BRETWALDA

by H A CULLEY

  ‘God bless your mission, Brother Conomultus. Don’t be in too much of a hurry to make a name for yourself. You’re still very young and you’ll make mistakes until you gain experience.’

  When Conomultus arrived at the start of the walkway leading to the king’s hall on the crannog the two sentries denied him entrance until Leofsige stepped forward with his hand on his sword and told the older one that, if he didn’t announce the arrival of the emissary of King Oswiu, Bretwalda of the North, immediately he’d throw him in the loch.

  ‘Emissary? This boy? You are jesting,’ he began to say when he was interrupted by Ròidh.

  ‘Let them through, you oaf, Brother Conomultus is who he says he is.’

  Grumbling under his breath the sentry stepped aside but stopped Catinus and Leofsige from following him.

  ‘Not you. You’re armed. The bishop said nothing about you two.’

  Catinus looked behind him and saw Ròidh disappearing back towards the church. By the time he’d turned back Leofsige had used his shield to barge into the obstreperous sentry and the hapless man tottered backwards before falling off the walkway into the shallows at the side of the loch, dropping his spear in the process. The younger sentry stared open-mouthed and made no attempt to stop the two warriors from following Conomultus along the walkway.

  Fergus looked surprised when the sentry guarding the entrance to his hall announced that there was an emissary from King Oswiu to see him. The man was still smirking at his fellow sentry’s ducking. He was known for being officious and wasn’t popular amongst the rest of Fergus’ warband. He was even more surprised when a monk who looked to be about thirteen or fourteen walked in followed by a warrior who looked like a slightly older version of him. Behind him came another warrior, but this was a giant of a man with a lived scar across his face which gave him a permanent snarl. He vaguely remembered the monk as having accompanied Aidan six weeks previously. Conomultus bowed.

  ‘Brenin, I bring greetings from King Oswiu, Bretwalda of the North and from Guret of Strathclyde and Domangart of Dalriada,’ the monk began in a version of the Brythonic tongue that was very similar to that spoken by the Picts.

  ‘Welcome, brother monk. You look and speak like us but I suspect you are not a Pict.’

  ‘No, Brenin, I’m a Briton from Mercia originally. Now I’m a monk of Lindisfarne. This is my brother Catinus and a member of King Oswiu’s gesith, Leofsige.’

  ‘But you are the emissary?’

  ‘Yes, Brenin.’

  ‘Very well. I suggest we speak in English so that Leofsige can understand us.’

  ‘Of course, Cyning. But perhaps we could speak in private?’ Conomultus replied, switching to English.

  The nobles and warriors in the hall and his mother looked upset but didn’t say anything as Fergus led the monk into his bed chamber.

  ‘Now what is it that’s so secret?’

  Conomultus handed Fergus the letter from Oswiu and waited until the king had finished reading it.

  ‘You know the contents?’

  ‘Yes, Cyning.’

  ‘And you are authorised to do what?’

  ‘Answer any questions you may have which I am competent to answer and to take back your reply.’

  ‘Oswiu doesn’t say when he plans to launch these co-ordinated attacks.’

  ‘No. He thought it best not to in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. The first new moon in June.’

  ‘And I’m expected to attack Pobla and ensure the neutrality of Penntir, the kingdom ruled by my betrothed’s father?’

  Conomultus looked a little uncomfortable. ‘King Oswiu thought that might be possible, provided you still intend to marry her, of course. It might be difficult otherwise.’

  Fergus looked at Conomultus sharply and the monk wondered whether he’d overstepped the mark again. Then the king started to laugh. Conomultus relaxed and began to grin.

  ‘I like you, monk. Are you as clever as you are witty?’

  The young monk shrugged, embarrassed.

  ‘Modest too. Very well, yes, I’ll raid into Pobla in June to keep Garnait too busy to come to the aid of Drest or Talorc.’

  ‘Thank you, Cyning. Do you wish me to communicate your reply verbally or should I take back a letter?’

