Oswald: Return of the King

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Oswald: Return of the King Page 44

by Edoardo Albert


  “Lord, you must take horse,” said Bassus. “Flee. Let us buy you time with our lives.”

  “No. No, I will not leave you.” Oswald took Coifi’s hand. “Listen. Take word to my brother. Do not throw your life away, Coifi. Tell him he is king now; tell him to remember the promise he gave me; tell him I am sorry to have doubted him. Now go!” Oswald released Coifi’s hand and slapped the horse into motion. “Go!” he yelled after him, as the horse sprang up the slope.

  None of the mounted men set off after Coifi. Oswald had hoped that some might go, but Penda was not to be distracted. The king gauged the distance between his men and Penda’s. There was still time before the battle began.

  “Let us take him down.”

  With Bassus, Oswald cut Sidrac from the cross. He smoothed the man’s eyes shut and eased his body upon the ground. Then, taking hold of the cross, he looked up upon its bare wood.

  “Lord, you knew bitter death, as we will know it. Save my men and receive them into your hall. Do not hold my pride against them, but let them live, Lord; let them live.”

  As if in answer, Bran settled upon the head of the cross and, ducking his head, croaked his song over the battlefield. Oswald, seeing him, raised his hand.

  “Farewell, old friend,” he said.

  Bran croaked.

  “If you will, take word to my brother.”

  The raven turned his head, looking at Oswald with its black eyes.

  “Thank you.” Oswald slipped a ring from his finger and held it up to the bird. The raven regarded it, head to one side, then leaned forward and took the gold in its beak. Taking wing, Bran swooped low before heavy strokes of his wings beat him higher into the sky, circling up and up until the air bore the bird upon itself, and he flew away east.

  “Pen-da! Pen-da! Pen-da!”

  The shieldwall advanced upon them, thrumming spears against shields, while the mounted men circled round to the rear; there would be no escape for anyone breaking from the battle and attempting to flee.

  Oswald came to stand among his men. Many among them took his hand and held it to their foreheads or kissed it.

  “Why do you do this?” he asked, as another man pressed his hand to his lips. “I have led you to ruin and death.”

  “Don’t you know?” Bassus asked.

  Oswald looked to him. “No,” he said.

  “You are their good lord,” he said. “And mine.” The old warrior took Oswald’s hand and, bending his head, pressed it to his forehead. “Edwin made me leave him; I will not leave you.” Bassus turned to the ragged line of men. “Now, let’s take as many of these Mercian bastards with us as we can. Right? Right.” And as he lined the men up, Bassus turned to Oswald and grinned.

  “This is where I would be, lord.”

  *

  “Damn you! I thought you said Eowa’s hall lay over this rise?” Oswiu gripped the farmer by the throat, squeezing.

  The man choked, his eyes popping.

  “He cannot speak if you are strangling him,” said Brother Diuma, and Oswiu pushed the farmer away. Taken unaware, the man fell from the horse and lay upon the snow, gasping up at the sky.

  “Do we need him any more?” asked the monk. “The way is clear enough.” He pointed to the trail cutting across field and ridge, heading west.

  “How much further? I need to know how much further.”

  “He clearly does not know.”

  Oswiu pointed his sword at the farmer. “Do not be here when we return.” The farmer scrabbled backwards over the snow, but as Oswiu was about to kick his horse into motion, he stopped. He heard a low, croaking cough and, looking up, saw the raven, black against the blue sky. He knew that call.

  “Bran?”

  The raven circled down towards him, losing height as swiftly as Oswiu had ever seen. Straining his eyes, he saw something glitter in his beak. He held his arm up, in case for once the bird would settle upon it, and for a wonder it did. Bran dropped the ring into his hand and Oswiu knew it for what it was.

  “Ride! Ride for my brother’s life!”

  *

  “Why didn’t you bring him?”

  Acca grabbed the horse’s head and brought it to a halt.

  “He would not come.” Coifi dropped from the horse beside Acca. “He gave me a message for his brother, else I would not have left him.”

  “What can we do? What can we do?” Acca stared past the horse. Already Penda’s line was within fifty yards of the small group of men standing around Oswald.

