Wihtrun nodded. “I think so.”
“Of course he has.” Penda wheeled his horse to catch up with Eowa. “When Oswald’s sentries see us, what do you think he will do?”
“I know what I would do,” said Eowa. “I would barricade the gates of the city and send my men up onto the walls. I would send messengers to any ally who might come, summoning them to my aid. And then I would wait, and hope that disease grows rife among my enemies camped outside my city. That is what I would do. But I do not think Oswald will act in such fashion.” Eowa peered ahead. There was still no outward sign of alarm to the city, although surely any sentry would have spotted the approaching army by now. “I do not know what Oswald will do.”
“We will know soon enough.” Penda pointed downstream. Turning past the willow meads that filled the water meadows downriver from the city were the first boats, pulling upstream against the flow as lines of oars dipped and raised in unison, and voices, distant but clear, were lifted in rowing song.
“The kings of the north,” said Penda. “The kings that Cadafael promised. They have come.” He pointed. “They will land south of the city. We approach from the west.” Penda clapped his hands. “We have him, brother, we have him. He either stands siege against us, and surely we have enough men now to drag him from his hole like a rat, or he flees; and the kings of the north have blocked his best chance for escape.”
And even as they watched, they saw the first boats pull up on the riverside and the men within them disembarking and moving into formation, shields slung upon shoulders and spears raised, about the walls of York.
“There must be three hundred – four hundred men,” said Penda as the boats arrived and the ranks thickened.
“I make it close to five hundred,” said Eowa. Behind them, they could hear the excited, elated chatter of their own men. This was a huge host; together they made an army more than seven hundred strong. Such a force had not been seen on these islands since the days of the emperors.
“Who has come?” Penda rode to Cadafael. “Can you read the banners?”
Cadafael squinted. “We are still far from them. I am not sure. Perhaps Strathclyde and the Lord of the Isles?”
In his excitement, Penda sought out Eadfrith, who rode with his hands bound together and a guard holding a rope looped about his neck. Should he try to urge his horse into flight, a simple pull on the rope would jerk him from the horse and break his neck.
“Mayhap I will not need you to speak to Oswald’s men. Together, we shall be such an army that he will quail before us. But do not worry, I will keep my promise. When Oswald is dead, I will give you his kingdom.”
Eadfrith gave no answer, but stared ahead at the city.
“Did you not hear me?” asked Penda.
The captive, without taking his eyes from York, said, “I wish for no throne, Penda of Mercia, but I thank you for this: the chance to see again the land of my birth, and the city of my new life. For that, I thank you indeed.”
Penda stared at him, but Eadfrith made no sign that he noticed his scrutiny; all his attention was directed to the city ahead of them. Few of the cities of the Romans remained as intact as York. Even fewer were as striking. Eadfrith had seen the ruins of London, the once magnificent but now broken-down city shunned by the traders who had founded a new settlement upriver from the Roman city on the strand, where merchants from distant lands would beach their boats and lay out their wares. He had wandered the empty streets of Chester, the dark eyes of the empty windows staring out at him, and looked into the swirling, steaming waters of Bath. But only Carlisle, where the kings of Rheged held their court, still functioned as a town – the king’s men had taken him once to see the water, still flowing into the town along the great bridge the Romans had built.
York took a middle place; not entirely abandoned – its walls made it a better refuge than most places – what inhabitants there were had pulled down houses and shops and sown the ground in between with seed, that they might grow crops within the walls, and pigs rooted amid the ruins, excavating with their sharp teeth the seed crop from the trees establishing themselves in untrodden roads and untended gardens.
Of all the royal estates of Deira, his father had loved York best, and Eadfrith had spent more time there than anywhere else on the ceaseless royal circuit. So it was he who first saw the change in the city: the smoke streams dammed as cooking fires were extinguished and the signs of movement on wall and turret.
“You have been seen.” Eadfrith pointed, and Penda, head jerking round, saw the movement upon the walls.
