“You had better wait to reward Cynan,” snarled Beobrand. “He has much explaining to do first.”
“Lord—” Cynan said, but Beobrand cut him off.
“Now is not the time,” he snapped. “We will speak when this is over.”
“Come now, Beobrand,” said Oswiu. “I understand your ire at not being obeyed, but even a king has to get accustomed to his more headstrong warriors disobeying his commands. I have learnt it is a price you sometimes have to pay.” He looked sidelong at Beobrand. “Better to keep a strong man’s oath and his sword for a future battle than to chastise him for every infraction and failure to do his duty, eh?”
Beobrand looked into Oswiu’s eyes and wondered if the king was speaking of him and past events. Was this about what had occurred at Ediscum?
“Surely you of all men,” continued the king, “know that such warriors as Cynan can alter the course of a battle. We need men who do not always sing to the same tune as everyone else. Sigehelm here tells me it was your man’s idea to ride south and not to take the longer route to Corebricg.”
Beobrand noted how Cynan glanced at Sigehelm in surprise.
“It seems that Cynan is good at riding off in directions he has not been ordered to ride,” said Beobrand, fixing Cynan with a hard glare.
“Well,” replied Oswiu, removing the circlet of gold he wore about his head, so that he could scratch behind his ear again, “if they had ridden north, they would not have arrived here in time to add their numbers to my host.” He brushed his hair away from his face and replaced the gold band. It glimmered and gleamed in the hot sunlight. “Perhaps,” he continued, “it was God’s will, in His infinite wisdom, that sent your man into Rheged on some errand. Cynan should not be punished for answering the Lord’s call.”
“But mayhap he should be punished for disobeying his hlaford’s command,” said Beobrand. “And it seems to me that it was the change of heart of the Mercians that shifted the course of what might have happened here today, not the arrival of the men of Rheged.”
Oswiu smoothed his moustache with forefinger and thumb.
“Maybe you are right,” he replied, “but the coming of the riders from the west, followed by the fyrd of Rheged, certainly helped our cause.”
Beobrand looked over to where the men of Rheged were still arriving from Burh Stræt. There could be no doubt that their numbers would give the Bernicians the edge if, after all, it came to combat. But he doubted now that would happen. For, shortly after Cynan and Sigehelm had led the galloping horsemen into the barley field, Peada’s eagle, along with the standards of the Mercians who followed him, had disappeared from the hill. Cuthbert had been the first to see what was happening. At first, the Bernician warriors had watched nervously as the Mercians moved down the far side of the hill. They had thought perhaps Peada prepared to attack from a different direction, now that he had seen the horsemen arrive from the west.
But the newly arrived Cynan had ridden westward a way, returning shortly after with news that the Mercians appeared to be retreating.
Not long after that, the fyrd-men of Rheged, sweat-streaked and bone-weary from their forced march, had begun arriving. They formed up further in the east, and in a short space of time, with the arrival of those reinforcements from Rheged, along with the Mercian retreat, the Bernicians outnumbered the Deirans.
Oswiu had sent one of his men to cut a leafy branch from an elm that grew beside the ditch running alongside the Roman road. Then, with his man holding the bough aloft as a sign of peace, the king had commanded his leaders to mount up and join him in the field beneath the hill of Wilfaresdun. They numbered some two dozen riders, all still bedecked for war. Beobrand yet wore his heavy byrnie, and the iron strips around his forearm and shins. Nægling was scabbarded and hung from a baldric slung over his shoulder. Like the rest of the king’s retinue, he removed his battle helm, tying it to his saddle, allowing his sweat-soaked hair to dry in the afternoon sun.
They had halted with the barley bristling about their horses’ knees. Some two hundred paces back, the largest part of the Bernician host was still arrayed in a line ready for the shieldwall. Off to the east were the men of Rheged. The warriors of the fyrd were close enough to remind Oswine of his predicament, yet still too far away to overhear what was said by their lords.
Oswiu had been in a jovial mood ever since Peada’s retreat and he was smiling now as they all fell silent to watch Oswine and his retinue approach through the barley.