  “There is nothing we can do,” said Coifi.

  “If we could call for help…”

  “There is no one to call. Only the gods, and they do not answer me.”

  “Try, Coifi, try.” Acca pushed him back towards the horse. “Get on it, ride, see if there is anyone – maybe the king left some men behind; we didn’t ask. Please try; do something.”

  Coifi pulled Acca’s hands from his chest.

  “There is nothing we can do,” he said. “Nothing.”

  Acca fell to his knees. He looked up at Coifi. “Nothing?”

  “All we can do is what we are meant to do: I will pray, you will watch, and we will honour the king by not turning away.”

  *

  Oswiu urged his struggling horse towards the line of trees, limned in white, across the valley floor. The track they were following ran to the trees, two horses wide and cut deep into the surrounding snow – thirty or forty horsemen must have ridden across the valley. But their own animals, the nags they’d paid for when they landed, were blowing hard, their flanks lathered with sweat despite the cold. They could not go much further at this pace, and he could not risk any of the animals dying on them, for that would be to abandon a rider to following on foot, prey to riders and marauders.

  They had crossed three valleys now, following the same trail, and each time, as they breasted the final ridge, Oswiu’s breath had quickened as he looked down, hoping to see some sign of his brother or Eowa’s hall. But each time the trail had simply continued, pushing towards the distant line of hills.

  He looked up from the trail. The hills were not so distant now. Maserfield lay in the shadow of the hills. Surely it was not far?

  Oswiu raised his arm and signalled his riders on; a final burst before they would, he knew, have to rest the horses a while.

  The trees approached. Beyond them the land fell away. And then he saw it. A smoke column rising into the clear sky.

  They were close. They must be.

  Oswiu signalled the riders to slow as they approached the trees, then to stop. He listened, but could hear nothing. But the smoke rose thickly into the crystal sky. Steam rose from the horses’ flanks and in billows from their nostrils. Oswiu signalled the dismount, then signed Brother Diuma and two men to him. He needed to see what lay beyond the trees before riding into it.

  “With me. Quiet.”

  Following the track into the trees, the close-packed snow quieter beneath their feet than the unmarked snow to either side, they disappeared in among the stand of birch and hazel that marked the edges of the small wood.

  Though he wanted to draw no attention, Oswiu knew that he must needs hurry, so he pushed on through the trees much faster than normal; any sentry standing still against a tree would see and hear them coming but he could not take the time for true stealth.

  Coming to the end of the trees, Oswiu crept forward, looking, listening, all his attention directed into the valley below. So he did not see the men on his right.

  “My lord.”

  Oswiu spun round and saw Coifi, raven dark in the shadow of a tree, and Acca, stepping forward, arms spread, as swords rasped from sheaths to point at him. And he saw their faces were pale and their eyes were red and he knew what they would say before ever they said it.

  “My lord, you are too late…”

  *

  “Pen-da! Pen-da! Pen-da!”

  The shieldwall advanced, a wall bristling with spears and swords, and Oswald searched along it for th
e man they chanted. There he was, in the centre. Oswald turned to Bassus, stationed beside him in what passed for their shieldwall.

  “He’s in the centre. See him?”

  “Got him. Ready?”

  Oswald took a deep breath. He tasted it deep within his lungs, feeling its cold fire.

  “Closer,” he said.

  Bassus steadied the men poised on either side of him.

  “Closer.”

  The Mercians were barely twenty yards away.

  “Closer.”

  Penda was coming straight at him.

  “Now!”

  “Now!” yelled Bassus, his voice a bellow over the chant of the Mercians, and the Northumbrians sprang forward, making a wedge, driving on the man at its point, driving on Oswald, with all their strength.

  He struck for Penda, pushing shield and spear and the weight of all the men behind him at the Mercian.

  And Penda fell.

  Caught by the charge, unable to shift his line or meet its ferocity, he went down, disappearing beneath Oswald’s shield. Oswald went to stab down as the charge carried him onwards, but he stumbled over the prone man, staring down at him, and for a moment they saw each other, Penda helpless upon the ground, Oswald helpless before the fury of his own men as they carried him past the Mercian.

