Oswald: Return of the King

by Edoardo Albert

  “I know his name.”

  “I hear he has left the ways of our fathers and follows the new god.” Penda looked down at the bound man. “The new god brought no fortune to your father or your brother. Or to you.”

  Eadfrith looked up at Penda. “Of a time, I thought that too.”

  A question formed on Penda’s face. “And now no more? Though you lie here, tied and waiting on my will as to whether you live or die?”

  “Yes.” Eadfrith smiled. “It is true, I failed. I tried to kill you and I failed, as my father and brother failed before. The old gods, the gods of our fathers, they would turn their faces from me now, a broken, beaten man. But strength of arm fails, Penda. Victory ends in defeat. And only the new God understands that, for he was broken, he was beaten, he was set upon a tree and despised, and yet he had the triumph.” Eadfrith sighed. “When I was a boy, all I wanted was to be a warrior, to wield sword and win fame like my father and the heroes of our tales, but now, now, how glad I am that the story is greater than sword glory.” He looked up at Penda and his face glowed. “It is greater than I ever knew.”

  Against that burning face, Penda held his fingers up, making the sign against the eye.

  “I will take the glory of the gods – and victory. I know our people, Eadfrith. They go after the new ways when they come with the mantle of the emperors of old, but most of all they will follow the gods who win. Come then: I will set my gods against your god, the ways of our fathers against the new ways come from over sea. We will see who brings victory, for what use is a god without power to bring victory?”

  “What use are gods who cannot bring life?”

  “They may not bring it, but they can take it.”

  “A life is a small thing, easily extinguished – as easily as blowing out a candle. But to light a candle, ah, that is no small thing. It makes light, and then the darkness is dark no longer.”

  Penda shook his head. “You do not understand. The gods give power and they take it as they will.”

  “Oh, I understand. What would we say of a king who did not keep faith with the men pledged him? You pledge yourself to the gods, yet they will as soon bring you down as raise you up.”

  “The gods require sacrifice. I provide it. So long as I do, they will give me victory.”

  “Do you believe that? Do you really believe that?”

  Penda paused. “What of your god? What happened to the victory he promised you?”

  “He does not promise victory. He promises life.”

  “He did not keep his promise to your father or your brother.”

  Eadfrith shook his head. “He did.”

  Penda grimaced. “That is the sort of promise I expect from priests – twisted and turned, so it means whatever they want it to mean. But here, I will give you my promise, and it is good: I will tell you when I am going to kill you, that you may be ready.”

  Eadfrith looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you,” he said.

  Chapter 3

  “It is not often we wait here on people arriving by land. Even our gate faces the sea, yet now we pace upon the wall with our backs to the waves, looking to the mountains.”

  Oswald smiled at his brother. “I have not seen you so nervous before.” They were standing behind the wooden palisade that topped the stone wall that itself was raised upon the rock of Bamburgh. They were looking landward, over the plough-scored fields sown with oats and barley, showing the first green of their growing, to the grasslands, speckled white with sheep and brown with cattle, that rose up to the line of hills beyond. The Cheviot, cloud-wracked, lay hidden, but the nearer hills glowed in the eastering sun, new risen from the sea.

  Oswiu turned to him. “I have not awaited a wife before.”

  “But you have known many women; why should this one be so different?”

  “Because she will not go away! Because she will carry my children. Because, as you have no wife as yet, she will be the lady of the hall and carry the cup to our warriors. That is no easy task, for she must encourage the men – they must love her – but she must remain above them.”

  “Mother did so,” said Oswald.

  “Did she? I do not remember. I was too young. But why do you not ask her to return, brother? Then she can be mistress of our hall.”

  “I have asked her. I do not know if she will come. Coll has been her home for many years, and she can see the Holy Island from there.”

  “She can see us here!”

  “True. I hope she will come.” Oswald turned back to scanning the land west. “But I hope Rhieienmelth arrives first.”

