BRETWALDA

by H A CULLEY

645/6 AD

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Very sure. The wise woman said that I must be a least four months gone.’

  ‘So the baby’s due when?’

  ‘Five months from now. Surely you know that the normal period for a woman to carry a baby is nine months?’

  ‘I suppose so. I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘And you’ve had three children before this? Men!’

  Oswiu kissed Eanflæd and pulled her to him.

  ‘What would you do without us?’

  ‘Not get fat and go through the pain of childbirth for a start.’

  Oswiu remembered Rhieinmelth’s death and the fact that Oswald’s first wife had also died in childbirth. He couldn’t afford to think like that. Eanflæd was young and healthy – but so had the other two been.

  ‘What’s wrong? You shuddered as if someone had just walked over your grave.’

  Not mine he thought.

  ‘Oh, it’s just that I’m going to miss making passionate love to you for the next five months or so.’

  ‘Why? The wise woman said it was alright to do that until it got too uncomfortable for me.’

  ‘Really? Then I think we should retire early tonight to celebrate the conception of our first child.’

  In the event the birth was relatively easy and they decided to call their son Ecgfrith. He was a lusty baby and both that fact and the uncomplicated birth led Oswiu to hope that they would have many more children together. The spectre of Rhieinmelth’s harrowing death was banished.

  In thanks for his new son’s safe delivery he decided to establish a new monastery and went to see Aidan.

  ‘I have some land at Hartlepool which is available, if you think that’s a good location.’

  ‘Hartlepool? Just north of the mouth of the Tees?’

  ‘Yes, I own a vill there which is managed for me by a reeve. You could draw up a charter making the abbot the thegn.’

  ‘I was thinking of an Abbess. We already have two monasteries for men and only one – that at Coldingham – for women. It would be a good location too, being near Deira. I fear that James the Deacon has too much influence in the area.’

  ‘You have concerns because he belongs to the Roman Church?’

  ‘Yes, they are beginning to call themselves Roman Catholics, indicating that it is the universal church for Christians. They are a hierarchical organisation where bishops fancy themselves secular lords as well as spiritual leaders. Not like us where an abbot is superior to a bishop. Where we are humble men, they fancy themselves as princes of the Church.’

  ‘Very well, who do you have in mind as abbess?’

  ‘Two nuns spring to mind. Your wife’s niece, Hild, who is also related to you I think, or Hieu, who is Irish like me.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps Hild as she is my cousin. But have you thought of a combined foundation?’

  ‘You mean one for monks and nuns? No. I know they exist but I have always thought it best to keep them apart to avoid the temptations of the flesh.’

  ‘You seem to have a poor opinion of your fellow clerics devoutness and discipline. It seems to me that it could work well provided they have strong leadership. We don’t need to make a decision now. It will be some time before work can start, given the other building work in progress at the moment, but I suppose you could start work on the plans. And I’m sure you can find a suitably chaste monk to act as prior and be in charge of the men.’

  ‘I suspect I’m being teased but, very well. I’ll write to Hild tomorrow to see if she would be agreeable in due course, and I’ll think about who I could put in charge of the monks.’

  ‘Good. Now, how are Catinus and Conomultus getting on?’

  ‘Very well, especially the younger of the two. Catinus and Seward remained enemies until I was able to send the latter to Melrose after he took his vows. Now Catinus is old enough to do so too but he says that he doesn’t wish to become a monk; he wants to train as a member of your warband.’

  ‘Well, I certainly need some new recruits to replace those I lost fighting Penda last year. Send him to Ceadda and he can start his training. What about his brother? How old is he now?’

  ‘Thirteen, but he’ll soon be fourteen. However, he wishes to take his vows and to remain here.’

  ‘I thought those two were inseparable.’

  ‘They were, at first, but Conomultus is by far the better scholar and I think that Catinus became a little jealous of his brother. Conomultus had grown in confidence over the past year or so and he no longer depends on Catinus like he used to.’

  ‘So they have grown apart?’

  ‘To some extent; they are still fairly close, but they are resigned to following different paths in their lives from now on.’

