by H A CULLEY
The high king had had the sense not to infuriate Oswiu and the people of Prydenn further by mutilating the body, though he would dearly have loved to exhibit his head on a pole, and it was given a Christian burial. By the time that the news reached Oswiu at Dùn Èideann the summons had already gone out for a meeting of the six remaining kings to elect a new high king and to decide who should rule Prydenn now as Talorgan was the last of his line.
On the day appointed for the meeting Oswiu arrived with his war host having marched through Uuynnid and Hyddir to reach Stirling. The Picts had discussed resisting Oswiu’s advance but in the end they decided to wait and negotiate with him.
The Picts were drawn up on the plain below the fortress when Oswiu appeared at the head of his army. The six kings rode forward and Oswiu did the same, taking Redwald, Aldhun and the Eorls of Rheged, Dùn Èideann, Elmet and Dùn Barra with him.
‘What are you doing here Oswiu?’ Bran challenged him as soon as he was within shouting distance.
Oswiu didn’t reply but continued walking his horse towards the now stationary Pictish kings. When he was five yards away he stopped and contemplated the six men silently.
‘I am here because I am the nearest relative by blood to Talorgan and I am therefore now King of Prydenn,’ he said quietly.
This resulted in an animated discussion amongst the six kings until Oswiu held up his hand.
‘Does anyone here dispute my right to Prydenn?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Drest almost spat at him. ‘You are not a Pict and you already rule vast tracts of England. Prydenn would be neglected under your rule.’
‘Descent is through the female side under Pictish law,’ Fergus of Ardewr stated calmly, giving Drest a disgusted look. ‘Therefore, as there are no longer any descendants of Bebba still alive, the royal line of Prydenn is extinct. We need to elect a new king of Prydenn – the start of a new dynasty. It doesn’t matter to me that Oswiu is a Northumbrian. I, for one, think it would be sensible to ally ourselves with the Bretwalda of the North.’
There were several murmurs of agreement and both Drest and Garnait felt the support of their fellow kings slipping away from them. Even Bran, who had precipitated this crisis, had remained quiet. They were also very conscious of the large army which had accompanied Oswiu.
‘If your claim to Prydenn is accepted, Oswiu, how will you rule there as your capital is hundreds of miles away?’ Garnait asked him.
‘In the same way that I rule Rheged, of which I am also king; by appointing an eorl to represent me when I’m not there.’
This provoked another round of heated discussion. Oswiu waited with the appearance of patience for them to come to a decision, though inside he was getting more and more exasperated.
‘We will need to retire to discuss matters amongst ourselves,’ Bran told him eventually.
‘I’ll be back at noon tomorrow, with my men, to hear your decision.’
The next day dawned cloudy and chilly. During the morning light rain started to fall which gradually got heavier. Oswiu had no intention of sitting on his horse conducting interminable negotiations in a downpour, so he sent his men to erect his tent at the place he had met the six kings the day before. He made do with sharing Redwald’s tent in the meantime.
Once the six kings were seated Oswiu offered them refreshments. This time he was accompanied by Bishop Utta of Prydenn; his son, Alchfrith of Deira, and the three eorls from Goddodin. As usual his son sat at his right hand and the leader of his gesith, Aldhun, stood behind him.
‘Have you reached a decision?’ he asked without preamble as his servants handed around tankards of ale and sweet biscuits.
‘In part,’ Garnait replied. ‘First you should know that my fellow kings have elected me as high king.’
‘Without Prydenn having a say?’
‘It would make no difference. Only Ardewr apposed my election,’ he said giving Fergus a venomous look.
‘I would advise you to adopt a more conciliatory attitude towards King Fergus if I were you; that is if you wish to stay high king for very long.’
‘Are you threatening me?’
‘Yes. But you have nothing to fear if you behave in a fair and just manner.’
Garnait muttered something under his breath but didn’t pursue the matter.
‘Have you reached a decision about Prydenn?’ Oswiu continued.
‘The people would never accept you as king, let alone rule by a foreign eorl.’
