Oswald: Return of the King

by Edoardo Albert

  “You gave it away?”

  “Yes. Yes. I told you. Would you have me not help the poor? Would you have me go against God?”

  “Yes. No.” Oswald blinked. “The horse was my gift to you.”

  “Ah,” said Aidan, “do not think I am like one of your warriors, giving loyalty for gold.”

  “I did not think to buy your loyalty but to give a gift to my friend. My oldest friend.”

  “Yes, well.” Aidan looked away. “For my sins, and at your bidding, I am a bishop now.”

  “But can a bishop not have friends?”

  Aidan looked at the king. “Among his monks, no, he cannot. But,” he smiled, “maybe with a man he has known since he was a boy.”

  “Good,” said Oswald. “I will give you another horse for the hunt. Do not give this one away – it is promised to the king of the Gododdin.”

  *

  “How does it feel being a bishop?”

  “It is… frightening,” said Aidan. He tugged without thinking at the pallium, the woollen band that marked him as a bishop. He still found it hard to believe that such office had been placed upon him. Maybe it would have been easier if it had not all happened on one day. Abbot Ségéne, before returning to the Holy Island, had ordained Aidan a priest and consecrated him bishop too. By the end of the day, Aidan had not known whether to bow to himself, dance with joy, or hope that he would die in the night before he had chance to disgrace the office he had been given. Instead, the morning had come, Abbot Ségéne had departed, taking ship north to the great firth that cut deep inland, where the boat’s master, having emptied the vessel, would then take the familiar portage route across the narrow belt of land and float the ship again in the western firth. The two days’ labour, dragging the boat on rollers over the well-worn path, was quicker and safer than the long passage around the rocky, storm-wracked northern shores.

  “It can’t be as frightening as seeing you astride a horse hunting,” said Oswald, pulling back his own animal as it chewed at its bit, eager to get after the hounds that had swarmed into the wood ahead. They had ridden back across the causeway from Lindisfarne – Oswald hoped that soon men might call it Holy Isle too – and sprung a boar from amid the copses that sheltered the fields from the worst of winter’s east winds.

  “Give me a boat rather than a horse,” said Aidan.

  “But you will have to get used to riding now you are a bishop,” said Oswald.

  Aidan looked at him. “Why?”

  Oswald shook his head. “Well, because I have given you another horse for one thing.”

  “But you said it was promised to Gododdin.”

  “That was to ensure you rode it. Now you have, it is yours. Besides, a bishop, like an ætheling, should ride.”

  “A bishop is not a warrior. And sitting up here, it puts me too far above the people I must serve. Seeing me on a horse, they will fear me, as they fear any man they see upon a horse.”

  “But they should fear you and do your bidding – you are a bishop.”

  Aidan shook his head. But before he could answer further, the baying of the hounds reached a crescendo and the boar burst from the woods, its trotters pounding the earth as it ran towards the waiting horsemen. Then, seeing them, it swerved aside and made away towards the thick line of rushes that marked the salt mere that stretched inland from Budle Bay. Oswald made to urge his horse after the stag, but the huntsman held up his hand and whistled to the dogs.

  “Why do we not go after it?” Oswald asked, his horse circling in its frustration at being pulled back.

  The huntsman pointed to the mere and the mound that rose from its heart. “The old king sleeps there – it were best we not wake him.”

  Oswiu, impatient also at the delay, rode up behind the huntsman. “What old king? What was his name? What did he rule?”

  The huntsman looked up at Oswiu with calm eyes. “He ruled all this land,” he said.

  “Ach, you’ve lost us a good hunt.” Oswiu pulled his horse back and looked into the mere. There was no sign of the boar now. He turned to his brother. “See if Bran can find it.”

  The raven was standing, one eye closed, behind Oswald. Oswald shook his head. “Bran is only interested in animals when they are dead. He won’t search for a living boar.”

  “Pfah,” said Oswiu, “why don’t you get a hawk? The Lord of the Isles has an eagle. You have a big crow. What’s more, it lets others do the killing and then expects all the choice bits afterwards.”

