Oswald: Return of the King

by Edoardo Albert

  Bishop Corman paused and his face was taut with memory, withdrawn. Then he saw Oswald looking at him and a grim smile lightened his face.

  “That was how I escaped him. The traders were of my own people. I made the best deal for him, and he drank most of it. When he slept, I took the rest and bought my passage upon the traders’ ship, and came at last to the Holy Island. So, you see, I too know your people well, King Oswald. They are as I feared: too mired in their old ways to receive the joyful news I bring.”

  The bishop rubbed his jaw, then winced. “You did right in asking for God’s word to be preached here, but this is stony ground: the seed will not take root among your people. I will return to Abbot Ségéne and tell him what I have found. But you have my blessing.” Bishop Corman smiled, and for the first time there was warmth in his eyes. “You will need it.”

  Chapter 2

  “Men of Mercia, who will you have as your king?”

  Eowa, brother of Penda, turned about the witan gathered in the great hall at Tamworth.

  “My brother has returned with victory and gold, gifts and weapons. He has killed Edwin and thrown back the Northumbrians; he has ravaged the East Saxons and brought back their tribute, to lay it at your feet. Now come, acclaim him as king!”

  But the witan remained watchful, waiting, eyes going from one man to another to see who would speak first. Eowa began to turn to one of the men he had primed with gold and promises, but before he could rise, another stood.

  Penda.

  “Time.” Penda looked around the hall. “That is what you asked for when I brought the witan together before: time. True, I had destroyed our enemy, Edwin, and brought glory to our kingdom, but you wanted time, and I gave it to you. I gave it to you because I understood your hesitation; because I shared it.

  “It is true: I am not Iclinga. My father was not descended from Woden, and as for my mother – well, you all know what she was!”

  Laughter rippled through the hall, its spread fuelled by the tension that lay near the surface of the gathering.

  “And it is true, it is a grave matter to choose a king who is not Iclinga. That is why, when the witan asked for time, I gave it, and gladly, keeping only the title I had already, that of warmaster, and taking war to the East Saxons. There I forced their kings to submit to us. Men of Mercia, I have given you time, but now it is time to decide.”

  Penda moved from his place at the high table and walked into the centre of the hall, and all eyes watched him. The grace of his movements had not been lost to the greater muscle that now sheathed his limbs, for, as a warrior will, Penda thickened, in arm and neck and waist. He moved with the ease of youth, but to that he had added the weight of experience.

  “Time draws on. A kingdom without a king cannot long endure; see how fell our ally, Cadwallon. Too long he lingered from his own lands; he should have returned when we did, and then he would yet live. But now Northumbria has a new king, men of Mercia, there is time no longer. Choose a king, or the Northumbrians will choose one for you.

  “I will make it easy for you.” Penda looked around the hall. “I heard the whispers. Yes, I heard them: men saying there was a true Iclinga among us, the grandson of King Cearl. No matter that he was the son of our enemy, King Edwin. No matter that I defeated him in battle and brought him back, hobbled and bound, as hostage. Still men whispered that they would hear this man, this son of our enemies, speak for king.”

  Penda stopped. Men craned forward from where they sat to hear his next words.

  “Very well. Let it be so. Let him speak.”

  Whispers fluttered around the hall, taking wing at Penda’s words.

  “Men of Mercia, if you would have above all others an Iclinga as king, then I have brought you one. Eowa…” Penda turned to his brother. “Bring him in.”

  And amid the hum of excitement, Eowa left the hall, while Penda calmly returned to his place at the high table. Eowa returned leading a man, still hobbled and with hands bound, whom he pushed to the centre of the hall; the final push sent him sprawling.

  Eowa stood beside him.

  “This is Eadfrith, son of Edwin of Northumbria and Cwenburg, daughter of King Cearl. Men of Mercia, would you have him speak?”

  At first there was silence. Then someone laughed. And another.

  “Yes, let him speak.” The voice held as much humour as interest.

  “Let him.”

  “Speak, Northumbrian. Speak.”

  “You heard them.” Eowa kicked Eadfrith sharply in the ribs. “Get up. Speak.” He bent down, and whispering, but so all men could hear, said, “You never know, you could end up king.”

  Laughter followed Eadfrith as he staggered to his feet and stood, swaying, before the witan of Mercia. His face and body bore the marks of hard use and little food; the muscle that had sheathed his bones had wasted away, and within his skull his eyes burned with the fever of hunger and hatred. Yet they burned.

  “You laugh.” Eadfrith, son of Edwin, looked around the assembly. Fingers pointed to him, faces turned to neighbour in whispered joke.

  “I would laugh too, if I were not tied and hobbled. Then, when I had laughed, I would pass wager: how long can he stand, when all about throw their cups at him.” At that, a cup sailed through the air and struck Eadfrith on the face, covering his face with ale.

  He stopped and stuck out his tongue, taking upon it the dripping ale.

  “That tasted good,” he said. “Anyone else like to give me their ale?”

  Men laughed, and one stood. “Give him a proper drink,” he said. The man nearest Eadfrith lifted his cup to the Northumbrian’s lips, and Eadfrith drank, and drank, to the accompaniment of hands slammed upon table tops.

