“And that the princess Rhieienmelth is with child,” Acca added. Eowa looked to him. “Is she?”
Oswald glared at Acca, then turned back to Eowa. “That is not something I wish Penda to know. Send word of what I told you; no more.”
“He will hear without word from me, lord,” said Eowa. “Such news travels with the wind – an ætheling in Northumbria. All the thrones will know of it ere the babe ends his first wail. Besides, he oft spoke to me in the past that he well knew there was no more chance of putting mistrust between you and your brother than of splitting salt from sand.”
“I did not mean that. But I do not wish Penda to know of such matters before they become common knowledge. Do you understand?”
“Of course. When will we see the young ætheling?”
“Sometime after the birth. Oswiu remains with Rhieienmelth in our lands in the north.”
“Oh. So far. Still, they will be safe there. Even if five armies stood before Bamburgh, they could not take it.”
“Yes.” Oswald turned away from Eowa. “We will travel by sea, Acca, to the land of the West Saxons and see if this princess without a name shall be my wife.”
*
“Cyniburh.”
Oswald made the courtesy to the young woman standing in front of him, her face veiled, her father standing beside her. They were standing in the great hall at Easthampstead in the land of the West Saxons.
“Now I know your name.”
The young woman made no response, and through the veil Oswald could see little of her expression. He glanced at Cynegils standing beside his daughter, then looked back to Cyniburh.
“Your father is willing to give you in marriage to me; do you accept freely?” Oswald waited. No answer came.
“Do you accept freely?” he asked again. Cynegils began to squeeze Cyniburh’s arm.
Oswald held up his hand.
“Wait,” he said. “We have yet other matters to discuss, King Cynegils, and for the princess Cyniburh, this is the first time she has lain eyes upon me; it is only natural that she should hesitate. Let us talk some more, and then we will return to your daughter. What say you to this?”
Cynegils looked at the woman beside him. For her part, Cyniburh did not turn her head to her father, but remained still, unresponsive behind her veil.
“Remember who is your father.” Cynegils all but threw her arm down, then stepped towards Oswald. “Come, let us talk further. What do you need to settle in your mind before you can enter freely into marriage with my daughter?”
“Friends, kings, must needs have the trust of each other. I hear a priest of the new god has come into your land, and you have given him leave to remain and to preach to your people.”
“Birinus? You mean Birinus? He is mad.”
“I would meet him. And I would that you leave the old ways and be washed in the water of new life.” They were walking together around the outside of Cynegils’ hall now, but Oswald stopped and turned to the king of Wessex. “Cwichelm, your cousin, sent an assassin to kill my uncle when he was king. The murderer failed and Edwin destroyed Cwichelm’s army and made Cwichelm kneel in the mud to him. I would not have such a thing happen between us, Cynegils.”
The king of the West Saxons met Oswald’s gaze, but his eyes were bleak. “If you would destroy me, I have not the men to stop you.”
“That is why I ask this, for I would not destroy you. I would have you rule, my friend, my ally, my father-in-law, but for this to happen you must give up the old gods. Do you understand?”
“I understand. But before I give answer, I would have you meet Birinus.”
“Very well. Where is he? Bring him to me.”
“He will not agree to that. He will come to no man, even be that man king and lord over him, but remains in his hut, or comes raving into my hall when I least expect him and less want him.”
“Well, if he will not come to us, then we will go to him.”
*
“Birinus? Birinus, are you in there?”
Cynegils, king of the West Saxons, bent down to peer into the dark shadows of a lean-to cut from beech and hornbeam. It stood against the pollarded trunk of a beech, itself twigged and whiskered as a man grown old and hairy, covered in moss and ferns. As they had walked to it from the king’s hall, Cynegils had told Oswald that Birinus followed the royal household as it made its way around the land of the West Saxons, never joining it but making always some rude dwelling when they stopped and emerging from it to talk to trees and rocks and, sometimes, people.
