by H A CULLEY
Keeva had given birth to two girls and Oswald did his best to hide his disappointment that they hadn’t yet managed to have a son. Œthelwald was now nine and although Oswald loved his son, he knew that he wasn’t a particularly likeable child. He berated himself for looking forward to the day that he could send Œthelwald off to Iona to be educated and leave him there until he was fourteen, when he’d be old enough to start training as a warrior. It wasn’t the way a father was supposed to feel about his son and he wondered what he could do to bring them closer.
Fergus had managed to conquer Skye with little difficulty, so Dal Riada was now more powerful than it had ever been. The one thing Domnall hadn’t managed to do was to be reconciled with the Ulaidh and their king, Congal Claen. The struggle between him and the Uí Néill for control of Ulster had continued sporadically, with Congal initially getting the upper hand. He had gathered allies from the other provinces of Ireland, mainly in Leinster and Meath and in 629 he made a bid to be crowned as High King of Ireland. However, he was thwarted by the southern Uí Néill.
Eochaid and Dervla had also had children, a boy called Lethlobar and a girl named Megan. They remained at Duilleag Bán na Cille and Oswald saw them when he visited there, which wasn’t often. Gradually he and Eochaid grew apart.
‘I don’t really understand how you can continue to accept Congal Claen as King of the Ulaidh when he killed your father. I know there is nothing I want more than to rule Northumbria.’
‘That’s you; it’s not me. I’ve never wanted to be a king and, although I would like to see my father’s killing avenged, I’d rather Congal ruled the Ulaidh than I was forced to do so.’
They didn’t argue about it, but Oswald’s failure to understand his friend’s indifference lay between them and gradually their relationship cooled.
Since his successful conquest of Bute, Oswald had continued to build up his force of trained warriors. He couldn’t afford to keep most of them permanently employed, but many of his farmers and fishermen had undergone training as warriors when they were younger, and those who were primarily warriors were kept gainfully employed raiding Ireland and the Isle of Man, which was part of the Kingdom of Mercia.
Then Oswald’s brother Osguid arrived with the news that he’d been waiting for. His mother’s brother, Edwin, King of Northumbria, had fallen out with Penda of Mercia. Cadwallon, King of Gwynedd, who Edwin had defeated a few years previously, had quickly allied himself with Mercia against Northumbria. It was the first serious setback Edwin had faced since usurping the throne sixteen years previously.
‘What’s the latest you’ve heard, brother?’
‘Cadwallon and the Penda have invaded Elmet and Edwin has decided to take action against them before they move into Deira.’
Elmet was a small kingdom to the south of Northumbria that Edwin and Mercia had both tried to take over in 616. Edwin had finally managed to incorporate it into his kingdom in 627, when the previous Mercian king died. Obviously, that had rankled with the Mercians for some time and Penda had seized this opportunity to invade.
~~~
Penda sat on his horse and examined the low wetlands in front of him. A mile and a half away lay the confluence of the Rivers Trent, Ouse and Idle. To the north-west lay the course of the River Thorne, into which several other small rivers ran. There was an area of peat bog to the left of the Thorne and another, larger, one on the left bank of the River Idle. Penda wondered how best to use this area, known as Heathfield Chase, to defeat Edwin. Although the King of Northumbria had the reputation of being the most powerful ruler in England, Penda despised him. Edwin held the throne because he was an Ætheling and was only king because he was born to the right father. So was Cadwallon, although Ætheling was a purely Anglo-Saxon term that roughly equated to prince. Penda didn’t have much respect for his ally as a military commander, either.
Penda had been the son of a noble who had risen to become the leader of Mercia through his abilities. At first he was content with the title of hereræswa – or war leader – but when the last king of the direct royal line died, he had been elected by the Witan as the best man to rule them.
Beside him sat his two sons, Paeda and Wulfhere. Turning to them, he asked for their ideas on how to lay out his army.
‘Well,’ Paeda, the eldest, began hesitantly. ‘We could draw it up in the triangle formed by the Ouse, the Idle and Thorne Moor. They would defend our flanks and provide an obstacle to our front.’