  ‘The same is true of Alweo and Wigmund, although Wigmund isn’t the scholar that Conomultus is.’

  ‘I assume that Alweo wants to become a warrior too?’

  ‘So I understand. He and Catinus have become good friends.’

  ‘Hmmm. Two Mercians who want to join my warband. I wonder if that’s wise.’

  ‘Catinus is entirely loyal to you. I’m not so sure about Alweo though. He still thinks of himself as a Mercian princeling. However, he hates Penda with a passion.’

  ‘I only hope it’s a case of whoever hates my enemy is my friend.’

  ~~~

  Whilst Wigmund seemed to almost relish being free of Alweo’s dominating presence, Conomultus found the departure of Catinus more upsetting than he had expected. Although his growing sense of independence and self-worth had brought the two brothers into conflict recently, the bond between them was still strong. However, the arrival of two new twelve-year old novices soon drove Catinus from his mind.

  He was now the senior novice and, as such, one of his tasks was to help the Master of Novices to keep order amongst his charges. Mostly this wasn’t a difficult task as in the main the boys were placid and devout. Untypically, all of the present crop of students seemed destined to become monks and so they were less troublesome than those who couldn’t wait to become old enough to train as warriors. True, there were also a few who came for a basic education before returning to farm the land or to learn a trade, but most families didn’t want their sons educated; they were needed to work as soon as they were able to.

  However, two of the new twelve-year olds who had just joined - Wilfrid and Eata – were far from equable or well-disciplined. Wilfrid was the son of the Eorl of Hexham and was used to lording it over his social inferiors, whereas Eata was the son of a ceorl and had an axe to grind. Ever since their father had died and his elder brother had inherited, the family had struggled to pay the thegn the inheritance tax due. Eata blamed the family’s descent from relative prosperity to poverty on his superiors and was consequently far from amenable to authority. The only reason he was at Lindisfarne was because he was lame and couldn’t earn his keep at home. His minor disability was something else that made him ill-tempered. Wilfrid’s arrogant attitude was inevitably going to infuriate him.

  Eata wasn’t the only boy to take an instant dislike to Wilfrid; Conomultus was denigrated and undermined by Wilfrid from the start. Not only was the older boy a Mercian, he was a Briton as well, which made him the lowest of the low in Wilfrid’s eyes. It had started the moment that Wilfrid had arrived and Conomultus had shown the two newcomers where they would be sleeping.

  ‘No, I’m not sleeping in the corner trapped in by a dirty, smelly Briton like you. What are you even doing here? Only decent Anglo-Saxons should be allowed to become monks.’

  For a moment Conomultus couldn’t believe what he had just heard. Then he grew angry.

  ‘How dare you! I’m the senior novice and you will accord me proper respect.’

  ‘Why? What have you done to deserve it? I’m told you’re not even from Bernicia, but are a Mercian dog. Why aren’t you serving that pagan swine, Penda?’

  ‘Both my brother and I serve King Oswiu. He was the person who placed us here
, with Bishop Aidan’s full support. Now stop being a complete arse before I report you to Brother Tuda.’ Seeing the puzzled look on the other boy’s face he added, ‘the Master of Novices.’

  ‘Go on then, let’s see if he will side with a pagan Briton or the son of the Eorl of Hexham.’

  ‘I don’t care whose damn son you are, as a novice you have a duty of obedience to your superiors, and that includes me.’

  The two boys stared defiantly at each other. Because of Conomultus’ short stature, he had to look up at Wilfrid despite being nearly two years older. Wigmund and the other boys had watched this exchange with interest. They all liked Conomultus but a little bit of drama brightened up their otherwise humdrum lives. However, one of them had watched with increasing annoyance.

  ‘In the name of God, stop being such a prick, Wilfrid. Who cares whose son you are? We’re all just novices here, whatever our birth. You’d better get used to it.’

  ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what to you? You’re a serf’s son; not much better that this oaf.’

  It was the wrong thing to say to Eata. He was very proud that his family were ceorls – tenant farmers - not slaves, which was what serfs were. With a cry of fury he stepped forward and punched Wilfrid on the nose. The surprised boy let out a howl and fell to the ground clutching his blood covered face. Eata would have followed his punch up by kicking the prostrate Wilfrid but Conomultus and Wigmund grabbed him and pulled him away. Eata was amazed at how strong the slight young Briton was. Conomultus let go of Eata and, telling Wigmund to stop him if he tried to attack Wilfred again, he knelt by the injured boy.

  ‘Stop blubbering like a little girl. Eata shouldn’t have done that, no matter how infuriating you are and he’ll be punished. However, you are going to have to be far less arrogant if you are to survive the next two years here. Now move your hands away so I can see the damage.’

  When the other boy continued to wail and clutch his nose Conomultus lost patience with him and pulled his hands away, then slapped his face.

  ‘I told you to shut up, you snivelling cur. I hope you want to be a monk because there’s no way you’d ever make a warrior.’

  Wilfrid stopped crying and gave the other boy a venomous look.

  ‘You’ll pay for that,’ he spat at him.

  ‘Oh, that’s a pity. It sounds as if you’ll live after all. Now get up and go and clean that blood off your face before Brother Tuda sees you. By the way, I’ve decided I don’t want you sleeping next to me. Eata can have the nice warm bed in the corner. Your bed is by the door. It’ll be draughty and cold I fear. Sorry about that.’

  The other novices gave an ironic cheer as Wilfrid stalked out of the hut to go and wash the blood away. Conomultus had a nasty suspicion that Wilfrid was going to be trouble, not just as a novice, but later in life as well. He just didn’t appreciate how much.

