The Fall of the House of Æthelfrith

by H A CULLEY

  The boy translated for his father, which puzzled Swefred because he knew that Nectan spoke English well.

  ‘Why do we need you to translate? The last time the two of us met on this very spot your father told me himself that he spoke English well.’

  Óengus grinned whilst Nectan kept his expression blank.

  ‘It gives him time to think how best to reply,’ the boy replied in Latin, a language his father didn’t speak.

  Swefred smiled at Nectan who looked at his son curiously but said nothing. The conversation continued through Óengus.

  ‘Why are you against war?’

  ‘Why waste useful lives? Besides war can have unpredictable outcomes.’

  ‘What is your proposal?’

  ‘That we advance from here towards Dùn Breatainn and, when we have surrounded his stronghold, we offer to negotiate.’

  ‘What do you hope to gain from these negotiations?’

  ‘Recognition that Southern Galloway is now part of Northumbria and a cessation of his attacks on it. And you? What do you want Nectan?’

  ‘To move my border west to include the land from the Campsie Fells to Loch Venachar, where it was forty years ago.’

  ‘Very well. If we are agreed, let’s get out of this wind and meet here again in two weeks’ time with our armies.’

  In the end it went better than Swefred had dared hope. The sudden invasion by the Picts from the north-east and the Northumbrians from the south-west had caught Beli completely by surprise. He only had supplies inside Dùn Breatainn to last him a couple of weeks and ten days after the siege started he agreed to negotiate. He had little to bargain with and eventually agreed to the demands made by Nectan and Swefred.

  Swefred was in for one surprise though. Óengus opted to return with him to Bebbanburg, much against his father’s wishes.

  ~~~

  The winter of 705/706 was a fierce one. The snow came early at the start of November and blizzards prevented travelling any distance until the thaw started in late March. Starving wolves came down out of the hills and attacked anyone who ventured far from their homes. When Cenred heard that a pack was even prowling around the outskirts of Eoforwīc he decided to organise a hunt to eradicate the menace.

  The man who slipped into a tavern in the poorer part of the town wore a dirty brown cloak over his good quality woollen tunic. The two men he sought were sitting in their usual place in a corner away from the hearth in the middle of the taproom. Everyone else in the place was huddled around the only source of warmth.

  Even though they were out of earshot of the rest of the customers the man kept his voice low.

  ‘Cenred is leading a wolf hunt the day after tomorrow,’ the new arrival told them. ‘The wolves are reportedly living in the wood to the south of here so that’s where he’ll be headed.’

  ‘How many will go with him?’ one of the other men asked.

  ‘The pack is said to be quite large – perhaps six or seven strong – so the king will take maybe fifteen mounted men with him in addition to a few huntsmen with dogs to flush the wolves out of their den.’

  ‘Thank you. Here is what we promised you,’ the first man said handing the informer a pouch of silver under the table.

  Tucking the pouch out of sight, he took his leave of the other two and left the tavern. As he made his way back through the mixture of mud and slush to the king’s hall, another man slipped out of the shadows and followed him. The informer was so intent on not losing his footing in the slippery conditions that he never heard the other man come up behind him.

  The latter put his hand over the informer’s mouth and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. He slit his throat expertly and pulled the body into a side alley. Checking he hadn’t been seen, the killer retrieved the pouch of silver and made his way back to the tavern just as the other two left.

  ‘Well done,’ Otta said as he took the proffered pouch. ‘It’s a pity we’ll have to freeze our bollocks off waiting for Cenred tomorrow but the prize is worth it.’

  ~~~

  Otta and his men did their best to keep warm whilst they waited. They had entered the wood just before dawn and, keeping a wary eye out for the wolves, scouted the tracks that the hunt was likely to follow. Once satisfied that they knew the wood sufficiently well they settled down to wait.

  The air was clear, the sky was blue and the temperature was well below freezing. Despite wearing every stitch of clothing they possessed, the icy cold soon started to penetrate through to their skin. Reluctantly Otta let his men move to and fro in an effort to keep warm. Then the one sent to keep watch at the edge of the trees came running back.

