“Come with me,” Oswald told them. “I have need of your help.”
Turning to watch from his place at the head of the column, Oswiu saw his brother ride with Acca and Coifi towards and into the only copse of trees in this bare, wind-blasted land. The trees found shelter in a dip of land, and beyond rose the ridge with the watchtower atop it.
For riders without wagons, it was a quick matter to set camp. The horses were tethered, after being led to water – the watchtower had drawn its supply from a stream that ran beside it – while other men set to making fires in the shell of the building. At least it would stop the wind, Oswiu thought, although as with all his people he disliked sleeping in the stone buildings left from the days of the emperors. The monks of Iona insisted that men had built those buildings, but Oswiu found that all but impossible to believe: surely giants must have been responsible for laying the Wall from sea to sea?
Camp set, Oswiu went in search of Corotic. The chief of the Raven People sat away from the warband, his back against his pony, eyes searching the moors. The setting sun filled the land with shadow, but as Oswiu approached, Corotic pointed.
“Your brother returns – with a tree.”
Oswiu turned to see Oswald leading his horse and the two ponies belonging to Acca and Coifi, with – he squinted but, yes, he saw true – a tree slung over the beasts’ back, and the two other men helping to hold it in place as they approached the camp.
Going to meet them, Oswiu stopped in front of his brother as he laboured to bring the animals and their burden up the slope.
“You have brought a tree,” he said.
“No,” gasped Oswald.
Oswiu stepped back. “It looks like a tree. An ash tree. Although you’ve cut off its branches.”
“Will you help?” said Oswald.
“What’s it for? We have enough firewood.”
“I – I will tell you later.”
With Oswiu going behind and pushing the animals, they managed to bring the tree up into the camp and dump it onto the ground.
“Now will you tell me?” said Oswiu.
“Dig,” said Oswald. He gestured to Acca and Coifi and the men nearby. “Help me dig a pit.”
“What is this for?” asked Oswiu again.
Oswald’s eyes burned. “I will tell you later. Now dig.”
Oswiu shrugged. “Very well. If you insist.”
While he joined the others digging, Oswald and Coifi worked upon the tree, sawing the nubs of branches smooth, then lashing a length of wood to the main trunk.
“How deep do you want your hole?” Oswiu tapped his brother and pointed at the pit they had dug, already some four feet deep.
“That is enough. Here, help me.”
Oswald started hauling the tree towards the pit and, when its end overlapped the hole, he and his brother, with Coifi and Acca helping, pushed it upright, until it juddered down into the pit. Throwing his arms around the tree, Oswald held it from toppling.
“Fill it,” he cried, holding the tree fast. The men shovelled the earth back into the hole, pushing and trampling it down until the tree stood fast, raised up upon the ridge beside the tower of watch.
Oswald lay his hands upon the rough wood of the tree, embracing it. Oswiu stood back and looked up, and saw.
“It’s a cross,” he said.
Oswald kissed it. “Yes,” he said.
Corotic, chief of the Raven People, stood before the cross, staring up at it.
“The tree of the world,” he whispered. He looked to the man standing next to him, Talorc the Pict, and the Pict, looking up as well, nodded.
“Yes,” he said.
Brother Diuma, with his fellows, knelt before the tree and prayed.
With his right hand upon the wood, Oswald turned to face the men he had brought with him, some over sea, some from Rheged, others who had joined them as they rode beside the Wall.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “tomorrow, we fight. So now, while we all yet live, we kneel before this tree.” And Oswald bent his knees until they found the earth at the tree’s foot, and those of his men who yet stood, they bent their knees too.
“Now, as we kneel together, men of Bernicia and Deira, of Rheged and Iona, men of the mountain passes and men of the islands, I ask the true and living God, the God who hung upon the tree, in his mercy to save us from our enemies, to give us victory, for he who sees men’s hearts truly, knows we fight to save our people.”
One by one, the men came up to the tree and laid their hands upon it, and as they did so, Oswald placed his hands upon their heads and breathed upon them. Last of all was his brother.