  “I’m not sure I do!”

  “I do not think you will get your wish.” Oswald pointed and, turning, Oswiu saw the glint of sun on spear point as riders breasted a hill, coming up the road that led to the Wall in the south.

  “Oh.” Oswiu swallowed. His face was suddenly pale.

  “Come when you are ready.” Oswald left him, staring out over the palisade, while he made his way down into the great space that the palisade enclosed upon the rock.

  “How is the work going, Talorc?”

  The Pict looked up from the drawing, scratched into the ground, that he and another man were crouched over, then he pointed to the building going up in front of them.

  “They say they will start putting the roof on the church tomorrow.”

  “Good, good,” said Oswald, heading towards the hall.

  “Can’t see what the hurry is myself,” Talorc muttered to his foreman as the king went past. “It’s not as if he’s got a priest to use it – not since Corman went back to the Holy Island.”

  Exercising what he had found to be one of the most important aspects of kingship – selective deafness – Oswald continued to the hall.

  “Acca,” he said, seeing the scop there, stringing his lyre. “They are in sight. Is everything ready?”

  The scop sprang to his feet. “Yes, lord. I have a new song ready, telling of how you slew Cadwallon after many grievous thrusts through the heat of the day, and only as night was about to set did he finally fall and breathe his last, surrounded by the bodies of the slain.”

  “It was not like that, Acca. Besides, this is a wedding, not a battle feast. My brother’s wedding, not mine. Sing something appropriate and leave me out of it.”

  “But, lord, Cadwallon’s ending is so pathetic – every man in the hall will be in tears.”

  “As I said: well for a battle feast but not for a wedding feast. Sing something of love and the duties of a wife. And seeing as it’s my brother that is getting married, you had better add something about the duties of a husband. I do not think he is clear about them.”

  “I might know something that would fit…” A thoughtful look came into the scop’s eyes and his lips began moving without sound. Oswald knew that when such a look appeared on Acca’s face, the world serpent itself might rise from the sea and he would not hear it. It was similar to the battle mind that settled upon warriors, when all slowed and became precise and clear – he had known it himself a few times, but more often it was the battle fury that seized Oswald, the fire that killed, and laughed when it killed, but having burned itself out left him spent and shaking in its aftermath, half appalled at the death he had meted out and the pleasure he had taken in dealing it.

  Leaving Acca, Oswald went in search of Coifi. When the old priest had first come to him, Oswald had needed a steward, as well as an almoner, a man to organize the household, to inform vills that the royal party would come to them next week, next month or next year, and to set aside provisions accordingly, and to supervise the wagoners. After a month of chaos it had become clear that Coifi was no steward – all too often, when clear head and cool memory were needed, he would be distracted by the fall of stream over stones, or the sight of a dead hare by the side of the road. So Oswald had found another man, with experience as a steward, and to Coifi was given the job of almoner alone. The harvest had been good, and the poor were fewer than they had been. Still, whene
ver they stopped upon the route through the royal estates that wound through Deira and Bernicia, each a day’s march from the other, there would be the local poor waiting upon their arrival. Coifi would give food and drink each day they remained at the estate, hissing half-believed curses at those who returned for more when he had not yet fed the rest.

  Oswald found Coifi by the kitchen, a building separate from the great hall for reason of its hearth, which might all too easily set flame to the hall if it were within it. Even so, the kitchen was built apart from the other wooden-framed and thatch-roofed buildings and, at feast, teams of slaves waited to rush the food to table.

  The old priest saw the king coming and went to him, pointing at the kitchen.

  “That man is holding all the food in store and refusing to give any up for the almoner. The poor are standing outside the gate, pointing to their bellies, and I have nothing to give them because this fat cook won’t give me any, and this because I told him what the fate singers decree for him. Tell him, lord. Tell him to give me the food.”

  Oswald held up his hand. “I will, I will. But tell me first, what of the fate singers did you tell him?”

