Hwyel shrugged. “I know not the letters of our own tongue, let alone those of the emperors.”
Cadwallon shook his head, then winced yet again. “Ach, it will come to me.” He peered ahead, following the road line as it rose up from the river towards the Wall. “You have the better sight, Hwyel. Can you see any camp ahead where the kings wait for us?”
The warmaster stood in his saddle, shading his sight. “No, lord. The road and its surrounds are clear as far as I can see.”
“They should have been here.” Cadwallon squinted ahead, as if not believing his warmaster. “Is there any with sharper sight among the men?”
“There are men with younger eyes than I, lord. They could see further and clearer, but see for yourself: there are no smoke tracks – they alone should reveal a camp, for we are not meeting a warband but an embassy. They will not be seeking to conceal themselves.”
“They must still be on the way.” Cadwallon slumped into his saddle.
“We could send scouts ahead,” said Hwyel. “They could tell us if the kings of the north approach but are still beyond the Wall.”
“Yes, do that,” said the king. “But order them to be back before nightfall – we have lost too many men in the dark.”
“I will do that, lord.”
As the warmaster peeled back along the line of horsemen to select his scouts, Cadwallon rode on. The ache in his head thrummed, but he felt the pain receding. The hills ahead reminded him of the mountains of home. Not that they were as gaunt as the teeth of Gwynedd, scree-sloped and bare, but the rise and fall of them, like a churned sea, carried echoes of the land of his fathers.
As sharp and clear as a seagull’s call, Cadwallon heard in memory the chant of the priests as they had laid his father, Cadfan, into the ground of Anglesey. He saw again the monk mason, carefully incising the stone, and he remembered how carefully he had committed the words, written in a tongue that he had never had time to learn, to his memory: Catamanus rex sapientisimus opinatisimus omnium regum – “King Cadfan, most wise and renowned of all kings”. And suddenly, Cadwallon was filled with a terrible fear that his own body would not lie next to his father’s in the holy burial place of his people, but would be scattered upon hills far from his native home. He glanced up at the sky.
“Do men who die far from home wander in spirit, lost in shadows, searching their way back?” he asked. Kings fought, and had priests to do their praying for them. When he had ridden from Gwynedd many months ago, Cadwallon had left the monks of three monasteries praying for him, and promising to keep praying for him until he returned, but now he asked the question of God directly. The priests told him that when a man died, he faced God’s judgment. But how could a man face God unless he stood upon the ground that had borne him, that had fed him and raised him? Surely the dead returned home before facing God?
But God gave no answer to his question. Cadwallon watched the scouts urge their horses on, horseshoes sparking on the road stone as they galloped ahead of the army. Turning, he looked back along the column of his army, the men riding in line, spears raised, points glittering in the sun. The king smiled. Such an army had not been seen in this land since the armies of the emperors marched upon the Wall. But now, once he had been acclaimed High King by the kings of the north, there would be a new emperor.
“Imperator!” Cadwallon smiled. That was it. He knew the word would come back to him. His father had been “Rex”, but he would be “Imperator”, and place his face upon the gold coins of his reign. He looked around for Hwyel, to tell him, but the warmaster was busy further back in the column. Never mind. He would tell him later.
*
With the day stretching to evening, Hwyel led the column of horsemen across the River Tyne, their animals’ legs splashing across Styford, while the wagoners drove the mules into the water and, with the warmaster’s permission, left their wagons in the shallows for a while so that the wooden wheels might swell and tighten against their iron rims. The wagons were heavy and ran slow behind struggling teams of oxen, for they carried the accumulated plunder of Deira and Bernicia: gold and garnet, torc and ring.
Beyond the ford, the road ran north into the rising hills, the Wall surmounting the distant ridge, but it was too far to go in failing light. Cadwallon ordered camp to be made on the north bank of the Tyne. With the light failing, he called Hwyel to him.
“Where are the scouts? Have they come back yet?”
