Aidan held up his hands. “I sought no offence, but I am a bishop, and I am called upon to give guidance.”
“You, and my brother, and my thegns and my retainers and my counsellors, and my scop and my smith. Everyone thinks to give the king guidance. But, hear me: the king needs no guidance in this matter.” Oswald’s shoulders slumped, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had come. “Understand it is the custom among my people that a child be sent, once he is of age, to be brought up by an allied king, that he may learn different ways and forge friendships that will serve him when he is a man. But – but I do not think I can do that with my son. I could not give him to another to raise. But my own family, that is a different matter. He will be happy with Rhieienmelth; see, she already cares for him as if he were her own, and Oswiu has sworn thus to me. Let him be with family, and I will be king.”
“A king should have his family about him.”
“I did. She is dead now. Besides, I have Bran. A slaughter bird for the king of death.”
Aidan shook his head. “Oswald, you take too much upon yourself. Cyniburh’s death is not your fault.”
Oswald held up his hand.
“You see this?” He splayed his fingers in front of Aidan’s face. “This hand, the hand you prayed would never wither, is my hand of judgment. With it, I bring down vengeance upon the guilty and give mercy to the wretched. I judge the cases that come before me and pronounce innocence or guilt. But there is none to judge the king save the king, and I have given sentence.” He dropped his hand to his side. “I thank you, old friend, for coming so quickly when you were called. But now, as you have oft told me, you have many calls upon you on the Holy Island; it were best you returned to it, and I to the tasks appointed me.”
Aidan nodded and made to withdraw, but then stopped. “I will go, my lord, but not to Lindisfarne. I have a task before I return to my monastery.”
*
Aidan heard him before he saw him. He heard him chanting in tones strange to his ear, calling to heaven and to earth one of the songs of David. And although the style was unknown, Aidan knew well the meaning of the words, so when the man singing them came into sight and fell silent, he continued as he rode towards him and dismounted.
“Cantabo Deo meo quamdiu sum.” Aidan stopped in front of the man. “I will sing to my God as long as I shall be.”
“I too.” The man looked long at Aidan. “I am James.”
“Aidan.”
James nodded. “Yes.” He pointed at Aidan’s shaven forehead and the hair hanging long down the back of his neck. “I thought it must be you.”
“And I knew you to be James.” Aidan pointed in turn at the circle of hair that crowned James’s head, the skin within it leathered from sun and wind.
“Nolite confidere in princibus,” James chanted softly.
“Put not your trust in princes,” translated Aidan and, continuing, he chanted, “…in filio hominis cui non est salus.”
“In the children of men in whom there is no salvation.”
The two men fell silent, regarding each other.
“I have wished to meet you for a long time,” said Aidan.
“I have not gone from here.”
“I have duties…”
“As have I.” James stood aside and gestured towards the framework of lashed branches that marked the entrance to his home. “Will you join me, lord bishop?”
“Right gladly.” Aidan went ahead, as James bowed to him, and entered the low cave where the deacon made his dwelling. He saw a bowl and cup, a bed of branches and ferns, ashes marking a hearth, and a book. Placed in reverence upon a natural plinth towards the rear of the cave, far from the damp and cold without, was a book, and Aidan was drawn to it as naturally as the sea draws a stream.
Looking down at its rich leather cover, he put a finger to it, then looked to James – and saw him smiling.
“Please, my lord bishop.”
Aidan opened the book and saw it to be a Gospel book, written in letters whose style was strange to him but which he could still read.
“This – this is wonderful.”
“It was one of the books we brought, with much labour and more fear, from Rome. Bishop Paulinus left it behind when he went into exile with the queen, but I rescued it and brought it here.”
Aidan bent and kissed the book, then turned to James.
“Will you bring it to me? We – I – have need for men, and for books. Messis quidem multa operarii autem pauci.”
“The harvest indeed is great, but the labourers are few.” James came over to where Aidan was standing and placed his hand upon the book. “There are people who come to me to hear of God; in truth, not as many as I hoped, yet they come. If I go, there will be none to bring them God’s word.”
“You would return to them, when I could send you.”
“But I would not be here.” James stood back and looked at Aidan. “They are my people. I would not leave them.”
Aidan looked carefully at him. “I could command you.”
James blushed, but nodded. “You could. You are a bishop, I a deacon. Your word is my command. But you have heard me chant,” James touched his scalp, “you have seen my head: my ways are not your ways.”
Aidan could not help noticing that when James blushed, even the top of his head, where the hair was shaved clean, went red too.
“We follow the path laid for us by the Holy One, the Blessed Colm Cille.”
James nodded. “Yes. At the witan…” He paused, his flush growing deeper. “At the witan, where Bishop Corman spoke, I heard of the Blessed Colm Cille for the first time. When I went from there, I asked of him, and now I know why you follow his path.”
“Will you not follow it too?”
“Do you ask whether I would follow of my own free will, lord bishop, or under obedience?”
“Of your will, Deacon James.”
“Then I would remain, following the practice of the Holy Fathers, and teaching those who would the Roman chant.”
