But Oswiu drew his brother outside before sleep took them. They stood by the shifting horses, knowing that the animals’ breathing would serve to mask their guarded speech.
“Even if men would come to our call, the rain we have had would slow them. We should wait, let them reach us, then go on.”
Oswald looked past the steam of the animals’ breath to the starlit hills beyond. Out of the ember light, his eyes soon adjusted to the moonless night. The last shreds of the day’s clouds trailed into the east, but the sky to the west was clear and full of stars.
“If I knew they would come, I might wait. But we do not know if any will answer our call. They came when Osric called; they came when Eanfrith called; and they died. Now, maybe they wait rather than spend blood and hope on an ætheling who is little more than a name from the past for them.” Oswald turned to his brother. “I would not blame them if they did. But now word spreads and if we do not ride, word will reach Cadwallon before we do, and he will be warned, and forearmed.” Turning back to the starlit hills, Oswald shook his head. “We have risked all upon this roll of the bones, brother, and our hope, what there is of it, lies in speed and surprise. And the saint. We will not wait.”
“Very well.” Oswiu looked up at the stars. “Like as not we will die in the next few days, brother.”
“If we do, I am glad that you will be by my side. But we shall not die; we will live.” Oswald turned to his brother. “We will live.”
Oswiu shrugged. “We live, or Cadwallon. Kings rise, kings fall; fortune favours one, then turns from him and who can say why?”
“It is not fortune. God, not the fate singers, orders things according to his will.”
“Maybe. In some things. But in battle, brother, I do not know.
I have seen too many battles turn upon a man’s slip or another’s cowardice; brave warriors cut down because their belly griped the night before or the rain came in the morning. Is that God working?”
“How else would you have God work?”
Oswiu shrugged again. “I don’t know. Something more obvious, maybe.”
“The Lord is subtle beyond our knowledge, brother, and works his will in ways we do not see, as well as the ways we do see.”
“I wish sometimes he would remember that we do not see as clearly as he. You sleep, brother. I will take the watch. I have much to think on myself.”
Oswald looked at his younger brother. “Rhieienmelth?”
“As it happens, yes.”
Oswald nodded. “I will sleep then. Call me when the sky brightens. We must ride with the dawn. By the day’s end I would have us at Heavenfield.”
*
“You should see this.”
Oswald, shaken awake, saw his brother leaning over him.
“Is it light?”
“Come,” whispered Oswiu, threading his way through the men sleeping upon the fort’s floor.
Shaking off sleep, Oswald followed, emerging from the darkness of the fort into a sky that was showing grey in the east.
Oswiu pointed. Gathered around the fort, sitting in small groups or standing silently, were many men. When they saw Oswald emerge, those who had been sitting rose to their feet. Those who were standing made the courtesy.
“W-who…” began Oswald. But before he could form the whole question a man stepped forward from the group and bowed to him.
“Lord, you called, and we have come,” he said, his voice thick with an accent that Oswald could not immediately place, but one that spoke to him of his childhood, spent in this land of the mountain passes.
Oswald looked to him, and to the silent, watching men.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We are the men of the high pastures and moors, the descendants of the people who lived here before the Romans came and cut a line across our land and our world. We were here before the Idings came, over sea, and took the rock at Bamburgh. We were here before the hills themselves rose from the land, and some say we shall still be here when the hills fail and the sea takes back the land. I am Corotic of the Brigantes, and I have come to serve you.”
Oswald indicated the other men. “What of these?”
“They will as I say.”
The ætheling scanned the watching men, taking in weapons and postures and attitudes in practised glance.
“These are not fighting men,” said Oswald, for they bore no shields or swords, but carried only spears – the mark of a free man – and knives. In the clash of shieldwalls they would not survive long.
“We do not fight as you do. But give us leave, and we will be your eyes and your ears, and we will still take many men from your enemy before ever you set eye upon him. For even now, Cadwallon rides upon the new road from York with all his host about him; it is a great army. No such army has ridden this land since the days of the emperors. Give us leave, and we will lead many astray, into the marshes and meres, into wood and forest, never to emerge.”
The eastern sky glowed with the first sign of dawn. In its light, Oswald stepped forward to face this man who offered aid beyond all hope.
“Why do you wish to help me?” he asked. “I do not know you; I have no call on you or your people.”
“Your fathers called to us, from beneath the Hill of the Goats, where they built the great palace, and we heard and came to their call. Each year we came, with sheep and goats and cattle, and received the blessings of the king. But then the new king came, and he burned the great palace, and he took when it was not our time to give, and he sent his men into our high places, the places where only our people go, and put sword to our people when we would not give when it was not the time for giving. There are no blessings in this king; we would have a new king: we would have you.”
Oswiu, standing beside his brother, leaned in so that he could whisper to him.
“I was on watch – and I did not fall asleep – but I did not see or hear them approach. I only realized they were here when Corotic came to ask to see you.”
“Remind me to set a different watch tomorrow,” Oswald whispered back.
“Get one of these.”
Oswald looked Corotic in the face. The brightening sky showed his face was painted with the swirling shapes of animals and, joining his eyes, the face of a bird was inked upon his brow and shaved scalp.