“No, lord,” said the warmaster.
“Find out what has happened to them.” Cadwallon stared north, to where the broken line of the Wall skimmed the hills. “They should have returned – it will be dark soon.”
While the warmaster set lookouts to watch for any sign of the scouts, the king went to the tent that had been set for him, the red and gold of his banner fluttering in the evening breeze. Around the royal shelter the men rested by fires. The camp was quiet, and Cadwallon noted a sullen air – there were few jokes, and no songs were raised to chase away the aches of a day in the saddle.
It was the camp of a hearth-sick army, far from home. But soon they would turn south and west, riding the roads of the emperors until, of a fine morning, they would see the sun gild the hills of home. The camp would be happy enough when the army turned for home – and then there would be no shortage of men to help the wagoners push the wagons through fords and across breaks in the road.
Cadwallon took to his tent. Slaves set food for him, and drink, but after the price he had paid for the previous night’s drinking he took ale sparingly. Besides, he felt in his bones that he would have no difficulty in sleep tonight.
The warmaster returned as the king was finishing his light supper, coming into the tent with one of the scouts.
“Tell the king what you saw.”
The scout made the courtesy and glanced questioningly at Hwyel.
“Go on,” said the warmaster.
“Lord, I crossed the river with the other scouts in the early afternoon. The road of the emperors continues north there, to the Wall, so we rode upon it but saw nobody save for drovers moving sheep down from the high hills. When we came to the Wall, we found the gate lying open and broken, and beyond the road – for we could see far from the towers of the fort that guarded this part of the Wall – the road to the north seemed empty. However, that was still the way most likely, we thought, for the kings of the north to take, so two of my fellows set forth upon it, resolved to ride north for a further two hours, but leaving themselves time enough to return before dark.” The scout suddenly stopped his report and turned to Hwyel. “Have they returned yet?”
“No. Get on with it.”
“We decided that one of us should ride east, following the road that lies south of the Wall, and another – I – should go west, lest the kings of the north be approaching from either of these directions. It was late afternoon by then, and the shadows were lengthening, but the sun was in my eyes as I rode into the west. Then, as the sun touched the horizon and I resolved to turn back, I saw it, lord. A camp – it was a camp – but one lying to the north of the Wall, maybe a mile north of it. I could see fires, but the rising land obscured much of it, so I cannot tell the number of men there. It was yet light, so I resolved to ride closer, in the hope that I could see more before I must return. I thought that if I could see a banner, I might tell who camped north of the Wall; I might tell if it was the kings of the north, come to do homage to you, lord.” The scout licked his lips and risked a glance at the warmaster, who gestured him on.
“I pushed my horse hard, that I might get close enough to see something before night fell, and I did, lord; I did. For in the centre of the camp, there was set a great cross.”
Cadwallon sat forward.
“A cross? You are sure?”
“Yes, lord, I am sure. The sun was low, and its light threw the shadow of the cross across the land toward me, and I saw it laid out upon the ground. It was a cross. Seeing that, and knowing that if I did not return soon I would be alone i
n the night in this land, I ran my horse back here. I hope I did right, lord.”
Cadwallon stood from his stool.
“You did right indeed.” The king smiled and, taking a ring from his arm, gave it to the scout. “Take this. And then eat and drink, for you must be weary.”
When the scout had gone, Cadwallon turned to Hwyel and his smile was broad. The king took hold of the warmaster’s shoulders.
“They are here,” he said. “They are here! For only the kings of the north would set a cross over their camp as they make ready to go down to meet the answer to God’s promise to our people. They have come to me, Hwyel! They have come at last!”
Chapter 15
“I’ve seen him!”
“What? Who?” Oswiu, shaken awake, saw his brother’s face above him, lit with ember glow.
“Rouse Brother Diuma and Talorc; wake Acca and Coifi and Corotic; wake everyone! I’ve seen him.”
And in the glow of stoked embers, Oswald, Iding, ætheling of the throne, stood before his men and told what he had seen.
