WARRIORS OF THE NORTH

by H A CULLEY

Apart from the traitor’s identity, Oswald needed to know the details of the ambush that Penda was planning. The stranger was reluctant to part with this information, but Oswald had a man in his gesith who was an expert in extracting information from the unwilling. He did nothing to him physically but he ordered him to dig a grave.

  ‘Now, you have two choices. Either you tell the king what he wants to know, in which case I’ll kill you quickly before putting you in the grave, or you remain silent and you will be buried alive. I’ll give you five minutes to think about it.’

  The Mercian looked at the grinning faces surrounding him and groaned. His over-active mind could imagine what it would be like to lie there as the earth was shovelled in on him, eventually covering his mouth and nose so that he slowly suffocated. He shivered in fear, his head bowed in resignation.

  ‘If you kill me quickly how will you do it?’

  ‘’I’ll cut your throat. That way the pain with be very brief.’

  The Mercian nodded and told them everything that Penda had told him to do. The original plan had been for the Mercians to attack them at night but for that they needed more information. That was what Sigbert and his father had been paid to provide. When asked about the man in Bebbanburg who had betrayed Oswald, he said at first that he didn’t know his name.

  ‘That’s a pity. In that case you’ve broken our bargain,’ Oswald told him. ‘Right throw him in the grave and start to cover him up.’

  ‘No, wait! I don’t know his name but it was the custos. He’d send one of the scullions from the kitchen to let me know anything useful and I’d give the boy gold to take back. Penda told me himself that the man who is now custos has been in his pay since the days of King Edwin.’

  ‘What was the name of the kitchen boy?’

  ‘That I do know. He told me his name was Raulf.’

  ‘Raulf? He’s no scullion. He’s Ethelbald’s son,’ Beorhtwulf exclaimed.

  ‘Just so. Jarlath, I want you to ride back to Bebbanburg with Beorhtwulf and wait there for Oswiu. Tell him to arrest Ethelbald and his wretched boy and hold them prisoner until I can try them. He’s to appoint one of his men as temporary custos and then catch up with me as quickly as he can. If he brings his gesith and as many mounted warriors as he can and they travel with packhorses he should be able to join us in two days’ time. Clear? Then get some rest both of you and leave at dawn.’

  ‘What’s are the Mercians likely to do now, when you don’t turn up?’

  The man shrugged. ‘They won’t dare to go back to Penda having failed, so I suspect that they will try to ambush you en route.’

  ‘Where are they camped?’

  ‘Near the ford where Dere Street and Watling Street meet.’

  He turned to Sigbert.

  ‘Well done boy, I’m pleased with you; you played your part well. Now, I’ve one further test for you before I forgive you your part in this. I want you to cut this man’s throat. Do you know how to do that?’

  The boy swallowed nervously before nodding mutely. He took the seax one of the warriors gave him and approached the Mercian, who stood head and shoulders taller that the thirteen year old.

  ‘Kneel down.’

  It wasn’t so much an order as a quavering request. The man did so and the boy went behind him, grasped his long hair and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. He hesitated and swallowed hard before slashing the blade across the man’s neck. Blood spurted out briefly and then the Mercian collapsed onto his side. He had died bravely and, as the sun sunk in the west, the gesith finished filling in the grave before they moved a mile away to camp further along the River Wansbeck.

  Sigbert was left shaking and then he rushed away to vomit. He got rid of everything in his stomach and then felt a comforting hand on his shoulder. He turned, spew still dribbling from his mouth, to see Oswald standing over him and smiling down at him.

  ‘You’re a brave lad, Sigbert. Not many boys your age could have killed a man in cold blood like that. It’s a bit big for you but you can have the Mercian’s horse. You’ll travel with us and, once we get back to Bebbanburg, you can join the other trainee warriors. They are all older than you but, when they see this arm ring they’ll know that you’ve already been blooded.’

  He handed the boy a small silver arm ring and Sigbert slid it and up over the small biceps on his right arm. To his surprise it was a perfect fit. He beamed with pleasure and, if only for a moment, he ceased to mourn for his father. Rònan had told him that the pain of his loss would lessen with time. His grief was still very fresh but he could now see a future for himself.

