Better than Gold

by Theresa Tomlinson

  For my lovely grandchildren.

  With thanks to Jenni Butterworth, Programme Coordinator of the Staffordshire Hoard

  First published 2014 by A & C Black,

  an imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

  1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

  Bloomsbury is a registered trademark of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  www.bloomsbury.com

  Copyright © 2014 A & C Black

  Text copyright © 2014 Theresa Tomlinson

  The right of Theresa Tomlinson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyrights, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  eISBN 978-1-4729-0787-3

  A CIP catalogue for this book is available from the British Library.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means – graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems – without the prior permission in writing of the publishers.

  Printed and Bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  They let the ground keep that precious treasure,

  Gold under gravel, gone to earth,

  Useless to men now as it ever was.

  (From the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf)

  The following story is inspired by real people, places and events. However, some names, locations and dates have been changed, as have certain descriptive details. Some events and characters are completely fictional.

  Contents

  Chapter 1 Faint-heart’s Brat!

  Chapter 2 Sacrifice to Woden

  Chapter 3 The Lucky One

  Chapter 4 The Pagan Queen

  Chapter 5 Queen’s Court

  Chapter 6 Queen’s Boon

  Chapter 7 Another Familiar Face

  Chapter 8 The World Turned Upside Down

  Chapter 9 Peace

  Chapter 10 A Battle of Words

  Chapter 11 A Coward’s Act

  Chapter 12 War

  Chapter 13 King’s Gold

  Chapter 14 Blood-month

  Chapter 15 Woden’s Man

  CHAPTER 1

  Faint-heart’s Brat!

  Brother Chad strode into the chamber, waving the knife that usually swung at his belt. It dripped with blood. Egfrid leapt to his feet, shocked to see his young book-master’s habit bloodied and torn.

  ‘What has happened?’ he cried.

  Annis, his nurse, looked up startled and put down the bowl of oatmeal she prepared. ‘Are you hurt, Brother Chad?’ she cried.

  ‘Not my blood,’ he said. ‘We must get the boy out of here! Mercians have got in through the outer gate.’

  ‘No,’ she cried. ‘That cannot happen!’

  ‘But it has happened. This is Mercian blood on my blade and the gate-warden is dead. The guards were slaughtered while they slept and the gate stands open. They’ll be here in no time.’

  The way they spoke over his head, taking no notice of him, made Egfrid angry. He snatched up the light practice sword that hung from a hook on the wall and waved it. ‘I’ll go out and do battle,’ he cried.

  ‘Have you a skirt that might fit him?’ the monk asked, continuing to ignore the boy.

  Annis began to pull old gowns from a chest. ‘These were his sister’s, when she was young, but…’

  ‘Too rich,’ Chad shook his head. ‘We need plain stuff—the cook’s daughter perhaps?’

  ‘No time!’ Annis cried, throwing up her hands in despair. ‘No time, you said!’

  They were silent for a moment, but then she snatched up the gown on the top of the chest and began to rip at the tablet-weave braid that edged the sleeves and neckline. ‘You wanted plain,’ she muttered.

  Without another word the monk wrenched the sword from Egfrid and dragged the boy’s burnished leather tunic up and over his head. ‘I’m sorry, my prince, no time for gentleness!’ he said.

  Egfrid was shocked by this rough treatment, from those who were usually kind to him. They thrust him into his sister’s old gown, now ragged at the edges.

  ‘Cover his head!’ said Chad.

  ‘No,’ Egfrid protested. ‘I’m ten years old! I’m no girl and will not dress like one.’

  But Annis ripped another piece of cloth and Brother Chad held him firmly, while she fastened a makeshift kerchief tightly about his head.

  ‘No, no, no!’ he cried, twisting and turning in their grip.

  Screams and shouts came from the courtyard below, followed by the thunder of booted feet on the stairs. The monk and nurse exchanged a terror-filled glance. Brother Chad made the Christian sign, three-gods-in-one, and then the door crashed open and two warriors burst in on them, swords drawn and bloody.