There were about a score of Deiran riders, and Beobrand recognised many of them. The king, handsome and broad-shouldered, rode at the head of the group. At either side of Oswine was Wulfstan and Hunwald. Just behind them came a man Beobrand did not know, who lifted a fresh birch bough high above his king’s head. The branch’s leaves rattled and sighed in the light breeze that had picked up as the day grew old. There was a dejected air about the party of riders. Their expressions were sombre, their shoulders slumped. They looked like men who had been defeated in battle, yet no blow had been struck.
Wulfstan caught Beobrand’s eye and gave a curt nod of recognition. It seemed to Beobrand that Hunwald did the same to Ethelwin and he remembered that the Deiran lord was married to the warmaster’s sister.
“Waes hael, cousin,” said Oswiu in a cheery tone.
“I would say you are well come to my lands, cousin,” Oswine said, his voice clear and melodious, “but such a thing would make a liar of me.” He cast his gaze over the gathered riders and then at the shieldwall beyond. “What would you say to me? I have ridden under the bough of peace to this parley, but the day has been long and I would rest a while before we fight.”
Oswiu grinned.
“Fight, is it? It seems to me that your new ally has had second thoughts about crossing me.”
Oswine sighed.
“Have you called me here to tell me that which I already know? If so, I will return to my camp. My men are eager to fight and I have held them on the leash for too long.”
Oswiu laughed at his cousin’s words.
“Is that so, Oswine? I would think that with Peada and his men gone, and with my reinforcements from Rheged, your men would see as well as any with eyes that they are outmatched and outnumbered. If we fight here, it will be a bloody affair, but with the likes of Beobrand and his Black Shields on my side, and our superior numbers, my host will prevail.”
Oswine shook his head, his expression one of sadness. His horse snorted and stamped. He patted the animal’s neck absently.
“You know I never wished to fight you, Oswiu,” he said. “But you have pushed me too far. Too many Deirans have died for me to turn away now. You know me. I am no craven to flee from a fight. You must pay for what you have done. If that is with your blood and that of your men, then so be it. God is on my side, and Deira will be victorious.”
Oswiu seemed to enjoy the king of Deira’s words and smiled broadly.
“And yet,” he said, “Utta here has told us that the Lord is on the side of Bernicia and we will vanquish you.” Oswiu looked up at the pale sky. Wisps of cloud scudded high above them. “The Christ looks down from heaven and sees that we both keep His faith. Who can say which of us is more deserving of triumph in His eyes?”
“I know not how to unravel that riddle,” said Oswine with a shrug. “But I am sure that the Almighty can do so.”
“Indeed,” Oswiu said. “Praise the Lord.” Oswiu made the sign of the cross over his chest. Men in both parties did the same. Beobrand brushed his fingers against the hammer amulet he wore. “What if I told you,” continued Oswiu, leaning in close to his cousin, “that there was a way for us all to ride from this place with no bloodshed?”
“I would say I cannot see how that could be, without one of us fleeing, and that will not be me. For this is my kingdom and I am no coward king.”
Oswiu, serious now, met Oswine’s gaze.
“If we let it be known that we have both agreed to disband our warhosts, we can bring about peace.
”
“You truly want peace?” asked Oswine, his disbelief clear. “You have constantly harried my people on the northern marches and now, when your host outnumbers mine, you wish to send your warbands away. Do not take me for a fool.”
Oswiu was sombre, his dark eyes downcast.
“I have prayed much on what manner of king I have become, cousin,” he said. “What manner of man.” He looked away wistfully into the distance. “And husband.” He let out a sigh. “It is true that I led my men here to put an end to this conflict between our kingdoms on the edge of a blade, but last night I had a dream that made me question everything.”
“A dream?” asked Oswine, his tone incredulous.
Oswiu nodded.
“Yes. My most holy brother, and your cousin, Oswald, came to me while I slept.”
A murmur ran through the men, both Bernicians and Deirans. Oswald had been a great king, lord of both Deira and Bernicia. His remains were revered by the Christ followers, and the earth that soaked up his blood at Maserfelth was used in healing potions and remedies. Beobrand clutched his Thunor’s hammer at the talk of spirits talking from the afterlife. Frowning, he wondered why Oswiu had chosen now to mention this dream of his.
