“We’re almost there, lord,” he said, pulling his horse along.
But in answer Cadwallon pointed.
Hwyel scanned the slope.
“Lord, there are only two. We can beat them, and then get away. If you will but fight.” The warmaster pulled the king’s sword from its scabbard and pushed it into Cadwallon’s hand. “Fight!”
But Cadwallon let the sword drop from his fingers.
“Fight!” Hwyel glanced over his shoulder and saw the two men were near enough on them. “Please…”
The king turned his face to him, and it was as pale and stretched as a dead man’s, and his eyes were blank mirrors.
The warmaster whirled, and parried the first strike, pushing the blade past his shoulder, but the second sword, coming from the other side, bit deep into his side, scraping past bone rib into the lung beneath. Hwyel staggered sideways, trying to defend against the follow-up cut, but the first blade cut into his unprotected thigh, and he fell. Staring up at the sky, he saw the man who was about to kill him.
Hwyel coughed. He tasted the blood; the man over him saw it. They both knew what it meant. The first blow had pierced his lung and he was already drowning in his blood. He looked up into the face of the man above him. His eyes asked the question. The man nodded, and drove the sword through Hwyel’s chest and into the ground beneath him.
*
“Why don’t you fight?” Oswald pointed his sword at Cadwallon, but the king of Gwynedd did not look at it. His eyes, blank as stone, stared past Oswald into a receding distance. Cadwallon stood with his hands by his side; he had made no move when Hwyel died.
“Your warmaster died defending you, and you did nothing.”
At that, the king brought his gaze to the man standing in front of him.
“Who are you?” he asked. “Are you Arthur?”
“I am Oswald, Iding, son of Æthelfrith.”
“Oh. I thought you might be Arthur. I thought I was Arthur. I was wrong.”
Oswald pushed his sword closer to Cadwallon, so that its tip touched his chest.
“Why don’t you fight?” he asked again.
The king’s eyes closed, then opened again. “I would not live in a world where my own people betray me,” he said.
“Then don’t.”
Oswald drove his sword into Cadwallon’s chest, then as quickly pulled it forth. The king’s eyes opened wide in surprise as his hands flew to his chest, then slowly he stepped backwards, once, twice, before his legs gave way. Cadwallon fell to his side, jerking in spasm, and rolled into the river. His legs thrashed upon the bank for an instant and then became still. Oswiu walked forward and looked down at him.
“He’s dead,” he said, and using his foot he pushed Cadwallon’s legs into the river. “As you said, let the Devil’s Water take him to the devil.” The king of Gwynedd, the master of Northumbria, the new Arthur, bumped out into the stream, his face turned to the sky, and around him the river ran red for a while before the blood was washed from him. Then, the willow fronds trailing over him, Cadwallon floated away.
Standing on the bank, the brothers watched him go.
“Father told me once that the hardest thing a king has to do is to kill a man cold,” said Oswald. “He was right.”
Chapter 16
Above Inys Mon, the island of Anglesey, the clouds were rushing. Cian, his right arm hanging useless by his side, stood looking east across the Menai Strait, to where the mountains of Gwynedd bulked, the first snows of winter whitening their summits. Gathered about the bard were the people of the island, waiting in silent sorrow.
Cian turned to the woman standing beside him: Briant, abbess, sister of Cadwallon. She bent down and stroked the stone that lay at their feet. Below the slab of granite, locked in the earth’s long embrace, lay Cadfan ap Iago, her father, Cadwallon’s father. Her fingers traced the inscription incised into the rock: Catamanus rex sapientisimus opinatisimus omnium regum.
“He would have wished to lie beside you, Father,” she said. “But that was not God’s will. He fell far from here and we could not find him. He is lost to us. Will you search for him, Father, in God’s great hall, and keep him with you?”
Briant stood up, her knees aching as she did so. The cold of the winter was settling into her bones and she did not think she would ever be warm again.
The first drops of rain fell upon the stone.
“I will join you ere long.”