Aidan looked at the deacon. James met his gaze, and although he flushed, he did not lower his eyes and, truth to tell, Aidan felt his own neck grow hot under the steady eyes of the deacon.
“Very well. See to your people, James, and I will see to mine.”
Chapter 5
The morning mist lay low upon the Great Fen in the land of the East Angles, spilling over from the marsh, creeping up towards the monastery that overlooked the endless miles of sedge and willow and black, stagnant water. Riding through the mist, so that it seemed from a distance they sat upon horses with no legs, a small group of riders approached the monastery of Beodricesworth.2 They bore the marks of hard riding and recent battle: bandages and poultices cut from tree fungi covered wounds that were still far from healing but were not so severe as to stop them riding in haste. At this hour, the monastery’s gates were still closed, but as the lead riders reached it, they pounded upon the wood with the hilts of their swords.
“Open! Open in the name of the king,” they cried.
Within the monastery, a young monk charged with the duties of door warden ran to the church, which stood at the centre of the compound, and burst in.
The Great Work was being done; the monks of the community were at prayer, singing the office of dawn. The monk, trying to be unobtrusive but, in his anxiety, failing, made his way through the ranks of hooded figures to the man who stood at the far end of the choir, nearest the altar.
“Abbot Sigeberht, there are men without who would speak with you,” he said.
The monk, who had once been king of this land, turned to the young man and lifted a finger to his lips.
“Shh,” he whispered, and turned back to prayer.
“Abbot Sigeberht, they said they would break down the gate if you did not come at once.”
The abbot sighed. He turned to the monks next to him and indicated by gesture that they should continue without him. Then, gathering his robes about him, he stood and followed
the young monk to the gate.
Opening the shutter, he peered without. “What do you want?”
A face appeared at the grille.
“We want the abbot, King Sigeberht.”
“What do you want him for?”
“We will tell him to his face. And if he don’t come to us soon, we’ll come to him, right through this here door and anyone who tries to stop us.”
“There is no need. He is here.”
The man stepped back a little, then returned to the grille.
“It’s you, is it?”
“I am Abbot Sigeberht. What do you want of me?”
“The king, King Ecgric, has sent us to fetch you.”
“What does he want of me? I have given the throne to him. I want nothing more of the ways of this world.”
“He wants your help in keeping his throne. And his life. King Penda marches against us. Already he has crossed the Great Ouse, and we were sorely beaten trying to hold him upon the further bank. Now he makes haste for the heart of our kingdom, and King Ecgric has not men enough to defeat him.”
“I will pray for his victory.” Abbot Sigeberht began to close the grille, but the man pushed it open again.
“You don’t understand. The king does not want your prayers. He wants your sword; he wants you on the battlefield and at his side in the shieldwall.”
“That is impossible. I have given up the wars of this world; I will not lift sword again. Please go. Assure King Ecgric that though he is yet a pagan I will pray for his victory.” Abbot Sigeberht made to close the grille again, but this time the man forced it open all the way.
“Like I said, the king wants you and he said to come back with you, whether you were willing or not.” The soldier stepped back from the gate. “Break it down.”
The gate shuddered as axes laid into it. Abbot Sigeberht stood back and waited. His monks came running from the church to stand beside him, some brandishing staves and cudgels, but he placed his hand upon their weapons and bade them lay them down.
“Men may bring war into this house, but we shall not raise hand against them,” he said.
The gate, weakened by the succession of axe blows, finally splintered, and men carrying axes or wielding swords poured through.
The man who had spoken earlier came and stood before Abbot Sigeberht. His left arm was bandaged, mud spattered his clothes, and the sword he held in front of him was notched.
“Right, you’re coming with me,” he said. He looked around at the monks standing by their abbot. “Anyone who wants to stop me?”
One or two of the younger monks made to step forward, but Abbot Sigeberht held them back.
“Stay, do not raise your hand,” he said. “I will go.”
“Get your sword. You’ll need it,” said the soldier.
“I have no sword; I gave it away when I became a monk.”
“Don’t matter. King Ecgric will give you one.”
“I will not bear it.”
“Tell him that, not me. Come on, let’s go.”
And with the man’s sword jabbing into his back, Abbot Sigeberht went from his monastery to war.
*
“I hate boats.” Eowa, having given his opinion of water transport, turned and leaned over the side of the ship.
Oswald laughed, and clapped the man’s heaving shoulders.
“That is not helping,” said Eowa, without turning round.
“Come, we are nearly there.” Oswald pointed. “See that headland? Once we pass Lizard Point it is but a short way to Tynemouth, and then we are into the river; it will be smoother going there.”
Eowa glanced in the direction Oswald was pointing and groaned. “Throw me overboard now,” he said. “I won’t live that long.”
The sail cracked in the brisk wind, the raven painted upon it fluttering as if it were alive. Bran, perched in the midst of the boat as clear of the spray as possible, opened an eye, glanced as if with disdain, then went back to sleep again.
“You will get used to this,” said Oswald.
Eowa, wiping his mouth but looking slightly less green, turned back into the boat. “I have not got used to it in all the years I have been your hostage.”
“We have not been in boats all that time.”