He smiled at his father, pleased with his solution, but his pleasure faded into dejection when he saw the contemptuous look on the king’s face.
‘We’d be trapped, you fool. He’d use his archers to weaken us and then drive us back into the Ouse to drown! Wulfhere, have you got any more sensible ideas?’
His younger brother, who had been relishing Paeda’s discomfort, stopped grinning and swallowed anxiously several times, so that his prominent Adam’s apple bounced up and down.
‘Well, if we don’t want to be trapped there, I suppose we want to try and lure King Edwin there.’
‘Humph! That’s blindingly obvious from what I just said to Paeda. Any brilliant ideas how we do that?’
Wulfhere’s nervousness vied with his irritation as Paeda smirked at him behind their father’s back.
‘Well, I suppose we could um, er, drive him northwards between Hatfield Moor and the Trent.’
‘Have you forgotten that he outnumbers us? How exactly do we force him to retreat?’
Both brothers examined the grass being cropped by their horses, not daring to look their father in the eye. Penda snorted noisily to convey his exasperation with his sons. Then he muttered an oath under his breath as Cadwallon and three of his chieftains trotted up to join them.
‘Any ideas, Penda?’ the black-haired Briton asked with a smile.
‘Yes,’ Penda replied shortly. ‘We’ll set up our tents there, between Thorne Moor and the confluence of the three rivers, tonight and wait for Edwin to attack the camp at dawn tomorrow. I’ll need some of your men who can swim to keep the campfires going tonight.’
‘But, father, you’ve just said it would be suicide to get trapped there!’ Paeda objected.
‘We won’t be there, you little fool. We just need Edwin to think that we are.’
‘Where will we be, then?’ asked the puzzled Wulfhere.
‘Camped miles away. We’ll move into position here, in these woods to the east of Hatfield Moor, once Edwin attacks our supposed camp. Your men, Cadwallon, will need to move into position between Thorne Moor and the Ouse to cut off their escape. Then they’ll have a choice. Fight and be slaughtered, drown trying to cross the rivers, or surrender.’
~~~
Edwin was moving down the far bank of the River Trent when his scouts came in to report that the enemy were putting up their camp just south of the Ouse, where it joined the Trent and the Idle.
‘We have them!’ Edwin told his two eldest sons, Osfrith and Edafrith, when the scout had departed. ‘No-one in his right mind would camp there and Penda’s no fool. It must be Cadwallon’s army. We’ll deal with them first and then go looking for the Mercians.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better to locate Penda first?’ Edafrith asked.
‘Yes, but I don’t want Cadwallon to escape.’
‘When do we attack, father?’ Osfrith’s eyes were alight with excitement. At seventeen, he was two years older than his brother and like his father, he was impatient to teach the Welsh invaders a lesson.
Eadfrith felt that they were being reckless to plan an attack without knowing exactly where their enemies were, but he held his counsel. He could see that he would be wasting his breath trying to dissuade them. This was the first time his father had taken him to war with him and he wasn’t going to risk making him regret it.
Edwin’s army was mainly composed of his own trained warriors, drawn from all over Northumbria, and the fyrd – the muster of armed freemen – from Elmet and Deira. The fyrd of Bernicia hadn’t been
called out, as the battle wouldn’t be fought near their territory and Edwin felt that he had more than enough men. In all, his army numbered nearly a thousand, whereas Cadwallon was reputed to have about three hundred and Penda another five hundred.
Although Edwin had converted to Christianity, mainly to please his wife and father-in-law, he didn’t encourage his subjects to do likewise. No priests accompanied his army, something that Eadfrith deplored. Unlike his brother, who was still a pagan, he was an ardent believer in the new faith and regularly attended mass with his mother. Bishop Paulinus could have accompanied them but he had remained at Bebbanburg on Edwin’s instructions.