  ~~~

  Cenwalh was beginning to realise that repudiating Penda’s sister as his wife hadn’t been his smartest move. He had married Edith to neutralise the Mercian threat, but she was very much older than him and, when he found out that she was beyond child-bearing age, he sent her back to Mercia.

  Penda had been too occupied with his plans for the invasion of Bernicia at the time, but now, smarting as he was at his defeat at the hands of Oswiu, he decided to take his rage out on Cenwalh of Wessex.

  ‘How will you manage to invade Wessex when we lost so many warriors at the battle on the Tees, father?’ Wulfhere, Penda’s second son asked him when his father told him of his plans.

  ‘You don’t have to remind me, boy. Cenwalh is no warrior. We’ll start by invading Hwicce and getting that back. Then I’ll offer him peace before attacking Wessex itself the following year. As to warriors, there are men we can hire from Frankia.’

  ‘But to lull him into a false sense of security with a bogus treaty impinges on your honour, father.’

  ‘No, he betrayed me by rejecting my sister; betraying him in return is what he deserves. Don’t try and dissuade me, Wulfhere. My mind is made up.’

  Wulfhere frowned, but there was no arguing with his father when he was in this mood.

  ‘Who will you send to Frankia?’

  ‘You, who else?’

  He set sail the next day from a settlement on the southern bank of the River Mersey, Mercia’s only access to the sea. The journey to Frankia was uneventful. He had taken two birlinns and two knarrs, trading ships propelled by a single sail with no oars. He needed the knarrs to transport the mercenaries who they recruited back to Mercia. However, this meant that their progress was dictated by the wind. Wulfhere was frustrated at the time that it was taking and once even resorted to using the birlinns to tow the knarrs, but the rowers soon tired and he gave that idea up.

  Finally, after three weeks they reached the mouth of the River Seine and sailed up to the port of Rouen in Neustria. The King of Neustria and Burgundy was the six-year old Clovis II. Consequently the monarchy was weak. His nobles struggled against each other for power and anarchy reigned. This was unfortunate for Wulfhere as those willing to become mercenaries were in high demand.

  ‘This is pointless,’ Wulfhere fumed. ‘We’ve managed to recruit five men and none of them would be worthy of a place in any warband of mine. We’re going to have to try elsewhere.’

  ‘Frisia?’ the captain of the birlinn suggested.

  ‘Yes, and further to the lands of the Saxons, Angles and Jutes if necessary.’