“Ride!” He urged his horse forward to the front of the column, picking the speed up to a canter. Although he did not think Oswald would dare issue from the city, he wanted to get to his allies, forming up outside the walls, before there was any chance of the two forces being separated.
But even as he reached the head of the column, the gates of York opened and men began to march out, shields on shoulders and spears held high. And at their head, carried upon a high pole, the gold and purple banner of the Idings.
Penda held his hand up, slowing and then stopping the column of riders, while he waited for Eowa and Cadafael to ride up alongside him.
“He has come out of the city.” Penda shook his head. “Why would he do that?”
As they spoke, he saw the gates close. The last man had emerged. Penda pointed.
“I make that, what, one hundred and fifty men? Why would he do that?”
Eowa scanned along the line as Oswald’s men formed into a wall, his lips moving as he counted silently. “Maybe two hundred. A match for us.”
“But not for my brethren!” said Cadafael. He pointed at the far line of men. “We have Oswald between us, caught in our vice.” He turned to Penda and held up his fist. “Let us squeeze him.”
But Penda shook his head. “This makes no sense. We are missing something.”
“Whatever that is, we should dismount and form line,” said Eowa.
“We men of Gwynedd prefer to fight on horseback,” said Cadafael.
“Easier to get away,” muttered Eowa as he dismounted and signalled the army to follow suit.
While the horses were gathered and picketed, and Cadafael gathered his riders around him with orders to wait until the clash of shieldwalls and then to harry the flanks of Oswald’s line and to pick off the stragglers and the injured, Penda sat yet ahorse, staring at the shieldwall slowly forming across the main gate to the city. Maybe Oswald did not think he could hold the gate from within and had decided to defend it from without. That at least made some sort of sense.
Behind him, shifting along the line of waiting men, Penda heard the whispers and questions. These were experienced men. They could not understand what Oswald was doing, and it disturbed them as it disturbed him. There was, in their chatter, the uneasy sense of having missed something vital.
It was quiet. Penda turned his head to listen. It was unnaturally quiet. Usually, at this stage, with the opposing armies forming up against each other, the air would be thick with boasts and threats, calls and insults, as each side strove to bolster its own courage and to break that of their enemy. But barely a voice rose above a whisper.
In this silence, the croak of a raven sounded clear and solid. It sounded again, and then Penda saw it circling above them all, and some of his men saw and heard it too, and pointed. The slaughter bird, the eye of the Lord of Battles had arrived to witness the slaughter and to carry the dead away. Further whispers spread among the ranks behind him, and Penda saw many men, and not just the least experienced, make the sign against the evil eye as the raven circled above them.
But then it began to descend. In long, slow sweeps the raven flew lower and lower until finally it landed in front of Oswald’s army. Then, stiff-legged, it marched towards the line and from the shieldwall a man stepped to meet it, a man armoured and helmed in such fashion that Penda knew he must be Oswald, and the raven lowered its head to the man, who bent to it, and the bird climbe
d up his arm and stood upon his shoulder. The raven turned towards the watching men and lowered its head and croaked its call, and cries went up from behind Penda – cries of shock and horror at what they had seen.
“The slaughter bird.”
“Woden’s herald.”
“The Battle God has turned against us.”
Penda turned to look for Wihtrun, but the priest stood with face pale and hands held to his cheek.
The Mercian turned to his men, riding up and down the line, pulling their sight from the terrible bird back to him.
“Oswald has delivered himself into our hands. The Battle God has dazzled him, Woden has fuddled his wits. He has come out, and we surround him on either side.” Penda pointed beyond Oswald’s line to where the kings of the north were forming their battle line.
“We will crush him, and then we’ll see why the slaughter bird stands upon his shoulder: it did not want to be late for the feast!”
The laughter that greeted his sally was weak, but at least some men laughed. Penda looked to Eowa, who silently nodded his assent. This was no time to wait. Waiting would only test the men’s nerves and send them looking for further omens.