  Hearing him, Bran opened his other eye, regarded Oswiu, then decided he was not worth contemplating and shut both his eyes.

  “Oh, I’m sure Bran would look for the boar if we asked him nicely,” said Rhieienmelth, as she trotted her horse up to the brothers. She reached forward and began to tickle Bran under the beak. He did not open his eyes, but twisted his head from one side to the other to bring her finger where he wanted it, all the while making the mewing sounds of a raven’s pleasure.

  Rhieienmelth leaned forward from her horse and put her mouth near Bran’s head. “Will you look for the boar, Bran? For me?”

  The bird opened its black eyes, stared at Rhieienmelth for an instant, then croaked and took wing, accompanied by the sound of the princess’s delighted laughter. She looked up after the bird and saw Oswald, turning to look at her, and she smiled at him, as beside them Oswiu laughed too.

  “See? Even Bran melts when my wife asks him favour.”

  The raven, seeking the wind waves, rode them high and began to circle above the mere, until, as rough as rock, there came his cry echoing over the marsh.

  “He’s found him,” said Oswiu. He looked down at the huntsman. “Come on. If a raven does our finding, you’re not going to let a sleeping king stop us, are you?”

  The huntsman pursed his lips. Bran called again. The huntsman smiled, and let slip the dogs. Freed from check, the pack set wind and made into the marsh, splashing through the shallow brackish water, Oswiu urging his horse after them, and the huntsman running to keep up.

  Oswald looked to sea. “I don’t like the look of the weather,” he said.

  But Rhieienmelth pulled her horse alongside him. “You’re not going to let your brother get to that boar first, are you? Or me?” And she pushed her own light-footed horse after Oswiu.

  Aidan, the last, sighed and suggested to his own animal that it might like to follow into the mere. The horse disagreed, so they settled for walking around the marsh, where they met the hunting party coming out again.

  “He went that way,” Aidan said without enthusiasm, pointing up the wide channelled creek that fed into the marsh.

  “We’ve got him!” said Oswiu. “There’s no way he can escape the hounds there.”

  *

  “I thought you said there was no way he could escape the hounds,” said Aidan.

  They had been searching for an hour. Even the hounds had lost voice and enthusiasm.

  “There isn’t,” said Oswiu. “He must be here somewhere. We just need to keep looking for him.”

  That was when the rain started, swiftly followed by the fog descending, so that everything disappeared behind a shifting curtain of wet. Only the bedraggled hunting party, taking stock in its small patch of sight, remained in a world gone grey.

  “That’s the old king,” said the huntsman. “He’d not be brooking anyone disturbing his sleep.” He looked to Oswald and Oswiu. “The day’s turned. Best we get back.”

  Aidan leaned over to Oswald. “What did he say?”

  “Ah, I forgot you do not yet understand our speech so well, and besides, he has an accent so thick I bare understand him myself. He said we should go back.” The king looked around at the wall of rain that surrounded them. “That is, if we can find our way back.”

  They couldn’t. The cloud was too thick and the rain too heavy – it had washed all scent from the ground, so even the hounds could not find the path.

  “Isn’t there somewhere we can shelter?” Oswiu pointed to Rhieienmelth.
“I would not have her take chill.”

  “I am all right,” she said. “I am of Rheged – we get rain there.”

  “Well, even if Rhieienmelth is all right, I am wet and cold and fed up. Let us wait for the worst of the rain to pass; then we can try again.”

  Oswald agreeing, they searched, following tracks, until they came to a low, round hut, water slating off the turves that made its roof.

  The huntsman called at the entrance and a man emerged blinking, a sheepskin over his shoulders. Seeing the men on horses he quailed, but the huntsman spoke to him and he brightened a little, then gestured them within.

  “Will you translate for me?” Aidan asked Oswald as the shepherd pressed cups of milk into their hands. The inside of the hut was rank with man and steeped in smoke, making their eyes run and their throats ache, but it was relatively dry, and warm.

  “You want to speak to him?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “What is your name?” Aidan looked to Oswald. “Well?” he said and repeated the question.

  Oswald shrugged, turned to the shepherd and asked the question.