“No, no one there.” Cynegils straightened up. “He is, as I said, quite mad, but mayhap it is the madness the gods bestow on those with whom they would speak.”
“Mad?”
They looked up. From the whiskered branches of the beech a face peered, framed in green.
“Mad, mud, dumb, am I dumb, no, I am not dumb, I speak, not an animal, a man, a man, a priest, yes, a priest.” The tumble of words stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and the face turned away from its regard of the men standing below the tree, to look into the green heart of the beech. “It’s him, you say? Him, the one I’ve been waiting for? Why didn’t you say so before? You were trying to, only I was talking too much? Hah, I’ll take an axe to you if you’re not careful, hear me now. Yes? Yes.” The face swivelled back to them.
“You’re him. Yes, yes you are. I can see it now. They told me to wait, but I couldn’t help myself. I had to keep telling them, telling them, but would they listen, would they listen? No.” Birinus pushed his head through the collar of leaves, then his shoulders and trunk, and climbed down the tree, hands splayed out upon it like a treecreeper.
On the ground, Birinus came towards Oswald, looking up at him and turning his head from side to side, before reaching out and taking his hand. He stroked it, then bent his head and kissed the back of the king’s hand.
“You have come.” He turned his head, as if hearing speech. “His raven? The slaughter bird? Yes, yes, where is it?” Birinus snapped his gaze back to Oswald, the film that sometimes covered his eyes dissolving in an instant as he stared up at him. “The bird. Where is the bird?”
As if in answer, Bran croaked and Birinus spun around, raising his arms as if to ward off attack, looking up into the heights of the tree from which he had crept. Bran croaked again, dropping his head and staring down at the men standing below the beech.
Birinus turned, facing Oswald and Cynegils. But this time, he fixed his gaze on the king of Wessex.
“Ah, you’ll hear me now, will you? Ach, ach, ach. Offer men everything and they will refuse it; give them promises and they’ll hand over their daughters. Ach, ach, ach.”
“Wait, wait,” said Oswald. “I have questions for you, Birinus. Cynegils says you are a priest: how come you here?”
“How come I here? How come I here? How come you here? Boat and horse and foot, you think, but I tell you, I tell you, you move with powers and dominions. They stand above you, like thunderclouds.
Can you see them? I can see them – they reach to the sky, up past the sky. The bridge. The bridge between heaven and earth sent me. I saw him, I spoke to him, I saw darkness all around, all around, and in the middle such a tiny light, and I said to him: let me go into the darkness and light a light there, that men might see, and he sent me. He said I could go, so I came.”
“Who sent you?”
“He did.”
“His name? If he has a name.”
“Yes, he has a name. Honorius. Yes, that was it.”
“What is he? An abbot, a bishop?”
“Oh no, none of these.”
“What then?”
“A pope.”
Oswald stopped. He raised a hand, then lowered it again. “You say – you say the pope sent you?”
“Oh yes, yes, ach, ach, ach. Of course. Yes.” Birinus nodded, his head bobbing up and down like an apple in a fast-flowing stream.
“Right, right.” Oswald looked at Cynegils. “The pope sent him.
”
“Yes,” said Cynegils. He stopped. “Er, what is a pope?”
*
“There, there you are, all fresh and new and clean.” Birinus lifted the newly baptized Cynegils from the river, and although he was much the smaller man, and slight of build, yet he picked up the king as if he were a child, and placed him on the riverside. The priest stared at the shivering, sodden king, his eyes bright and blue and hard, like the eggs of a starling. “All new, all new,” he muttered. “A big baby, lovely, lovely.” Birinus snapped his head up and around, as if following the escape of a startled animal. “Yes, yes, off you go, run away, back where you came from you turd of darkness: hah, hah! You thought you had him, but he’s out of your hands now, and I’ll be watching for you if you come slinking back. I’ll be waiting for you, and I’ll whack you and thwack you and send you back all over again.”
Birinus stopped, chest panting, then slowly looked along the bank at the baptismal party, all staring at him.