  The monk stepped in front of Egfrid, meat knife at the ready, but a red-faced giant of a man stumped into the chamber. He raised his fist, and sent knife and monk skittering helplessly across the floor. The giant was old with white hair and beard, and dragged his leg a little when he walked, but he was broadly-built and fearless. ‘Who is this maid that you defend so bravely, holy man?’ he growled.

  Egfrid tore the kerchief from his head and snatched up the monk’s discarded knife. ‘I’m no maid.’ He drew himself straight with a pride that matched the old warrior’s. ‘I am Egfrid, son of King Oswy Iding, and my father will kill you for attacking my book-master.’

  The Mercians laughed. Egfrid lunged at the giant, but the man’s great fist came down fast again. The boy fell, knocked to the floor by the blow. He gasped, but still managed to cry out in anger. ‘You will be cursed by the Christ-God for this.’

  ‘Blessed Woden!’ the giant said, and a slow smile spread across his face. ‘We have Oswy’s brat and they’ve dressed him in women’s weeds! Shall we call him Lady Faint-heart?’ He threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  Egfrid’s courage fled as he saw that he’d given himself away.

  ‘Do you know who I am, boy?’ the giant bellowed. ‘I am Penda, king of the Mercians—your father’s greatest enemy. I am the nightmare of your dreams! Bind him hand and foot and take him down to Thunderer! Burn this place! Oswy Iding will never dare leave home again!’

  One of the men grabbed Egfrid. He roped the boy’s hands behind his back and tied his feet. Then he picked him up and threw him over his shoulder as though he were a trussed deer. The Mercians shouted to each other as Egfrid was jolted down the stairs.

  ‘Treasure?’ one asked.

  ‘Treasure of sorts,’ was the reply. ‘We’ve got the Faint-heart’s brat! Better than gold, he is!’

  This was greeted by wild laughter and shield beating.

  The Mercians had sneaked in from the south while Egfrid’s father was away gathering tribute from the Pictish king and his mother visiting a holy woman, two days’ ride to the north. It was no new thing for the Mercians to come raiding, but the fortress of Bamburgh, built high on its great rock above the sea, was believed to be impregnable.

  Egfrid was carried down into the outer court. He tried not to look at the piles of bodies strewn there, and the rumpled, bloodstained clothing of the cook and her daughter.

  Penda’s men hacked at the stalls and livestock pens that filled the space. They dragged wood towards the great hall and, scattering fowls and frightened sheep, they built a pyre about his home. Dogs howled. Where was Woodruff, his favourite hound? Egfrid opened his mouth to call him, but closed it just in time, understanding that he’d call the loyal creature to his death.

  Firebrands were carried from the kitchens and the stacks set ablaze. Screams and moans rose around him. Surely this could not be happening. It must be some
frightful dream.

  But then angry cries of surprise came from the Mercians—and even from his awkward position, Egfrid sensed his enemy’s bewilderment. Had his father returned in time to rescue him? But no—thick smoke made him cough. The wind had changed direction and sent the flames back into the faces of the men who’d lit them.

  ‘Mount up!’ Penda shouted. He struggled to climb into the saddle himself, but as soon as he’d managed it he pointed to Egfrid. ‘Give me my treasure!’

  The boy was thrown over the saddle of Penda’s horse, where he slumped face down, rump in the air, across the giant’s saddle.

  ‘Get out! Leave them to burn!’ Penda bellowed.

  Egfrid lifted his head and shouted, ‘The Christ-God has sent this wind to punish you!’ The changing wind had come from Aidan’s Isle—the offshore monastery that Chad came from.

  ‘Shut up!’ He received a brutal thump across his ear from the man who’d carried him.

  Penda took the reins and wheeled his stallion about. ‘We have what we came for,’ he cried, ‘something to make the Faint-heart weep! Cease your whining, boy, and prepare for the ride of your life!’

  CHAPTER 2

  Sacrifice to Woden

  Egfrid wanted to die. Every part of his body was battered and bruised. The Mercians galloped south, scattering flocks, swinging spears and swords at man or beast that got in their way. These men were pagans who worshipped Woden and Thunor the thunder-god. They made horrible blood sacrifices and he was terribly afraid that they meant to sacrifice him.

