WHITEBLADE: Kings of Northumbria Book 1

by H A CULLEY

  When they walked into the king’s hall, Oswald and Osguid were surprised to be greeted as ‘cousins’ by a young man of about twenty. At that moment, Eochaid came striding over and he and Oswald threw their arms around each other with some enthusiasm, overjoyed at their reunion.

  ‘I see you’ve met your cousin Oswin,’ Eochaid stated with a grin. ‘He’s a grand fighter, too; must run in the family.’ Osguid was feeling more than a little annoyed at being ignored.

  ‘And how exactly is this renowned warrior our cousin?’

  ‘Ah, Eochaid, you might not have recognised my brother Osguid. He is our priest for this expedition.’

  Eochaid nodded at Osguid and gave him a brief half-smile before turning his attention back to his elder brother. The slight was not lost on Oswald and he frowned at his old friend.

  ‘Just because he is a priest and not a warrior doesn’t make my brother any less a man, Eochaid. When you disrespect him, you disrespect me.’

  Oswin saw the colour rise in the Irish prince’s cheeks and spoke before the debate got heated.

  ‘Calm down, both of you. We came here to fight the Dál Fiatach and, if necessary, the Uí Néill, not each other. Now apologise to Osguid, Eochaid and watch your tongue, cousin – you are a guest here, as am I.’

  ‘Oswin’s right. I apologise for not being more hospitable, Osguid.’

  ‘And I should not have spoken to you the way I did, Eochaid,’ Oswald added.

  ‘Good, now we’re all friends again, let’s sit down and drink to the success against the Dál Fiatach.’

  ‘Pardon me for asking, but how exactly are we cousins, Oswin?’ Oswald asked, reapeating his brother’s query during a lull in the conversation.

  ‘Your father and mine were brothers.’

  ‘You’re Ælfred’s son?’

  There had been four brothers: Æthelfrith, being the eldest, had succeeded as King of Northumbria; Theobald and Ecgulf had served him as commanders and had died in battle, both childless. The fourth, Ælfred, had left Northumbria and no-one had heard of him again, until now.

  ‘Yes, my father came to Ulster when yours became king. He was a younger brother and had no wish to be seen as a hanger-on, begging for scraps from the king’s table. I was born here and my mother was Eochaid’s aunt, so he too is my cousin.’

  Oswald ignored the implied criticism that Ælfred had been ill-used by Æthelfrith. He knew from what his father had told him that he had treated all three of his brothers the same. The truth was that Ælfred had been too proud to serve his elder brother and had, instead, ended up serving a petty Irish king. Although the Irish called their tribal leaders kings, many ruled a relatively small area and were lucky if they could field a hundred warriors. In reality, they were no more than chieftains. By contrast, Northumbria was four times the size of the whole of Ulster.

  Despite the obvious resentment Oswin harboured towards his family, Oswald found himself warming to the young man. He was two years younger than him, but had fought in just as many battles and skirmishes. He was evidently held in high regard as a warrior and as a leader, but he didn’t boast about his accomplishments, unlike most. Osguid also liked his cousin and as the ale wore away the young priest’s inhibitions, he found himself laughing at Oswin’s bawdy humour. Eochaid also relaxed and the slight awkwardness of their reunion was forgotten.

  At one stage, Congal Claen came across and joined them and the mood immediately changed. It was evident that he and Oswin disliked each other and each kept making barbed comments at the other’s expense. Oswald didn’t like Congal either, but he tried to hide it. Oswin didn’t.