As dawn broke, Edwin advanced on foot with his two sons, surrounded by his professional warriors. The fyrd followed on, commanded by the nobles of Elmet and Deira. It was obvious almost immediately that the set-up was a trap; the tents were unoccupied and those few men that there were in the camp fled immediately. Edwin looked around him, wondering where the enemy were, when a roar and the clash of weapons gave him the answer. He was being attacked in the rear.
Edwin and Osfrith immediately started to force their way back through their men to see what was happening, leaving Eadfrith in charge of the experienced warriors in what had been the vanguard. Eadfrith stood there, uncertain what to do, until fighting erupted on his left flank. He immediately wheeled the front ranks to face this new threat, yelling for the nearby men of the fyrd, who by now were completely confused, to form up behind the leading warriors. It was the right thing to do and soon Eadfrith was forcing Cadwallon and his Welshmen back.
Meanwhile, Edwin and his other son had reached the fighting between Hatfield Moor and the River Trent. The rear half of the fyrd had been taken by surprise and several of their leaders had been killed before they could turn to face the Mercians. Consequently, they were on the point of rout when King Edwin reached them. Although many rallied to him and Eadfrith when they arrived, they had already sustained a large number of casualties. When Osfrith led his men off to fight Cadwallon, the fyrd finally had the space in which to retreat, rather than face the better armed and experienced Mercians.
Edwin thrust his sword into the belly of a large, rotund Mercian and the man sunk to his knees. Then out of the corner of his eye Edwin saw his favourite son being attacked by two men, both in byrnies and helmets and armed with swords and shields. He went to help him, but was confronted by a Mercian wielding a battle axe. Edwin swung his shield up to defend himself from the axe blow and his arm was jarred by the impact. Unfortunately the shield started to split with the axe embedded in it. Whilst the axe man struggled to pull his weapon free, Edwin shoved his sword up between the man’s neck and chin. The point entered his brain and he slumped to the ground. Edwin tried to free his sword, but it was trapped; he released his grip on it, drew his seax and cut the leather strap which attached his sword to his wrist. His shield was also useless, so he let go of it. When he turned to go to Osfrith’s aid, he saw that he was too late. His son was dead and his slayers were heading towards him.
Edwin looked around him for his men, but they had been driven back and he found himself on his own. In addition to the two men who had killed his son, there were several Mercians between him and the rest of his army. He prepared himself for death, but it wasn’t to the Christian God that he prayed; rather it was to the old gods of his ancestors. He had no illusions that his conversion was anything other than political and now there was no reason to pretend anymore. He tore the crucifix from around his neck and picked up a discarded shield.
The Mercians closed around him, but didn’t come within range.
‘You see, King Edwin, my men are well trained. They know that I want the pleasure of killing you myself.’
There was a slight sneer when the man said the word ‘king’. Edwin turned to regard the bear of a man standing behind him. Penda of Mercia stood a few inches taller than most men of his time, had broader shoulders and was stocky of build, but not fat. His biceps bulged out of the short sleeves of the leather tunic he wore under his byrnie and his striking ice blue eyes stared out of the holes in his helmet. Like many rich Anglo-Saxons, his steel helmet had a ridge of gold running fore and aft over the crown and a gold circlet around the bottom of it. His eyes and nose were protected by a curved piece of steel with eye holes, riveted to the brim of the helmet and a chain mail aventail protected his neck.
Penda hefted his sword in his hand and pulled his shield, bearing the golden horse of Mercia on a blue field, closer to his body. He circled Edwin and the latter nervously held his borrowed shield in front of his chest. He was well aware that, unlike his own shield, which was made of lime wood covered in leather and banded in bronze with a large metal boss, his borrowed shield was made of several lengths of oak nailed onto cross slats. He doubted if it would withstand more than one blow from Penda’ sword.
~~~
Eadfrith watched elatedly as the beaten Welsh continued to fall back under the onslaught from his warriors. Cadwallon’s men had little armour and few helmets. Their half-naked bodies were painted in blue whorls and other designs and some had spiked their hair with lime. Their circular shields were half the size of those carried by the Northumbrians and they carried more spears and axes than swords.