Briant stepped back among her sisters. A hand found hers and she grasped it without looking to see who it belonged to. She knew who it was, and she was grateful for the warmth of the fingers that wrapped tightly around hers.
Cian began to chant, his voice rising alone amid the watching people, rising up to the rushing clouds. He told of the kings of Gwynedd, their victories and their long defeat, his voice as clear as the rain-washed sky. He told of Cadwallon, king of Gwynedd, of the fury of his wrath and the glory of his power.
He sang of his passing.
“From the plotting of strangers and iniquitous
Monks, as the water flows from the fountain,
Sad and heavy will be the day of Cadwallon.”
And as the song of Cadwallon died to silence, the clouds gathered above Inys Mon wept too, darkening the grave of his father with their tears.
PART 2
Mission
Chapter 1
“Men of Deira, who will you have as your king?”
Oswiu stood in the centre of the great hall that Edwin had raised amid the ruins of York, a building of wood among brick and stone, and yet to his eyes it appeared no whit less noble and beautiful a building than the works of the emperors – and it kept the rain and snow out, which the houses of stone, their roofs long decayed, did not. Around him, seated upon benches, was the witan of Deira, the thegns and reeves who had survived the depredations of Cadwallon and Penda, and the sons of the many who had not. Oswald sat at the high table, watching the assembly with careful eyes, while beside him sat a monk clad in a rough wool habit, his forehead shaved and his eyes equally watchful, and scattered through the hall were some of the surviving thegns of Bernicia – men who had already acclaimed Oswald king, their relief at surviving Cadwallon at least equal to their joy in having another Iding upon the throne of their land.
Taking boat from Bamburgh, they had sailed down the coast, a passage of sails telling the good news to the settlements that lined the grey road, running to shore whenever winter storm threatened, waiting for the clouds to blow past, then setting to again, wrapped deep in waxed cloaks, fur turned within to keep out the bitter winds. The treacherous waters of the Humber had near claimed them, for the storm-clad seaways of Dal Riada had taught them the ways of rock and reef more than mud and sand, but the tide came and floated them clear, and they were away and up the Ouse, the labour of rowing against the river for once embraced by all as proof against the winter wind. And as they pulled, they proclaimed, telling the death of Cadwallon and calling men to witan at York, that they might acclaim a new king.
Now, with the witan gathered, Oswiu rose and spoke the claim of his brother.
“He is the deliverer, who slew the scourge that bled your lands and took your fathers and your sons and lay them out upon the ground. He is son of Æthelfrith, he is son to Acha, he is the true son of Bernicia and Deira.”
Upon the high table, the monk who sat beside Oswald leaned to him.
“It were best your brother had not spoken of your father – these Angles of Deira have no love for the Twister.”
Oswald, conscious of the eyes and ears turned to him, made no answer, but remained impassive, watching as Oswiu turned around the hall. Outside, the first winter storm to pass the hills to the west sent sleet and hail rattling against gate and thatch. Within, the fire burned, shedding yellow light upon the shadowed faces. He could see his brother was sweating. Oswiu had expected that the men of Deira, relieved at their deliverance, would rise as one to acclaim Oswald king after a few choice phrases a
nd the recitation of his claim. It was proving more difficult than he had anticipated.
“So, men of Deira, I ask you again: who shall be your king? Shall we be united, as we were before, Bernicia and Deira making one kingdom?”
“Hold! Hold, I say!”
Oswiu turned to see a grizzled warrior, his belly generous with beer and meat, rise to his feet.
“Who are you?”
“I am Bassus,” the warrior said. He waited, as if expecting Oswiu to speak, but the ætheling, sensing the expectancy that filled the hall, gave way to him.
“You do not know me? Then, I have but lately returned from Kent. I am Bassus and I live, but should not. For alone of the warband that rode forth with Edwin from York nigh two years ago I returned, sent from the battle that claimed him with word for Queen Æthelburh that she should flee, taking their children with her. Well I remember that bitter voyage; well I remember the grief of the queen and the silence of the children, their faces turned to the sea, that men might think their tears but the splashing of the waves.”