Oswiu knelt before the tree and bowed his head, feeling the weight of his brother’s hands upon him, and then he looked up and saw Oswald looking down upon him.
“Tomorrow,” Oswiu said, “tomorrow you will take the throne. Tomorrow you will be king.” He pointed to the east. “See, the new moon rises.”
But Oswald made no answer. And as he lay down to sleep in the dark shadow of the tower, Oswald felt the doubt of fear gnaw his bowels; for he had seen no sign, no token that he did God’s will. And sleep was long in coming.
Chapter 14
“I told you the kings would come.” Cian, bard to Cadwallon, stood before him in the hall at Hexham.
“They have taken long enough.” Cadwallon sat alone upon the judgment seat that he had his men carry wherever he went. It was of wood, carved, inscribed and painted in the richest colours, and upon its back and its side and its legs it told the story of Arthur: the twelve battles he won, his betrayal at the hands of his nephew and his withdrawal from this world to the island of the blessed. And lest anyone should fail to understand the significance of the judgment seat, it bore upon it, in writing of gold, “Here sits Arthur, of old, come again.”
Cadwallon gazed around the hall. It was a mean, low place, meant merely as a wayplace on the journey north, and that was how he was using it. Another day’s ride and he would come to where the road crossed the Wall: that was where he would meet the kings of the north and accept their homage to him as High King of Britain, Arthur reborn.
“Bring me wine,” he said. He was tired. The day’s march had been plagued with ills, from wagons catching wheels and breaking axles, to troops of men taking off into the low forest that lined sections of the road and not returning. Scouts had been sent to search for them, but none had returned yet, and with the night drawing in he began to wonder when they would return.
“Is there a moon tonight?” Cadwallon turned to Hwyel, his warmaster, who sat silently at the bench, hollow-eyed.
“No,” said the warmaster. “It is dark. Tomorrow it rises.”
“Do you think they went home? The missing men.”
The warmaster turned to him, and for a moment Cadwallon thought on how Hwyel had come to look so gaunt when they had had the fat of the land the past year or more. It was more than a year, wasn’t it? Cadwallon grimaced. He could not remember how long it had been since he had defeated Edwin.
“What did you say?” Hwyel asked.
“The men who went missing today. Do you think they went home?”
“Maybe. They have been long from their hills.”
“As have we all. If we catch them, kill them.”
“That will not encourage men to stay.”
“No, but it will make them stop to think before leaving.” Cadwallon looked around, then beckoned a slave over. “Where is my wine?”
The slave, a boy barely old enough for there to be hair above his lip, looked around, but there was no one else in sight.
“Th-there is no wine, Lord,” he said.
Cadwallon’s blow caught the side of the boy’s head and sent him crashing against a bench.
“I said, bring me wine.”
The boy cringed back, out of range, holding hand to mouth, nodding.
“There is no wine.” Hwyel held up his cup. “Only this foul ale.”
“Bring me wine,” Cadwallon yelled after
the boy as he ran from the hall. Those men who sat in hall barely turned a glance to the raised voice. The king glowered out at them.
“Bring me wine!”
Hwyel stood up.
“Where are you going?” Cadwallon turned to his warmaster.
“To sleep. Somewhere quiet.” But as he passed by his king, Hwyel muttered, under his breath but not quietly enough, “There is no wine.”
Cadwallon surged from the judgment seat, pushing his warmaster back so he fell across the high table, knife held to the man’s throat.
Silence, sudden and absolute, seized the hall. All movement ceased, all conversation.
“Tell me, warmaster, how do you know there is no wine?”
Cadwallon whispered the words in Hwyel’s ear, but in the hall silence all heard him speak. “Have you drunk it?”
“I know because the steward told me when we arrived that there was no wine.” Hwyel put his hand up and slowly pushed the arm holding the knife to his throat aside.
Cadwallon straightened up. The warmaster pushed himself off the table.
“There should be wine,” said Cadwallon. “There should always be wine where Arthur is.”
