WHITEBLADE: Kings of Northumbria Book 1

by H A CULLEY

  ‘But why would he want us dead? Eanfrith, yes; he’s father’s heir and no relation to him, but we are his nephews,’ Oswald asked, puzzled.

  ‘That counts for little when a crown is at stake. Besides, you, your brothers and Eanfrith are all Æthelings.’

  Ætheling. It meant throne worthy. In the Anglo-Saxon world, the eldest son didn’t automatically succeed his father. The Witan, the council of nobles, chose the next king from all the Æthelings.

  At that moment the nurse entered carrying Oswald’s baby sister, Æbbe, wrapped in a blanket and holding the hand of two-year-old Offa, the youngest of the six brothers.

  ‘My Lady, the horses are ready, as is the escort.’

  Five minutes later Acha and her children left Bebbanburg and headed north-west towards the inlet from the German Ocean called the Firth of Forth. It would be seven years before Oswald again saw the fortress on top of its basalt outcrop and then only briefly.

  ~~~

  Aidan sat on the hillside, gloomily contemplating the sheep of which he was meant to be in charge. He was the third son of a chieftain of one of the plethora of clans in Ireland, but they seemed to be under fairly constant attack by the larger clans in Ulster – the northernmost province in Ireland – particularly by the Uí Néills, who were fast becoming the predominant clan in the area.

  Shepherding was an undemanding but boring job. Provided he didn’t let any of the flock get lost, moved them from pasture to pasture as necessary and kept the wolves at bay with the help of his two enormous wolfhounds and the stout stick he’d been given, he didn’t get beaten by his father too often.

  But Aidan wasn’t satisfied with his lot. The boy had been brought up a pagan, worshipping the gods his clan had always worshipped. He didn’t really understand the complicated Celtic pantheon which the druids spoke about, but he loved the tales of heroism and mythical creatures as told by the bards. He didn’t believe all the stories, of course. He had a questioning mind and life, in his limited experience at the age of twelve, wasn’t like that. Nor did he completely believe in the pagan religion as preached by the druids, although he was frightened of them, so he kept his doubts to himself. Although he’d never seen it, they were reputed to make human sacrifices to their gods and to nail the severed heads of their enemies to trees in the sacred groves. As nobody was allowed near these groves, no-one except the druids knew the truth of the stories. It did, however, ensure that the druids maintained control of the people through fear.

  Aidan looked down the valley towards the small river near which his settlement was built and was surprised to see a man dressed in a long homespun robe like a druid making his way up towards him. At first he was scared; he tried to keep away from the druids as much as he could; but this man didn’t look like one. For a start, druids wore their hair long and this man’s hair was cut close to his head and, strangely, it was shaved from forehead to the crown.

  ‘Greetings, my son. May I sit with you a while? I need to rest after the climb up from your settlement.’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Aidan stuttered, startled at being spoken to by a stranger. ‘Of course. Are you a druid? You look like one, but your hair is different.’

  The man frowned. ‘No, I am not a heathen druid, may God curse them. I am a monk and I am charged by my abbot to tour this land of ours, preaching the word of our Lord, Jesus Christ, so that the people of Ireland can be converted and saved from the torments of Hell.’

  Aidan grinned. ‘And did the people of my settlement listen to you?’

  ‘No, they did not! They chased me out of the place with kicks and stones.’

  He turned his head so that Aidan could see the cut on the back of his head that was still seeping blood into his hair.

  ‘Why do you do it, then, if people just attack you?’

  ‘Because my work is important; nay, vital. Not all clans are as unwelcoming as yours. Many are prepared to listen, at least, to what I have to say. Some have even been converted to Christianity.’

  Seeing the puzzled expression on the boy’s face, he explained that Christianity was the name of the religion of those who believed in one God and Christ, his son. He went on to explain how Christ had died to save the world and Aidan sat entranced, listening to him. But then something happened that drew the attention of both boy and monk back to the valley. The sound of fighting carried up to them on the wind.

  ‘It’s the bloody Uí Néills,’ Aidan exclaimed in horror. ‘They’re attacking my settlement! I must go and help!’

  He had taken no more than a step or two when the monk pulled him back. Seeing their master being held by the stranger, the two wolfhounds started to growl a warning and got to their feet, their hackles rising. The monk pulled the boy to him, ignoring the dogs.

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, son. Your family won’t thank you for getting yourself killed needlessly.’

  ‘You hate them because they wouldn’t listen to you!’ Aidan yelled. ‘They’re my people. I can’t just watch them die!’

  ‘I hate nobody. Just calm down, boy. I have a feeling that God has a special purpose in store for you. I had a vision last night in which Jesus came to me and told me to seek you out. That can only be because he wanted me to save you from getting killed today.’

  The twelve-year-old looked at him in wonder. Somehow he knew that the monk was telling the truth.

  ‘You came to save me?’

  The monk nodded. Without saying another word, the man turned and started to walk further up the valley away from the settlement, which was now burning fiercely. Aidan stood there undecided for a minute and then turned to follow him. The two big dogs watched him go, then started to pad after him. The sheep would have to fend for themselves.