“Yes?”
King Cynegils, still shivering, wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. But despite the sting of the cold, he felt a curious lightness, as if a load he had never known he carried had been lifted from his shoulders.
“My daughter,” he said. “She is waiting.”
“Ach, ach, ach.” Birinus pounded his hand against his head.
“Knock the words in with a hammer. Yes, yes. Please.” He held out his hand and Cyniburh, small, slight, and unveiled for the first time in Oswald’s presence, stepped forward. Seeing her thus, Oswald understood her silence: she looked bare old enough to have begun her bleeds. He looked askance at her father. Did Cynegils really think her old enough to marry?
“She is older than she looks.” Cynegils came to stand beside Oswald as Birinus led Cyniburh down into the river.
“How many years has she?”
“After her mother died, it became difficult for me to keep track. But she was born when Edwin was yet king of Northumbria, so for sure she is old enough to wed.”
“I have been king four years. I would not marry a five-year-old.”
“She is older than four! Much older.”
“How much older?”
“I do not know for certain – but her bleeds have started. She can bear child, so she is old enough to marry.”
Oswald looked down into the river where the baptismal robe clung wetly to Cyniburh’s shivering body. She had the body of a young boy.
“If I take her to wife, I will consider her as my betrothed until she is older.”
“You will marry her?”
“Yes.” Oswald looked down at the shivering little girl. In the years he had waited upon Abbot Ségéne, hoping that he might become a monk on the Holy Isle, he had held himself from acting upon the desires of the flesh. That he would, while wed, be able still to hold himself from such action seemed suddenly to him a blessing.
“Yes, I will marry your daughter, if you pledge to me.”
Cynegils sighed.
“How much?”
“The produce of five thousand hides.”
“Five thousand?” The words came out in a squeak, and from the river Birinus glared up at the kings.
“Shh, shh, shh,” he said, holding finger to lips. “We conduct sacred mysteries here; take your money changing to the hall.”
Abashed, they fell silent, and watched as Birinus brought Cyniburh up for the third and final time from the water.
With liquid still streaming from her face, she looked to her father.
“I am new, Daddy,” she said. “I am new.”
Cynegils smiled back at her, but his smile was uncomfortable, all too aware of the man standing beside him. Oswald remained impassive. Too much ranged upon this marriage for him to decline Cyniburh now, but in the silence of his mind he thought on his brother, rewarded for his incontinence with princesses and fishermen’s daughters with marriage to Rhieienmelth, whereas he, who had remained continent through many years of testing, now stood ready to marry a girl who looked more ready to play tops than feed babies – or take the cup around the warriors in hall. But then, he had prayed for the strength to bridle his desires and bind them to his will, and God had given him the strength.
Birinus led Cyniburh to the bank and she stepped from the water. And though she was as wet as her father, and of such slight build, yet she did not shiver, but seemed to glow.
“Take the hand of your husband-to-be, daughter, for he has led us into this new life.” Cynegils turned to Oswald. “Will you lead us back to the hall?”
So, holding Cyniburh’s hand, Oswald led the procession back to the hall, and beside him Cyniburh skipped for her joy.
“A new life and a husband all so soon,” she said to Oswald.
“When my mother died, I thought I should never smile again, but now I think I won’t stop smiling ever!”
Oswald turned to her. He smiled as well, but as he did so, he felt it to be the sort of smile he gave to children when they sat upon his lap or played about his feet.
“I pray that shall be true,” he said.
Cyniburh giggled. “I can’t believe it. I’m going to marry you.”
“In truth, I find it a little difficult to believe myself.”
Cyniburh’s face suddenly fell. “You won’t be like my father, will you? Even when my mother was alive, he had lots of other wives, only they weren’t wives really, but he’d go to them rather than Mother.”
“No,” said Oswald. “I will not be like your father.”
“Then I think I will enjoy being married to you.”
“That is…good.”
“I love babies. I want lots and lots and lots of them.”