  Fiachnae was now an old man and it wouldn’t be many more years before Congal became king in his place. Oswald didn’t give much chance of either Oswin or Eochaid surviving for long after that; one would die to settle a grudge and the other to remove a rival to the throne. He determined then and there to try and persuade them both to return to Arran with him after this campaign.

  ~~~

  Thankfully, Necton had liked the new Bishop of Pentir, but Aidan didn’t leave the Land of the Picts immediately. He stayed for another year to found a new monastery on the east coast, at a place called Ceann Phàdraig. Then he and Ròidh took passage on a trader that was headed around the north of Caledonia to Ireland. The master had agreed to drop them at Iona for a fee. It was an exorbitant one, but as it would be months quicker than walking back the way they had come, he agreed to pay up.

  Varar had originally intended to come with them, but faced with the opportunity of becoming a monk amongst his own people or travelling to a monastery hundreds of miles away where they spoke a different language, he chose to stay at Ceann Phàdraig. Ròidh had been with Aidan for two years by then and had long ago decided that his destiny was linked to that of the young monk. The boy had taken his vows at the new monastery, so he now dressed the same as Aidan and displayed the conspicuous tonsure.

  The voyage was uneventful until they reached the Isle of Skye. The ship had put in to a deserted beach and the crew had set off with their empty barrels to search for fresh water. Aidan, Ròidh and three sailors had been left behind to guard the ship, though what help two unarmed monks, one a fifteen year old boy, would be wasn’t clear.

  The Picts appeared from nowhere. There were about twenty of them, poorly armed, but nevertheless they outnumbered the three sailors and two monks. The sailors prepared to sell their lives dearly, but Aidan told them to lay down their weapons and he and Ròidh strode forward to greet the Picts with smiles on their faces.

  For their part, the Picts were surprised to be greeted in their own tongue and were even more astonished when one of the monks claimed to be the son of King Murchadh of Ardewr. The Picts hastily conferred amongst themselves before one of them stepped forward.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the bearer of sad tidings, Prince Ròidh, but we heard six months ago that your father is no longer King of Ardewr. His brother, Sionn, is now king and he has married your mother, Queen Genofeva.’

  ‘What! How? I mean, what happened? How did my father die?’

  The Picts conferred once more before their leader continued.

  ‘It may not be true, but the tale is that he caught Sionn in bed with Genofeva and challenged him to fight. Sionn won.’

  Aidan thought back to when he was at the Crannog on Loch Ness and remembered how close Sionn and Genofeva seemed. The story had the ring of truth about it. He even wondered whether Ròidh might not be Sionn’s son, rather than Murchadh’s, though he would never voice such a doubt to the boy.

  Ròidh didn’t say anything and when Aidan put a comforting hand on his shoulder, he shrugged it off and walked away up the beach to be on his own. Aidan explained to the Picts that they just wanted to collect fresh water and they nodded assent. When they offered to sell them some dried meat and fresh bread, Aidan readily agreed, knowing that the ship’s master would think it a small price to pay to avoid a fight.

  When the ship was ready to sail, Ròidh still hadn’t re-appeared and the master reluctantly gave Aidan a little time to go and find him. He knew that it was only because Ròidh had saved them from an attack by the Picts that he’d been given the time. Normally the ship would have sailed whether or not the boy was back on board.

  He found him sitting on a rock a mile away.

  ‘Ròidh, I know how upset you must be and I feel for you, but the ship is sailing. If we don’t board now they will leave us here.’

  ‘You go. I must return and avenge the death of my father.’

  ‘How long have your mother and Sionn been close?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is their relationship new or of long standing?’

  The boy shrugged. ‘They have always been close, closer than my father was to her, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you think that you might have been Sionn’s son, rather than Murchadh’s?’

  ‘What? You think…?’

  When Aidan nodded, the boy started to weep. Aidan pulled him
to his feet and hugged him to comfort him and Ròidh clung to the monk as he sobbed his heart out.

  ‘Take comfort in the love of God, Ròidh, for the love of man is flawed. Come, let’s return to the ship and head for Iona and the protection of the Holy Church.’

  When they got back to the ship, it was already afloat and they had to catch a rope and be hauled aboard. As the miles passed and they neared the Isle of Mull, Ròidh tried hard to shrug off his sombre mood. He and Aidan spent a long time in prayer each day and to some extent he found that it comforted him. Finally, as they rounded the Ross of Mull and the monastery on its small island came into view, Ròidh felt at peace, as if he was coming home.

  ~~~

  Oswald sat on his horse beside his cousin and together they surveyed the enemy drawn up in the valley below them.

  ‘There doesn’t look to be too many of them,’ Eochaid said cheerfully as he rode up to join them.

