Oswiu.
Oswald’s smile grew even broader. “Exactly,” he said.
Oswiu shrugged. “If you say so.” He led his brother from the beach. “This way.”
The men were indeed, as Oswiu had said, lordless, and in some cases probably outlaws too. Oswald saw in their eyes and their demeanour, the way they lay stretched out upon the ground or squatted upon stools, the veiled violence of men who have dealt death as much through the concealed knife as in the shieldwall; they walked on either side of the line that separated warriors on the battlefield from the scavengers that raided it afterwards, stripping corpses and dispatching the wounded that they might be preyed upon more easily. They were not the men he would have chosen to accompany him back to Northumbria, but they were the men he had.
“I am Oswald,” he said. “Who here speaks for you?”
The men shifted, looking among themselves, until one finally looked up from where he sat upon a stool cleaning under his nails with a knife.
“No man speaks for me,” he said. “So I will speak for myself. If any man hears and thinks I do not speak for them, let him say so now or answer later to my knife.” The man got up from his stool. His cloak was patched but had once been rich, and the buckle that held it upon his shoulder was heavy gold, inlaid with scarlet garnets. But the pattern told of more garnets that were now gone, prised from their sockets by the knife the man held lightly in his hand, to pay for boat passage or meal or horse. “I am Talorc, once of the Seal People, but now I have no people and I seek a lord who will repay my sword with gold and avenge my death in blood.” The cold-eyed man stared at Oswald. “I have heard tell of you. Lamnguin. The Whiteblade. Are you that lord?”
Oswald returned his stare. “No,” he said.
Talorc held his gaze a moment longer, then made to turn away.
“No, for I will pay for your sword in glory.”
Talorc paused, then turned back to Oswald.
“And my dying?”
“I will give hope not blood to your dying.” Oswald’s lips twitched. “Dying usually produces enough blood on its own.”
“Depends on how you die,” said Talorc.
“Kings do not die in bed.” Oswald stood in front of Talorc, and the men about him shifted upon the ground, pulling themselves straighter, sitting upright. Some stood. “Nor will you. But if you die with me, it will be a death that the scops sing of, and not the mean and lonely end that you are all drifting towards, cut down in some ambush when men you cheated find you alone and lordless. But know this…” Oswald, although he spoke still to Talorc, took in all the watching men with his words. “Should you prove faithless, I will lay such a curse upon you that men will turn their faces from you an
d no hall will suffer you to enter, but you will wander, alone and accursed, until the ravens pick your body and the wolves chew your bones, and hell itself will refuse you.”
And as Oswald spoke, Bran, finding himself earlier alone upon the beach, flew about his head and then settled upon the ground beside him, adding his own croaked warning to the doom that Oswald had pronounced. The men still upon the ground, seeing the great bird, made the sign against the evil eye as Bran turned his black gaze upon them, scrambling to their feet so that they were no longer at the same level as the bird. Whispers rose among them, nudges of shared knowledge.
“Woden’s messenger.”
“The slaughter bird.”
“The doom bringer.”
Oswald held out his arm, and in a rattling flash of black feathers Bran flapped up onto it, and with claws grasping the ætheling’s thick wool sleeve, the raven pointed its beak towards the watching men and coughed its own warning.
Talorc stared at Bran. Holding his fingers over his chest, he made warding-off gestures, seeking protection against the bird’s influence, while his lips moved in throated invocation.
“Are-are you a spirit walker?” he asked Oswald.
The ætheling stared back at him and made no reply.
Talorc licked his lips. He looked a man caught on the edge of a cliff, with enemies behind and the fall before. His gaze flicked to the other men gathered around, landless, lordless men all, and then back to Oswald.
“I-I will follow you,” he said. “To death.”
Oswald held him fixed in his gaze. “And beyond,” he said.
“And beyond,” Talorc echoed.
Oswald nodded once, sharply. “We sail when the tide turns. Fill your bellies while you may, for we will travel fast and hard.” Then the ætheling raised his arm and Bran climbed into the sky, cawing, while Oswald turned and made his way to the monastery, Oswiu walking by his side.
As they walked away, aware of the watching eyes following them, Oswald knew that his brother was bursting to talk, but he kept peace until they were far enough not to be overheard, and even then spoke without turning his head.
“What is a spirit walker?” Oswiu asked.
“I have not the faintest idea,” said Oswald.
Oswiu almost stopped in surprise, then scurried forward after his brother. “You don’t know?” he hissed.
“Of course not. Do you?”
“No, I don’t know what a spirit walker is, but I thought you must – you said you were one!”
“I did not say I was a spirit walker. But I did not say I wasn’t, either.”
This time Oswiu did stop. But they were now out of sight of the men. “You lied,” he said, incredulity raising the pitch of his voice. “You lied.”
Oswald, not stopping, shook his head. “I did not. I allowed Talorc to think what he wanted to think.”
Oswiu caught up with his brother. “I can’t believe it. My brother lied.”
“I did not lie,” snapped Oswald. “I did not say anything.”
“Those are the best sort of lies.” Oswiu clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Next thing I know, you’ll be taking part in a boast battle.”
“I did not lie.”
“As you say, brother.” Oswiu looked up. “Where are we going?”
“To see the abbot. I would have his blessing before the tide turns and we sail. Besides,” Oswald flashed a smile at his younger brother, “he might know what a spirit walker is.”
*
“A spirit walker?” Abbot Ségéne looked up from the small desk that, apart from a stool, was the only furniture in his cell. “Why do you want to know what a spirit walker is?”
“Ah…” Oswald glanced at his brother. “Oswiu?”
“We heard one of the men mention it – he seemed to think they were powerful,” said Oswiu.
