Oswald: Return of the King

by Edoardo Albert

  “Last effort,” he said. “Last effort.”

  Flying above the column, Bran croaked, and Oswald looked up at the dark shape of the slaughter bird.

  “Today you will eat well, old friend,” he shouted. “You will eat well indeed.”

  The road turned past wood and rock, then swung south towards the river, cutting across low grassland. Now, nothing remained to conceal them from Cadwallon and his army, only the last remnants of night, and as they emerged into clear sight, the first gold appeared in the east: the sun was rising.

  “Raise the flags!” yelled Oswald, and the purple and gold of the house of Iding unfurled behind the riders, as did the banners of the Holy Island, and Rheged, and Dal Riada.

  Looking ahead, with nothing to check his view, Oswiu saw Cadwallon’s men spreading out on either side of the road, forming a line. There were so many of them, while there were bare two dozen riders behind him. But he saw no shields nor helmets. And what was that they were putting in the middle of the road?

  “Ride,” cried Oswald, taking his animal from trot into a canter and eating up the distance between him and Cadwallon. “Ride!”

  *

  “See!” said Cadwallon, pointing at the approaching riders. “See how eager they are to meet their High King, Arthur returned. I would do the same if I heard that he had come back. I would drop all that I was doing and rush to see him. Now they do that for me.”

  “They fly their banners now,” said Cian. “Look! Can you see which kings have come, Hwyel?”

  The warmaster peered into the dawn light. The banners streamed behind the riders, offering little of themselves to the waiting party, but as the breezes of sunrise began to cut across the land, the flags danced sideways in the crosswind, revealing glimpses of colour and pattern.

  “That is Dal Riada,” he said. “I think also they fly the flag of Colm Cille, lord! That means the Holy Island has blessed you as High King! All the kings of the north, and of the islands, will surely follow you now.”

  “And Rheged as well,” said Cian. “I saw its colours, I’m sure. But what is the flag they all ride behind? I do not think I know it.”

  Cadwallon, seated upon the judgment seat, squinted.

  “I know that flag…”

  “They ride fast,” said Hwyel, as the distance between them and the riders rapidly narrowed. His hand went to his sword hilt, and he looked round for his shield, but it was far from him, left propped against his tent, where he had left it when rushing to organize the warriors into line.

  “They do not seem to be slowing down,” said Cian.

  “I know that flag…” said Cadwallon, slowly rising from the judgment seat.

  “They are coming very fast,” said Hwyel. It could be a display of horsemanship, a tribute to the new High King; then the column would split into two, streaming past on either side of the judgment seat where the king waited upon them, that he might see their skill. It had better be that. Hwyel’s glance took in the men to either side of him – they were unarmoured and unprepared. As long as the riders did not lower their spears, he knew they were safe, and it was merely display on the part of the kings of the north.

  Cadwallon pointed, and his hand trembled.

  “That is the flag of the Idings. The kings of the north and the Holy Island ride behind the flag of the Idings.”

  The spears of the riders went down, pointing at them, where they waited.

  “It’s an attack!” screamed Hwyel. “Swords! Shields! Make a wall, make a wall!”

  Cadwallon’s hands shook. “No,” he said. “No, it cannot be. The kings said they would acclaim me. Surely the Holy Island has not turned against me…”

  “Get back!” yelled Hwyel, pushing Cadwallon. But the king stared, transfixed and unmoving, at the approaching riders, as one under enchantment or curse.

  The warmaster yelled at Cian, “Get him safe!” Then he turned to the men, fumbling with swords and spears, confusion spreading from the centre into the lines. “Form a wall, a wall!”

  The bard pulled at the king, but Cadwallon would not move; his eyes were held to the riders, now but twenty yards away. The road rang beneath their hooves, and floating above the confused orders and shouts from their men came the ululating war cries of the warriors of the islands.

  Cian embraced the king, pulling him bodily backwards, seeking to push him behind the cover of the judgment seat. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the lead rider approaching, leaning past his horse’s head, spear couched under his arm, its point steady as the horse galloped closer. And Cian turned and faced the rider, spreading his body between the warrior and the king.