“Near enough,” said Eowa, with feeling. “I am glad I am of Mercia, and far from the sea; the only time I ever went on boats was to cross a river.”
“I have spent near enough my whole life by the sea.” Oswald adjusted the tiller in natural response to a shift in the wind, not needing to think as he did so. “It is funny to see one so incapacitated by a little light swell.”
“It’s not funny for me,” said Eowa. “Next time, could I not go with the wagons?”
“That is a long and weary journey. Besides, I would have you with me. Since Oswiu took command of the northern marches, and Aidan prefers to wander the land talking to farmers and slaves rather than his king, you are the only one left for me to speak with.” Oswald laughed, but there was no humour in it. “You at least will not desert me, seeing as you are my hostage.”
“It is strange to think that,” said Eowa. “For I now think of myself as your friend.”
“I too. And as my friend and counsellor, and seeing that you have nothing left in your stomach to vomit, I would have your advice. With my brother occupied, I have need of a new warmaster. Who do you recommend?”
Eowa nodded. “Let me think on this.” He pointed ahead. “Is that the mouth of the river?”
“Yes,” said Oswald, adjusting the tiller to bring the boat closer in to shore. He looked to the men sitting upon the cross benches – the boat carried twenty-five of his best warriors – and called them to make ready with the oars.
“It is indeed a shame that Oswiu so rarely joins us now. A king needs a warmaster he can trust. To that end, I recommend Bassus.”
“Bassus? Why him?”
“I know he served your uncle and took into exile his queen and children, but since his return he has served you faithfully. Besides, he is no longer young, and he has no connection with the Yffings, so he will not be able to use his position as warmaster against you.”
Oswald nodded. “I will think on that. You were your brother’s warmaster, were you not?”
“I was, and would that I had used my position to act against him.”
“Well, we will see what we can do about that.”
Eowa looked sharply at Oswald. “What do you mean?”
But Oswald shook his head. “We will talk later on it. For now, I must concentrate: where river meets sea makes for choppy water.”
Eowa looked round, saw the chaotic waves ahead, and groaned. “Will it never end?”
“There’s clear water upstream.”
“But a lot of rough waves to cross before we get there.”
Oswald laughed. “That’s not rough. You should see the storms in the west.”
“No, thank you…” Eowa began, but then the boat’s prow jerked up as it met the first of the waves, and just as suddenly plunged down. The Mercian’s face as suddenly dropped, and he made a plunge for the side of the boat.
“Just in time,” said Oswald as the first retch heaved through Eowa’s body. The Mercian made no reply. He was far too busy.
*
“You came.” King Ecgric looked up, his face tight and drawn as the wound in his shoulder was being stitched.
“Not by my will, but at sword point.” Abbot Sigeberht indicated the man beside him. “Beonna would not accept my refusal.”
Ecgric tried to smile, but the pulling tight of gut turned the smile into a grimace of pain. “That – that is why I chose him. Beonna is faithful to a fault; if I tell him to do something, he will not rest until it is accomplished.”
“Nor care that he breaks God’s commands in carrying it out.”
“Another reason I chose him. Beonna follows the old ways, as do I.”
“Old ways or new ways, it behoves a man to keep his pledge.”
Ecgric winced as the gut was finally tied off. The leech made to bind it, but the king pushed him away. “See to the rest,” he said. “There are others who need thee.” The leech gathered his needle and gut, while Ecgric tried the arm for movement, wincing again as he did so.
“I would not have had you brought here without need,” he said to Sigeberht.
“Your need would have been better served by my remaining in my monastery and offering prayer for you and our people.”
“You know our need then?”
“Penda.”
“Yes, Penda. He’s pushed us back this far, Sigeberht. There’s nowhere further we can go. We either fight here, or we run, or we die.” Ecgric gestured for the other men, weary and war-torn retainers, and Beonna, to leave the tent. When they had gone, he waved the abbot to a stool, but when Sigeberht did not move, Ecgric sighed and got to his feet.
“You see me?” he said. “I can bare walk, my arm is useless, and in two battles against Penda all I’ve managed to do is extract most of my men alive. I’m desperate – we’re desperate.”
“Then send word to me at the abbey and we will storm God’s hall with our prayers that he may listen to your pleas.”
“Don’t you think I’ve been praying and sacrificing the whole time? I’ve given twenty cattle and a hundred and more sheep, and have the gods listened? No, they turn their backs on us, and when I ask the priest he turns to me with bloody hands and says, ‘It’s wyrd,’ or, ‘It’s the fate singers.’ What use are gods that don’t do anything when you wash their halls with the blood of sacrifice and smoke them out with burnt offerings?”
“My God has power over all gods.”
“A pox on gods!” Ecgric grasped Sigeberht’s arm, his face up close to his old friend. “They are faithless friends! That is why I brought you from your monastery. The men remembered – I remembered – the victories we won when you stood beside us in the shieldwall. All men had to hear was the name Sigeberht and despair would fall on our enemies and our own men would stand against the greatest foe without fear. Enough with prayers! Take your sword, stand with us; together we can defeat Penda and save our kingdom.”
Oswald: Return of the King Page 37