“Sleep was late coming – and I was not alone, for I heard men turn and speak – but when sleep came, I dreamed, and I saw him: the Blessed One, Colm Cille. He stood as tall as the clouds, and beneath his face all darkness was banished. His cloak covered near enough all our camp, save for that part where the pack horses are tethered, and he spoke to me, saying, ‘Be strong and of a good courage; behold, I shall be with thee.’ And it seemed to me I knew these words of old. Then the Blessed One leaned to me and spoke again, saying, ‘Ride forth this night from your camp, for the Lord has granted to me that your foes shall be put to flight; that your enemy, Cadwallon, will be delivered into your hands, and that after the battle you will return in triumph.’ Then the vision – for vision I take it to be – ended, and I awoke and summoned you to me. What say you?”
Brother Diuma stood. “Those words that in vision you knew of old: they are the words the Lord spoke to Joshua, when he stood upon the bank of the Great River, looking over upon the fields of the land promised.” He turned to look at the other gathered men. “For those here who do not know, God went before Joshua as he led his people into the land promised, and cast down his enemies and took the land.” The monk turned back to Oswald. “I say the Lord has spoken to you this night. I say we ride with the night. I say we ride to victory!”
And as one, the men rose and acclaimed the monk’s words.
As the acclaim died away, Brother Diuma sent one of his monks to the horses, and he returned with a rolled bundle of cloth. There, in the firelight, Brother Diuma unwrapped it and, with another monk, held it taut.
“This is the banner of the Holy Island, the flag of Colm Cille.
Abbot Ségéne told us we could only fly it if we had a clear sign from the Blessed One that we should: we have that sign. Tomorrow, we shall fight beneath the flag of Colm Cille.”
Oswald went to the monk. “That flag will be worth twenty men to us,” he said.
Brother Diuma smiled and shook his head. “Fifty,” he said.
*
As the moon set, and the first glow of dawn lit the east, Corotic led the column of horsemen south, to the Wall and the fast road that ran alongside it to Cadwallon’s camp upon the bank of the River Tyne.
Crossing south of the Wall, Corotic put them upon the road. It ran east, and the glow of the moon’s setting and the fire of the sun’s rising drew its path across the shadowed land.
“You have led us well,” Oswald said to Corotic. “I would ask one thing more of you, if you would give it.”
Corotic sat astride his pony. “I would give it, Raven King,” he said, “Lord of the Tree.”
“Block the road south of the Tyne. Cut trees, roll stones, do whatever you can to make it impassable to wagons. Cadwallon carries with him the treasure of my people, and yours. I would not have him escape with it.”
“I will do that, lord, and my people will wait in the woods and marsh there. Any of Cadwallon’s men who flee from the road into the wild places will not leave them.”
Oswald made the courtesy to the chief of the Raven People. Bran lowered his head and coughed.
Corotic nodded, turned his pony and angled it south, towards the river.
“Farewell, Raven King,” he said. “After this, we will return to our hills.”
“You will be ever welcome in my hall, Corotic of the Raven People.”
“And you in our hills, Oswald of the sea lords.”
The ætheling watched the small figure on the pony until he was lost in the shadows of the twilight. Then he turned to the road.
“Ride!” he called. “Ride, to death and death’s glory!”
And the horses sprang forward as if the wind had seized their hooves, and the men laughed, for the madness of the hunt, the wild, death hunt, had taken them, and there was no fear but only the pounding of heart, and blood, and bone.
*
Cadwallon woke with the dawn. Few birds sang the chorus at this season, but the first stirrings of light woke him, and he rose from where he lay, and went out into the pale day. Cian, the bard, and Hwyel, the warmaster, found him standing in front of his tent as the camp made its first stirrings. The wagoners, exhausted by the passage across the ford, slept deeply by their oxen.