  ‘They’re coming,’ he yelled excitedly.

  ‘Keep your voice down, damn you,’ Otta said in a fierce whisper. ‘Right, you all know what to do. Get going.’

  A pair of mounted men took up position at the side of each track, keeping well back into the leafless trees. As luck would have it Cenred also split his men up to follow the dogs along the three main tracks in the hope of locating the wolves. Otta was certain that they weren’t in the wood that morning but, of course, Cenred wasn’t to know that.

  As Cenred and three companions trotted past, Otta and one of his men joined the group. Everyone was so intent on watching for the wolves that no one noticed the two new arrivals at first. However, the ealdorman riding beside the king looked curiously at the horseman who rode up to join them on Cenred’s other side. By the time he had realised with a shock that it was Otta it was too late.

  Otta drew back his spear and thrust it into the king’s side. Cenred fell from his horse with a cry and the man behind him stabbed his spear down into his eye socket and thence into his brain. The ealdorman recovered quickly from his shock and thrust his own spear into the man who had killed the king. One of the other nobles completed the job of killing the third assassin whilst the captain of Cenred’s gesith took off after Otta mouthimng curses.

  Suddenly the latter pulled his horse to a stop, turned it back to face the way it’d come and threw his spear at his pursuer. He missed the man but hit the horse, which reared up and deposited its rider onto the ground, where he lay winded.

  They searched high and low for Otta and his confederates but without success. Otta had planned to stay in Northumbria for the Witan in the hope of election but, as he’d been recognised, there was now a price on his head equivalent to the weregeld due for killing a king. With such a large sum offered for his capture he was lucky to make it into Mercia safely.

  The roads were all but impassable so it was several weeks before he could continue his journey to the coast. From there he sailed back to the Continent and offered his sword to Charles Martel.

  Chapter Twenty Four – Osric the Good

  718 – 725 AD

  ‘Cenred had the makings of a good king,’ John of Beverley told Swefred as they sat together in the bishop’s house in Eoforwīc.

  Outside the rain pattered on the shutters whilst inside the gloom of the room was matched by Swefred’s mood.

  ‘Yes, I’d have gladly killed Otta myself if I could have lain my hands on him.’

  The snow had long since melted but it had left the roads a quagmire and now the rain had made matters worse. Swefred had only been able to make it to the capital of Northumbria by sailing down from Bebbanburg. As hereræswa, he had taken over the reins of government and had ruled in partnership with Bishop John in the interregnum.

  He’d hoped to have held the Witan by now, but two months after Cenred’s assassination it had still proved impossible for everyone to meet. Even sowing for next summer’s harvest had been delayed and he worried that the people would starve this year if the rain didn’t let up soon.

  Two days later it seemed as if his prayers, and those of John, had been answered. The rain stopped and the sun came out. Eight days later nobles, abbots and the two other bishops began to arrive for the Witan.

  The seventeen year old Osric was the obvious choice but there were ealdor
men who felt that he was still tainted by his relationship to Osred and the assassin Otta. Their candidate was Cenred’s brother Ceolwulf. He was now twenty one and, although still a thegn and therefore not present at the Witan, they nominated him in absentia.

  One further complication was that a majority of the ealdormen backed Swefred as king.

  ‘After all,’ as Beorhtmund pointed out, ‘he is the brother of a king, is the greatest warrior alive in Northumbria today and has a son to succeed him.’

  ‘I thank all of you who have nominated me but I don’t consider myself an ætheling. I never have and I never will; nor is my son an ætheling.’

  With that he sat down. Many present begged him to reconsider but he remained adamant. Eochaid was the next man to stand.

  ‘As Swefred has stated that he is not an ætheling, then, as his cousin, I can hardly consider myself one either. I too decline to stand.’

  ‘There is one other true ætheling whose name has not been mentioned so far,’ Bishop Eadfrith said.