  But the arms of Penda’s shieldwall began to fold around Oswald’s men, embracing them, sucking the motion from their charge, slowing them, stopping them, bringing them to a halt amid a mass of slashing, shoving, hacking, stabbing men.

  “Bassus! He fell! Push back!”

  Oswald turned to his warmaster, to see his eyes widen in surprise. Bassus looked down. A spear protruded from his stomach. He looked up into Oswald’s eyes, and it seemed there was something he wished to say, something of great importance, but he could not force the words from his lips, and then his eyes glazed and he fell forwards.

  “Back! Back!”

  At the command, Penda’s line pulled back, leaving the Northumbrians exposed.

  Oswald, gasping, turned and looked around, but no one stood around him. They were all gone. He was the last of the Northumbrians. His men lay around, locked in death’s embrace. The cross stood behind him. The surge and shift of struggle had pushed them back to its foot. He touched the wood, then knelt down beside Bassus and passed his hand over his face, closing his eyes. As no one approached, he bent down and kissed his forehead.

  “Oswald Lamnguin. Oswald Whiteblade.” Penda stepped forward. He held up his sword, the flowing lines upon it catching the snow light. “My blade is red today. I took it from your uncle.” He held it up to his ear. “I hear it. It sings, Oswald; it sings the blood music. What say you to that?”

  Oswald rose to his feet.

  “I say: if you would defeat me, then fight me; fight me yourself. My sword against your sword.”

  Penda laughed, dropping his hands to his knees. When he had recovered, he stood up, still wiping tears from his cheek.

  “Why would I want to do that? I have won; I will give you no last chance, Oswald Iding.” Penda turned to the men gathered around Oswald. “My wolves, we have hunted our prey for long enough; now is the time to bring it down.” He took a ring from his arm – a thick, richly worked gold ring – and held it up.

  “This is for the man who kills him.”

  They fell upon him as wolves upon a wounded stag, and Oswald stood before their assault, wielding sword and shield and fist, swaying as a tree in storm. But then, as strength failed though will hardened, and blows cut through shield and mail and then into flesh, he went down to one knee. Seeing him down, they redoubled their attacks, using fist and foot and teeth, with sword and shield and axe, in their frenzy.

  They battered him down, they buried him beneath their bodies, stabbing, biting, punching, and Oswald, helpless now, stared up past the screaming faces, past the bared teeth and raised fists. He stared up at the sky and knew that he had never seen it so blue. As the blades pierced him, he knew that he was dying and he realized why every man looked surprised when he died.

  “So that is it,” he said, and there was wonder in his voice.

  *

  Penda looked down into the face of his enemy. He stared at it for a long time, his eyes narrowing as if he saw something there behind the cuts and wounds that marred it. Around him, his men stripped the enemy dead of their weapons and jewels, working swiftly, for the cold was rising and fingers were growing numb and bodies freezing, making it all the harder to take valuables from newly stiff fingers. Many a scavenger resorted to the knife to remove rings.

  Wihtrun came to stand beside Penda.

  “The gods have brought him down,” he said.

  The king glanced at the priest. “I brought him down.”

  “But without the aid of the gods…”

  “Without the swords of men, Oswald would still be High King and calling men to his new god.” Penda poked the corpse with his foot. “Where is your god now, Oswald Iding?”

  “Your sacrifice…” Wihtrun started again, but Penda held up his hand.

  “No,” he said. He looked to the priest. “This is wyrd, the weavings of the fate singers. Men die. The gods die. This middle-earth dies. The fate singers weave it all and they are blind. But now I am king – now I am High King – I will give the gods a gift.” He looked down at the body lying at his feet, the shadow of the cross darkening it.

  “Cut him up,” he said. Penda looked at Wihtrun. “Cut him up and hang him on his tree,” he pointed at the cross, “and we will give him to the gods and take his wyrd. His uncle had the tufa as his standard; I will carry Oswald before me.”

  Chapter 9

  Aidan, taken from the Great Work to adjudicate a dispute between a fisherman and a farmer, stood listening patiently to them explaining how the case had divided their families for two generations. He felt a cold hand grasp his heart.