The king looked about him and breathed the damp air. He turned to Cian and Hwyel. “This reminds me of home. The air tastes of it, and there,” he pointed, “the hills – they remind me of home too. When the kings come, when they have accepted me, we shall return.” Cadwallon’s eyes narrowed and he pointed again. “There, can you see them? Riders.”
Cian and Hwyel turned to look, squinting eyes to bring things far from them into sharper vision.
“Yes,” said Hwyel. “Riders.”
“They fly a banner,” said Cian. “Two banners, maybe three.”
“Can you see them?” asked Hwyel. “Your eyes are better than mine.”
“No, not from this distance. But they ride swiftly – they will reach us maybe before the sun rises.”
“It does not matter,” said Cadwallon. “I can tell you whose banners they fly: Dal Riada, Strathclyde, Rheged. The kings of the north come; they come to me at last! We must make ready to welcome them.”
*
“They have seen us.”
The road was wide enough for two, even three, men to ride abreast. Oswiu rode beside his brother at the head of the column. The horses were breathing hard from their gallop to beat the dawn, but light filled the eastern horizon, betokening the arrival of the sun.
Oswald gave no answer, but urged his horse on, and it responded, despite the sweat slathering its flanks.
They could see the camp ahead, the orange glow of fires that Cadwallon had made no effort to conceal, and the stirrings of men moving from tent into the open. Judging the distance remaining, Oswiu knew Cadwallon would have more than enough time to form his men into a shieldwall before they could reach the camp. Then, they would be reduced to riding in circles around them, helpless save for shouted insults, while Cadwallon gathered his horses, fresh after a night’s rest, and made ready to cut them down on their exhausted beasts.
“We should dismount, form a shieldwall,” shouted Oswiu, forcing his horse up level with his brother. “Advance like that.”
But Oswald turned his face to Oswiu, and he smiled the death smile.
“We ride,” he said. “We ride them down – for he knows no Angle fights on the back of a horse, and he expects no attack from the kings of the north on their horses. We ride, brother; we ride!”
*
“Set the judgment seat there, upon the road. I will meet them in the north road, the road of the emperors, upon my throne, with you, Hwyel, on my right hand and you, Cian, upon my left, that you might see and hear what happens here today and sing songs and tales of it in our halls and in our land. Gather the men. Have them stand in welcome upon either side of us.”
“What about the wagoners?” asked Hwyel.
“Would the kings wish to meet them? Let them sleep – they have less wit than their oxen – and we have the contents of their wagons to give as gifts to the kings of the north. Never will they have known a king so generous in gold – but that befits Arthur, returned to his people.”
The sun still trembled below the horizon. There was not enough light to see the banners the riders flew, and as they approached, the road bent behind rock and past a wood, taking the horsemen from view. Cadwallon looked to where the road emerged again. From there, it was an all but straight course to the ford over the river, where they waited. Hwyel pushed men forward, pointing to where he wanted the judgment seat placed, while grumbling warriors – warriors always grumbled when they were woken unexpectedly early – stumbled from the camp. Most carried swords and spears, but they were going to greet the embassy of the kings of the north, so they left shields propped against tents, and mail draped over saddles to drip out the morning dew.
*
In the shelter of tree and wood, Oswald raised his hand, slowing the column but not stopping it, and bringing the men closer around him.
“Today,” he said, “we fight like the men of the north; we fight on horseback, we move, we ride, we give the enemy no chance. I do not know why, but he has not formed shieldwall nor raised his horsemen against us – he waits, as a pig for slaughter. Let us not disappoint him!”
“One word,” said Oswiu. “Leave the wagons! There will be gold for all – after the battle. Cadwallon’s men will try to save their treasure; cut them down, but let their gold fall – we will return and pick the field of slaughter clean.”
“God has given Cadwallon into our hands,” said Oswald. “We shall not drop him. Now, ride!”
Pulling his horse’s head round, Oswald heeled it forward. The animal breathed hard, and he slapped its sweat-soaked flank.
Oswald: Return of the King Page 20