  Penda stopped at noon in a small village that they terrorised with threats and demands. The poor inhabitants ran to bring bread, cheese, smoked pigs’ haunches and their best ale. After another brief rest they rode southwards again and Egfrid fell into a deep, creeping misery. When darkness came, they stopped again, throwing the boy into a patch of heather. He lay helpless as the men rushed to assist Penda down from his horse.

  Egfrid shut his eyes and prayed that he’d wake to find he’d been riding the nightmare. If his father heard how he’d opened his mouth and stupidly given himself away, there’d be little sympathy from him for his plight. What a fool he’d been. He must pay dearly now, for one moment of mad pride. Why, oh why had he not meekly obeyed Brother Chad and pretended to be a servant girl?

  His mother, Queen Eanfleda, would weep when she heard he’d been taken. She’d order monks and nuns to pray for him and give more gold to the churches, hoping the Christ-God would save him, but Egfrid had little hope that anyone could save him now. He’d lost everything—his home, his pony, his hounds, his proud status as a royal prince.

  A tiny scrap of comfort floated through the darkness when he thought he heard Annis calling to him. ‘I’m here, Egfrid… Annis is here.’

  Then the sound grew muffled, as though the Mercians had shut her up. His own ear throbbed painfully from the blow he’d received. Would they hit Annis, too? She’d called out the gentle words she’d used to comfort him when he was small. ‘I’m here… Annis is here,’ she’d cry, when he fell or banged his head.

  She’d soothe his wounds with marigold balm and somehow put things right again—but she could do nothing for him now.

  He guessed they must be heading for Deira, towards his father’s cousin’s palace at York, but there was little chance that Oswin Yffi would ride out to save him. His father’s handsome young cousin was known as Oswin the Good, for he was a very Christian king, but he only ruled these lands with Penda’s consent and an annual payment of gold and grain.

  Egfrid’s father had wanted Deira for himself. He sneeringly called his young rival ‘Oswin the Perfect’.

  One of the men brought a horn of strong-smelling mead to Penda and he took a long drink. He smacked his lips and said with a chuckle, ‘Give our little lady a sip!’

  When the boy turned his head away, Penda reached out to grab him brutally by the hair and tip his head back. ‘Drink!’ he ordered.

  Egfrid was forced to gulp down the powerful stuff and some of it slopped onto the shameful gown that he still wore. ‘You’re a fool, just like your father,’ Penda growled. ‘This will help you bear the journey, for we must ride fast.’

  Egfrid looked away and thought that he saw two men that he recognised wandering freely amongst the Mercians. They usually rode with his cousin Prince Ethelwald. What were they doing in the company of raiders?

  Then one of them looked at him and smiled; a sneering smile and Egfrid understood. Chad had said that the gates were open, and the guards slaughtered. These men had betrayed him. They were in Penda’s pay. Dark rage rose against them—he’d kill them if he could, but the mead he’d been forced to drink took effect and soon, despite himself, he slept.

  He was roused at daybreak, made to drink mead again, and once more thrown across the king’s saddle. His thoughts grew muddled and his eyes drooped, so that he no longer felt the bumping pain of the stallion’s gallop. Darkness closed in on him as though it was still night.

  Day and night merged together and Egfrid was only vaguely aware of more stops, more drinks of mead that he gulped down, welcoming the warm darkness that it brought. When he eventually came to his senses again, he opened his eyes to find that he was looking dizzily down into bright waters, which crept ever closer to his face. Sun warmed the back of his head, while the animal scent of the stallion filled his nostrils and he discovered that he felt sick. As the water came closer still, he wondered if they were going to drown him.

  Penda’s sturdy mount ploughed on. Soon Egfrid’s face was splashed, there was a taste of mud in his mouth, and he had a dim understanding that they were crossing a wide river. Could it be the River Humber, which marked the southern boundary of Deira? His heart sank at the thought, for once across it, he could never hope to escape.