  Jarlath and Beorhtwulf left just before the sun rose so that they could reach Bebbanburg well before dark.

  ~~~

  Oswiu listened to what Jarlath and Beorhtwulf told him when they met on the road and immediately turned back to the fortress. As soon as he arrived he sent four men to arrest the custos and another two to find Raulf. He had listened to Oswald’s instruction to hold the man captive until he could be tried but he felt that leaving him at Bebbanburg, where many of the men in the garrison were loyal to him, was foolhardy. He would take him with him and kill him later, leaving his body where no one would find it. Then it would just be a mystery and not a cause for resentment and revenge.

  Raulf was a different matter. He didn’t want the murder of an eleven year old boy on his conscience. His mother was dead so, once his father was disposed of there was no family to ask awkward questions. He decided to give the boy a choice. Calling the boy forward to ride alongside him, he questioned him.

  ‘Did you know what your father was up to?’

  Raulf shook his head. ‘No, lord. We weren’t close. I don’t think he ever forgave me for killing my mother when I was born. He had loved her deeply and her death in childbirth was something he kept blaming me for. He was a pagan, though he kept that hidden, whereas I am Christian baptised by James the Deacon, so we had little in common. I was just a messenger who took a letter and brought back a pouch of gold. If I’d known what my father was up to I’d have told King Oswald.’

  Oswiu regarded the youngster sceptically. He seemed to be telling the truth but he could be lying in an attempt to save his own life.

  ‘You say that you were baptised by John the Deacon. When was this?’

  ‘When King Edwin was on the throne, perhaps two years ago when I was nine. He was the acolyte of Bishop Paulinus who had accompanied King Edwin’s Christian queen when she came from Kent to marry him. He started to teach the sons of the nobility about his faith and I joined them when I was old enough. My father tried to dissuade me but he didn’t want to reveal that he was still a pagan. Then, when Edwin was killed and the queen fled, he abandoned us and went south.’

  ‘So this James the Deacon is a Roman Christian?’

  ‘I suppose so; at least I know that Paulinus was sent by the Pope in Rome. I know that you follow the Celtic Church, lord, but we are all Christians, are we not?’

  Despite himself Oswiu was impressed by the boy. He seemed to him to be honest and forthright. He had already decided to give the boy a chance, now he was certain that it was the right thing to do.

  ‘Raulf, you must know that I can’t let your treacherous father live?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ he said dejectedly, hanging his head.

  ‘You have a choice. You can die and be buried with him, or you can swear allegiance to me on the Holy Bible that you will be faithful to me. My servant fell ill in Goddodin and died. If you agree, you can replace him and become my body slave.’

  ‘A slave, lord?’

  The boy was obviously horrified at the idea of the son of a noble being forced into slavery. Oswiu laughed.

  ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Serve me well and it’s a relatively easy life. Prove to be idle, though, and you’ll be whipped.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no fear of that, lord. I’m no shirker, but I’ve always wanted to be a warrior.’

  Oswiu grunted in amusement and called Jarlath forward to j
oin them.

  ‘What were you when you were a boy, Jarlath?’

  ‘King Oswald’s body slave, Oswiu, but you know that,’ he said, puzzled.

  ‘Yes, but Raulf doesn’t. And what are you now?’

  ‘A member of his gesith,’

  ‘Yes, and a close friend too. Thank you.’

  He turned back to Raulf as Jarlath fell back into line.

  ‘It’s not who you are, boy, it’s what you are. Serve me well for the next three years and I’ll think about freeing you when you are fourteen so you can train as a warrior, I’m not promising though. And don’t harbour any ideas about joining my gesith in due course. That’s only for the chosen few.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ Raulf replied, grinning broadly.

  ~~~

  ‘Cyning, there’s a party of horsemen behind us and they’re catching us up fast,’ Rònan told Oswald a little breathlessly.

  He had been riding as rearguard with one of the other members of the king’s gesith when they felt the ground tremble slightly. Rònan dismounted and put his ear to the ground.

  ‘Quite a few riders and coming up quickly. It may well be Oswiu, but best move into the trees, just in case. I’ll tell the king.’

  There was no chance of hiding the baggage carts so Oswald left them where they were. His men melted into the trees. Being late autumn hiding wasn’t an option, but the tree trunks might conceal their lack of numbers.

  Oswald breathed a sigh of relief as Oswiu appeared leading his gesith. The two brothers embraced whilst Jarlath and Beorhtwulf re-joined their comrades. Acha rode up to the two brothers and, after a perfunctory greeting, asked whether he’d managed to subjugate all of Goddodin.

  Oswiu’s face fell. He knew that his mother was trying to embarrass him. They had always been at loggerheads and now it seemed that the rancorous relationship between them had turned spiteful, at least on her part. He glared at her.

  ‘Not quite, no. I shall have to return next year to capture Dùn Èideann.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stay and finish the job my son gave you.’

  ‘My son? Am I not also your son?’ he almost shouted at her.

