Oswald: Return of the King

by Edoardo Albert

  “The abbot said I must. He told me I must come see how his hawk flew.” The young monk looked around, at warriors and castle and sea and sky. “I see you fly very well indeed.”

  Oswald, beaming, looked from abbot to monk and back again. “That you should come on the same day as Rhieienmelth arrives – this is most wonderful indeed.”

  “Ah,” said Abbot Ségéne, holding up his hand. “There is no chance there. After leaving the Holy Island, we stopped first in Rheged, and finding the king making ready to depart, it was no difficult matter to come with him.” The abbot stepped closer to Oswald and whispered, “I think he was glad to have Brother Diuma and his men along too – the lands around the Wall have grown dangerous in past days.” Stepping back, the abbot looked up at the stronghold above their heads. “But now all that will change. We have a new king in the land. And a wedding to attend.” Abbot Ségéne rubbed his hands together. “I enjoy wedding feasts more than any other.”

  *

  “We will have the wedding on the morrow.” King Rhoedd slipped a glance at Oswiu. “Patience,” he said. “Patience – she is worth the waiting.”

  “I know,” said Oswiu fervently. “I know.”

  “But now I must speak to your brother alone, as one king to another. Here…” Rhoedd held out his daughter’s hand. “Take her round, but no sampling the wares before market.”

  “Father!”

  The old king laughed, and pushed Rhieienmelth towards Oswiu, who reached out to catch her. But the princess caught her own balance first, before taking Oswiu’s hand and allowing him to lead her forth. As they went from the hall, Rhieienmelth glanced back to where her father sat beside Oswald, and both were watching her. She smiled, a small smile, and raised her hand before stepping to the door.

  “I could sell her to you,” said Rhoedd, his own hand raised but his voice lowered. “You could have her for yourself for another three white mares.”

  “No!”

  Heads busy working to prepare for the wedding feast turned to the high table.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Rhoedd, still waving after his daughter and apparently not even talking to Oswald. “Keep your voice down.”

  “But you asked me if I wanted to take my brother’s wife – your daughter.”

  “Yes, my daughter – so she is mine to give to whom I will. You want her. I will give her to you.”

  “I – I do not want her.”

  At this, King Rhoedd turned to look at Oswald. “Any man would want Rhieienmelth – I’d have her myself if she wasn’t my daughter.”

  “I do not want her!”

  King Rhoedd held up his hands. “I just asked. Look, I know you made the agreement for your brother, but we’re kings. We can do what we want. Now, are you sure you don’t want her?”

  “Yes,” said Oswald, tight lipped and looking away from Rhoedd.

  “Very well. Now, about the price. I know we said five white mares, but that was before…”

  “That is my price.” Oswald turned to look at King Rhoedd and his face was grim. “Accept it or go.”

  Rhoedd met his eyes. “I’ll accept,” he said. “But I’ll want to see the horses before tomorrow.”

  *

  “I could have killed him.” Oswald stood upon the beach, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, looking to the low sea walls of the Farne Islands. Birds in their thousands wheeled around the rocks and isles – the local fishermen said the islands moved with each tide and moon, for it was impossible to count how many there were. He turned to the abbot and Brother Aidan. At the abbot’s suggestion they had left the noise and preparations of hall and castle to come down to the sand, where they might talk without ears to hear.

  “There have been few kings whom I have met and not asked God afterwards why he made them,” said the abbot. “Some of the Uí Neíll, for instance, and King Congal – he was an appalling man. I could see no good reason for God to have made him.”

  “What did God answer?”

  “He told me to mind my own business.” The abbot shrugged. “It is good advice, even if, as abbot, I can seldom follow it.”

  Oswald laughed. “It is good to see you. Oswiu would have come with us too, but I could not drag him away from Rhieienmelth.”

  Now it was the abbot’s turn to laugh. “I would not have thought ever to see your brother so – he runs after her like a calf. But then it is often the way with such men: they lead many girls astray and then themselves are hooked, flopping, upon the line.”