  *

  The clouds finally lifted and they emerged to a world gone green again. Their horses steamed gently, cropping the grass, while the hounds bickered among themselves. The huntsman sat among them, his cloak wrapped around his shoulders, for he had remained outside with his dogs – there were too many sheep to leave them untended.

  Most of the hunting party mounted, but Aidan remained on foot.

  “Why don’t you get on your horse?” Oswald asked him.

  The young bishop patted his horse’s neck. “When I speak to a man, I do not want to be looking down at him, but to talk at his level.” He turned to the huntsman. “What is your name?” Aidan looked over his shoulder. “Well?”

  Oswald sighed, and started translating again.

  *

  The rain followed them, on and off, back to the stronghold at Bamburgh, the clouds dipping low then rising for a while before descending again.

  The hounds trailed miserably after the horses, their fur plastered to their skin, and even Bran appeared bedraggled, the water dripping from the tip of his beak. The waxed cloaks Oswald, Oswiu, Rhieienmelth and the rest of the hunting party were wearing kept the rain off well, but beneath them they were clammy from sweat and the sweet rising smell of wet horseflesh. Aidan, though, was as bedraggled as the huntsman, his woollen cloak sponging the water and sending it in a slow and steady trickle down his back.

  “There,” said Oswald, pointing. “We are nearly there.”

  Aidan stopped his plodding and peered ahead. In truth, his conversation with the huntsman had died away into the wet misery of this long march home. He had tried to tell him the news of new life, but the rain washed his words away, and Oswald, as tired and miserable as the rest of the hunting party, after a while refused to translate any further, leaving Aidan to proceed with his limited language and through gesture and expression. In the end, he had given up and simply trudged in silence beside the huntsman. But the sight of the stronghold, perched atop the great rock by the sea, cheered them all, and, man and beast, they lengthened pace and quickened stride to reach it.

  “There’s a new boat moored there,” said Oswiu as they drew closer and saw, among the little cluster of boats pulled up upon the beach, a craft with the unmistakable lines of a vessel of the Lord of the Isles.

  Leaving the horses for the young boys to unsaddle and groom, the hunting party, still wet and in Aidan’s case starting to sneeze, entered the hall. Most of Oswald’s household men were away on patrol or answering summons for help against brigands, so the building was clearer than usual. Being near empty, it was clear as soon as they entered who sat near the fire waiting upon them.

  “Mother,” said Oswald.

  “Sister,” said Oswiu.

  “Oh no,” said Rhieienmelth, throwing her cloak back over her hair and fleeing the hall.

  “Was that your wife?” Æbbe asked a few minutes later, after the initial greetings and embraces were over.

  “Yes,” said Oswiu. He looked to the door. Still no sign of her. “I don’t know why she ran away.”

  “She would not want our first sight of her to be like that: wet through and looking as if she had been dragged from a river,” said Acha.

  “She didn’t look that bad,” protested Oswiu.

  “Go to her,” said Acha. “Tell her to come to us when she is ready.”

  As Oswiu went in search of his wife, Oswald looked to his mother and sister. “Will you stay?” he asked.

  The two women looked to each other, then smiled at him.

  “We’ll stay,” they said.

  Oswald went to embrace them, but Æbbe held up her hands, laughing. “Wait! You have not heard our conditions yet.”

  “Whatever you ask.” Oswald took his sister’s arms and held them.

  “It is simple really. But difficult too.” She looked to her mother, then back to Oswald. “Land. I need land to build a monastery, and the hides to provide for it.”

  Oswald swept his arm wide. “I am king – I will give you land.”

  “It is not as easy as that, brother. This is not a gift as you give to your thegns, land that they earn but that their sons must earn again if they are to keep it. A monastery is not as a warrior – it must have roots. It cannot move. Therefore, the land must be made over to the monastery, beyond the reach of memory and forgetting.”

  The king looked to his sister and mother. “How may we do that? When a warrior serves me well, I give to him land, that he may raise a hall and family; but the land is mine and reverts to me when he dies. How may I give to you beyond your deaths – and mine?”