“Yes, there should be,” said Hwyel. “There are many things as should be in this world, lord, but aren’t.” The warmaster turned the crick out of his neck.
“There will be wine at Corbridge,” said Cian. “Won’t there?” he asked, checking with the warmaster.
“I have not received report from the steward of the vill there; but there should be.”
Cadwallon sat back in the judgment seat. “Give me some of that ale, then.”
Warmaster and bard exchanged glances.
“We meet the kings of the north on the morrow,” said Cian. “Mayhap it were better to do that with clear head?”
The king turned his face to the bard, and Cian saw it, gaunt and hollow-eyed, as Cadwallon had seen Hwyel earlier.
“I cannot sleep without wine or ale. Do you understand?”
“I understand, lord,” said Hwyel. “I understand.” The warmaster turned to the bard. “Give him ale and sing to him, and send him a slave afterwards.”
While they spoke, Cadwallon looked around the hall. There was something missing…
“Where is Edwin?” He looked to the warmaster. “Where is he?”
“I – I think he is still in a wagon; this is a short halt.”
“Bring him out, bring him out. I would speak with my brother in war.”
A minute later, one slave placed the sack containing Edwin’s head upon the table in front of the judgment seat while another filled Cadwallon’s cup with ale. Eyes fixed upon the sack, Cadwallon drank, and grimaced.
“It is as foul as you said, Hwyel.” He held the cup out again. “Fill this and open that.”
The slave untied the rope, and the sack fell open.
“Stand him up.”
The slave carefully set the head upon the table, face turned towards Cadwallon, and then, with gentle hands, he smoothed the hair away from Edwin’s face.
“Why did you do that?”
The slave started back, and looked up at the king.
“Why did you do that? I saw you. Why did you do it?”
The slave opened his mouth, but no words came from it.
“I can see your tongue. You are not dumb. Why did you do that?”
The slave looked from side to side, his eyes as wide as those of a deer when the hounds trap it against a cliff.
“Let us try something else. What is your name?”
“Ber-Bermar, lord.”
“So, Bermar, now we know you have a voice, use it. Why did you clear the hair from Edwin’s face? He is dead, you know.”
Bermar swallowed. His eyes tracked, then settled. He straightened and looked the king in the face.
“He was my king. I honoured him, insofar as I was able.”
Cadwallon swallowed in turn. His face, already pale, went paler.
“I could have you killed,” he said.
“I know,” said Bermar.
The king brought the cup to his lips and drank. Then he grimaced and stared at it. “This really is vile.” He looked at Bermar. “Bring me more.”
As the slave hurried from the hall on legs that threatened to give way, Cadwallon stared at Edwin.
The head sat upon the table, slightly tilted, eyes closed but mouth open. The skin had grown dry and leathery, drawing tight over the bone beneath, but the face was still recognizable.
“How did it end like this?”
Edwin, dead, made no answer.
Bermar returned with the ale, but Cadwallon barely noticed him, simply holding his cup for it to be filled. Cian, his harp tuned, began to sing one of the beautiful songs of home, but Cadwallon did not hear it, although the music brought silence to the hearth-sick men in the hall.
“I worshipped you, Edwin. When you came to Father’s hall and I saw you, all I thought was that one day I would be as you were. All men’s hands were turned against you, yet you stood unafraid before Father and proclaimed your name, and the blood price Æthelfrith had lain upon your head, and you challenged Father to take it.” Cadwallon drained his cup again, and held it for more.
“I would have stood beside you, then and there, sword to sword, against my own father if he had taken the blood price and raised his hand against you. But my father was as taken as I; he took you into our hall and into our family, and you betrayed us!” Cadwallon flung the contents of his cup over Edwin’s head. Ale dripped down his cheeks and ran in streams over dry lips into a mouth that drank no more.
The king held out the cup. Refilled, he drank from it, his gaze upon Edwin’s face. Cian sang on, but the music did not enter Cadwallon’s heart.
