James shook his head. “I – I… Who is Colm Cille?”
Bishop Corman raised his other eyebrow.
“You, who call yourself deacon, know not the Blessed One?”
“N-no.”
“Then you are not worthy of the office you claim to hold, and I can only give thanks that the previous bishop had the wisdom and foresight not to ordain you priest, no doubt aware that you would only bring disgrace to that holy office. You say you found a cave? Return to it.”
James the deacon stood, his mouth agape, his face and neck bright with blood.
“I – I,” he gasped. “My lord…” He directed a pleading glance to Oswald.
“Bishop Corman,” began Oswald, “perhaps he could remain; I would hear of his home…”
“My lord,” Bishop Corman said, in tones that suggested he called no man lord. “When I agreed to come to this pagan land to tell the news of salvation, Abbot Ségéne assured me I would have full authority over the priests, monks and deacons in the kingdom. Unless this man lies and is no deacon, then I have rule of him, and I say for him to return to his cave and leave the mission to those who carry the blessing of the Holy Island and Colm Cille.”
Oswald, for once unsure how to respond, glanced to his brother, but Oswiu shrugged.
“I will go, lord,” said James. “It is true: the bishop’s word should be as my own will, merely uttered and done.” He gathered his cloak around his shoulders and, taking his staff from where it lay under the table, James made his way through the throng of men to the door of the great hall.
In the watching silence, the creak of the door sounded loud as the door warden swung it open, and from without there came a swirl of wind-driven snow. James the deacon went out into the storm, and the door warden closed the door behind him.
As men turned to speak to each other, whispering and glancing at the high table and Bishop Corman, Bassus stood up.
“Lord, if the witan acclaims you, will you be our king? Or will it be this stranger?”
“Let me speak!”
The witan, poised between Bassus and Oswald, turned to see Acca rising from his place by the fire. The scop had put all the training of his years into the shout, and it brought all attention to him. Now that Acca had the attention, he used it. He pointed at Bassus.
“You, Bassus – were you there when Cadwallon cut down Osric and left the fields outside this city covered in the bodies of the dead? I was there. Were you there when he put fire to Ad Gefrin? I was there. Were you there when he murdered Eanfrith under flag of truce? I was there. For a certainty, you served Edwin well and faithfully, but were you here, this past year, when fear and famine stalked this land? I was here.
“And were you there when Oswald brought down Cadwallon and delivered us from his wrath? I was there, Bassus. I was there! And I tell thee, there can be no worthier king for us than this man, son of Æthelfrith, son of Acha: true Iding and true Yffing. If you have another who is throne-worthy, then speak now.” Acca looked around the witan, seeming to catch every man’s gaze with his own.
“I was there,” he said again.
The witan turned to Bassus, but the old warrior did not sit down.
“I do not doubt that Oswald is throne-worthy, but we men of Deira do not rush to acclaim when thought and counsel call us to wait and consider. There is another we must give thought on, another man who is throne-worthy, and though he has not called on me to speak for him, yet will I do so, lest any man later accuse me of holding silence when I should have spoken.”
Bassus paused and looked carefully around the assembled men, searching for one face among the many, until his own face lightened with a smile.
“Ah, he is here.” Bassus paused as men shifted, whispering names one to another. “Our forefather, Yffi, had two sons, and from his eldest came Ælle and then Edwin. Yet the children of Yffi’s younger son are throne-worthy too, and from that line came Osric, whom you were glad to call king, and from that line there is another most throne-worthy. He held his land and his hall when Cadwallon razed the kingdom; a valiant lord and a wise one, for he knew well when to fight and when to hold his peace. So I call upon the witan to think on the claim of Oswine, son of Ælfric, son of Yffi. Should he be our king?”
At the name, many men nodded, though whether from having their guess confirmed or in agreement, Oswald could not tell. He looked around the hall, seeking the identity of this man who would be king, but no man rose from his seat.
“Where is he? Is he here?” he asked.
Then slowly, reluctantly, as if prodded to his feet by the glances of the men who knew him, Oswine rose.