  “That was very good,” he said, and his smile then might almost have been recognized by one who knew him of old.

  “I am to speak. I did not expect that. You did not expect that. After the battle where my father and brother fell, I expected only to die. Yet I still live. Many here are cousin to me, as I to them. Many here are Iclinga, as I am. Many here ask why the son of a Briton should rule them, as I do. For our forefather Icel took the whale road with his warriors and came to this land and made a kingdom for himself, with his sword and his strength, and he passed it on to his kin, that they might live. And live they did, and they grew strong, taking the land and making it theirs, and my grandfather, King Cearl, was the greatest of them, uniting the families of Mercia, making it strong. So strong that no king moved against him, even when he grew old and the strength of his arm failed and the light of his eye grew dim. Yet he still ruled, and well, and the other kings were glad to call him friend.”

  Eadfrith paused and looked around the hall. The men were listening to him closely; only Penda appeared to be paying him no mind.

  “For my part, I was glad to call King Cearl grandfather. And he, for his part – and many of you heard his words – he was happy to call me heir, and acknowledge me as king after him. But… he died. King Cearl died, far from here, when he went with his warmaster, not in a warband but in an embassy, to see my father. King Cearl was old, that is true, but he was healthy. I hear the men with him burned his body rather than bring it home. No doubt it was the time of year – hot weather makes even dead kings smell. I heard he fell from his horse then fell into a fever. It can happen.”

  The hall was silent. Even the slaves had stopped their work and were staring at Eadfrith.

  “But then – a great chance this, don’t you think? – the warmaster, before he could return home, meets the army of Gwynedd, also far from home, and together they enter into alliance and meet… well, me. The men of Northumbria.”

  “It was the army.” Penda’s voice cracked across the hall. “It was no group of men we met out hunting, but the army of Edwin. What was it doing, coming to meet the men of Mercia, on embassy to Edwin?”

  Eadfrith looked up the hall to where Penda, now standing, leaned forward over the high table.

  “You ask why the army of my f
ather rode to meet King Cearl? I will tell you, a straight answer, a true answer, unlike the answers you have given to this witan.

  “We were coming to kill you.”

  A long, low breath breathed through the hall.

  “We were coming to kill you – not the king, nor any other men of Mercia save those who stood around you – for reason that we knew you would no more allow King Cearl’s will – that I, his grandson, succeed him on the throne – than you would allow an old king to whom you owed your honour and your duty and your love to stand between you and the throne.” Eadfrith paused and stared up the hall at Penda and his eyes burned.

  “We failed. You killed my father, you killed my brother, but I yet live and while I do, sleep lightly, warmaster; sleep lightly.”

  “I have heard enough,” said Penda, and his face flushed as no one had ever seen it blood before, not even in the crush of battle. “You are not throne-worthy.”

  “You may have heard enough,” said Eadfrith, “but you are not the witan – it has its own voice: let it speak. Would you hear more of what I have to say?”

  And he turned, taking in the faces of the men around and the men far back, in the shadows and corners.

  The answer came back, first in murmurs and whispers, then in hands on wood and feet on the hard-packed earth.

  The witan would hear more.

  Penda, hearing its voice, gave way before it, settling back behind the table. But as he sat he looked to his brother and Eowa, nodding, withdrew slowly from where he stood and started to make his way among the witan, touching one man upon the shoulder, whispering a few words to another, catching the glance of a third. Among those he encountered, some turned away, but others thought and nodded, or gave assent through a narrowing of eyes and a sidewards glance.

  Eadfrith, for his part, spoke.

  “And what of this great alliance your warmaster forged with the Britons? You have heard, we have all heard, that Cadwallon is dead and his army scattered, few to return to their own land. A new king sits on the throne in Northumbria, an Iding of royal blood. With bare enough men to fill two benches, he defeated the army of Gwynedd and killed Cadwallon. Now, what of this alliance between Mercia and Gwynedd? Does it still endure? And for why should we, whose forefathers came over sea to take kingdoms in this land, enter alliance with the sons of the men we took the land from? But, of course, some here fall from both sides of the bed…

  “Now this man, warmaster sworn to protect the king, who returned without even the body of my grandfather that he might be buried in his own land, this man without Iclinga blood, asks the witan to make him king. I say no. I say there is one before you who is Iclinga; one who, in your hearing, King Cearl called his heir; one who would be true king of Mercia!” Eadfrith raised his arms.

  “I! I! I!”

  The murmur swelled, and mixed in with it, few at first but rising, were cries of, “Yes.”

  “Hold!” Splitting the building roar and dividing it, a man rose near the centre of the hall.

  “I am Ulferth and no man of Penda.” He spat upon the rush- covered straw. “That for the Britons and his mother was a little black-eyed slut of a Briton, but his father was a good man.” Ulferth looked around. “We need a king – we have left it too long. Let the gods decide it.”

  And, taking his cloak from his shoulders, he flung it out over the floor. The hall died to eager silence as the witan realized what Ulferth proposed.

  “Look at him,” said another, pointing at Eadfrith. “He can bare stand.”