  Coifi waved his hand. “Oh, little enough: that he will die coughing on a fish bone, and his children are some his but some the brood of his brother, whom he thought to leave with his wife while he went forth as king’s steward.” Coifi held up his hand to cover the side of his face and leaned to the king. “It was not hard to see that; all I had to do was ask the dates he was there and the dates when the children were born.”

  “Telling a man he will die and he is cuckolded by his own brother is not perhaps the way to get him to share the food in his charge with you.”

  Coifi blew out his lips, then shook his head. “It is what I have seen.”

  “But henceforward do not tell him what you see. Simply tell the cook what you need. That will be enough.”

  The priest looked doubtful, but he nodded. “What I need, not what I see.” He paused. “But what I see is what I need.”

  “Yes… Are there any waiting for food now?”

  “There are always people waiting for food, and whatever else we have to give.” Coifi shook as an idea bit him. “If only there were some way to give food that they could eat when we are gone; we come often to Bamburgh, three or four times a year, but there are other estates to which we return only once a year. Many families from such places come to me to commit their children as slaves to you, lord, that they might have food.”

  Oswald nodded. “We take all that we can.”

  “More than we can – half your slaves spend their days sitting outside the kitchen, waiting to fill themselves with food and drink.”

  “But you are right; if there were a way we could give through the months we are away, it were better. For now, though, go to the people outside the gate and tell them to clear the way. A royal party approaches.”

  “Who is it, lord?”

  “Princess Rhieienmelth of Rheged, my brother’s bride.”

  Coifi’s face went white and he reached for Oswald’s wrist, grasping it convulsively.

  “Send her away, lord. Send her away. I have seen – she comes surrounded with a great shadow, a darkness follows in her wake and the sun’s face turns from this land. Send her back to her own land; scatter the clouds.”

  Oswald stared into Coifi’s white face and slowly unpeeled the fingers from his wrist.

  “You are my almoner, Coifi, not my priest. Keep to your task and I will keep to mine.”

  “But, lord, please, the fate singers…”

  “If it is a matter of your fate singers, then there is nothing I can do, is there? But your fate singers do not weave our destinies – they lie in the lands of another, and he hears our prayers and answers them, Coifi. If you have seen these clouds follow in the wake of Princess Rhieienmelth, then pray for them to be diverted. For my part, I have given my word to King Rhoedd that my brother will marry his daughter, and I cannot turn my word on the say of a priest of the old gods.”

  “I – I know I am priest no more, lord, but the sight, the sight… It has come back to me, as it was when I first spirit-walked. I see these things; I see them.”

  “You might see them, but I do not. And unless I see with my own eyes what you have seen – and even then I could not go back on what I have promised – I would not change what is to happen. Rhieienmelth will wed, and be the mistress of my hall.”

  Coifi stepped back. He looked searchingly at the king. “If you will have it so, lord.”

  Oswald answered in silence.

  The old priest shivered suddenly, and gathered his cloak around his flanks, the feathers rustling and creaking like old bones.

  *

  Oswald and Oswiu waited by the gate. As the wagons had lumbered closer to Bamburgh, their labouring teams pulling hard through the winter-churned tracks, the brothers had combed and dressed, hanging cloaks clasped with gold and garnet from their shoulders and pushing the thick arm rings up past their elbows, so they shone and glittered. Slaves bustled around the rock, and despite Coifi’s words, none seemed to be sitting outside the kitchen. Bran, finding the rush overpowering, had flown up onto the palisade where he now stood, glowering down at the commotion while keeping a keen eye for the scraps from the kitchen. The castle dogs – small, alert beasts, unlike the great hounds used for hunt – also waited, whining eagerly whenever anyone emerged through the fire-limned doors, but Bran had imposed his place upon them; he had first choice of whatever the kitchen put out. Only when he had taken what he wanted could the dogs rush forward in a yapping, snarling scrap.