He was young, younger than Oswiu, with fair hair and clear eyes.
“I am Oswine,” he said. “And I would not be king.”
At this, a murmur ran through the assembly. Many men cried no, for Oswine had a most kingly bearing, and his word was known from his youth as true, and his arm was told to be strong. And more, he had grown up among the men present at the witan: he had ridden on hunt and in war with them, he had suffered through the year of fear and famine, he was their own best selves reflected to them.
Oswald held up his hand, and quiet slowly returned to the witan.
“I too would not be king,” he said to Oswine. “And our names alone attest that either of us may yet be called to be king – unless there are others throne-worthy that Bassus has yet to speak on?” He looked to the warrior, to see him shake his head. “Then it is for the witan to decide between us. For myself, I would know more of you. How did you live when so many died with Osric? When your king called, did you not answer?”
Oswine stiffened at the question and the line of his mouth tightened.
“When King Edwin called the witan to consider whether we should hold with the gods of our fathers or take the new God that his priest Paulinus proclaimed, I was there. I was yet a youth and spoke not, but I listened, and heard Guthlaf, the king’s warmaster, tell on this life of man as like unto a sparrow flying into a hall in winter storm, and finding there light and warmth and fellowship, but fleeing hence into the dark and the unknown; for such was our state, with no knowledge of what befalls us before we are born nor after we die. Then I heard Coifi, priest of the old gods, speak, and he abjured the gods he had served, for they had failed him who had served them most faithfully.
“I heard all this, and in my heart I welcomed this new knowledge, and when the witan gave voice that we should adopt this new God, my heart rejoiced. When many here followed the king and his sons into the water of new life, I was among those who went afterwards, and I emerged as a man cleansed, gasping, like a babe but full made.
“I answered Osric’s call, but when in fear and uncertainty he abandoned our new God and sacrificed blood to the gods of old, I could not – I would not. So I withdrew, returning to my hall with my people, and I was spared and saved, as one who remained true to his pledge to our new God – and yours. That is why I yet live and did not die, and if any man call upon me, I will answer with sword and shield.” The young man looked around the hall, but none rose to his challenge; rather, many turned their faces away, remembering the ease with which they had abandoned their oaths, and hiding their shame.
“But now, if no man calls upon me, I would speak for myself in front of the witan.” Oswine paused, and the assembly leaned to him, to hear his words.
“I would not be king. Though Bassus proclaims me throne- worthy, my heart tells me no. You must find another.” Oswine stopped and looked to the high table, where Oswald sat with his brother and Bishop Corman on either side of him. “There he is.”
And then, at first one by one, then in groups, and then all that were left, the men of the witan rose to their feet and acclaimed their king.
*
When all the witan had given pledge to Oswald, and he had laid his hands upon their bowed heads, giving gifts of gold and weapons – for great was the hoard that they had recovered from the wagons of Cadwallon – then Acca rose and sang h
is claim to the throne, telling the story of the Idings through the generations, from their forefather, Woden. The tale was new to many of the witan, for few now remembered the days when Æthelfrith, Oswald’s father, had ruled in Deira, taking the throne from Edwin’s father, Ælle, by slaying him at the marriage feast that had been made to celebrate his marriage to Edwin’s sister, Acha. Still, the tale of that day had come down the years, and some among the witan bowed to Æthelfrith’s son with ill grace. Yet Oswald made no sign that he saw such hesitation, but gave gold as generously to those who gave oath with tight lips as to those who pledged themselves with full hearts.
Oswiu remained beside his brother through all that time, a smile as broad as the Sound of Iona upon his face, and when the last man was done and he was returning to his bench in the hall, he whispered to Oswald, “Did you think, when we waited wet and starving outside the hall of Dunadd to know if Domnall Brecc would receive us or return us, we would ever come to this day?”
And Oswald, without turning his head, said, “Your cheeks were so wet, I thought it was raining.”
“I was a boy.”
“So was I.” Oswald saw the last man return to his place, then turned and smiled at his brother. “No, I did not think this day would ever come.”