“Ah.” Oswald stared ahead. “Right.”
*
“What’s wrong with me?”
Cyniburh stood beside the marriage bed that Cynegils had prepared for them. Outside, in the hall, they could hear the sounds of celebration, the drinking and boasting and singing, but the king of Wessex had given over to them his own room, that they might have privacy together. Now, Cyniburh stood beside it and tears streamed down her face.
“I am old enough,” she said. “I have my bleeds; I can have babies.” Oswald took her thin shoulders in his hands and looked down at her.
“The fault is mine,” he said.
“Can’t you?” asked Cyniburh. “Some rams are like that – I’ve seen it. No good for mounting a ewe.”
“No, it is not that.” Oswald shook his head. “You are very young.”
“Not that young.” She began to reach for his waist, but Oswald took her wrist.
“No,” he said. “You are too young and, besides, I am not ready.” He sat down on the bed and indicated for her to sit beside him.
“Listen. If I were to have my life as I would wish, I would be no king, but a monk upon the Holy Isle. Although God has willed that I should be king, yet I strive to live as much as I can in the way of the Holy Isle and, in doing so, I have received many blessings – and many victories. I – I worry that should I leave the sacrifices I have made, then the blessings I have received will be taken from me also. Do you understand?”
“Oh, yes,” said Cyniburh. “That’s like if I want it to be sunny and it’s raining, then I say I will be good if the sun comes out and it always does.”
“Er, yes. Perhaps,” said Oswald.
“Well, I understand that.” The girl paused, her heels drumming against the side of the bed. “So, what should we do then? Shall we play?”
“Play?”
“Yes. Tops, or toss, or skipping?”
So it was that on his wedding night, Oswald of Northumbria played tops until his bride fell upon the bed and went to sleep in an instant, while he lay down beside her and stared up into the darkness and thought on whether he could indeed be husband to such a creature.
Chapter 3
“So, where is your wife?” Rhieienmelth, her baby son now near enough one year old lying sleeping in her arms, looked around the
hall. “We have arrived without warning, but we wanted to get back in time for the Easter feast and we wished to present Ahlfrith to you, and to see her.” She looked back to Oswald. “She must be in her chamber?”
“She is here.” Oswald pointed to the diminutive figure sitting beside him, eyes downcast as she had been trained in the household of her father, but now blushing furiously.
“Oh yes, that is a fine jest, Oswald,” Rhieienmelth began, but Oswiu took her arm.
“It is no jest,” he said. “See.”
And she saw. The colour had drained from Oswald, but it suffused the face of the girl beside him.
“I am so sorry,” Rhieienmelth said, and giving her baby into Oswiu’s arms she knelt down in front of Cyniburh and raised her chin. “Will you forgive me, please? I spoke without thought, with the eagerness of a mother keen to show off her baby to her brother- in-law, but I ask pardon. Will you give it me?”
Cyniburh looked out from under her brows, looking around the hall.
“Everyone is laughing at me,” she said.
“No one is laughing at you,” said Rhieienmelth. “No one. Tell her, Oswald.”
“No one laughs at you, Cyniburh.”
“Then why does no one look in this direction?”
“No one is ignoring you, Cyniburh.” Oswald stood up. “Is this my nephew?”
Oswiu held the baby up, that Oswald might see him the better.
“Here is your uncle,” he said. “Your uncle, the king.”
“To him, may I simply be uncle.”
“Come, look on your nephew in the light.” Oswiu looked to Rhieienmelth and nodded towards Cyniburh, then he led his brother to the door and out upon the deck around the hall, where the sun bathed his son’s sleeping face.
“He looks like Mother,” said Oswald.
“So some have said. To me he looks like a little acorn.”
Oswald put his finger under the baby’s chin and he stirred a little in his sleep but did not wake.
“So, your wife. Daughter of King Cynegils.”
“Yes. The produce of five thousand hides, sworn ally, and he has been baptized.”
“She is very young though. Has she…?”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 34