  He gasped, but neither farmer nor fisherman heard, so intent were they upon rehearsing, for their own benefit as much as Aidan’s, the story of their complaints. The hand squeezed again and sweat broke upon his brow. Aidan held a hand out to steady himself, but missed his hold and almost fell. The fisherman, seeing him sway, just caught the bishop in time, and seeing the sheen of sweat upon Aidan’s face, he took him bodily and sat him gently upon the ground.

  “Art thou all right?” the fisherman asked once he had Aidan sitting safely, his back resting against the wall of the church.

  Aidan looked up at the concerned faces of the fisherman and the farmer leaning over him.

  “He’s dead,” he said. “The king is dead. So, no, I don’t think I am all right.”

  *

  Hooves rattled over stone, the sound of a horse hard ridden. The rider, travel-stained and weary almost beyond standing, slid from his animal and stood swaying before the gate of the holy house at Coldingham. The panel in the gate slid open.

  “Who calls at this holy house?”

  The man almost fell, but he gathered himself and made it to the door, leaning against the wood.

  “The – the king,” he gasped.

  The panel slid shut and the gate opened. Oswiu stumbled within and one of the nuns hovered about him, unsure whether to give an arm to help, but Oswiu forced himself upright. He would stand for this.

  He heard footsteps, light and running, and then his sister appeared, a broad smile upon her face – a smile that died as soon as she saw him and she stopped, a terrible realization striking her. She put her hand to her mouth. She asked the question with her eyes.

  Oswiu nodded.

  Æbbe’s face crumpled. She did not move, and Oswiu would have gone to her, but the strength was gone from him; he had ridden almost without rest from Maserfield to Coldingham.

  “Oswald?” It was his mother’s voice.

  Acha appeared, coming from the church as Æbbe had done, her voice hopeful with the thought of seeing her son, the king. Then she saw Oswiu, and Æbbe’s grief, and she stopped. Acha closed her eyes, and a shudd
er ran down her body, but when she opened her eyes again they were clear, and cold with acceptance.

  “So, it has happened,” said Acha. “Tell me…”

  *

  Feet moved slowly over the machair of Iona, the Holy Isle. In this winter season no flowers speckled the low-lying mat of grass and plants, but the snow that covered the hills of the mainland had passed over the Holy Isle.

  One foot, then another, pacing out a life. Abbot Ségéne looked down as he walked, seeing the old toes, white now from the cold, poking from his sandals, but he did not return to the monastery to put on warmer shoes. Besides, he hardly felt his feet any longer. He walked over the machair to the northern tip of the Holy Isle, and he remembered. He remembered the brothers, the elder suspicious at first, looking around at sights and sounds new to him, the younger secure, as he always was, that his elder brother knew what he was doing. Then he remembered the long months of settling, as they learned the ways of the Holy Isle, and slowly began to cast off the burden of flight and exile and their father’s death. He remembered them grow towards manhood, and the eagerness with which Oswiu left to fight among the warbands of the kings and princes of the sea kingdoms, and the reluctance of Oswald to take boat from Iona. He remembered the joy of each return, the radiance on Oswald’s face as he came again to the monastery and heard the brothers’ chant.

  Abbot Ségéne remembered, and he came to the end of land and looked to sea, to the waves rolling from the west, and tears rolled down his cheek to be torn away by the wind.

  “Oh, my hawk,” he said, “my hawk…”

  Historical Note

  The facts of Oswald’s life, as relayed in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, are few, although rich in implication. He was the son of Æthelfrith, the first king of a united Northumbria and one of the most devastating warlords of this violent age. His mother was Acha, a princess of Deira and the sister of Edwin, the man Æthelfrith had displaced to take the kingdom. With Edwin still alive and on the run, and thus dangerous, Æthelfrith spent a decade trying to hunt him down, alternating bribery and threats against the kingdoms where Edwin took refuge. But in one of the dramatic turns of fortune with which this time is replete, Edwin, cornered in East Anglia and about to be dispatched by the king who had given him refuge, found in that king, Rædwald, an unexpectedly ferocious ally and together they took Æthelfrith by surprise and killed him.

 

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