Then Oswald rose to his feet.
“Men of Deira, I have given gifts of gold and silver, jewels and weapons cunningly wrought, but I have one more gift to give, and this to you – to us – all. I had not thought to give it before, lest some among you say I sought to win favour with the witan that was not my due. But I have a blood guilt of my own that I must pay; for my father raised his hand treacherously against your king Ælle, slaying him when he brought his daughter, my mother, for marriage. As for me, in truth I am my father’s son, but more, much more, I am the son of my mother Acha, lady of the Yffings. I pray that she will return to the land and people that bore her, and be queen here once more, for she still lives.” At that news, murmurs spread through the witan, for many stories told of the beauty and generosity of Queen Acha.
“And though my mother was given in marriage to Æthelfrith, yet she spoke always of her brother Edwin, sometimes when he was in exile, more when it was we who were in exile, and Edwin made no move against us, but let us live in peace.
“Men of Deira, know this. My father was a great warrior, but my uncle was a great king and still I hear men speak of the peace and plenty of his days, when a woman with babe in arms might pass from sea to sea without fear or harm. King Edwin fell and we, his kin, the sons of the man who had driven him into exile, we avenged him. We killed the man who ravaged this land, burning halls and bringing ruin, and we watched as the water carried his body away; he will have no resting place. But now I bring back to you your king, that he might have a resting place among his people, and we may ask his blessing, who lives now in God’s great hall.”
And Oswald signed to his brother, and Oswiu brought forth a richly worked chest, covered in gold cloth, and placed it upon the high table. Then together they took the cloth from the chest, folded it and, kissing it, lay it beside the chest. A silence of great awe filled the hall. Oswald opened the chest, but in a way that no one but he might yet see what it contained. Then, laying reverent hands upon it, he brought forth from the chest the head of King Edwin and placed it upon the gold cloth, that all might see. A great cry went up from the assembled men, and tears sprang from many eyes, but yet they gave thanks to see their king returned to them.
In silence, the men of the witan gave reverence to their king of old, and when all had passed before his face, Oswald rose again and spoke.
“Let us take the High King forth and lay him to rest in the church that he built here in York.”
And Oswald and Oswiu placed the mortal remains of their uncle back in the chest and covered it again with the gold cloth. Then they led the men of the witan from the hall, and when the doors were opened, they saw that the storm was past and the world was made white and still, waiting.
They carried Edwin to the church. Its stone walls were set firm and high, but its roof remained incomplete, for it had not yet been finished when the king fell. But they placed the chest upon the altar, and bowed before it, and each man laid his hand upon the cloth that covered it. Then Oswald set guards upon the church, that Edwin might rest there undisturbed until the church was made whole, and the witan returned to the hall that it might feast the new king.
*
“We have eaten.”
A satisfied roar answered Oswald as men settled over tables, stomachs full, wiping grease from their mouths.
“We have drunk.”
A louder roar answered him. Bassus stood, holding his cup high, and announced, “We are still drinking!” before draining the cup in a single long draught, to the acclaim of the men around him
“Not all of us have Bassus’s head – nor his belly!”
The old warrior laughed and held out his cup for refilling.
“Tomorrow, many of you will return to your halls and your fields – although some may be riding more slowly than others – so now, as the night nears, we will hear tales and songs and riddles.” The loudest roar of all greeted that, for the men of the witan loved nothing as much as stories of warriors and monsters and gods, except mayhap a new riddle, tough and made to chew over as the fire burned low and the shadows swelled.
“But before I call on Acca, I would have another speak to you. In exile, I lived long on the Holy Island, in the kingdom of Dal Riada, and I saw there… I saw wonders.” Oswald’s voice trailed away and the men closest saw his gaze fade into memory.
“When I left the Holy Island, the abbot promised, if I should survive and win the throne, that he would send us a bishop, to teach and bless, that we might have knowledge of God and the life he brings forth. As soon as news reached the Holy Island – for the abbot had sent monks too, monks who fought alongside me at Heavenfield and they returned with word – the abbot sent a bishop with his blessings and the blessings of the Holy Island. Now, while we still have ears to hear, I ask Bishop Corman to tell us of God’s wonders and his beauty.”