The ætheling held out his arm and coughed Bran’s name in the language the bird understood, and the great black raven came immediately, settling upon Oswald’s forearm, his sharp claws digging into bare skin.
A sigh, soft as the dawn, went up from the watching men as they saw the bird turn towards Oswald and dip its head in greeting.
“It is true.” Corotic looked from man to raven and back again. “We are the Raven People, the people of the high passes. We will follow you, Raven King, and do what you will have us do.”
Oswald scratched Bran under the chin and the bird turned its head to bring his finger into contact with new areas of skin, roughly gurgling its delight.
“Very well,” he said. “I will be your king, and you will bring tribute, once each year, to the palace beneath the Hill of the Goats, as your fathers did, and I will build again the palace of Ad Gefrin to receive your tribute, as my fathers did.
“Do as you have said: harass and harry Cadwallon and his army. I would wish he did not know of our presence, but that cannot be helped.”
“But he does not know you are here, Raven King. He hurries north to meet the kings of the north. They have sent word that they will take him as their king, their king reborn, and he goes to meet them where the north road crosses the Wall.”
Beside him, Oswald heard the breath hiss through Oswiu’s teeth, and it was all he could do to stop the despair showing on his face too.
“Which kings march to Cadwallon’s flag?” he asked Corotic.
“We have heard no warbands crossing our hills, nor seen ships sliding down the coasts, and yet Cadwallon goes to greet the kings of Rheged and Dal Riada, of Strathclyde and the Picts and t
he Gododdin.” The chief of the Brigantes, the Raven People of the high passes, scratched the tattoos that scored his face. “That is the news the messengers brought Cadwallon; that is why he rides, yet we do not see the armies that he goes to meet.”
“How do you know that was the message Cadwallon received?”
“Not all the messengers returned to him. Some were lost in the hills.”
Oswald turned to his brother. “If the kings of the Old North join with Cadwallon, then we have no hope – there will be too many.”
Oswiu shook his head. “We saw Rhoedd a bare day ago – could he have betrayed us so soon?”
“The king of Rheged is a man of no truth,” said Corotic. “He speaks, and he lies.”
“But we heard him send Cadwallon’s messenger off,” said Oswald. “More likely, Rhoedd plays still for time, waiting to see who will prevail, then sending his main force, pleading late arrival, to claim his share of the plunder and a share of the winner’s gratitude. Mayhap the other kings do the same. But even if they have sent armies, they have not yet met with Cadwallon, have they?” He turned to Corotic to ask the question, and the chief shook his head.
“No, Cadwallon’s army is still his own alone. The other king, Penda, returned to his lands in the south this half-year past.”
“Then if we can meet and defeat Cadwallon before reinforcements arrive, it will not matter how many men Rheged and Strathclyde, Dal Riada and Gododdin send: Cadwallon will be dead.” Oswald turned to Corotic.
“I ask you, therefore, to harry Cadwallon and his army, but do not delay it. We will meet him where he expects to meet the kings of the north, where the north road crosses the Wall.”
“We will as you ask, Raven King.” Corotic made obeisance to Oswald in the way of the men of the mountain passes, and then, as silently as they had come, they withdrew, melting away into the shadows of the dawn so that, try as they might, neither brother could follow their progress once they had first merged into shadow.
“We could get caught between Cadwallon and the kings of the north,” said Oswiu. “If we are, we will be cracked like a hazel nut between two stones.”
“Yes,” said Oswald. “Yes, we will be. So let us get there fast, and set men to watch the northern roads, so that we know if any warbands approach while we wait for Cadwallon. It is a day’s ride to Heavenfield. It lies north of the Wall. We will camp there tomorrow; then we will not be caught between spear and Wall if Cadwallon rides as fast as we do – but I do not expect he shall, for he will be bringing wagons and supplies too, to feed and feast the kings he goes to meet, and gifts and gold to give them.”
“Gold.” Oswiu grinned. “That will make some of our men fight all the harder.”
“Make sure they know of it, then. Tell them they are fighting for their share in a king’s treasure – such wealth they will likely never see again.”
“Nor will we, if we have to share it out among them all.”
“If we win, they will deserve it. If we win, there will be more gold than we will know what to do with.”
Oswiu laughed. “I think I could find ways of using it, brother.”
Oswald nodded. “I’m sure you could.” He turned to the east. The sky was light now, only the western horizon still clinging to night’s cloak. “Time to wake the men.”
As Oswiu went to rouse them, Oswald scratched under Bran’s chin.
“Raven King…” he said quietly to himself.
Chapter 13
Oswald reined back his horse as the little shaggy pony, bred for the moors and hills, approached, Corotic’s legs dangling almost to the ground.
“Where is he?”
The chief of the Raven People pulled his pony to a halt. Before he spoke, he made sign at the raven that perched upon Oswald’s saddle. For his part, Bran paid his votary not the slightest attention, turning his back upon the man and staring, with black eyes, north to where moors rose up beyond the Wall.
“King Cadwallon and his army ride north on the road of the emperors. They move slowly, for he has many wagons with him, but he will reach the ford of the River Tyne by this evening.”
“Too far for us to reach him today.”