Bassus paused and turned around the hall, seeking its mood. Then he turned to Oswiu.
“This is not the way of our people, the men of Deira. You would have us proclaim your brother king when we have not heard the claims of others. You would have us one kingdom, but you name your own land first.” He held up his hand to silence the murmurs rising from around the hall. “Mayhap this Oswald, the Iding, has the greatest claim on the throne – I do not doubt that he is throne- worthy. But we must speak on this, hear other voices and other rights, and then decide. This is the way of our people; this is the way of Deira. It is as well for you to remember that if you wish to rule here.”
“I will remember.” Oswald stood. He looked to Bassus, and the warrior made the courtesy to him.
“We are strangers here and we do not know your ways. Tell them to us and we will learn. But think on this, men of Deira. When Osric claimed the throne of Deira, I did not come. When Eanfrith claimed the throne of Bernicia, I did not come. Only when their claims failed, and Cadwallon laid them out in the dust, only then did I come and, against all hope, against all expectation, I brought the despoiler of your kingdom down. Bassus, know this: I did not want this throne. It was thrust upon me. So if there are any with greater claim, let us hear of them; let me hear of them. If there be such a man I would gladly step aside.”
The monk sitting beside Oswald glanced up at those words, and a murmur passed through the hall. That a man might be throne- worthy and yet not take the throne: that was a song no man had sung before.
“Tell us then of the children of Queen Æthelburh – my cousins. In truth, they must indeed be throne-worthy and I would hear more of them.” Oswald sat down, and the witan turned back to Bassus.
The warrior nodded to Oswald. “I thank you, lord. There are many here who would hear of them, of Wuscfrea and Æthelflæd. The queen took them over the Narrow Sea to her mother’s people in Francia, to the court of the great king there, and Princess Æthelflæd grows in beauty; she will soon be old and wise enough to marry.” Then Bassus shook his head. “But of the boy, of little Wuscfrea, my news is less good.” He looked around the hall. “He died. Of the sweating sickness. And the queen laid him among her people.”
A gasp, a moan passed like a whisper through the men, for many there remembered Wuscfrea – remembered him toddling after his elders, calling to them until finally one would sweep him up in his arms.
“That is why I returned. With Wuscfrea dead, the queen had no more need of my protection.”
Oswald spoke. “I would have raised no hand against her or her children, for Edwin raised no hand against us when we were in exile.”
“That might be so, lord, but if you were the queen, would you have left the children where they might be claimed? Should you come to the throne, king of Deira and king of Bernicia, your reach would be long and many a king might seek to win your favour through foul means as well as fair.”
“Mayhap if I were their mother I would do as Queen Æthelburh has done. But are there other æthelings of whom you would tell?”
Bassus nodded. “There is one, lord. But before I speak of him, it is the custom of our people that all the men sitting at the high table be known to us, and there is one beside you who is unknown to me, and to many in this witan. Would you tell us of him first, and then I will speak of those that are throne-worthy.”
“Very well.” Oswald rose to his feet. The man beside him stared levelly out at the hall, his face calm with the serenity of seasoned fighting men before battle.
“This is Corman, bishop, monk and priest of the Holy Island of Colm Cille; he is the man sent to me by the abbot of the Holy Island, that we might seek the favour of the God of the Blessed One; the God that we, the Idings, now follow.”
Bassus stared with frank curiosity at the monk, who returned the scrutiny without sign of strain, but with a small smile.
“We already heard tell of your new god, lord, for the queen brought a priest from her country; he returned to Kent when we fled, and he is now master of the stone house men built for the new god there. I do not think he will return. As for this new god, he brought Edwin few favours.”