  *

  Oswald leaned forward, spear held tightly in a loose arm, his body doing without thinking what its training told it – the shaft grip firm, so the spear would not fall from hand; the wrist and elbow and shoulder loose, so the impact would not wrench him from the saddle. He could see the confusion spreading through the line. As he had taken them from trot, to canter, to gallop, and the waiting line of Cadwallon’s men had not moved or reacted, Oswald had wondered what enchantment lay upon them, that they did not react, but then the thinking ceased as the thrum of hooves entered into his body, and his heart beat in time with the gallop, and his vision narrowed to the man sat upon the throne in the centre of the road: Cadwallon. By his dress, the gold of his buckles and the gold of his rings and the rich colours of his clothes, Oswald knew him. The king of Gwynedd sat upon a throne, waiting for him, and did not move as they approached, but sat still. The spear pointed at his heart measured the moments before his death.

  A man, arms spread, appeared before Cadwallon, shielding him with his body, and the spear passed into him. The horse rode past him and Oswald saw, as he let the spear go, Cadwallon behind the man who had taken the spear meant for him, holding him, but looking up at the rider rushing past. And as he passed he screamed death at Cadwallon.

  *

  “No!” Cadwallon fell backwards as Cian fell against him.

  “No!” Cadwallon screamed as he saw the rider go past, reaching for his sword now that his spear pierced Cian’s shoulder.

  “What are you doing? Why are you doing this? I am Arthur, Arthur.”

  Cadwallon spun, seeing the flags of Dal Riada and Rheged and the Holy Island, as the riders burst through the line of his warriors then turned back on them, men slashing with sword from horseback as his men tried desperately to form into wall.

  “Run.”

  Cadwallon looked down and saw Cian yet lived, though blood leaked from his mouth.

  “Run, lord.”

  Hwyel grabbed Cadwallon’s arm and he dropped Cian, the bard falling to his knees. He tried to reach for him, but Hwyel pulled the king back towards the wagons and the river.

  “Fall back!” he yelled. “Fall back!” Then the warmaster seized the king and slapped him, once, twice, across the face. “Wake!” he shouted. “We need you! We can still win – there are only a few of them.”

  Cadwallon shook his head.

  “I – I do not understand,” he said. “Why have they betrayed me?”

  Hwyel bared his teeth, snarling as a rider came close, and he thrust with his sword, deflecting the blow that would have struck down the king, then pulled him away, back towards the wagons and horses.

  Horses.

  If they could get to the horses, they could get away.

  “To me!” he yelled, waving his sword. “To me! Protect the king.”

  And in the confusion and panic, those men closest to him, hearing his call, came to him, fighting their way to their king.

  *

  “Where is he? Where is he?” Oswald looked around, searching for sight of Cadwallon among the knots of fighting men and the swirl of horses. Already, he could see some of Cadwallon’s men running from the battle, the dogs of panic chasing their heels as they escaped towards the distant wood. Others, though, staying together with swords pricking outwards, were starting to back towards the wagons pulled up
on the river’s banks. Glancing to the wagons themselves, Oswald saw the wagoners struggling to hitch oxen to their vehicles, the beasts, upset and anxious, lowing and pulling, shoving against each other, until an axle broke, sending the wagon’s load crashing over the ground. From the chests and sacks spilled a golden vomit and, at its sight, many a wagoner abandoned team and wagon and fell upon it, attempting to stuff gold and silver into tunic and trouser.

  Some among the retreating men saw this – the looting of the treasure they had fought for by men who did not even have the honour of carrying weapons – and they broke too, running towards the treasure wagons, the gold fever greater even than their desire for safety.

  But elsewhere, the many men of Cadwallon’s army were beginning to rally, their superiority in numbers allowing the chance to catch breath and realize how few attackers there were.

  “Oswiu!” Oswald pointed at the wagons. “Break them!”

  Oswiu reined back his horse and in a glance took in what his brother had seen.