  At this a hubbub of speculation arose and John of Beverley, who was presiding, had to call for quiet several times before it died away.

  ‘I speak of Æthelwald Moll, Osred’s bastard son. Of course he is, as yet, far too young but his name should be entered into the records as an ætheling.’

  Swefred swore vividly under his breath. If he’d had his way Æthelwald would never have known about his parentage. Now it was common knowledge he’d have to tell him. He was worried that, at eight, the knowledge that his parents were King Osred the Wicked and a nun he raped might affect the boy badly; more so even than knowing that he was an ætheling. To Swefred’s mind kingship was a curse, and dreaming of kingship was even worse.

  ‘I call upon Osric to state his case,’ John said, nodding at the young man.

  ‘My parentage is not in doubt,’ he began, inferring that Æthelwald Moll’s was. Certainly he never acknowledged him later as his nephew. ‘I am as different to my late brother as it is possible to be. Like my father, I would have become a scholar had I not been an ætheling. I am no warrior, but perhaps that it a good thing. Northumbria needs a period of peace and stability in which craftsmanship, culture, religion and trade can flourish.

  ‘We have more land than we can farm thanks to our losses on the battlefield; we certainly don’t need more. The land we seem to have acquired in Galloway can’t be populated from within the kingdom so we have had to offer it to settlers from Mercia, the Isle of Man and even Hibernia.

  ‘But I digress. If you elect me as your king I will bring an end to the recent turbulence and strive to make you rich. As to the defence of our borders, I have every faith in Swefred as our hereræswa.’

  He sat down to cheering and applause.

  It fell to Bishop Acca of Hexham to make the case for Coelwulf. Acca was much respected as an accomplished musician and a learned theologian amongst churchmen, but he was little known outside the Church and his own diocese.

  ‘Coelwulf is the late king’s younger brother and a man who is a trained warrior but also a devout Christian. Even the Venerable Bede has praised his piety. A Christian country needs a Christian monarch.’

  ‘Are you saying that Osric isn’t a Christian?’ one of the ealdormen shouted in protest.

  ‘Be quiet,’ John thumped the table behind which he sat with his fist, causing the scribe sitting beside him to smudge the record he was making. ‘No one ever interrupts a candidate during his submission. You will have your chance to speak later. Carry on bishop.’

  But Acca had evidently lost the thread of what he’d been saying and, after repeating what a good Christian Coelwulf was, he sat down. Unlike the acclaim for Osric his statement was greeted by muted applause.

  The outcome was never in doubt and Osric became the last recorded king of the House of Æthelfrith.

  ~~~

  Swefred returned to Bebbanburg to be faced with the difficult task of telling Æthelwald Moll about his parents.

  The boy came in to see him with Ulfric by his side. The two went everywhere and did everything together. Swefred thought of sending his son out of the room but Kendra, sitting beside him, touched his arm and shook her head slightly when he glanced at her. She was right, he thought, the boy might need his foster brother to comfort him once he’d heard what Swefred had to say. He cleared his throat and began a little nervously.

  ‘Come and sit down, boys,’ he said, indicating two stools. ‘Æthelwald have you ever wondered about your parents?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But whenever I asked anybody they would change the subject. I assume I was a bastard and I know I’m lucky you took me in and treated me like your own son.’

  ‘Yes, well. Lady Kendra and I think that you’re old enough now to know the truth.’

  The boy said nothing but looked apprehensive rather than eager. Ulfric took his hand and gave it a little squeeze.

  ‘As you rightly assumed, you were born out of wedlock.’

  When he saw a look of incomprehension on the boy’s face he hastily added, ‘you are a bastard.’

  ‘Do you know who my parents are, lord?’

  ‘Yes.’ He hesitated.

  ‘Are they still alive?’

  ‘Your mother is but your father is dead.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Could I visit my mother?’

  ‘Well, er, it’s a bit difficult.’

  ‘She’s a nun at Coldingham, Æthelwald,’ Kendra put in, seeing her husband’s reticence.

  ‘Oh, a nun?’ The boy frowned. ‘Did she have me before she became a nun?’

  ‘No, Æthelwald. Look, you need to know the truth. She was raped by your father whilst she was a novice.’

  Swefred hadn’t meant to be so brutal but he didn’t know how else to phrase it.

  Both boys gasped and Ulfric frowned at his father. Surely he didn’t have to break the news to his friend like that. Æthelwald started sobbing and Ulfric put his arms around him and hugged him. Kendra got up and took the boy into her arms and tried to kiss his tears away. Even she looked at Swefred reproachfully. He sighed. He’d made a mess of it, as he knew he would.

  Eventually Æthelwald calmed down.

  ‘Who was the rapist,’ he spat the last two words out as if they were something foul that he’d eaten. He refused to think of the man as his father.

  ‘King Osred.’

  ‘Osred the Wicked?’

  The boy started to sob again and then pushed both Kendra and Ulfric away roughly before rushing out of the hall and down to the beach, where he sat brooding until the incoming tide forced him to move.

  Ulfric and he remained friends but the relationship wasn’t the same and it remained somewhat strained for a long time. Æthelwald was ashamed of his parentage and built a wall around himself, keeping people away. Ulfric blamed his father and they became, if not estranged, at least not as close as they had been.