  They set sail the next day heading north east along the coast of Neustria until they reached Austrasia in Northern Frankia. Once again they found that the Austrasians were too busy fighting Neustria or amongst themselves to have many warriors seeking employment elsewhere and they sailed on. By now they were entering the narrows that separated Austrasia from Kent and this time their passage was far from trouble free.

  The four Kentish war galleys were small but fast. The inhabitants of Kent were Jutes and they were no friends of the Angles, who inhabited Mercia. It all stemmed from the fact that they were neighbouring tribes in their original homeland, the Jutland peninsular, where there were constant cross border raids.

  The smaller galleys had the wind gauge and a pair made for each of the two birlinns. Wulfhere immediately gave up the futile attempt to escape and, instead, turned to face the oncoming galleys. At the last moment his steersman put the oar over and, instead of running between the two galleys, he turned so he passed one of them on the outside. As soon as they were level he came alongside and his crew threw several grappling irons aboard to tie the two vessels together.

  He led his men aboard it before the second galley could react and his more numerous crew laid into the Jutes manning the galley, desperate to eliminate them before the second galley could intervene.

  Warriors at sea didn’t usually wear armour; a man weighed down by it sunk to the bottom regardless of how good a swimmer he was. However, the captain of the galley was wearing a byrnie as well as a helmet. He thrust his sword at Wulfhere, who deflected it with his shield before cutting at his opponent’s side. It struck home but the blade didn’t penetrate the chain mail.

  ‘Prepare to die, dog,’ the confident captain told him with a grin before cutting at Wulfhere’s right shoulder with his sword. The Mercian twisted around so as to take the blow on his shield then pushed his sword over it aiming at the enemy captain’s right eye. However, the man turned his head at the last moment and the tip of the sword glanced harmlessly off the side of his helmet.

  By now the noise of battle around them had lessened and the victorious Mercian crew gathered around the two men, cheering on their prince. The captain realised that this meant that his crew were either dead or had surrendered and lowered his sword.

  They were standing near the gunwale opposite where the Mercians had boarded; Wulfhere glanced behind the captain of the Kent galley before charging the Jute with his shield held in front of him. It was the last thing the man had expected and, taken unawares, he was pushed backwards unt
il he toppled over the side and sank below the waves.

  Wulfhere grunted in satisfaction before realising that his crew were hastily re-boarding their own ship. The other galley, having charged past them, had turned and come back alongside the Mercian birlinn. Now the Jutes were swarming aboard the birlinn.

  It was a foolish move. Their initial success in overcoming those Mercians who had remained on board was short lived. As more and more of Wulfhere’s boarding party arrived back on their own birlinn, the Jutes were pressed back towards their galley and started to scramble back on board. The first to arrive back on board cut the ropes that held the two ships together and cast off after less than half of their number had made it back aboard.

  It took less than another five minutes to dispose of the remaining Jutes, most being thrown overboard. Wulfhere was about to set off in pursuit of the poorly manned second galley when he felt his arm grabbed. His steersman pointed aft to where the second birlinn was trapped between the other two Kentish galleys. The knarrs were standing off some distance away as their crews weren’t warriors, and there were few enough of them anyway.

  ‘Shit! Forget about that galley, head for the other birlinn,’ he told the steersman, cursing its captain for his inability to deal with the pair of galleys on his own.

  Wulfhere’s birlinn pulled alongside one of the Kentish galleys and he led his men aboard. Only three men and two ships’ boys were aboard and it took him and his men seconds to dispose of them before clambering aboard the beleaguered birlinn. The crew had suffered a number of casualties but they had inflicted as many deaths on the Jutes as the latter had on the Mercians. The Mercians had been outnumbered but the arrival of the rest of their compatriots had turned the tables.

  Wulfhere thrust his sword into the back of an unsuspecting enemy and used his seax to beat aside a sword thrust from another. He tried to pull his sword out but it had apparently got stuck between a couple of vertebrae and he left it in the Jute’s back. He picked up a discarded axe and, with that in one hand and his seax in the other, he advanced on a Jute with a dagger who appeared to be no more than thirteen. Rather than kill him, the Mercian batted his dagger aside with his sword and rapped him on the head with the pommel of his seax. The boy dropped like a stone.