  “Talorc, to me!” With the Pict by his side, Oswiu rode to the wagons and, slashing the wagoners out of their way, pulled over the traces of first one, then another and another wagon.

  The plunder of Deira, the gold and silver of Bernicia was spilled upon the grass and dropped down into the mud beside the River Tyne, and the men who had fought for it and killed for it saw it fall. With no command from their king, they broke from the small knots of fighting men and went running to it, only to be cut down by the horsemen crossing the slaughter field.

  *

  Hwyel saw the gold flow and the gold fever spread, but he grabbed each man that went past, pulling him back into formation, slowly building a line of spears and swords with the king at its centre, that pulled back and back, towards the milling, semi-panicked group of tethered horses.

  “My treasure…” said Cadwallon, for he too had seen the gold spill from the wagons.

  “Leave it,” said Hwyel. He pulled the king along with him. “We’ll come back for it, when we come back to kill them.”

  As he knew would happen, in the milling confusion of battle, the attacking horsemen veered towards the easier targets, slicing down upon the necks and backs of running men, their mounts as much as themselves turning away from the bristle of swords and spears that backed and backed and backed towards escape.

  *

  Oswald saw them, a band resolutely holding together, as they reached the horses and began splitting apart as, with hope of escape, discipline loosened and men began grabbing animals and mounting them.

  “No,” he shouted, and pointed. “They are getting away.” He drove his horse towards them, screaming for others to follow, and he saw, from eye corner, Brother Diuma, face bright, swinging in beside him, and Oswiu and Talorc leaving the fight among the spilled guts of the wagons.

  *

  Hwyel set Cadwallon upon a horse, then swung up on another next to him. He pulled the beast’s head round, seeing men still upon the ground with no animal to ride, for the tethers had been pulled loose and many an animal, panic stricken, had broken free. Beyond, forming up once again, he saw the enemy approaching. For a moment he thought on the fact that he still did not know who they were, but the thought was gone – it mattered not for now.

  “Line!” he yelled at the men on the ground. “Form line and protect the king!” Then, taking the bridle of the king’s horse, he kicked his own beast into motion and ran it towards the river. Hwyel looked around. There were a handful of men with him, leaning on their horses and urging them towards the ford; all that was left of the army that had destroyed Edwin and taken Deira and Bernicia, and made Cadwallon the most powerful king in the land. All reduced to this.

  Hwyel kicked his horse harder.

  “Go,” he cried, to his king and his men. “Go!”

  *

  Oswald saw the men mounting behind the screen of swords and spears lined in front of them. He pushed his horse past the jabbing wall and then pulled it round, hooves slipping in the churned earth, after the horsemen riding towards the ford. But the spears had caught Talorc’s horse, hamstringing it and bringing the Pict tumbling to the ground, from where he rolled and, screaming the high war cry of the Painted People, he flung himself shield first at the line of men, breaking it apart with his bulk. Only Oswiu managed to follow, but he was enough – the rest of his men could stay and finish off the routed remnants of Cadwallon’s army.

  Leaning forward, hands light upon the foam-flecked animal, Oswald urged it after Cadwallon. His beast was weary and Cadwallon’s horses were fresh. Seeing the way the gap between him and the men he was pursuing widened, Oswald realized, with the sudden sickness of defeat, that he would not be able to catch them. Already they were splashing into the river, not even slowing, though the waters were running higher than they had the evening before. Oswald pushed his own horse after them, but he well knew his only chance of catching them lay in Corotic having done as he had promised, blocking the road south.

  *

  Cadwallon felt the horse move beneath him, and the familiarity of its motion began to bring him back to himself. The fog that had clouded his mind began to clear – the fog that had descended when he had realized that the banners of Dal Riada and Rheged and the Holy Island followed the flag of the Idings.

  Treachery. He had been betrayed. Cold and sick and hopeless he felt, as one who has lost everything, and the king looked around and saw what was left of his army, and knew that that was so. He had lost everything. Only his life remained.