“But you will be able to come down upon him on the morrow, if you ride hard.”
“Yes. We must make time.” But as Oswald made to urge his men on, Corotic raised his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “Cadwallon sends out scouts. Some we caught, and they will not return to him, but others still ride, searching for you. It were best, if you wish surprise, to ride north of the Wall, for the king’s scouts will surely expect to find you upon the road south of the Wall.”
“But are there any roads there?”
“There are no roads, but there are paths, if you know where to look.” Corotic put his hand to his chest. “We know where to look. We will take you on paths that wind between crags and through valleys, on ways that hide in defiles, so even if one of Cadwallon’s scouts should come this way, he will not see you, and the king will not be warned of your presence.”
Oswald looked at the man perched upon his pony. He had met Corotic a bare half-day earlier, he had no knowledge of him, no man he knew vouched for the chief of the Raven People, and yet by accepting his advice he would be trusting all upon the man’s word.
“Very well,” he said. “Lead us. We will follow.”
The chief of the Raven People looked up at Oswald, and deep in his dark eyes there was understanding of how great was the risk the ætheling took in trusting him.
“I will lead you myself,” he said. “Then if I be false, slay me.”
Oswald smiled, but there was no humour in his eyes. “Do not doubt it.” Then, turning back to the following column of horsemen, Oswald pointed at Corotic.
“We will follow this man – he takes us on paths our enemy does not know, so that we may pass unseen.”
Corotic pushed his horse from the broad Roman road that marched in step with the Wall from sea to sea, and pushed it over sheep tracks towards the nearest gate tower. In the days of the emperors, there had been a guarded door there, through which traders might come and go, taking the baubles of empire to the tribes of the north and returning with the gleanings of barbarians. The tumbledown walls near the gate tower showed that a village had taken root there, ready to take first pickings of the traders’ wares when they returned from the north, but now the roofs were gone and the walls were going, wearing down into the earth that bore them.
Oswiu, riding with the rearguard, pushed his horse forward to come up beside his brother.
“Are we wise in trusting Corotic?” he asked Oswald, as they sat watching the column of horsemen ride past.
“I was twelve when I last saw this land. You were four. I have little memory of these places. Do you?”
Oswiu looked around and shrugged. “To me, one bit of the Wall looks the same as all the others.”
“Then we have need of guides – and Cadwallon has done nothing to make these people bend their knee to him. And the Blessed One will protect us from treachery.”
“And if he does not, then I will cut Corotic’s throat. Slowly.”
“You will have to do so after I have finished with him. He may not have a throat by then.”
Oswiu laughed. “Very well. You have led us this far – I would be a faithless follower and false brother if I did not follow further. Let us see where the chief of the Raven People takes us. Besides,” and here he leaned closer and ran a finger down the side of Bran’s neck, “he is scared of your bird.”
The raven twisted his head appreciatively, putting Oswiu’s scratching to those parts of his head and neck that he considered most needed attention.
Oswald nodded. “I do not blame him. In truth, sometimes I think even I fear him.”
Bran opened one black eye, then the other, and stared unblinking at Oswald.
“I see what you mean,” said Oswiu. His laugh was only half a laugh. The slaughter bird croaked, dropped its head and rose w
ith creaking feathers into the air, its call resounding over Wall and moor as it climbed into the sky. Up ahead, at the front of the column, Corotic heard Bran and started upon his pony, head jerking round as he looked for the bird. But as he saw it circle above them, Corotic relaxed.
Reaching the tower, the space where the gate had once been was yawning open to the north. He waved the column of riders on.
“Come, come; follow.” And he led them away from the Wall, onto the narrow paths and ways beyond it.
*
Oswiu pointed back behind the column of riders picking their way along what even a sheep would have had difficulty calling a path, to the west.
“The sun will be setting soon.” He sat down in his saddle. “I don’t know about you, Oswald, but I would prefer not to still be riding on what our guide considers paths when it is dark. We would all break our necks before we even give Cadwallon his chance.”
“We will make camp soon,” said Oswald. “Corotic told me he was heading for that ridge yonder – with the remains of a tower upon it. The emperors kept watch, it seems, even beyond the Wall. It will be a good place to rest, for a scout on the south side of the Wall could bare see it, and the tower will allow us to light fire without giving ourselves away. The men will need to eat well tonight.”
Oswiu nodded. “Tomorrow is the day, you think?”
“Yes,” said Oswald. “Yes, I think it is.”
Oswiu nodded. He tried to smile but his mouth felt suddenly dry.
“Nervous?” asked Oswald.
“Me?” Oswiu’s voice squeaked high. “Me nervous?” he repeated, a register lower than his normal voice. And now he smiled, wide and clear. “Of course I am nervous.”
“Good,” said Oswald. “I am too.” He looked around, as if searching for something or someone, then seemed to see it. “Go on with Corotic and make camp – I will meet you there shortly.”
“Where are you going?” asked his brother.
“There is something I must do,” said Oswald. “And I know who to ask to help.” He pulled his horse’s head round and made his way down the column of men to the rear where, seated upon two old ponies, rode Acca and Coifi.
Oswald: Return of the King Page 18