However, their line was becoming shorter, because they were now hemmed in by a bend in the River Ouse on the left and the peat bogs of Thorne Moor on their right. This not only protected their flanks, but it meant that the superior numbers opposing them meant little. Cadwallon knew that if he retreated much further, he would be trapped at the junction of the Ouse and the River Aire.
It was at this point that a messenger arrived to tell Eadfrith that his brother was dead and the other half of the army was on the point of defeat. Cursing, Eadfrith left the senior noble in command with instructions to give the Welsh no mercy and raced back towards the south, where he could see the routed fyrd running towards him.
He tried to halt them and managed to gather a few to his side, but most kept on running – though there was nowhere for them to go except the battle with the Welsh. They could wade across the River Idle, as he’d just done, but not across the Ouse or the Trent. He pushed on south and forced his way through the press of men still confronting the Mercians. When he got to the front rank, he saw his father engaged in single combat with a man who was plainly playing with him.
Penda brought his sword down and Edwin deflected the blow with his shield. The blow had loosened one of the planks from which it was made and this now hung at an angle, making it near on useless. However, Edwin had crouched down and took advantage of his position to stab his seax into Penda’s massive thigh. It must have been painful, but if it was, Penda gave no indication.
The wound wasn’t serious, but the Mercian king was losing blood and he wasn’t as quick on his feet now. He had also lost some of his confidence, which had been replaced by rage. He swung his sword in a sweeping blow aimed at decapitating Edwin, who ducked just in time. The sword struck the golden crouching lion ornament riveted on top of Edwin’s helmet, slicing it in half and knocking the helmet back with some force. It was anchored in place by a leather strap under Edwin’s chin and this now tightened, nearly throttling him, before it broke and the helmet went flying behind him.
Edwin gasped for breath whilst Penda stumbled. He had expected the blow to meet the resistance of Edwin’s neck, so striking the ornament hadn’t checked the blow as he’d anticipated. He halted his momentum by going down on one knee before springing up and round. He wasn’t quick enough. Edwin was gasping for breath, but he forced himself into action and brought his seax down towards Penda’s back.
One of the Mercian archers, believing that his king’s life was in danger, had an arrow already nocked to his bowstring. As Edwin’s blade darted forward, the arrow was released. The archer hadn’t had time to draw back his bow fully, so the arrow lacked power; had it struck Edwin’s byrnie, the chain mail would have been enough to stop it. It didn’t, though; it drove into
the king’s unprotected neck, severing an artery on the way.
Seeing his father fall with blood spurting out of the wound, Eadfrith ran forward and threw himself onto his knees, cradling his father’s dying body in his arms.
‘How touching,’ Penda jeered. ‘I presume that you’re Edwin’s surviving son, Eadfrith? You had better tell your men to throw down their weapons before I order my men to kill every last one of them.’
Dumbly the boy nodded, stood dejectedly and gave the necessary order. Had he known what fate had in store for him, he would have died there and then trying to kill Penda.
~~~
Oswald had just returned to Brodick from Rothesay when he heard the news from an over-excited Oswiu.
‘Aidan’s here. Edwin’s been slain in battle by Penda of Mercia!’
‘Aidan? Here? Edwin, dead? Who’s now King of Northumbria?’
Oswald’s mind was in a turmoil. He had got used to his life as an exile, but he was still a young man and he had far from given up the idea that one day, he might be able to return to Northumbria as its ruler. It was evident that Aidan hadn’t told Oswiu, or anyone else, any more than the fact that Edwin and one of his sons had been killed in a battle somewhere in Elmet or Deira, Oswiu wasn’t sure.
Oswald embraced Keeva and his two daughters, who were waiting on the beach with the rest of his family, before greeting his mother and sister and then grasping the nine year old Œthelwald by the shoulders and smiling at him. Oswald had taken every opportunity over the past few months to take him hunting and had promised him that next year he could come with him as a ship’s boy. Once the idea of being at everyone’s beck and call would have horrified him, but Œthelwald had mellowed. He still didn’t get on well with Oswiu, though.
‘Aidan, I’m delighted to see you, old friend. How are you?’