Oswald resumed his place at the high table, and the hall, while far from silent – it had eaten and drunk too well to be silent – assumed an air of expectancy.
Bishop Corman rose to his feet. He looked at the watching men, the great shaved dome of his forehead catching the rushlights and reflecting them.
“Today, we laid King Edwin to rest, and we pray he takes his place in God’s great hall, before the Holy One. Today, I stand before you, bishop and teacher, in line of the apostles, and I tell you now, that if you do not accept the teachings I bring and change your lives, leaving aside the wretched stories of gods and pagan kings of old, you will burn.”
In the firelight, the bishop’s eyes burned indeed, and deep shadows moved across his face. The background conversation in the hall died away and eyes, glinting, turned to the man standing at the high table.
“You will burn as your forefathers burn; the men who drove the saints from this land and filled it with idols and sorcery. You will burn and the cold rain of hell will chill you and you will have no rest but the rest of the damned, which is to curse the living. You will burn as Æthelfrith burns; for God alone is king, and he does his justice on the living and the dead.”
A sound, like to the growling of a dog, rose through the hall, and men began to stand.
But before they could speak, Bassus strode forward and stood in front of the high table.
“You tell me my forefathers burn?”
The bishop looked at him and his eyes were cold. “They burn.”
“I will not hear my father and my father’s father traduced in such manner – if they burn, I will burn with them.” Then the old warrior turned and strode from the hall.
“They b…” The bishop made to call after the departing warrior, but before he could finish the phrase, the wind rushed from his belly. Gasping, he looked up at Oswald. “You – you struck me?
”
“Oh, shut up,” said Oswald. The second blow knocked the bishop out.
Oswiu looked over the prone man to his brother. “Well, that went well,” he said.
“You shut up too,” said Oswald.
*
“You cannot speak to these men in such a way.”
Oswald sat beside the bed to which they had taken the bishop – he had Oswald’s own bed, for only the king had a room of his own, and as yet he had no wife to share it with.
“You struck me.” Bishop Corman looked at Oswald with unfeigned loathing, although it was mixed with unbelief that such a thing might happen.
“Yes. Yes, I did, and I will again if you speak in such manner.”
The bishop struggled to sit up, although his head still spun from the blow he had received. He swung his legs to the ground, made to stand up, then when his legs gave way held his arm out to Oswald.
“Help me, you idiot,” he said.
Oswald gave him his arm and Bishop Corman used it to pull himself to his feet.
“Most kings would have killed you for that insult,” said Oswald.
Corman stared at him. “Abbot Ségéne will damn you for yours,” he said. “To strike a bishop is to strike the apostles themselves.”
“If I had let you continue speaking, there would have been no chance for the message of the Holy Island to be accepted in this kingdom. I know these people, bishop.”
“I know them too,” said Bishop Corman. “I told the abbot there was no point in sending me. They are ungovernable; their souls are barbarous and obstinate; I would as well preach to a kingdom of donkeys.”
Oswald shook his head. “I do not understand. If you did not want to come, why did Abbot Ségéne send you?”
Bishop Corman drew himself up. “Because I am a bishop, and you have need of a bishop for the benefit of your soul and to teach and guide your kingdom. And because I speak the tongue of your people.”
“Yes. But how do you know it? You are not an Angle.”
“I know your speech because when I was a child, men came to my village when my father and the other men were away, and they burned it and took the women they wanted, and the children, leaving those too old or too young spitted by their homes. I was sold; my mother too, but I did not see her again. I learned your tongue from the man who bought me, in between blows and whippings; but I watched and waited, and became useful to him, for he was as lazy as he was stupid. In time, he learned to take me with him whenever he went to a beach market, for I had a gift for tongues and could make myself understood to the traders who came over sea. He loved to drink too, emptying cup after cup, and I learned to hide from him then, until the sleep came upon him, and he fell down to snore.”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 23