  “He is certainly hooked.” Oswald looked up at the stronghold, lowering upon its rock above them. “Let us walk further – I have a restlessness upon me this day.”

  The three men turned north, walking the dark line of sand that showed the reach of high tide. Nets lay drying above this line, the air around them shifting with sandflies.

  “I have heard Bishop Corman’s account of his mission,” said Abbot Ségéne. “Now I would hear yours.”

  “He put my people to the fire – them and their forefathers. After that, they would not listen to him further.”

  “Corman told me they are barbarous and obstinate.” The abbot smiled. “What people of these islands is not barbarous and obstinate – and as for ungovernable, that certainly applies to all!” He shook his head. “I did wrong in sending Corman to you. I thought that his knowledge of the language of your people outweighed everything else. I thought he had overcome his hatred for the people who had taken him as slave. So, we will have to find you a new bishop, and men to help him.”

  “If you do send another bishop, let him be gentle,” said Oswald.

  “I know my people – they can be broken to the kingdom, but as with a horse, it must be done with soft touch and quiet words rather than with bridle and whip.”

  The abbot nodded, then pointed ahead. “What is that land?”

  “That is the island I spoke of before, Father Abbot. It is called Lindisfarne, and twice each day men can walk to it dry shod, and twice each day the sea claims it again.”

  “How long does it take to get there?”

  “From here? On foot, a day, for the way goes far inland unless one risks walking across Budle Bay when the tide is out – but the mud and sand is treacherous there and many men have been lost while out hunting bird and seal. By sea, but a few hours, even if there is no wind.”

  The abbot nodded. “It will serve well. Is it yours to give?”

  “It is mine to give. There are some families living upon it, making their living from fishing in the main, although there are sheep and some crops in sheltered places. Why do you wish it?”

  “It will be the base for the monks I give you; a daughter house to the monastery of the Holy Island. And what better place for a daughter house than upon another island?”

  “That is wonderful. I had not thought, after Bishop Corman left, to receive more help from the Holy Island.”

  “We set you to fly, my hawk. It is our duty and blessing to fetch the prey you bring down. Here…” The abbot pushed forward Brother Aidan, who had been following in silence behind them. “It is poor exchange, but in return for an island I give you Brother Aidan.”

  The monk looked in confusion at Abbot Ségéne. “Me? You want me to stay with Oswald?”

  The abbot smiled. “Yes. I tried for authority and stern words and it failed; this time, let us see how friendship and a humble heart do with this obstinate people.”

  “B-but do you think I am able…”

  “I wouldn’t have chosen you if I didn’t think you were able, Brother Aidan. Besides, you won’t be alone: I’m leaving you the others I brought. Brother Diuma needs to spend more time on his knees and less time with a sword in his hand. Make sure you look after them.”

  “Me?” Brother Aidan looked around, as if searching for another monk upon the beach. “But I am just a monk. We will need a bishop, to teach, to consecrate priests and churches.”

  “As you said, you will need a bishop. The last one I sent did not work,
so this time it will be you.”

  Brother Aidan stood looking at the abbot, his mouth opening and closing like a beached fish.

  “B-b-but…” he stuttered.

  “Yes, I know you are not a bishop. So we will make you one.”

  “A – a bishop?”

  “I’ve sent messengers for the pallium; they should arrive back soon. When they get here, I will place the pallium upon you and consecrate you bishop.” The abbot smiled. “Bishop Aidan. It has a grand sound to it, don’t you think?”

  “B-bishop Aid…” The words trailed away. Brother Aidan’s eyes rolled up, his legs gave way and he fainted upon the sand.

  Abbot Ségéne looked over the prone monk to Oswald. “Do you think he’s pleased?”

  *

  “Acca, Acca, give us a song!”

  The scop looked around the hall. The wedding feast was in full swing. Oswiu sat beside Rhieienmelth – Rhieienmelth unveiled – at the high table, and her beauty, and Oswiu’s evident pleasure in it, filled the hall.