  “No!”

  Cadwallon looked to Hwyel and saw the warmaster reining back his horse. Ahead, trees and boulders lay across the road, and amid the branches and behind the rocks he could see figures moving and the tell-tale movements of arrows being nocked to bowstring. The warmaster circled his horse, looking for another path.

  “That way.” Hwyel pointed to where a path branched from the road, heading west and south. He pushed his horse down the way, leading as Cadwallon followed.

  *

  “Where does the path go?” Oswald reined back his horse and leaned down to Corotic, who had run up to the point at which Cadwallon and Hwyel had left the road.

  “It goes to the Devil’s Water,” said Corotic. “There is no crossing that river until it runs up into the hills.”

  “They may take to foot. Corotic, hold the hills. We will follow on horse. Do not let them escape.”

  The chief of the Raven People pointed upwards, and Oswald looked to see Bran circling above, the winds carrying him down towards the Devil’s Water.

  “Follow him,” said Corotic. “He sees where Cadwallon flees.”

  Oswald nodded, then glanced to Oswiu.

  “How is your horse? Can it still run?”

  “I’ll get off and run on foot if I have to.” Oswiu pointed down towards where Cadwallon and Hwyel were receding. “That is no road and they will hardly be able to do more than walk their animals along it. Besides, the Raven People will cut them down if they try to move up into the hills. Let’s go.”

  *

  The horses struggled along beside the bank of the Devil’s Water. The path became a track that dissolved into tussocks and marshgrass. Hwyel looked back the way they had come and saw their pursuers making their own slow way along the path. There were only two of them on horses, but looking up at the hill that rose to their left he saw movement flickering between the copses and gorse – archers were making their stealthy way around the flanks of the hill. The river ran to their right, heading south now, far too wide and fast flowing to ford with horses. On the far bank, the land rose to bleak moorland heights. Scanning the ground, Hwyel could see no sign of movement – the river that was blocking them was also stopping their pursuers getting to the far bank.

  Hwyel nodded. Yes, there was hope. Now he just had to convince Cadwallon. He pushed his horse up alongside the king.

  Cadwallon rode without looking left or right, still caught in the despair of his betrayal by the kings of t
he north.

  “Lord, if we can ford this river, we will be able to escape onto the high moors.”

  The king turned his gaze to Hwyel and his eyes were black.

  “There is no escape from this, old friend.”

  “But you did it before, lord, when Edwin set you adrift, alone and without oar or sail on the sea. You survived and you brought Edwin down. You can do it again – if we get away.”

  The king turned his gaze away. “The Holy Island prays for the Iding. Who prays for me?”

  *

  “Leave the horses.”

  Oswald dismounted and Oswiu swung down beside him.

  “They are blown – we will be faster on foot.” The ætheling pointed to their left, where the land ridged up before falling rapidly down to the Devil’s Water. “We can cut over here, and take them as they come round the loop.”

  Sword slung over his back, Oswald began running up to the spine of the ridge, pulling himself up the steeper slopes, blood drumming in his ears and breath harsh in his mouth. His brother ran with him, leaping from tussock to crag, pulling their way upwards, until they came to the top of the ridge.

  There, below them, ran the Devil’s Water, the water rippling and disturbed by the pebbles and gravel at its bed: a ford. But Cadwallon and Hwyel had not yet reached it; they were still downstream, leading their horses through the willow breaks and reed beds that choked the near bank of the river. They were near come to the ford, though, and once across, they would be away on clearer ground and with fresher beasts.

  Oswald turned to his brother.

  “Now it is us, alone.”

  Above their heads, a raven coughed.

  “All right, not quite alone.” Oswald pulled the sword from where he had slung it over his back and turned to face the river. “They ride the Devil’s Water – now let us send them to the devil.”

  And he began to run down the slope, letting his weight pull him downhill. And Oswiu followed.

  *

  Hwyel heard it first: the sound of water on gravel and rock; the sound of shallow water, where the river might be forded. Then he saw the water, beginning to run glitter.