  “There is a way. The land must be made over into bookland and entered into a great ledger, which the abbey may keep and show to kings and lords in future, saying that Oswald granted the land to them, and granted it forever.” Æbbe pointed to Aidan, standing steaming by the fire. “Brother Aidan could do it.”

  “He’s not a brother any more. He’s a bishop.”

  “A bishop?” Æbbe stared. Aidan blushed. Acha clapped her hands and went to the young man.

  “At last,” she said. “Ségéne saw sense! I told him to choose you from the start, but he insisted upon sending Corman. I am glad.”

  Aidan’s flush deepened, and he had no ease from his embarrassment as Æbbe came to him. She took his hand.

  Aidan jerked it away. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  Æbbe looked at him. “I was going to kiss your hand. Bishop.”

  Aidan’s flush turned puce. Seeing that, Acha poked her daughter in the ribs. “Æbbe,” she warned. “Don’t.”

  It was Æbbe’s turn to look embarrassed.

  “Besides, now there is a bishop, we must ask him for permission to found a monastery. Will you grant it, Bishop Aidan?” Acha bowed her head to the young man.

  “Y-yes. Of course.”

  “There. That is settled.” Acha turned to her son. “The ideal place would be Lindisfarne; then we could keep our eyes upon you as well as our prayers.”

  It was now Oswald’s turn to flush.

  “I cannot, Mother. I have already given that land to Aidan, although he did not ask for it to be put into a great book.”

  “Very well. Some other land then – though for myself, I would have sight of the sea.”

  “I will find a place for you, Mother.”

  “Good.” Acha looked around. “Oswiu is a long time returning. I would meet his wife.” She looked to Oswald. “Rhieienmelth of Rheged? I knew her mother. A slave that Rhoedd raised from his bed to his throne. Rhoedd still reigns, does he not? An oafish man, ruled by greed. Although it was many years ago, I doubt such a man would change.”

  “Mother, she is beautiful and fair,” said Oswald. “Do not speak of her so.”

  Acha looked at her son closely. “I was not speaking of her, whom I do not know, but of her parents
, whom I do know.”

  The door to the great hall opened and Oswiu entered with Rhieienmelth by his side. She had changed her clothes, and rich clasps held her gown upon her shoulders, while gold gleamed about her throat and on her wrists. Oswiu brought her in and presented her to Acha and Æbbe.

  “Rhieienmelth of Rheged. Is she not the fairest woman in the land?”

  Acha looked Rhieienmelth up and down, and nodded. “Fair indeed – without. I hope you are as fair within.” She stepped forward and took her hands and looked into her face. “I was as you are once. But you have a better, kinder man as husband than I. Serve him well.”

  “As well as my mother served my father,” said Rhieienmelth.

  Acha looked again at the princess, but Rhieienmelth smiled sweetly at her, and Acha nodded. Before she could say further, Rhieienmelth turned to Æbbe and held out her hands.

  “Oswiu has told me so much of you.”

  “I hope he spoke well of me.”

  “He has nothing but praise for you: for your beauty, your wit, your goodness. Ah, if only he would speak as well of me.”

  “But I do,” Oswiu protested.

  “So you say. Mayhap my new sister will tell me how you speak on me when I am busy with women’s work and you are alone. But for now, you must tell me all the news of the small islands whence you came. I, for my part, shall try to find some interest among the matters of kings and thegns for you – but it is wearisome stuff. I would much rather hear of fishing and weaving and suchlike.” Princess Rhieienmelth smiled brightly at Æbbe. “Will you tell me?”

  “If – if you wish.”

  “I do. Come, let us speak.” Taking Æbbe’s hand, Rhieienmelth led her across the hall to be nearer the fire. Acha watched them go, then turned to Oswiu.

  “Be careful with her,” she said.

  “Mother,” said Oswiu. But Oswald looked across the hall and saw the glance the princess cast back upon them as she patted Æbbe’s hand, and he was troubled.

  Chapter 5

  The raven was coming closer. It walked stiff-legged among and over the slain men, pulling at flesh, picking and swallowing with its sharp beak. The slaughter bird. Its black eyes glittered.