  ~~~

  Oswald was getting saddle-sore. It wasn’t helped by the fact that his four-year-old brother, Oswiu, was also sitting on the mare immediately in front of him. Of his siblings, only Osguid was old enough to ride his own pony, but at least he had it to himself. Oslac, Oslaph and Offa all rode in front of nobles who had elected to go into exile with Acha rather that stay and pledge allegiance to her brother. Æbbe was fast asleep in a sling on her mother’s back. Her nurse had never ridden in her life, so she too shared a horse, this time with one of the warriors who were escorting the queen and her sons. To judge by the grin on his face, he wasn’t finding having a young woman riding in front of him as uncomfortable as Oswald was.

  It started raining on the second day after leaving Bebbanburg and everyone was soaked to the skin. Morale sunk lower and lower, but as they headed through the Pentland Hills, the clouds parted and a watery sun appeared. Gradually the warmth started to dry their sodden cloaks and they began to gently steam. When the expanse of water to the north of Dùn Èideann came into view, there was a collective sigh of relief. Oswald could dimly make out the point where a river flowed into the the wide firth. This was where the northernmost province of Northumbria, Goddodin, met three other kingdoms: Strathclyde, to the south-east, Dal Riada, to the north-east and the land of the Picts, to the north-west. Acha had felt that they would be safe once they reached Dal Riada, or so she hoped.

  It was as they neared Strathcarron that they ran into trouble. Stirling was a Pictish fort which guarded the junction of their territory with Dal Riada and Strathclyde. The settlement sat on an escarpment high above the surrounding countryside and below it lay the first crossing point over the River Forth. Once north of the river, they would be in Dal Riada, but first they had to get there and the bridge was guarded.

  ‘They’ll let us past, won’t they?’ Oswald asked naively, when they’d halted a safe distance from the narrow wooden bridge. ‘After all, Eanfrith is half Pict and he’s our half-brother.’

  ‘You’ve a lot to learn, Oswald. It’s because he’s your half-brother that I don’t trust him. With you and your brothers dead, he would be the only son of Æthelfrith left with a legitimate claim to the throne of Bernicia.’

  ‘Oh! I see. So what do we do? Kill him
first?’

  His mother laughed. ‘Now that’s an idea, but it would seriously upset the Picts. No, I think we’ll leave that to others. We need to lie low and hope that we’re forgotten about until the time is right.’

  Oswald nodded. ‘Meanwhile, we need to cross that damned bridge. How do we get past those Picts without killing them? I assume you want to avoid that?’

  Acha smiled. He eldest son was learning.

  ‘We send someone down to negotiate,’ she replied, looking round for the right person.

  One of the nobles, a thegn called Hussa, went riding down with an escort of three mounted warriors, just as a group of men appeared from Stirling. A few were mounted, but most were on foot. Acha looked anxiously from the group at the bridge to the other, larger, body of men that was still a couple of miles away. Suddenly, those who were mounted broke away from the rest of the men on foot and headed for the bridge at a gallop. It would take them less than ten minutes to get there. The last thing she wanted was a fight between her men and the Picts, but she could see little option. Not only was it a risk, as she only had a few more men than the sentries guarding the crossing, but word would also get back to Edwin about where she and her sons were heading. Her mind was made up for her when Osguid pointed behind him and yelled, ‘Riders approaching!’