  “Any sign of them, Talorc?” The Pict, dressed in the finery he had salvaged from the bodies of Cadwallon’s men, went down and round the path to see. The gate to the rock lay at the bottom of a steep climb on the seaward side of the stronghold. Visitors by land had to come around the outside of the rock and then out upon a thin spit of land above the high tide line to come to the gate, set into rock and wall.

  “They are nearly here.” Talorc took his place beside Oswald and Oswiu with the other men in the guard of honour, their arms and armour a jangle of the treasure despoiled from Cadwallon’s dead: Anglian brooches held Saxon cloaks, Kentish pendants and buckles from Francia took their place beside pins from Dal Riada and rings from Gwynedd. They had spent much time preparing, polishing and cleaning, brushing through hair and moustache and beard to remove knots and nits, until now they shone as burnished statues – somewhat fidgety statues, as each man craned around the next to see if the procession had yet come into sight.

  And then they appeared. Coming round the edge of the rock, the first man, polished and painted shield hanging from his shoulder, spear serving as stick as well as weapon. He walked, for though horses might be led through the gate and up the path into the stronghold, they had to be taken one by one and slowly, lest one start and send the other beasts careering from the path. So they would come afterwards, once the royal party had entered Bamburgh.

  With the guard lined up along the path, it was time for the king and his daughter to approach. Rhoedd came first, picking his way suspiciously over the steps, holding his robe up out of the way so that he would not fall over it. So intent was he that he barely lifted his eyes to the two waiting men. It was as well, for they were not looking at him but at Rhieienmelth, who followed behind her father. Where he walked heavily and carefully, she came with light step and head high. And though her face was veiled, yet everything about her bearing told of the smile that she wore behind the veil. Then a breeze, carrying in from the sea washing the beach below them, blew her veil aside and they saw her face.

  “She is fairer even than I remember,” Oswiu said to his brother. Oswald nodded, but did not speak. A hand clutched his throat and dried his tongue, and he turned his eyes from the princess and met the gaze of the king. Rhoedd stared up at him and his eyes gleamed. As father and daughter came up to the two waiting men, Rhoedd took Rhieienmelth’s arm and twitched her ve
il aside for an instant.

  “Do you agree this is Rhieienmelth, my daughter, for whom we made marriage settlement this past year?” King Rhoedd looked to Oswald.

  Oswald cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, forcing the word through dry throat and lips.

  “I sold her too cheaply.” Rhoedd clapped his hands together.

  “But I am a man of my word. What I say, I do – even if I entered into the agreement with no belief it would come through.”

  “Father, you do not sell me. I go willingly, or not at all.”

  Rhoedd turned to his daughter. “Well, are you willing then?”

  “Yes,” said Rhieienmelth. “Yes, I am willing.” But she was veiled and it was not possible to see where her eyes lay.

  “We will talk on this later,” said Oswald, “when we are within.” He went to take Rhoedd’s arm, but the king drew back.

  “Wait,” he said. “When we speak – later – think on this too. I bring you further gifts.” And he turned and gestured back down the path. At his sign, a further group of men rounded the corner, but these were not clad in the cloaks and armour of warriors, but rather wore rough wool, belted at the waist, and their foreheads were bare of hair. Oswald stared down the path, then ran down it, stopping before the small figure that led the group of men.

  “Abbot Ségéne,” he said, and went down on one knee before him. But the abbot laughed and raised him from the ground and embraced Oswald. Then, holding him at arm’s length, the abbot looked at him.

  “My son,” he said. “My son, you have done well.”

  Oswald smiled in turn. “But why have you come? It is so far, and the Holy Island…”

  “The Blessed One will look after the Holy Island in my absence. As to why I came, Bishop Corman gave me report of his time here. I thought it best to come to see for myself this ungovernable people. And I did not come alone.” The abbot turned his head, and from behind him appeared Brother Aidan, smiling and blushing at the same time.

  “Aidan! This is a day past all blessing. You came too.”