  ‘No more than two hundred, I’d have said and half of those are not that well-armed,’ Oswin agreed.

  ‘I have an uneasy feeling about this,’ Oswald replied. ‘It seems almost too easy.’

  ‘Our combined war band numbers one hundred and fifty seasoned warriors; King Fiachnae has another hundred, half of who are trained fighters and Congal Claen has another one hundred men, almost all seasoned warriors. How can we lose?’ Oswin scoffed.

  They had encountered the Dál Fiatach near a hamlet called Leithet Midind earlier that morning and the two sides had taken up battle positions facing each other. Fiachnae had divided his command in three, with himself leading the centre, Eochaid the right and Congal the left.

  The priests, including Osguid, had blessed the men and gone amongst them with consecrated bread and wine. The same had happened amongst the enemy. At last the two sides seemed ready for the coming battle and the three men rode down and handed their horses to boys who took them to the rear. They took their places in the front rank and waited to see who would charge first.

  Being October, the weather wasn’t warm, but at least it wasn’t raining. A cold wind swept in from the west and the sky overhead was overcast. Oswald was just thinking that they needed to get started or they’d be fighting in the dark, when the Dál Fiatach roared their war cry and started to run towards Fiachnae’s clan – the Dál nAraidi. The enemy archers were in the rear and they sent their arrows high in the air to descend on the still static Dál nAraidi. Loosing an arrow on the run wasn’t likely to do much damage and those which were on target merely thumped into shields. Of the two hundred loosed, only five hit someone and then they only inflicted flesh wounds.

  The two volleys sent in response were fired by men standing still and hit men running holding their shields at their sides. More than two dozen of the Dál Fiatach fell. It seemed as if the battle was already half won, but then, when their foes were still fifty yards away, something totally unexpected happened. Congal Claen suddenly wheeled his men around until they were facing his grandfather’s flank and charged into them.

  Fiachnae was caught completely off guard as he was hit from two sides and the Dál nAraidi centre collapsed. The old man still hadn’t realised that Congal had betrayed him before his grandson chopped off his head and held it up with a yell of triumph.

  Oswald, Eochaid and Oswin, on the right wing, were at first oblivious to what was happening in the centre. Their line overlapped that of the Dál Fiatach and so their foes found themselves in a similar predicament to the Dál nAraidi centre when Congal had treacherously attacked that flank. Oswald faced a giant of a man, wearing little but wielding a long axe. The man raised the axe and, had the blow landed, it would have cleaved Oswald in two, shield notwithstanding. As it was, when he raised his axe above his head, he exposed his bare belly and Oswald slashed his sword across it, splitting it open so that grey intestines spilled out along with a fair quantity of blood. The man collapsed in a moaning heap and provided Oswald with a barrier knee-high between him and the next attacker.

  That gave him time to punch his shield into the face of the man facing Eochaid to Oswald’s left. The man fell back and Oswald’s sword snaked out to pierce the mouth of the man attacking Oswin. The three found themselves with a clear space in front of them and then they realised that the enemy were retreating and doing so rapidly.