Penda dismounted and sent his horse through to the rear, then made his way to the centre of the shieldwall. That was his place, with his sword fellows around him, sworn to protect their lord with shield and sword and life.
But before he could take his position, Eowa came running to him from the right wing.
“The kings of the north are advancing.” He pointed, and Penda saw the shieldwall of his allies had already covered half the distance between them and the waiting line of Oswald’s men.
“They want all the glory,” said Penda.
“The glory comes to those who finish the battle, not those who start it,” said Eowa. “This is better than we could have hoped for, brother. Let them bleed Oswald’s strength, and their own, and then we will finish the job. There will be many men the richer tonight.”
“And even more dead. Order slow advance, warmaster. Let us be late, but not too late.”
Beating the step on the rim of his shield with his sword hilt, Eowa set the shieldwall of Mercia forward. The riders of Gwynedd walked beside them, half the horsemen on each flank.
As they advanced, every man watched with eager eye the march of their allies, closing with Oswald’s shieldwall. But as the lines neared, the picture grew blurred. For Oswald’s shieldwall did not turn to meet the advance of the kings of the north, but remained where it was, in front of the gates of the city. And the advancing men, they did not beat the rhythm of their approach on their shields, nor did they call down insult and death upon the men facing them, but they approached in silence. And then the silence was broken by cries. Cries of welcome. And instead of engaging, the two armies merged, the battle line of the kings of the north joining to the end of Oswald’s shieldwall, and both turned together to face Penda.
“Halt!”
Penda gave the order, but there was no need to issue it. Everyone had stopped already. They stared in shock at the army facing them, now three times the size of their own. He looked to the flanks and frantically gestured Cadafael to him.
“What’s happening? They’re supposed to be our allies. They’re your brethren. What’s going on?”
The king of Gwynedd shook his head. “I – I do not know.”
“Find out!”
Cadafael swallowed, glanced at the waiting line of men, then rode his horse forward, stopping it in the empty ground between the two armies.
“Kings of the north,” he shouted. “I am Cadafael, king of Gywnedd, your kin by blood and tongue and faith. I summoned you here, yet now you form line against me. For why do you break your trust?”
A man stepped from the battle line and signalled for a horse to be brought to him. Then, alone, he rode to meet Cadafael.
The king of Gwynedd tightened his grip on the reins, ready to jerk his horse into motion, but the approaching rider kept his sword sheathed and his shield slung over shoulder.
“Who are you?” Cadafael called as the rider approached.
The horseman slowed his animal to a walk.
“Rhoedd, king of Rheged.” The king twitched the reins and his horse walked in closer to Cadafael – close enough so that they might talk without the men in either battle line hearing.
“You said you would join me in fighting Oswald. I sent messengers.”
Rhoedd gentled his horse to a halt. For a large man, he sat easily on the beast and his hands were light upon it. “I said I would be here, outside the walls of York, and here I am. But I did not say I would fight Oswald on your behalf.”
“Not on my behalf. With me.”
“With you or without you. My daughter is wed to Oswald’s brother; why would I fight him? He has the favour of Iona; why would I fight him? He has the blessing of the Blessed One; I would be mad to fight him.” Rhoedd leaned towards Cadafael. “Why do you fight him, Cadafael? Through him you came to the throne. Enjoy it for many years to come. Live, and bring your men to us, or have them ride aside. For else the Baptized will battle the Baptized, a thing most grievous to God – and most unlikely to win glory with the bards or renown for a new, untried king.” Rhoedd put his hand out and took Cadafael’s arm. He leaned to him.
“Stand your men down, Cadafael, and live, and enjoy your throne.” The king of Gwynedd swallowed. He looked back to where Penda stood watching him with the intensity of a hawk. He turned to Rhoedd.
“Men will call me battle-shirker. The bards will mock me.”