  ~~~

  Osric traveled down to Eoforwīc to see John of Beverley towards the end of the year. The bishop’s hall was a modest affair sited in the grounds of the monastery and on arrival he was met by the abbot, Wilfrith, a monk from Whitby who had recently been consecrated when John had decided to separate the offices of abbot and bishop.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Cyning,’ John held out his hand for the king to kiss his ring. ‘Forgive me for sitting in your presence but I’m find it very difficult to stand at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t worry, bishop, my only concern is for your health.’

  ‘I fear that my best years are behind me, Osric, which is why I asked to see you.’

  ‘Nonsense, you have years ahead of you yet; this is a passing inconvenience.’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so, but I fear it is far from the truth. I’m sixty seven and I feel fortunate that God had given me so long a life on this earth. Now though I need to prepare for my death. If you will allow it, I wish to retire to the monastery I founded at Beverley and live the life of a simple monk until God calls me to his side.’

/>   ‘But what will I do without you? I have only been king a short while and I depend upon you for advice and guidance.’

  ‘I commend Abbot Wilfrith to you, Cyning. He is well educated and a scholar who has worked with Bede during his time at Whitby. Your aunt, the Abbess Ælfflaed, thought highly of him and I recommend him to you as my replacement.’

  Osric looked at Wilfrith properly for the first time. The abbot had an air of confidence about him without being haughty. He took him to be in his mid-thirties and he was dressed in a plain cream habit with a silver cross suspended from a leather thong about his neck. He decided he liked what he saw.

  ‘I will think about your request, John. Come and see me in my hall tomorrow, Wilfrith, so we can talk properly.’

  ‘He means without me listening and influencing you,’ John muttered with a chuckle.

  ~~~

  Life had continued as normal at Bebbanburg after Swefred had told Æthelwald about his parents but the place never felt quite the same to Swefred as it had done in the past. It was as if a cloak of melancholia had enveloped him. When his wife died three years later he sunk deeper into depression and he gave up the post of hereræswa. With the country at peace, Osric didn’t appoint a replacement for a while, but eventually he chose Eochaid.

  That same summer Bishop Eadfrith died but Swefred didn’t bother to go to his funeral; neither did he accept the king’s invitation to attend the funeral of John of Beverley a few months later. He was only thirty three but he felt as if he was twenty years older.

  However, he did take the two boys to Lindisfarne the following year for them to start their education. Æthelwald was well aware that he had been the cause of Swefred’s melancholia and he tried to lift the man’s spirits in the months before they left. To some extent he succeeded, and if things weren’t back to where they were, at least Bebbanburg was a slightly happier place until the boys left. Unfortunately, Swefred became morose once more as soon as they’d gone.