  At first Acha thought that they were Edwin’s men, but their bodies were painted with woad in intricate blue patterns and their hair was plastered to their heads with lime. They were obviously a party of Picts returning north from Strathclyde and she wondered what they had been doing there. There was an uneasy truce between the two kingdoms at the moment, but they were hardly allies.

  ‘Get my children in the centre; we’re going to force our way over the bridge.’

  The few nobles who had accompanied her and the dozen warriors of her personal household formed up round Oswald, Osguid and the men with a boy or the nurse riding in front of them. Acha handed Æbbe to the nurse and, drawing her sword, took up position in front of the surrounding cluster of horsemen. At her signal, they bounded forward and headed for the bridge.

  At first Hussa was so intent on talking to the sentries that he wasn’t aware of what was happening but, when he saw the Picts looking behind him in alarm, he turned to see what had distracted them. Being slightly quicker witted than the Picts, Hussa wheeled his horse out of the way just as one of the men painted with woad thrust his spear at him. He pulled his sword clear of its scabbard and turned his horse in a tight circle so that he could bring it down on the unlucky Pict’s head. The sharp blade cut through the mass of lime-plastered hair and shattered the skull beneath. The blow sent a shudder up the thegn’s arm, but the man dropped like a stone, spewing forth blood and a grey substance which resembled the porridge he’d had for breakfast from the top of his head.

  The three men of Hussa’s escort urged their horses forward to drive back the rest of the Picts who were trying to kill him. Once they had gained a momentary respite, all four of them withdrew just as Acha and her party reached the bridge. The charging Northumbrians had moved into a column, as the wooden bridge was too narrow to allow more than three people riding abreast to pass over it. The Picts scattered out of the way of the galloping horses, so Acha, half her men and the children reached the crossing without difficulty. They rode across, but the second half of the column was attacked in the flank by the sentries, who had now recovered their courage.

  Two of the rear guard were killed before Hussa and his three horsemen could wade in and start to cut down the Picts. After three more of their men had died, the rest of the Picts fled, allowing the remaining Northumbrians to ride across the bridge. However, by this time the mounted party from Stirling were approaching fast. Hussa assessed the situation quickly and decided he had to delay the mounted Picts or risk their fresher mounts overtaking Acha and her children.

  ‘Those who have a bow dismount and string it quickly,’ he yelled, hoping that at least some of the men with him had brought a hunting bow.

  Five men did as they were bid, whilst the rest watched the approaching Picts with mounting apprehension. They numbered 10 against perhaps 25 Picts. Less than a minute later the first arrow arced up into the sky, followed quickly by several more. By the time the first volley had struck home, the archers were putting a third arrow to their bowstring. One man and two horses were hit initially; that didn’t slow the oncoming horsemen, but the second volley brought down two horses and several more crashed into them, breaking legs and causing chaos.

  Without waiting to see the effect of the remaining arrows, Hussa called for his men to follow him and he raced after Acha. The Picts at the head of the mass of mounted men were milling about in confusion, but those at the rear sped past them without giving them a second glance. Hussa glimpsed behind him and saw that a dozen Picts were closing on him and his men, so he halted once more and the archers leapt from their horses to nock another arrow to their bows. Two more volleys managed to kill or wound another three men and the same number of horses. When Hussa made as if to charge the remaining handful, they fled. The Northumbrian thegn grunted in satisfaction and turned once more to follow Acha into Dal Riadan territory. He was fairly certain that the Picts had had enough; even if they hadn’t, they would hesitate to provoke Connad by an incursion into his kingdom.

  Eventually he caught Acha up.

  ‘Did you learn anything from the Picts at the bridge, Hussa?’ she asked after congratulating him on his bravery and quick thinking.