  “I will fight,” Eadfrith hissed. He pointed at Penda. “Will he?”

  In answer, Penda rose. “I will fight,” he said.

  “One shield,” said Eadfrith. “To the death.”

  “One shield,” agreed Penda. “But I will not kill you. Not yet.”

  “I will kill you,” said Eadfrith.

  In answer, Penda turned away and took the limewood shield and sword – an old but sturdy blade – that had been brought to him. As Eadfrith had neither sword nor shield of his own – his weapons had been despoiled after the battle – he was given them. But as they were not his own weapons, custom dictated that Penda could not fight with the sword and shield he bore into battle.

  The two men took station, each with a foot upon the corner of the spread cloak. Men gathered, standing on benches to see, while boys, slave and free, wormed between legs and under tables.

  Eadfrith hefted the shield upon his left arm and gripped the sword with his right hand. He looked at Penda, standing loose and ready at the far corner of the cloak, and knew that he could not afford to allow the duel to drag on – he was too weak. His only chance lay in pouring everything into immediate attack.

  Penda nodded to him. “You have done well – I did not think to have to fight for my throne. Now you can take revenge for your father and your brother.”

  Eadfrith sprang forward, using his shield as a ram, bringing all the hatred and rage of battle lost and captivity endured into his sword arm as he swung it down upon Penda.

  And Penda met it. His feet did not slip back, his sword arm barely gave under the weight of Eadfrith’s blow and then, face to face so that each might feel the other’s breath, they strained against each other.

  “You have… grown weak,” grunted Penda, and he thrust Eadfrith back, pushing him across the cloak, and following it with blow after blow after blow, sending him down, slowly, beneath his fracturing shield, until a final shove sent Eadfrith sprawling upon the ground.

  Penda stepped upon his wrist, holding Eadfrith’s sword to the ground, while he held his own to the man’s throat.

  Eadfrith looked up at Penda.

  “Go on then,” he said. “Do it.”

  “Not yet,” said Penda, and he kicked the sword aside, then stepped back. He looked around the witan.

  “Who will you have for king?”

  “Penda!” The chant started among some of the men whom Eowa had approached, but it spread beyond them, until all the men in the hall cried his name, and Penda stood, arms raised, warmaster no more but king of Mercia.

  Amid the cheers, Penda looked to where Eadfrith sat huddled upon the ground, the shattered shield lying beside him. Bending to him, he whispered, “You failed.”

  Eadfrith looked up and tears streaked his face. His eyes were hollow and no words came from his mouth, for there were no words to say. When chance had come, beyond all hope, to avenge his father and brother, his strength had failed him. It had been as when an old warrior play-fights an eager boy.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Take him away,” said Penda, standing again and raising his arms to receive the acclaim of the witan afresh.

  *

  The night crisped the air, but too little light came into the hut for Eadfrith to see his breath mist in front of his face. He sat tied to the centre post, surrounded by the waste of weaving and spinning: loom weights rolled beneath his legs whenever he moved them and dry teasel heads pricked his ankles. The sound of feasting had stretched deep into the night, but Eadfrith had barely heard it, for the blackness of his despair shrouded him as a sack over his head, deadening sound and smell and sight. In the dark, he spoke to his father, he spoke to his brother, telling his failure. But they were dead and answered him not.

  Words exhausted, Eadfrith leaned against the post, mind blank and empty save for the wish for the death that Penda had denied him.

  He was not alone in failure.

  The thought, scratching at the side of his mind, would not go away. Another had failed before him.

  He had tried to avenge his father and his brother. He had failed. His body was too worn down and broken to fight Penda.

  “I can do no more,” he said.

  “He is for you.” Eadfrith sat in darkness and said no more.

  *

  The light from the brand woke him. The flames, close wrapped around the waxed wound cloth, sent shadows dancing around the hut. Eadfrith blinked and went to rub his eyes, only for his han
ds to jerk against their bonds.

  “Forget you were tied?”

  The figure holding the brand sat down behind it, cross legged upon the hard-packed earth.

  “I did the same once.” Penda leaned forward, his face alive with flame light. “I decided then I would never allow myself to be captured again.”

  “We wouldn’t have captured you,” said Eadfrith.

  “I know.” Penda fell silent, and in the silence Eadfrith listened. The night held the watchful silence of the late night, when men, in their sleeping, skirted the kingdom of death, and the watchdogs held peace against attracting the attention of the creatures – wight, elf or ghost – that roamed the dark land.

  “The feast is over?”

  Penda nodded. “I am king, and content.” He nodded at Eadfrith. “You spoke well – well enough to sway the witan to your account.”

  Eadfrith sat back. “Are you here to kill me?”

  “No. Not this night. If you would swear yourself to me, not ever.”

  “Do you think I would?”

  “No. But I would try. There is a new king in Northumbria, an Iding reigning over Deira and Bernicia. Swear yourself to me and I will bring him down and you will be king in his place.”

  “King under you?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “I would rather an Iding rule than I bend knee to you.”

  Penda nodded. “As I thought.” He began to get to his feet. “I will keep you yet, though. You may be useful in dealing with this Iding. Oswald is his name. Do you know him?”