‘I beg to differ.’ Bishop Utta spoke for the first time and smiled, showing his alarming row of teeth filed to points. ‘They accept me and I’m an Irishman. In contrast they detested it when Drest ruled them a few years ago.’
Drest gave him a look of hatred but said nothing.
‘Very well. Let’s be clear. You have murdered my nephew and I would be within my rights to slay his killers.’ Oswiu’s eyes lingered on Garnait and Drest for a moment. ‘However, to avoid conflict I am content to accept weregeld in compensation, provided I am recognised as King of Prydenn and Bretwalda of Caledonia.’
Weregeld was an Anglo-Saxon concept and meant ‘man price’, but it was understood by the Picts. It meant payment by the perpetrator to the man’s family for his injury or death. Oswiu was gambling that would they would regard it as a better alternative to entering into a blood feud.
‘How much weregeld?’ Garnait asked cautiously.
‘If you agree to my other conditions, shall we say a ton of silver?’
There was a collective gasp in the tent. They had expected him to say something like a hundred pounds.
‘That’s far too much,’ blustered Drest. ‘I doubt there is that much silver in the whole of Pictland.’
Oswiu smiled. He knew that the Picts were a poor people, but not that poor.
‘Very well. How much do you suggest? What price would you put on a high king’s life?’
‘Perhaps a hundred pounds of silver?’ Drest tentatively suggested, then added ‘apiece’ when he saw the look in Oswiu’s eyes. He ignored the strangled protest from Garnait sitting next to him.
‘I accept. It is to be delivered to me here within the week and you can have the pleasure of feeding my men in the meantime. I’m sure you’ll find it preferable to having them forage for their own sustenance. Oh, and I will, of course, retain ownership of the fortress of Stirling.’
~~~
Catinus rode back to Bebbanburg feeling pleased. He hadn’t lost a man and, as Oswiu had distributed half of the weregeld to his army, he’d been able to give a coin or two to each of his men as well as retain a pouch for himself. He was surprised that the coins were all Roman and portrayed a man wearing a laurel wreath on one side and a woman seated on some rocks on the other. The worn writing indicated that they were issued in the reign of Antonius Pius and presumable they’d been plundered during the time that the Romans had occupied Britain.
Some of the coins were silver and some bronze. The latter hadn’t been part of Oswiu’s demand but he’d accepted a few chests of bronze in lieu of the equivalent value in silver. He’d even received some gold.
Not all the weregeld was in coinage but coins were a lot easier to distribute. Catinus wondered why Oswiu didn’t produce his own. Some gold coins, called shillings, had been produced in Lundenwic for the past decade or two and, more recently, the King of Kent had started to produce them as well. He’d even seen a few silver coins called pennies that had come from Ludenwic, so he supposed that it was just a matter of time before they came into common usage.
He arrived back at Bebbanburg on a beautiful summer’s day to find that Leoflaed’s baby was now beginning to show.
‘Does the wise woman from the vill say when our child will be born,’ he asked her in bed that night after making love rather carefully to her.
‘In September, she thinks. You don’t have to treat me as if I’m fragile, you know. Obviously we mustn’t squash it but there are other positions.’
‘Other positions?’
/> ‘Yes, lie on your back and I’ll show you.’
‘I rather like that,’ he told her when they’d both recovered. ‘For a start you do all the work for a change.’
She giggled. ‘It also makes the best of your rather short member,’ she told him with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Short member! What do you mean short.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Who have you been comparing me to?’
‘That new stallion in the stables.’
He laughed. ‘If I had one that size you’d run a mile.’
He leaned over and kissed her before he thought of something.
‘Where did you get the idea of sitting on me from?’
‘The wise woman of course. Where else?’
Catinus kissed her again to avoid replying. The thought had crossed his mind that his formerly innocent wife suddenly seemed to be much more sexually aware. Then he was ashamed of himself for thinking that she might have betrayed him with another man. He supposed women talked about that sort of thing, just as men did. He rolled over to go to sleep but it was some time before he drifted off.