“Oswald appeared to you in a dream?” Oswine’s voice was doubtful still, but tinged with a sense of awe. Perhaps Oswiu’s holy brother could help from beyond the grave to solve this quarrel between the two kingdoms he had ruled in life.
“He did,” Oswiu said, once again crossing himself. “And my brother spoke to me.”
Oswine and most of the other men made the symbol of the holy rood over themselves.
“What did he say?” asked Oswine.
“He told me that, as followers of the Christ, we should not fight, rather turning to the Lord for guidance.”
“But how? I am not sure how prayer can fix that which you have sought so hard to break.”
Oswiu held up his hands.
“It is true that I have caused you and your people much harm. I do not deny it. But Deirans have shed Bernician blood in return.”
Oswine opened his mouth to object, but Oswiu held up a hand.
“But you are right,” he said. “Prayer alone will not solve this, and we will not so easily agree a path forward. No, we must rely on one who is even more holy and blessed by the Lord than my brother. Someone who can act as arbiter between us.”
Beobrand could see that Oswine listened intently, pondering the idea, seeing a possible route away from this madness that had gripped Northumbria these last years.
“Who do you speak of?” Oswine scanned the faces of Oswiu’s retinue. “Surely you do not mean Utta?”
“Of course not,” replied Oswiu, with a laugh. “Sorry, Utta,” he said, appearing to remember that Utta was amongst the men who had ridden to the parley. “You are, of course, a very holy soul, but we need somebody wholly beyond reproach. Someone who is admired as much in Deira as he is in Bernicia.”
The small priest looked as though he had been punched in the stomach. His strained expression was enough to bring a smile to Beobrand’s lips.
“If not Utta,” said Oswine, “who would you have act as mediator between us and our kingdoms.”
“Why, the father of the church in Northumbria, of course,” said Oswiu. “Bishop Aidan.”
Oswine rubbed his fingers over his chin.
“There is no man I admire more,” he said at last. “Yes, I would trust Aidan to speak true and honestly for both our kingdoms, for there is no man more holy or closer to God.”
A commotion interrupted the conversation between the kings as one of the Deiran lords pushed his way forward. It was Brunwine, the champion of Deira.
“My lord king,” Brunwine shouted, his voice as loud as the roar of a waterfall. “You cannot truly be contemplating what Oswiu says.” He glowered at Oswiu, his contempt clear. “The man is a snake! He should be crushed beneath your boot, not spoken to as an equal.”
Brunwine was red in the face and spittle flecked his beard, such was his fury. Beobrand thought he might mean to attack Oswiu, so he nudged Sceadugenga forward to block the man’s path.
“Easy there, Brunwine,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“Do not crowd me, Beobrand Half-hand,” Brunwine spat. “I will tumble you from your saddle and beat some sense into that thick Cantware skull of yours, if you are not careful.”
“I would like to see you try,” said Beobrand, his hand grasping Nægling’s grip. “You would find it hard without your hands.”
Brunwine growled and made to draw his own blade.
“Enough!” Oswine’s bellow silenced both men. “We ride under the branch of truce, Brunwine. There will be no fighting here.”
The broad-shouldered thegn loured at his king.
“Oswiu is trying to trick you, lord,” he said, keeping his anger in check with obvious difficulty.
“Silence!” snapped Oswine. “You forget yourself. Apologise to my cousin king.”
Brunwine scowled. Beobrand and Sceadugenga still blocked his path to the king of Bernicia.
“I…” Brunwine said, but no more words came. Pulling his horse’s head away, he turned the animal, and spurred it on, shoving Deirans out of his path. “Mark my words,” he shouted over his shoulder. “This man no more wants peace than a serpent wants to suckle from a sow.”
Kicking his heels to his horse’s flanks, Brunwine galloped back across the barley towards the hill.
For a time, they all watched him riding away.
Beobrand moved his stallion back, so that he was beside Oswiu once more.
“I apologise for my man,” said Oswine. “Tempers run hot. There has been much killing and it is not so easy to forget that.”