  The feasting continued, but the beer and mead, and wine brought by boat from Francia, had flowed and the call went out for song.

  Acca rose to his feet. He worked his tongue and throat, making sure they were supple and ready, while he tuned the six strings of his lyre and the men around him banged the tables in encouragement. Inwardly, the scop smiled. This was the way with an audience: tease them, make them wait. But what to sing? He looked around at the beer-bright faces and knew.

  “Hwæt!”

  The command to listen, underlined by the six-string chord he strummed upon the lyre, brought the hall to as near as it would come to silence this day: dogs snapped scraps, slaves slapped down cups, talk filled the corners of the hall, but around him faces were turned his way, waiting, expectant and quiet.

  “What shall I sing?” Acca asked the question innocently, as if he honestly did not know what to do. Suggestions came, favourites were called out, but the scop held up his hand.

  “When I sang for the wedding of King Edwin and Queen Æthelburh, they did not like what I sang – but then the queen had had her bride price stolen by Cadwallon. No wonder King Edwin was upset. Now, Princess Rhieienmelth comes without fear across the country because Cadwallon is dead!” At this, cheers resounded around the hall and men who had been nowhere near Heavenfield raised their cups and drank, although those few who had seen the bodies litter the ground sat quiet, and rather than raise their cups they stared into their depths.

  “Now, it is meet that the slayers of Cadwallon, they who delivered our kingdom from him, should marry and enjoy the fruits of victory.” Acca glanced pointedly at Rhieienmelth, who blushed and lowered her eyes, although she smiled at the men’s cheers and, more, at the way her soon-to-be husband beside her beamed.

  “Today, the younger, the more impatient, has wed. But how much longer can the elder’s patience last?” Acca looked archly to Oswald, who looked away.

  “Not long I think.” Raucous laughter echoed around the hall.

  Sitting together at the end of the high table, Brother – soon to be bishop – Aidan leaned to Abbot Ségéne. “What is he saying? I do not understand the language well enough yet.”

  The abbot looked at the young monk. “You will have to learn it, but perhaps it is as well that you do not understand all yet.”

  “For your wedding, I have a rare and precious gift,” said Acca, bowing to Oswiu and Rhieienmelth, “and one that I shall give you whole and entire today, rather than making you wait. What say you to that?”

  “I say get on with it, Acca,” said Oswiu. “For we cannot leave the feast until you have sung!”

  Even louder cheers greeted that, and Rhieienmelth blushed more deeply, but those near saw that she held Oswiu’s hand.

  The scop, in acknowledgment of Oswiu’s sally, held his lyre high and strummed it, his hand a blur over the strings.

  “Let us not keep the prince and his princess waiting. Here is my gift to you: a riddle! A new riddle, a fresh riddle, a wedding riddle.”

  Murmurs went through the hall; there were few things better for chewing over through the long nights of winter than a difficult riddle.

  Acca dropped his voice, pulling his audience in closer.

  “Riddle me this,” he said, “riddle me this.” And he pulled a single note from his lyre, leaving it hanging in the hall.

  “Swings by his side a thing most magical!”

  Acca strummed the lyre, fingers blurring over strings.

  “Below the belt, beneath the folds

  of his clothes it hangs, a hole in its front end,

  stiff-set and stout, but swivels about!”

  The laughter grew more raucous yet, and one or two of the drunker men staggered to their feet and threatened to pull down their trousers, until made to sit by the slightly less drunk men beside them.

  “Levelling the head of this hanging instrument,

  its wielder hoists his hem above the knee:

  it is his will to fill a well-known hole

  that it fits fully when at full length.”

  This time, Acca was taking care to watch the reaction of the people for whom he had composed the riddle; he had made the mistake with King Edwin and Queen Æthelburh of looking too much to the rest of the audience to realize that they were furious with his ribaldry. But seeing the delighted grin on Oswiu’s face and the sidelong glances Rhieienmelth cast towards him, Acca knew that this time he had judged correctly.