CHAPTER FIVE – MERCIA RESURGENT
658 AD
Catinus was playing with his five month old baby daughter when Oswiu’s messenger arrived. He handed Herewid back to her wet nurse, smiled apologetically at Leoflaed, and followed the servant who’d told him of the messenger’s arrival into the main hall. The snows had melted and the fine early spring weather had dried the ground out so the man hadn’t arrived as mud splattered as messengers often were.
He greeted Catinus formally, bowed and handed him a leather cylinder.
‘Go and get yourself cleaned up and have something to eat and drink whilst I see if this needs a reply.’
The man nodded his thanks and went outside to wash in the horse trough. Catinus unrolled the sheet of parchment he’d pulled from its leather container and started to read. The letter was in English and he cursed. He’d been educated at Lindisfarne Monastery and was far better at reading Latin than he was English, which wasn’t even his mother tongue. He’d been born of British parents in Mercia and his first language had been Brythonic until he was fourteen. He spoke English like an Anglo-Saxon now, but he still found reading and writing in the language difficult.
To my loyal servant Catinus, Ealdorman of Bebbanburg, greetings,
Having been quiescent for the past three years I had hoped that Mercia had accepted my rule, but it seems that hope was a vain one. Three of the leading Mercian eorls, Immin, Eafa and Eadbert, have joined together with Wulfhere, Penda’s eldest surviving son, and risen in revolt, killing the Eorl of Tamworth, who I placed there to govern Mercia in my name, and seizing the town and the king’s hall.
As if these grave tidings were not enough, word has just reached me that my friend, Guret of Strathclyde, has just died, possibly poisoned. He has been succeeded by his cousin Mermin, a man I don’t know, but who I’m told is younger than Guret by some five or six years, which would put him in his middle to late twenties. At thirty two, Guret was young to die of natural causes and the fact that he had just married makes the circumstances even more suspicious. The rumours are that he was killed before he was able to sire an heir.
Obviously my priority is to deal with the insurrection in Mercia but I need someone to go and meet this Mermin and sound him out. Hopefully he is amenable to continue the agreement reached with Guret and will recognise me as his overlord. If not, I will have to prevail upon Dalriada and the Picts to help me to bring pressure to bear on him.
I have written to the Eorl of Prydenn to ask him to enlist Garnait’s support. Likewise the Eorl of Rheged will sail north to Dùn Add to see Domangart. Normally I would ask the Eorl of Dùn Èideann or the Eorl of Dùn Barra to travel to Dùn Breatainn on the River Clyde to visit Mermin but the former is ill and Kenric is now a frail old man. Two of his four sons are dead and the third Cuthbert, who you know well from your days together in my gesith, has recently announced his desire to return to the life of a monk. I hope to change his mind but he seems determined.
Kenric’s fourth son is Beornheth but he is a boy of nine. I have gone into some detail in order to explain why I would like you to travel north-west to Dùn Breatainn as my emissary to Mermin. Enclosed with this letter is one addressed to him. It is full of elegant phrases and flattery but says little of importance. It is written in Latin as no-one here can write in Brythonic so I hope that he has been well educated. If not, I’m sure that you, of all people, can translate it for him.
Take those of your warband who can ride with you but don’t make it look as if you are invading, just enough to protect you.
God speed you on this important mission,
Oswiu,
King of Northumbria and Bretwalda of Britain.
Catinus finished reading the letter with mixed emotions. He was honoured to be sent as the king’s representative to another king, but he was well aware how perilous his mission might be. If this Mermin proved hostile he might send his head back to Oswiu in a basket. It wasn’t unknown.
If Catinus was concerned, Leoflaed was positively frantic with worry when he told her.
‘If this Mermin had Guret poisoned then he’s hardly likely to support his predecessor’s ally, is he?’
‘He can hardly feel secure on his throne at the moment, though, can he? He won’t want to antagonise Oswiu, surrounded as he is by Rheged, Dalriada and the Picts.’
‘He might make an ally of Garnait. He has no cause to love Oswiu; he only accepts him as overlord because he has no choice.’
Catinus sighed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be careful; and I’ll take a sizeable escort with me.’