  ‘Very clever. If you report back verbally I can always deny what I’ve promised, but a written reply commits me. I’ll hand you my sealed letter in the morning.’

  ‘That way I won’t know what you’ve said. It would be helpful to know what’s in it just in case I can spot any queries that the Bretwalda might have.’

  Fergus laughed again.

  ‘Very tactful. Alright, I’ll show you the contents before I seal it.’

  ‘Thank you, Cyning, I’m most grateful to you.’

  When he told his mother after Conomultus had left, she was pleased.

  ‘I assume that you will now agree to marry the girl?’

  ‘No mother, not necessarily. It’s you who has given your word, not me.’

  ‘But I’ll be foresworn if you don’t.’

  ‘You had no right to make a promise on my behalf without my agreement.’

  She glared at him, then changed tack.

  ‘You’ll risk everything if you go ahead without the support Maelgwr of Penntir. You can only be certain of that if you ally yourself to him through marriage.’

  ‘I only need his neutrality.’

  ‘If you spurn his daughter he might well turn into an enemy. And suppose Oswiu and the others let you down?’

  ‘Does Oswiu have a reputation for breaking his word?’

  Not that I’m aware of, no but….’

  ‘Are Guret and Domengart likely to let me and Oswiu down?’

  ‘No, I suppose not, but you don’t know them.’

  ‘Mother, I came of age years ago. I’m grateful to you for your help when I was young and inexperienced but I’m perfectly capable of ruling without your support now. I’m told that there is a monastery for women where Oswiu’s sister is the abbess not far from Lindisfarne. Perhaps it’s time you thought about spending the rest of your days in prayer and service to God?’

  She glared at her son, but said nothing further. Instead she went to find the warrior who Leofsige had humiliated.