  “He has never filled it before.

  Soon he will fill it for the first time!”

  Acca finished with a final triumphant strum upon the lyre, then held it up above his head as cheers and laughter filled the hall.

  Brother Aidan turned to Abbot Ségéne, who was delightedly applauding along with everyone else in the hall.

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, you really don’t want to know, my son,” said the abbot, mixing the odd cheer into his applause. “You really don’t want to know.”

  Acca held up his hands and the applause and shouts slowly died away, although occasional bursts of laughter could be heard coming from outside, as slaves passed on the riddle to those working outside the hall in the kitchen.

  “It is not meet, today of all days, to keep anyone waiting for the answer to this riddle. So here it is!” And from a string around his neck, Acca held up the gleaming metal of a new key, and gave it to Oswiu.

  “Now use it,” he said.

  And grinning, Oswiu stood up, waving the key to all in the hall, and then taking Rhieienmelth’s hand he raised her to her feet and led her from the hall, accompanied by delighted cheering.

  As they left, Abbot Ségéne looked at the unguarded faces following them, and saw the hood-eyed calculation upon the face of her father – as he had expected – and the strain of smiling upon Oswald’s face, which he had not expected. He turned to Aidan, and speaking in Latin so no one around could understand said, “When you are bishop and I have returned to the Holy Island, I think it best you encourage Oswald to marry as soon as possible.”

  Aidan looked at the abbot, taken aback that even when he heard something spoken in a language he understood he still did not understand.

  Abbot Ségéne sighed. “Oswald will never join us on the Holy Island. I know of no king since the days of the emperors who has died in his bed. He must marry and have children, that the kingdom may survive him… and to keep him from testing.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Aidan.

  “You have heard the stories of Arthur? Some tales say it was the witchery of his half-sister that destroyed him, but others say it was the enmity that flared between Arthur and his warmaster over his wife that divided his kingdom.”

  Aidan shook his head. “I do not understand.”

  The abbot shook his head. Although he said nothing, he appeared to be having second thoughts about the wisdom of making Aidan a bishop and putting him in charge of this mission.

  “I do not know if he
knows it himself yet, but there is a … tension between Oswald and his brother’s new wife. I have seen such before, in Dal Riada, among the Uí Neíll; a princess from a minor kingdom weds and though she means no harm, yet she charms the king as much as the prince she married, for she has been charged by her own people to smooth the way between the two kingdoms, and a rift opens between king and prince. I know Oswald: he will not, I think, yield to temptation, but the strain of it will be great until he is safely wed himself. So see that he marries, and soon, and all will be well.”

  Aidan sat gaping at the abbot. “Is this what being a bishop is all about?”

  “You should try being an abbot,” said Ségéne.

  Chapter 4

  “Come on, Aidan, you’ve been shut away on this island for weeks now.” Oswiu circled his horse, stepping it between the stacks of worked timbers and piles of thatch. “Time for some rest.”

  The monk bishop stood up from where he had been kneeling, taking it in turns with Brother Diuma to plane wood.

  “There is still much to do, Oswiu. We must have the abbey ready before winter, or we will be blown away.”

  “Could you not be spared for an afternoon?” The question came from Rhieienmelth, sat astride a roan horse.

  “No. No, I do not think I can,” said Aidan.

  Oswald swung himself down from his animal and came over to where Aidan and Brother Diuma were working.

  “Could you manage without the bishop for an afternoon?” he asked Brother Diuma. “We – I – have missed him since he was elevated so high.”

  “Of a surety we could manage without the bishop for an afternoon,” said Brother Diuma.

  “There, you see,” said Oswald. “So you can come hunting with us.”

  Aidan stood looking at Oswald, the breeze from the North Sea blowing the rough wool of his habit against his legs.

  “I – I gave away the horse.”

  Oswald looked blankly at his friend. “What did you say?”

  “I gave away your horse.”

  “You gave it away?”

  “They had so little and the child was ill – I could as easily walk as ride. More easily in my case.”