  ‘Only that they had instructions to capture or kill you and your children.’

  ‘I see. It seems that Edwin is not our only enemy, then. Eanfrith obviously has the ear of the local Pictish king. I only hope that we find some friends in Dal Riada.’

  ‘I thought that King Connad was Æthelfrith’s ally? Your husband’s nephew, Oswin, is already under his protection and serves him as a warrior in Ulster, or so I’ve heard.’

  ‘That’s true and the king and I are distantly related, but I’ve learned that kin can be either useful or a nuisance. After all, we are fleeing from my own brother. Connad is just as likely to seek favour with Edwin or the Picts by handing us over as he is to offer us sanctuary.’

  ‘Why then flee to him?’

  ‘Because we have no-where else to go.’

  ~~~

  Aidan was enjoying himself. He and the monk, whose name was Finnian, had got on well from the start. At first they argued about who was right: the druids, or men like him who followed the teachings of the White Christ. At least, Aidan argued and got quite agitated, whereas Finnian remained calm, pointed out the fallacies of Irish mythology and began to talk to him about Christ’s life and his teachings.

  Despite his ingrained faith in the old gods like the Dagda, Lugh and the Morrigan, Aidan hadn’t accepted what he’d been taught at face value and he gradually came to accept that belief in them had evolved from the tales of ancient heroes from Ireland’s past, some of who seem to have had supernatural powers. His traditional religion was not written down, but spread by the druids by word of mouth and, more importantly, by the bards who had preserved Ireland’s cultural heritage over the centuries.

  Finnian explained that each time a saga was recited, it changed slightly, the truth being embroidered to make the tale more exciting. Bards depended on their story-telling skills in order to earn their living and had to keep their, usually drunken, audiences entertained. Aidan had only just been allowed to attend the gatherings of men in his father’s hall, but he and his friends had often snuck in unnoticed at the back of the hall to listen to the bards. He reluctantly agreed that those tales he had heard more than once differed each time they were told.

  At first Aidan had been less than impressed when he discovered that Christ was a preacher and not a warrior. He associated Christ with the bards and couldn’t see what was so special about him. However, as time went on and he heard about the miracles Christ was responsible for and began to understand his philosophy, he grew more interes
ted.

  Every time Finnian came to a settlement he would try and convert the people to Christianity. Sometimes they would give him a courteous hearing, provide him and Aidan with food and place to sleep and then send them on their way unharmed. Others, especially those settlements where the druids were powerful, gave them a beating before driving them out. In a few cases Finnian found that the settlement was already Christian and had a small church and a priest. In every case these communities had been converted a century or more before by Saint Pádraig or one of his acolytes. It was such a settlement that saved Aidan’s life.

  They had arrived at a settlement in the south of the province. The inhabitants were from a clan called the Uí Néill, who were gradually forcing out the original populace, the Ulaidh. The latter were Christians, in the main, whereas the Uí Néill were pagans. As soon as the inhabitants discovered that Finnian was a Christian monk, they attacked him with spears and Aidan bravely interposed his small body between the attackers and the monk. His two dogs had been slain by others two weeks previously and he had reacted instinctively to protect the monk, much as his dogs had done for him when they had been killed.

  ‘Leave him alone; he is a man of God, not a warrior,’ he yelled, but it did no good and one of the inhabitants thrust his spear over the boy’s shoulder, aiming at Finnian’s neck. Aidan put up his hands and grabbed the spear, pulling it down and to the side so that the point hit the ground and such was the momentum of the attacker that the point stuck fast in the earth and the man wielding it was forced to let go as he stumbled and fell face down in the dirt. Aidan and Finnian were lucky that the spearman was disliked by his fellows as being pompous and arrogant. The other men laughed at their sprawling comrade, which only made the man more furious than he was already. He climbed to his feet, but Aidan was quicker. He pulled the spear from the earth and thrust the blunt end into the man’s distended paunch. The air whooshed out of his lungs and he bent over, winded and in pain. The other men hooted with laughter and Aidan threw down the spear before taking Finnian by the sleeve and curtly telling him it was time to go.