  The water receded as the stallion moved through shallows and out onto marshy ground. Egfrid’s stomach heaved. He opened his mouth and vomited down the rippling muscular shoulder of the horse.

  This involuntary action was greeted with a roar of disapproval from Penda. ‘Damn me, by Woden’s teeth, the brat has spewed. Call a halt! Now that we’re free of Faint-heart’s lands, we’ll rest the beasts and ride on through the night.’

  Shouts and orders travelled down the line and the horses were hobbled and set free to graze in the meadows that lined the river bank. Penda dismounted with difficulty and sat down on a rock. Egfrid was hauled down after him.

  ‘Sit him up beside me,’ Penda ordered. ‘He has a right to see how we deal with those who betrayed him.’

  So Egfrid was propped up beside the king.

  ‘Fetch Ethelwald’s men for their just reward!’ the king growled.

  Egfrid looked with hatred at the two that he’d recognised earlier, but at Penda’s brief nod, they were grabbed from behind and disarmed.

  ‘Take them to yonder ash tree, slit their throats and hang them by their feet, as a sacrifice to Woden,’ the king ordered.

  Egfrid gasped in astonishment, while the two men collapsed, begging pitifully for their lives.

  But Penda was merciless. ‘They’re traitors to their kind and death is all they deserve,’ he said. ‘Now bring the other captives here.’

  The men were dragged away to their fate, leaving Egfrid shaken. He shut his eyes, not wishing to witness his betrayers’ miserable deaths, but Penda had other ideas.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ he bawled.

  When Egfrid obeyed he saw that Annis and Brother Chad had been dragged forwards, both of them bound hand and foot as he was. They were forced to kneel in the mud, looking pale and dirty, but both stared calmly into the distance, refusing to plead.

  ‘See who we have here,’ Penda said, as though Egfrid were a fool, or a little child. ‘Your holy man and little mother-hen!’

  Egfrid nodded miserably.

  ‘Swear that you will not try to escape, and you will be set free from these bonds. But if you break your word, these two shall be Woden’s next sacrifice.’

  Eg
frid’s stomach churned at the thought of the ash tree and he nodded quickly. ‘I agree,’ he said.

  ‘Swear by your god!’

  ‘I swear by the Christ-God,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ said Penda. ‘Take them away.’

  Annis and Brother Chad were hauled away and though their mouths were not gagged, they suffered the indignity in silence.

  ‘Unbind the boy!’ Penda ordered.

  Two warriors bent to release Egfrid’s hands and ankles, but when they set him upright, he fell straight down again. He could see his feet and legs, but couldn’t feel them.

  ‘Rub his ankles, you fools,’ Penda growled. ‘Where is Fritha? Fetch the herb-wench!’

  One of the warriors stooped awkwardly to pull off Egfrid’s boots. A weather-beaten woman, dressed strangely in riding breeches and a man’s short tunic, pushed her way through to them. Small bundles and vials swung from her belt.

  ‘Get him standing straight for me!’ Penda ordered. ‘I want this trophy live and walking.’

  ‘Out of the way then,’ Fritha said. ‘His bonds were knotted far too tight.’

  CHAPTER 3

  The Lucky One

  Fritha started rubbing Egfrid’s feet and ankles and it wasn’t long before he began to feel a faint prickling sensation.

  ‘Oooh,’ he gasped.

  She chuckled, and paused to unstop a vial, from which she poured some sharp-smelling oil. She worked it in to his skin. The sensation of tingling heat became overpowering.

  ‘Oooh,’ he gasped again.

  He’d have liked to suffer in silence like Annis and Chad, but didn’t seem able to manage it. The sensation was unpleasant, but vaguely familiar and he recognised that it must be gone through, in order for his feet to recover.

  ‘Twitch your toes!’ Fritha ordered.

  The discomfort began to ebb and he found that he could wriggle his toes again.

  ‘Can he stand and walk?’ Penda asked.

  Two men hauled him to his feet and this time he managed to stay upright. He took a shaky step, relieved that he could still walk, but a worrying thought came to him. Were Annis and Chad too tightly bound?