However, Catinus wasn’t able to set out straight away. The early spring conditions changed as cold weather swept down from the north. At first it was just very cold with hard frosts overnight, but then black clouds filled the sky and the snow started. A week after the messenger had arrived the ground was covered by a foot of snow with drifts as deep as eight feet in places. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until the weather broke, and he didn’t imagine that Oswiu would be able to achieve much in Mercia either at the moment.
~~~
Eanflæd had stayed on at Eoforwīc in the expectation that Oswiu’s visit there would be a short one but when the snowstorm hit it was evident that he wouldn’t be able to move against Mercia for a while. She tried to avoid her husband as much as possible and even moved into a separate hut with her women and her daughter – the eleven year old Osthryth. Her son, Ecgfrith, was now nearly thirteen and had left a year ago to become a novice on Lindisfarne. However, unlike his half-brother Aldfrith, he was no scholar and couldn’t wait to start training as a warrior.
His other half-brother, Alchfrith, was almost a stranger these days. He avoided Eoforwīc and, at nineteen, tried to rule Deira with as much autonomy as his father would allow him. Having established his new capital at Loidis, he got to know the new abbot of the monastery that was slowly taking shape at Ripon, some twenty miles to the north. He admired Wilfrid and, after a while, the monk established himself as Alchfrith’s closest confidant.
This didn’t please his eorls or the new ealdormen who Oswiu had appointed. As Wilfrid’s influence with the sub-king increased, so theirs decreased. It was a situation that Oswiu was aware of and he now regretted appointing Wilfrid. However, the man had given him no justifiable cause to remove him, so there was little he could do.
Eanflæd was a woman who was slow to anger but equally slow to forgive. The loss of her baby daughter to the Church had infuriated her, especially as Oswiu hadn’t seen fit to discuss it with her before making his commitment. She had fancied herself in love with her husband but that love was slowly turning to hate as resentment festered inside her.
To make matters worse, Oswiu didn’t know what to do to make amends and so he did nothing. If she avoided him, he too avoided her and slowly bitterness at their estrangement festered inside him as well. He was now in his mid-forties but he was still
a virile man and he missed making love to Eanflæd. Many another man might had sought solace elsewhere, but Oswiu was devout and, apart from Fianna, Aldfrith’s mother, he had only slept with his two wives. He considered asking Eanflæd to become a nun so that he could marry again but there were two problems with that. It would upset her relatives in Kent - and he needed Kent as an ally now that he was confronted with a resurgent Mercia - and deep down he was still in love with her.
When the weather improved and the snow eventually melted the roads were a morass of mud. The warm dry spell that followed eventually made travel possible again and Eanflæd promptly left to go and stay with her stepson in Loidis. This would turn out to be a significant move as there she came under the influence of Abbot Wilfrid.
Oswiu meanwhile marshalled his forces and set off for Leicester which, according to the latest reports, had been captured by Wulfhere and his supporters.
‘The Mercians have massed their army on a ridge about a mile ahead of us, Cyning,’ Redwald told him as they approached Leicester.
‘It seems the reports were true,’ Oswiu said, with some relief.
Redwald gave him a strange look. Oswiu seemed almost happy that he was confronted by an enemy. In a way he was. He was very cautious about committing himself unless he had reliable intelligence about both the enemy he faced and the terrain. He had brought every warband he was able to muster, not only his own but those of his eorls and his ealdormen from Bernicia and Deira. Those of Rheged and Goddodin had stayed behind, partly because he wanted to move swiftly but also because he didn’t trust either Garnait of the Picts or the new King of Strathclyde. He hadn’t brought the fyrd either; it would have taken too long to muster them and his aim this time wasn’t to defeat the Mercians in battle.
He led his army towards the ridge where Wulfhere was waiting with some two thousand warriors and men of the fyrd. When they reached the top of the other side of the valley Oswiu halted but remained mounted, his gesith beside him. The warbands fanned out to either side of him and formed up in ranks five deep under the dull, grey sky waiting patiently for something to happen.