  What Fergus hadn’t told her was that he had decided to go to Penntir himself to see Maelgwr and discuss the treaty. He could make his mind up about the girl at the same time. It was a pity that his annoyance with his mother prevented him from confiding in her; he might have saved a few lives.

  ~~~

  The Pictish warrior who Leofsige had shoved into the loch rode his pony at a canter towards the isolated farmstead where his family lived. Damhnaic had taken refuge there after his failed assassination attempt and, now that his broken forearm had mended, he worked for his keep tending the family’s small field of barley, milking their two cows and looking after their sheep. Half an hour later the warrior set out again, this time accompanied by his father, two of his brothers and Damhnaic.

  Genofeva’s instructions to him had been clear. He was to catch up with Conomultus, kill him and his escort and hide the bodies; then bring the letter the monk carried back to her. Conomultus, Catinus and Lefsige had a two hour start on their pursuers but they were in no particular hurry. They had all day to reach the birlinn that was waiting for them; and it couldn’t set sail before the dawn in any case.

  Only the warrior and his father rode. Damhnaic and the man’s younger brothers had to run behind them. The fugitive priest was beginning to tire when, at long last, they saw Conomultus and the other two half a mile ahead and several hundred yards below them. At that point the steep hills that lined the loch were covered in trees. Damhnaic spotted an animal trail leading through the wood and the undergrowth and the five men followed it, slowly converging on their quarry.

  The narrow track emerged from the trees onto a stretch of bare hillside. It had been hard work following the overgrown trail through the trees and they ha
d fallen further behind the monk’s party, who were just entering another patch of trees. As they were now hidden from those they sought, the five men made their way across the hillside above the loch as quickly as they could. After two miles they calculated that they should now be level with the other group and they again began to descend the hill at an angle.

  Leofsige was leading the way as they walked their horses along the road that led to the north end of the loch and the start of the River Ness. He had been a warrior in Oswald’s warband but he had broken his left wrist in training just before the fatal battle where Oswald was killed. He had joined Oswiu’s warband and then, two years ago, he’d been selected to join his gesith – the king’s personal bodyguard. He was now twenty eight and had been a warrior for a dozen years; years in which he had gained a great deal of experience. Despite the fact that they were in friendly territory he kept scanning the land ahead and to the left of him. Occasionally he would stop and listen for a minute before carrying on.

  Behind him rode Conomultus who was getting impatient with Leofsige’s caution. Catinus brought up the rear and, like Leofsige, he kept his eyes roving to his left and occasionally glanced behind him. However, he lacked the older warrior’s skill and didn’t spot the group of Picts charging towards then from above through gaps in the trees. Leofsige did, however.

  He dismounted and signalled for the other two to do the same. Handing the reins of his horse to Conomultus he gestured for Catinus to follow him into the trees and to bring both his bow and the javelin that they carried on horseback instead of a spear.

  Leofsige reached the edge of the trees when the two mounted men were a hundred yards away. The three on foot were a little distance behind them.

  ‘You take the old man on the left and I’ll take care of the one on the right,’ he said quietly.

  Catinus wasn’t sure that the Picts meant them any harm and was about to protest when he recognised the man he was to take care of. It was the sentry from the walkway. If any further doubt remained, it was dispelled by the man’s drawn sword and the venomous snarl on his face. He took careful aim and, when his target was thirty yards away, he let fly. The arrow was aimed too low to hit the man but it struck his mount squarely in the centre of its chest. It collapsed with a whinny of pain and its rider was catapulted over its head to land, badly winded, twenty yards away from Catinus.

  Without a thought about the danger he might be in, he ran forward and cut the man’s throat. When he looked up he saw that Leofsige had killed his man cleanly with an arrow in the centre of his chest. He was nocking another to his bow as Catinus whirled around only to see that the priest Damhnaic was about to crush his skull with a heavy cudgel. He cursed himself for not taking the time to put his helmet on when Leofsige’s second arrow took the priest in the leg. He dropped the cudgel and went down on one knee, clutching at the wound.

  Catinus dropped his bow and pulled out his seax, thrusting it into Damhnaic’s neck, severing both his carotid arteries. He let go of the hilt of his seax and pulled his sword out of its scabbard ready for the next assailant. He needn’t have bothered. The last two were heading back up the hillside as fast as their legs could carry them. Leofsige took careful aim but the distance was too great and his arrow fell short.

  At that moment Conomultus burst out of the trees leading the other two horses. Men on foot struggling up a bare hillside are never likely to outrun riders on horseback on a hillside covered in grass and heather. They had only gone a quarter of a mile when they stopped, their chests heaving with the exertion and their mouths sucking in great lungfuls of air. They turned to face their former quarry holding their spears firmly, determined to sell their lives dearly.

  Leofsige had learned long ago not to risk his life in pointless acts of heroism and, dismounting, he drew back his bowstring. When the two remaining brothers realised that they weren’t even going to be given a chance to fight, they rushed at him yelling defiance. An arrow took care of one of them but the remaining Pict, scarcely more than a boy, thrust his spear at Leofsige. The warrior had pulled his shield around from where it hung on his back so he was never in any danger, but Catinus’ javelin took the youth in the chest before he could complete the thrust.

  Leofsige smiled.

  ‘Not a bad throw from the back of a horse,’ was his only comment.

  An hour later they had thrown the bodies into the loch, including that of the dead pony, and they took the other one with them. None of the Picts had anything on them worth taking, except the warrior who Leofsige had pushed into the loch when they arrived. He had a pouch containing several scraps of silver.

  ‘Payment from Genofeva no doubt,’ commented Leofsige laconically.

  He divided the silver between the three of them. At first Conomultus declined, until Catinus pointed out that he could give it to Bishop Aidan for the monastery at Lindisfarne.

  ~~~

  Cuthbert was in something of a quandary. He was thirteen and enjoying life as at novice at Melrose. However, the life was predictable and mundane. During his first year he had learned to read and write, mainly in Latin but also in English. He had enjoyed studying the life of Jesus Christ and learning about the Celtic Church. Now he was putting that knowledge into practice, helping to copy documents whilst continuing his education. He was beginning to learn Greek whilst continuing to improve his Latin and English.