“I thought all would be well when I killed you, when I avenged my family on yours.” Cadwallon drank again. His eyes were still fixed upon Edwin, but his gaze was blurring now with the familiar mist that filled his evenings, and without which sleep would not come.
“But they are coming now, Edwin. The kings of the north. Finally, they have heard my call; they have answered. They will acclaim me High King, Edwin – kings over which you were never lord. And then, maybe, all will be well.” Cadwallon’s head dropped, then started back up again. His eyes lost sight, then gained it again, and Edwin filled the king’s vision.
“You will see me as High King, old friend, brother in my heart. You will see me raised higher than you ever were, and then I will put you in the grave and close your eyes with earth and stuff your mouth with dirt, so I hear your voice no longer and see your face no more. It is not long now, dear brother, not long now.” Cadwallon gestured Bermar to him. “Wrap him up and take him away. Do it carefully, mind. He was a great king… a great king.”
Cian and Hwyel laid the king in his bed as men fell asleep on bench and floor around the hall.
“There is a fey mood upon the king,” Cian said to the warmaster as they moved him.
“It lies upon us all,” said Hwyel. “Have you not felt it?”
“I put it down to hearth longing; we have been from our hills and rivers too long, old friend.” Cian stood up. “I have tried to warm my heart to this new land, for on the face of it here is not so different from home, but I have failed. The names that lie upon the land are strange and I do not know its song.”
“It lies upon the king’s heart too,” said Hwyel. “He has tried to make himself love it, and in doing so has twisted his heart, putting away the sweet memories of home and covering them with remembrance of blood. For there has been little but blood and gold in these new lands, and while I love the gold as much as any man, for the glory to shine you must sing it from your hearth fire, among your own people, not here, amid strangers.”
“He has waited many months for the kings of the north to accept him. Now they have, do you think he will allow us to return to our own land?”
“Yes,” said Hwyel. He leaned down and smoothed the hair from Cadwallon’s face. “Yes,
when the kings have come and bowed before him, he will be satisfied and we will go home.” He smiled at the bard. “It is not so long to wait now, is it?”
“No,” said Cian. “No, it isn’t.”
*
Cadwallon sat slumped in the saddle. Hwyel, riding beside him, pointed ahead.
“The Wall,” he said.
“Go away and die,” said Cadwallon.
Hwyel grunted with laughter. “I told you the ale at that vill yesterday was foul.”
Cadwallon shook his head, then winced. “It was either that or lying sweating and staring into the dark on my bed through the night,” he said.
“When we have met the kings of the north, and they have accepted you as High King, then we could go home,” said Hwyel. “It would be good to see the mountains and valleys of Gwynedd again.” He looked to the king riding beside him, head hung and eyes squinting against the daylight. “The dreams of home are good dreams.”
“Yes.” Cadwallon lifted his head and though he winced again, this time his gaze took in the world around him. “Yes, once this is done, once I am acclaimed High King, then we can go home. Maybe I would sleep there…” He peered blearily ahead. “Did you say you can see the Wall?”
“Yes. There. Follow the line of the road. It dips down ahead, to the River Tyne, but then the ground rises beyond, and there, on the hill crest, that is the Wall.”
Cadwallon squinted ahead. “Yes, I see it. I think. Your eyes are sharper than mine, Hwyel.”
“After the ale you drank last night, a mole might see better in the day time!”
“It’s the white line, is it not? The one where the hills rise up beyond the river.”
“Yes, that is it. Though the Wall shows white in few places today. Some local people told me that in the days of their fathers and their grandfathers, much more of the Wall was white, so that it shone in the day and glowed by moonlight. But now it only shows white where recesses and cracks in the rock preserve the colour.”
Cadwallon nodded. “Maybe, when the kings of the north have accepted me as High King, I should have the Wall painted white again. After all, we are Roman, and Briton too.” The king looked to his warmaster. “We should call a moneyer to us and have new coins minted, of gold, with my face and name upon them, and I shall call myself…” The king paused. “What did the emperors call themselves in Latin? I used to know, but I have forgotten.”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 19