The abbot inclined his head. “I have heard of them. Among the Painted People, there are some tribes, the Seal People, the Sea Eagles, whose priests claim to be able to take the skins of their tribe’s animal and walk, in spirit, with the seals or the sea eagles and thus talk to their gods. Generally, these spirit walkers have an animal companion with whom they converse and into whose bodies they claim to be able to place their spirit.”
The brothers exchanged glances.
“It is nonsense, of course. The spirits they speak with are most likely demons, sent to lure them into evil. You say one of your men is a spirit walker?”
“No,” said Oswiu, “not one of our men…”
“That is good. To have such a one among your company would be to open yourself to the influence of devils such as those that plagued the Blessed Colm Cille. And,” the abbot stared across his desk at the brothers, “you are not Colm Cille.”
“That is true,” said Oswald. “But for that reason, we ask for you to give us the saint’s blessing, for we leave with the tide.”
Abbot Ségéne smiled. “I will give you more than that: I will give you the saint himself.”
The æthelings looked to each other, then back to the abbot.
“You cannot mean…”
“Could you…”
The abbot stood up, flexing his knee slightly from the stiffness of sitting for so long, then pointed the way to the door of his cell.
“I had not thought you to be leaving so quickly. But I have prepared my gifts. Come.” The abbot led the brothers to the church, quiet now in between the hours of the Great Office of prayer, and took them to the rood screen, which separated the sanctuary from the nave.
“Wait here,” he said. Leaving them, the abbot slipped through the gate in the rood screen.
Oswiu looked to his elder brother. “What do you think…” he began, but Oswald held finger to lips, and Oswiu returned to silence and waiting.
The wait was short. Abbot Ségéne came back through the screen, carrying a small wooden casket wrapped in rich, gold-woven cloth. He held the casket out to Oswald.
“The Blessed One will go with you,” he said.
Oswald fell to his knees, and after a glance Oswiu followed him.
“This – this is more than I could have hoped for,” said Oswald.
“God always gives more than we hoped for,” said the abbot.
“Take these relics of the Blessed Colm Cille, as blessing upon you, as fortune in your task, and as promise of fruitful success.”
The abbot gave the casket into Oswald’s hands.
Oswiu looked up at Abbot Ségéne. “What relic is it?” he asked.
But the abbot shook his finger at Oswiu. “Suffice that I have given you a relic of the Blessed Colm Cille – a relic for which many kings have begged and gone away unsatisfied.”
“Truly, I know not how to thank thee,” said Oswald, holding the casket to his chest.
The abbot put his hands upon Oswald’s shoulders and stared into his face.
“Win,” he said. “Take the throne that is thine, and bring thy people to the knowledge of the Lord, and thou will have the blessings of heaven, and of all the monks of this Holy Island.” The abbot placed his hand upon the crown of Oswald’s bowed head.
“I bless thee, and call down heaven’s favour upon thee, through the prayers of Colm Cille, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
Then, turning to Oswiu, the abbot blessed him too, before embracing both men with his smile.
“That is my gift, my greatest gift, to you. But I have another gift that may prove of value in the task that lies ahead.” The abbot led the æthelings from the church and there, standing outside, was a group of five young monks. But these were monks dressed as Oswald had never seen before: they carried shields upon their backs, swords hung from the belts about their waists, and, glimpsed beneath the rough wool of their habits, the dark rings of mail gleamed.
“You may know Brother Diuma and some of these other brethren, but they have been away from this Mother House for many months, helping to, er, resolve some minor points of differenc
e that one of our daughter houses was enduring with a local king.” Abbot Ségéne gestured and the foremost of the monks stepped forward. “God turns all things to the good – even the murderous depredations of the Fenians, the sons of death. When young Diuma here led his gang to steal a gift we had sent to the king of Ulster, he expected to find gold and jewels and the riches that are human slaves, did you not?”
“I did, Father Abbot,” said the monk, bowing his head.
“But what he found instead was the saint, Blessed Colm Cille himself. And the saint was not about to let a group of young hotheads take his relics and make mockery of them. So what happened, Diuma, after you had slaughtered or captured all the monks I had sent to convey the saint to the king of Ulster?”
The monk, head still hung, said, “I went to take the saint for myself, for he was clothed in the richest gold and cloth.”
“And then what happened?”
Brother Diuma looked up at Oswald, and for a moment his eyes appeared as black as the water at the bottom of a well.
“He struck me blind. The moment I touched the saint, with my heart full only of the foulest avarice, the sight left my eyes and I was left fumbling in the dark, more helpless than a child. Those of my men who touched the saint were similarly struck down. The rest, seeing us afflicted, abandoned us and fled. We were left to the mercy of the monks we had not killed – the ones we had bound to take as slaves. I expected my end, and cursed the day that I had thought to raise my hand against God’s favourite, Colm Cille. But the monks, when they had freed themselves, treated us gently, save for only one or two blows, and led us, a line of blind men, to Ulster, where they fed us and kept us, saying to questions the Ulstermen asked only that we were afflicted pilgrims, joined to their party that we might more safely make the pilgrimage to the Holy Island.” Brother Diuma shook his head at the memory. “I did not even know where the Holy Island lay, nor why men called it holy, but when we arrived here and set foot upon its shores, our sight was returned to us, and we saw, first of all, the house of the Blessed Colm Cille and the brothers processing around it in prayer, and I and my fellows resolved at once to join this community and put our souls at the service of the Blessed Colm Cille.” The monk glanced at Abbot Ségéne. “It was Father Abbot who decided that our swords should be put to the service of Colm Cille too. So we have served these past five years, sometimes in prayer and doing the Great Work, other times on our feet and doing war on the enemies of God. Is that what you call upon us to do once more, Father Abbot?”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 14