At this, a murmur went through the hall, with some men nodding their accord, while others shook their heads in disagreement. Those who most obviously disagreed turned to the back of the hall where, reluctantly it seemed, a strange figure stood from the bench where he had been sitting. He was dressed in a white alb with a cloak thrown over it against the winter cold, held in place by a simple brooch over his heart, but it was his hair that caught Oswald’s attention, for his head was shaved at the crown and sides, leaving a circle of hair like a torc placed on the head.
“Who are you who seeks leave to speak to the witan?” asked Oswald.
The man cleared his throat as if nervous, but when he spoke his voice was smooth and warm, although it carried tones strange to Oswald’s ear that spoke of ancient peoples and unknown places.
“I am James.”
A whisper passed around the hall at the name. Oswiu, listening, heard men say to each other that they thought him fled, or dead; that he had surely been killed in the year of chaos when Cadwallon and Penda wrought destruction through the kingdom. But those who knew him of old, seeing him again, assured others less certain that he was who he claimed to be.
“Your voice sounds strange to my ear,” said Oswald.
James flushed, and those who knew him in the witan smiled at the sight, for surely no other man ever blushed for so little cause.
“I – I try to speak like you, but it is not easy; your tongue sounds harsh to my ear, like crows.” James flushed again. “I do not mean it has no beauty, b-but…it is very different from the language of my people.”
“Who are your people?” Oswald looked around the hall. “It seems many here know you, but I do not.”
“I am of a land in the south, where the sun has its home in summer and the cicadas sing. The blessed Pope Gregory sent me with many others to tell the news of our salvation to the angels of this land – for the pope saw some fair youths of your race for sale as slaves and, seeing them, asked from where they came, and hearing they were of the race of Angles he cried, ‘Not Angles but angels,’ and resolved at once to send to them the blessed news of life. I was among those he chose, the least and least worthy of them. When Bishop Paulinus came with Queen Æthelburh to marry King Edwin, I came as well. But when Bishop Paulinus took the queen and her children to safety, I stayed to minister to the people, that the light of God’s word might still shine in these dark lands.” James smiled shyly. “It is winter, and I have been here through many winters, yet still it is a wonder to me how long the sun hides his face at this time of year.”
Oswald nodded. “I would hear more of this bishop; but first, tell us how you still live when so many have died.”
“After the bishop left, I went from York, taking those who would come with me – in truth, there were not
many – and we went north. We heard the great devastation that Cadwallon and Penda were wreaking, killing all who opposed them, so I sent the few people who were left with me back to their homes and I continued north, walking the old road, until I came to a place called Catterick. There I found a river, and a cave where I might make shelter, and there I stayed, praying always that the storm would pass. Over time, people heard that I remained, and they came to seek me out, and I prayed over them, and some were healed, and I cast out demons in the name of the Lord, and ministered to them.” James flushed again. “It was little enough, but I hoped, with God’s will, to keep word of him in this kingdom. Now, with those who would ravish Northumbria cast down, I would be happy to speak forth again, and carry God’s message to the people.”
“That is good to know.” Oswald glanced at the man sitting beside him. “What say you of this, Bishop Corman?”
The bishop did not stand up. He looked down the hall to where James stood, inspecting him. James flushed once more – to the barely concealed chuckles of the men around him.
“I say: when you heard a bishop had come again into this kingdom, why did you not come to do homage to one who stands in line of the apostles?”
James’s blush deepened.
“I – I…”
“What office do you hold?”
“I – I am a deacon.”
“A deacon. Not even a priest – and yet you spent many years with Bishop Paulinus here. He did not think to ordain you? Is that not strange?”
“I – I did not think myself worthy to be ordained priest.”
“No. No indeed. And finally, I ask by whose authority you minister here, alone, in this kingdom?”
“It was Bishop Mellitus who sent us with Queen Æthelburh, but he died many years ago and I have not heard who is bishop in his place now.”
Bishop Corman raised an eyebrow. “So you have no authority for your ministry either. I, on the other hand, come to this country with the blessing of the Holy Island and under the protection of the Blessed One, Colm Cille.”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 22