“I understand,” said Oswiu. “We need such hot-blooded men to stand before our enemies, but they are not always best-suited to diplomacy. And Brunwine is wrong. We have fought, but now is the time to be speaking of peace, not more war. I do not mean to trick you in this. You have my word.”
Both kings stared at each other for a long time, weighing the other up like warriors before a duel.
“Do we have an agreement then?” asked Oswiu at last. “We shall disband our warhosts and leave the field of battle?”
“And when will we meet with Aidan, and where?”
“Such a meeting should take place on a holy day. So I say we should meet on the feast of Matthaeus the Apostle. What say you?”
“That is still several weeks hence.” Oswine glanced at his closest ealdormen and advisors. They nodded in agreement. “And where would you have us meet?”
“Aidan is old and it seems wrong to make him travel far, so I say we should both journey to him and meet in his sanctuary on the innermost of the Farena Isles.”
Wulfstan moved forward and whispered something to his king. Oswine nodded.
“Brunwine is hot-tempered, but he is no fool. How do I know I can trust you not to raise arms against me before we meet?”
“I have given you my word, is that not enough?” They stared into each other’s eyes for a long while. Oswiu’s face crumpled and he looked aggrieved. “I see it is not. Very well, I give you more. I swear on the saintly bones of my brother, Oswald, that I will disband my forces and ride north to Bernicia.”
Oswine held Oswiu’s gaze for several heartbeats. Eventually he nodded, seemingly satisfied with what he saw there.
“So be it then,” he said, reaching out to clutch his cousin’s arm in the warrior grip. “I also give you my word that I will disband the Deiran fyrd forthwith. We will meet at the innermost Farena Isle on Saint Matthaeus’s day.”
PART THREE
THE DARK PATH
Chapter 40
Oswiu’s tent was crowded and stuffy as his closest thegns and ealdormen gathered to celebrate the outcome of the parley. The evening was warm, so the tent’s entrance had been left open. Cynan knew all of the men in the tent, but he was not comfortable among them. These were the wealthiest men of t
he kingdom; many, like Beobrand, had fought their way to riches and land, and such men could be good company, with their boasting, riddles and drinking games. But even though Cynan was a warrior too, as able as any man with a sword and shield, and better than most, he did not belong there. He had been born to poor parents in the distant kingdom of Powys. Taken as a thrall when still just a child, Cynan had been beaten and abused by his Mercian masters. His past set him apart from the other men in Oswiu’s tent. But above all, there was one difference that his skill and battle-prowess could never hope to wash away: he was Waelisc.
A stranger, despite having lived in Bernicia for close to fifteen years. A foreigner, in spite of wielding a sword to protect his lord and land.
He didn’t want to be there, surrounded by the leaders of the fyrd, but Oswiu had insisted that Sigehelm and he attend, and Cynan knew enough about men of power to know he could not refuse a king. He would much prefer to have remained with the rest of Beobrand’s Black Shields, sitting around their fire, laughing and recounting tales of their adventures. To those men, he was a shield-brother, a man who had bled with them in the shieldwall. With the men of Ubbanford, he could truly relax. Not here. Besides, he thought, taking a sip from the cup of mead he had been given by a freckled servant boy, Beobrand was here too and his lord’s anger at him was all too evident.
They had barely spoken since Cynan’s arrival, but whenever he looked up, Beobrand was scowling in his direction. Cynan had thought it best to avoid him, and now, deeming that enough mead and ale had flowed for the king not to notice if he slipped away, he stepped out of the cloying heat of the tent and into the darkness. A few others had done the same already and stood conversing in small groups on the trampled earth before the tent.
A great guffawing laugh came from inside. Cynan recognised the sound as emanating from Oswiu. The king had been in fine spirits ever since Oswine’s agreement to his terms. Cynan was doubtful of the story Oswiu had told of the visitation from his brother’s shade, but who could say it was not so? Nobody could disagree with the king and it was impossible to prove or disprove such a thing. Besides, all men had heard tales of spirits offering words of advice in dreams. Surely the brother of one so holy as Oswald could expect good counsel from his brother.
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