The king leaned closer to him. “I have been king near twenty years now. Listen to what I have learned. The bards sing songs of Cadwallon, they call him the ‘furious stag’ and lament him, but he lies with his eyes pecked out far from his homeland and they will never find his bones and lay them by his father. Let the bards sing, and feed them and lade them with gold, and you know what? They will find glory for you too. So which do you prefer, Cadafael of Gwynedd: to die, and never hear the songs the bards will sing of you, or to live and to hear your song sung in your hall, with your children about your feet and a woman in your bed?”
Cadafael slowly removed Rhoedd’s hand from his arm. He turned his horse about and walked it back to Penda’s battle line, stopping it a safe distance from the king of Mercia.
“Kin shall not fight kin; cousin will not slay cousin.”
“You…” Penda charged from the battle line, drawing his sword, but before he could reach Cadafael, the king of Gwynedd turned his mount and urged it away, across the battle line, signalling his own men to follow.
Penda stared after the horsemen of Gwynedd. They cantered away, heading back the way they had come, before stopping when safely out of range and turning. They were going to watch. They were going to watch him die.
A cold, hopeless fury settled over Penda. He turned back towards the battle line, his face set. This was the day he was going to die. The Battle God had spurned his sacrifice. He sought out Wihtrun’s face in the battle line. The priest turned his face away from him. Penda went to him. The priest looked up, his face bloodless.
“This is the Battle God’s blessing? Our allies desert us?” Penda grabbed his throat. “I should kill you.”
Wihtrun choked, his eyes bulging. Penda let him go and the priest sagged, but the men to either side of him held him up, their support immediate and instinctive. He stood beside them in the shieldwall; therefore they supported him.
“You’re not worth my knife.” Penda turned away.
“Eadfrith,” Wihtrun gasped. “Eadfrith.”
Penda stopped. Of course. He looked around. Oswald’s shieldwall had not moved; there was still time. He pushed through the shieldwall, signalling Eowa to follow him.
“Get us horses,” he said to his brother, as he sawed through the ropes tying Eadfrith’s ankles and wrists.
As Eowa fetched the horses, Penda pulled Eadfrith to his feet.
“Here it is,” Penda said, hol
ding Eadfrith up, his face all but touching Eadfrith’s face. “Here’s your chance for freedom. Do to Oswald what you did to me at the witan. Make them want you as king, and you will be free.”
“I do not want to be a king,” said Eadfrith. He stared at Penda.
“I have seen what the throne does to a man.”
“There’s – there’s no time for this now. Come on.” Penda pushed Eadfrith ahead of him, then swung up onto a horse, with Eowa following on his own mount. “Make way.”
The shieldwall parted, men squeezing up against each other, and the brothers rode through, one after the other, with Eadfrith walking in between.
They rode into the gap between the two armies. Still Oswald’s shieldwall stood in silence, guarding the gates of York but not yet advancing upon the Mercians. For their part, the Mercians stood firm, shield to shield, and though whispers of their betrayal by Cadafael passed up and down the line, yet no man fell back from it.
“Men of Northumbria!” Penda reined his horse to a stop. He searched the line, looking for his enemy, and thought to have found him standing near the battle standard at the centre of the line: a warrior with purple and gold cloak over his shoulders and a helmet that told the face it covered. But if it was Oswald, still he made no move, nor gave a sign.
“Men of Deira! Hear me.” Penda pointed to the man standing silently beside him. “Here is your true king! Here is Eadfrith, son of Edwin, son of Ælle, of the house of Yffi. Men of Deira, you allow an Iding to claim your throne when an Yffing yet lives.”
Penda saw a ripple pass up and down the line, whispers passed along relaying to the men furthest away what Penda said. Still the man he took to be Oswald made no move.
“Here is the man who should be your king, men of Deira. Hear him!” Penda leaned down to Eadfrith. “This is your chance. Take it. I will let you go. You will be free.” He leaned even closer. “Don’t try to run, though. Do you think Oswald would make you welcome? Your father killed his father – he will kill you in turn.”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 30