  Oswin glanced to his left and saw to his horror that the centre of their line had collapsed and that, having almost defeated the enemy to their front, they were about to be engulfed from the flank. Even more worrying was the fact that their foes were trying to cut off their line of retreat. Eochaid, who was now in command, had to act and act swiftly, if they were to save their own lives and those of their men.

  ~~~

  Osguid admired his elder brother tremendously, but he had no illusions about his own abilities as a warrior. He felt in his heart that he was a coward, and that that had been his primary reason for staying on Iona and becoming a monk and then a priest, instead of returning to Dùn Add to train as a warrior. He was with the other priests, the servants and the boys, including his brother Oswiu, watching the battle. At first he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw the turncoat Congal join the enemy side.

  ‘What’s he doing? He’s killing his own people!’

  ‘It’s that Dál Fiatach bitch he’s infatuated with, I’d stake my life on it,’ one of the older warriors who had been left to guard the baggage train told him. ‘I’ll bet you a gold arm ring that they’ve promised to let him marry her if he betrayed his grandfather.’

  ‘But he’s his heir!’

  ‘Aye, so he is. He’s no fool; with King Fiachnae out of the way he’ll be scheming to unite both clans under his rule, you mark my words.’

  ‘But surely the Dál nAraidi will never accept him as king now? Not after this.’

  ‘They will if it unites the Ulaidh so that they can face the Uí Néill. I can see you don’t know much about Irish politics, lad. Yesterday’s enemy is today’s ally all the time. We don’t much care who we’re fighting, just so long as we are.’

  From their elevated position, Osguid could see that the Dál nAraidi centre had broken and they were fleeing from the field. Fortunately for the rest of the Dál nAraidi army, many of the Dál Fiatach and Congal’s men set off in pursuit. However, enough remained so that Eochaid’s wing were now forced to stage a fighting retreat. He could see that his brother and the rest were struggling and so he did something that he had thought up until then was entirely contrary to his nature. He picked up a sword and shield discarded by one of those who had been routed.

  ‘You say the Irish love a fight? Well, come on then. Rally the others and arm the boys. Let’s give those treacherous bastards a surprise.’

  Oswiu clapped Osguid on the back and hastily organised the ships’ boys and those who acted as servants to various groups of warriors, making sure that they all had a weapon of some sort. By this time Eochaid’s wing were hard pressed and their line of retreat was almost closed off. Oswald wept when he saw his new-found cousin cut down, but there was nothing he could do to save Oswin. He was fending off three men as it was. Eochaid was standing shoulder to shoulder with him, but their retreat had almost ground to a halt and they were losing men all the time.

  Oswald was tiring, but he managed to lift his shield to fend off one blow and block another’s sword thrust at the same time. Then an axe came down on his helmet. The metal held, but it was badly dented and he fell to the ground unconscious. The last thing he heard was the strange sound of unbroken boys’ voices mixed in with the deeper shouts of men, all yelling ‘Whiteblade!’ Then the blackness overcame him.

  When he awoke, he was being gently rocked to and fro. He had a splitting headache and when he tried to open his eyes and sit up, he felt sick. He lay down again and groaned.

  ‘He’s awake!’ he heard Osguid’s voice yell in relief.

  ‘He must have a skull as thick as a plank.’ That voice he thought was Eochaid’s, but he didn’t understand what he was doing there. Then he remem
bered the battle.

  ‘What happened?’ he managed to croak out, as Oswiu knelt by his side and gave him a drink of water.

  ‘You should have seen your brothers!’ Eochaid told him whilst Osguid blushed and Oswiu beamed with pleasure. ‘The two of them led the baggage train guards and the boys to our rescue. Oswiu and his boys were only armed with daggers and seaxes, but they got in amongst the surprised Dál Fiatach and hamstrung them or stuck their blades into their groins. Anyhow, they created enough of a diversion to allow us to fight our way clear and then we fled back to Larne.’

  ‘Did we lose many?’ Oswald croaked.

  ‘Yes, a fair few warriors and a dozen of the boys were slain, too.’

  He stopped speaking when he realised that Oswald had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Oswiu stayed with him, which saved his life. When he awoke again he was sick and would have choked on his own vomit if his brother hadn’t had the presence of mind to turn him on his side and thump his back to clear his throat. When he was satisfied that his brother had stopped choking, Oswiu rolled him onto his back again. Oswald thanked him, then looked puzzled and asked where he was.

  ‘We’re aboard the Holy Saviour. Don’t you remember?’

  When Oswald shook his head and asked if Oswin was with them, Oswiu became concerned and sent one of the other boys to find Eochaid. However, when he arrived Oswald was mumbling incoherently and soon slipped back into a stupor.

  A little later Oswald seemed lucid again and asked if the birlinn had enough men, given the losses that they had suffered. Eochaid nodded.

  ‘Yes, we made up our numbers with those of the Dál nAraidi who refused to bend the knee to that treacherous cur, Congal. He’s now been accepted as King of all the Ulaidh, after the King of the Dál Fiatach was also killed in the battle.’

  ‘And Oswin; I thought I saw him fall?’

  Eochaid nodded. ‘They put his head on a spear as some sort of grisly trophy.’