  In a few months he’d be fourteen and it would be time to decide whether he wanted to take his vows as a monk or to leave to train as a warrior. He was drawn to the latter. A life of adventure and fighting had an attraction for a restless boy. The humdrum round of prayers, never having enough to eat, prayers, lessons, copying in the scriptorium, prayers, working on the monastery farm and more prayers failed to satisfy him.

  He was a devout boy but he wanted more out of life. Therefore, when Abbot Offa sent for him to ask him what he wanted to do when he finished his noviciate, he didn’t know what to say.

  ‘I’m not sure, Father Abbot. I’d like to experience the exciting life of a warrior but I’m drawn to a life of quiet contemplation and prayer as well. Whatever I do, I want to serve God and His Son.’

  ‘I can’t advise you, Cuthbert. I’ve always wanted to be a monk and have spent much of my life as a hermit in prayer and meditation; I’ve never had a craving for adventure and excitement, though, from what others have told me, a warrior’s life is one of boredom interspersed with short periods of intense terror.’

  ‘That may well be the case, Father, but I think I need to experience that for myself.’

  ‘I see. One thing I can say which might help you decide is that several warriors, even the odd king, has become a monk later in life. However, if you choose the path that Bishop Aidan and I follow, then you cannot then decide to become a warrior later. Learning to fight is a young man’s game. Does that help?’

  ‘Yes, Father Abbot. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. In that case I think I should opt for the life of a warrior when I reach fourteen.’

  ‘Good, I’m glad I’ve helped you reach a decision. Now, there is another matter I need to discuss with you. As you know the present senior novice takes his vows next week and the Master of Novices and I need to decide on who to appoint to succeed him. I know that you’re the eldest, but there is a new novice arriving tomorrow.’

  ‘A new novice? How does that affect your choice of the senior?’

  Cuthbert would never have spoken so impolitely had he not suspected that his expectations were about to be dashed.

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, boy!’

  Offa never spoke sharply to anyone and Cuthbert was astute enough to realise that he’d only done so now because he was about to do something he wasn’t happy about.

  ‘This boy, Wilfrid, is slightly older than you,’ he continued more calmly.

  ‘If he’s a new novice, he won’t be experienced enough to guide the others.’

  ‘He is experienced. He’s coming from Lindisfarne.’

>   The look Offa gave him didn’t encourage him to ask any more questions, but he was left wondering why a novice nearing the end of his training would be moved from the main monastery to a daughter house. For Bishop Aidan to get rid of him he must have either committed a heinous sin or be persona non grata with his fellow novices. Either way he couldn’t imagine him being a good leader of the younger novices at Melrose.

  ‘Will he be the senior, Father Abbott, rather than me, even though he doesn’t know any of the others and, more importantly, they don’t know him?’

  ‘Pride is a sin, Cuthbert.’

  ‘Forgive me, Father. I am not being proud. I’m thinking of the smooth running of the school.’

  Offa sighed. He genuinely didn’t know what to do for the best. The Master of Novices was little help. He saw Wilfrid as an intruder and wanted Cuthbert as the senior. It wasn’t as simple as that though. Wilfrid was a devout novice, extremely so, and there was no doubt about him taking his vows in a few months’ time. The problem was he was a prig who could never see anyone else’s point of view. Aidan felt that taking charge of the novices might teach him how to manage his fellow human beings better. Offa didn’t agree. He suspected that being given a little power was likely to make Wilfrid more intolerant, not less.

  Offa was correct. As soon as Wilfrid arrived he started throwing his weight around, or at least trying to. The decision to make him senior novice hadn’t been popular, even before he arrived. Cuthbert was respected and well-liked. As soon as Wilfrid entered the hut they all shared he ordered Cuthbert to move so that he could have the best space for himself. Cuthbert didn’t like it but he did as he was bid until a few of the other boys picked his straw mattress and his few belongings up and, throwing Wilfrid’s possessions into the centre of the hut, they put Cuthbert’s back in his original space.

  Unsurprisingly Wilfrid was furious and started yelling at them. Whereupon two of the other boys picked up the sack containing Wilfrid’s spare clothes and his small chest and threw them out of the hut into the mud.