  ‘Stop it, both of you. I am ashamed of you, mother. You needled Oswiu deliberately, and you have to learn not to react to her taunts, Oswiu. I love you both dearly but sometimes I’d like to knock your heads together until you’re both unconscious.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Cyning,’ Oswiu said stiffly before storming off.

  ‘Sometimes I wish I’d left you on Arran,’ Oswald told her furiously.

  ‘Oh, let him calm down. He’s always been full of himself.’

  ‘Not without good reason, mother. He’s a good man and he’ll make an excellent King of Rheged in due course. But I need him more than I need you now,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Now go and apologise and make your peace with him.’

  Acha glared at her son and he realised that she was about to refuse.

  ‘It’s not a request, Acha, it’s a command from your king. If you don’t, then I’ll exile you back to Dalriada; I mean it.’

  It was the first time he’d called her by name instead of mother and it stunned her. For a moment she stood there, partly furious at the way she was being treated and partly fearful that Oswald would carry out his threat. Eventually she walked off in a huff, not following Oswiu, but back to her horse. She mounted it and waited.

  ‘Oswiu, mother was totally out of line, but we have more important things to talk about right now,’ he told the younger man when he found him kicking an inoffensive tree in the woods.

  ‘What? Oh, you mean Penda’s bloody ambush. Right; give me a minute to calm down and I’ll come and find you.’

  ‘Very well, but don’t take too long. Daylight is passing.’

  Oswiu nodded and sat down with his back to the tree he’d been kicking. Fifteen minutes later he came and found his brother. Acha had dismounted again and was speaking to him but Oswiu totally ignored her and, grasping Oswald’s arm, he led him away.

  ‘What’s your plan to deal with this ambush?’ he asked when they were out of earshot of everybody.

  ‘We have to cross the River Ure at some point. The usual crossing place is the ford near the ruins of the Roman town of Isurium Brigantum. As the Mercian spy said, it lies at the junction of two Roman roads called Dere Street and Watling Street and from there the old road leads directly to Eoforwīc. There is plenty of old ruins for the ambushers to hide in and we’ll be vulnerable as we cross the ford.’

  ‘So do we avoid it and cross elsewhere?’

  ‘We could do, and that would probably be sensible, but I need to teach Penda that we’re not people to underestimate. So we’re going to annihilate his men.’

  ‘How?’

  So Oswald told him.

  Oswald and seven of his men, all fully armed and armoured, approached the ford with the baggage carts. The carters were nervous but they’d been told that they could hide in the body of the carts as soon as the ambush had been sprung.

  Penda’s men had almost given up waiting. Their leader hadn’t heard from his spy after he’d sent a messenger saying that they had left Bebbanburg, so he didn’t know how many men accompanied Oswald and his mother. Furthermore, he’d expected them to ford the river the day before. He’d abandoned the idea of attacking their camp at night; without the information about the sentries and numbers it was too much of a risk. He had, however, sent his best scout to find out how many men there were with Oswald. The scout found them before Oswiu had caught him up, so he was expecting just the king and his gesith.

  He had forty men with him. It should be more than enough to deal with less than half their number, even if they were all experienced fighters - especially if he could catch them whilst they were split in two crossing the river. He didn’t care about the rest, it was Oswald that Penda wanted dead. He’d robbed him of a hundred of his best fighters at Heavenfield and he wanted vengeance. Furthermore, from all he’d heard, this Oswald was a formidable warrior, not like the amiable idiots who’d sat on the thrones of Bernicia and Deira recently, and that worried the Mercian king.

  ‘They’re coming,’ the scout he’d sent across the river to watch the Roman road from the north told him breathlessly after he’d crossed via the ford.

  The River Ure was too fast flowing to swim horses across and even at the ford it was two and half feet deep. That meant it came up to the chest of a horse and the waist of a man. Crossing was therefore a slow business. The safe passage was marked by withies stuck in the bank on either side of the river. They indicated that the crossing was no more than six feet wide, just enough for a cart with a reasonable safety margin.

  As the Mercians watched from the Roman ruins beside the road on the southern side of the ford, the first riders appeared; there only appeared to be eight of them though. They were followed by two oxen-drawn carts. Instead of crossing the ford, the horsemen halted and dismounted. The carts swung around until they were moving parallel to the bank. When they reached the ford they halted. Boys jumped down from where they were sitting beside the carters, unhitched the oxen and led them away. Then they took the horses from the dismounted men, who came forward to push the carts together to block the entrance to the ford.

  The Mercians watched all this in bemusement. The Bernicians picked up their shields again and formed a shield wall across the front of the carts. Suddenly it struck the leader of the ambush party that Oswald was well aware of their intentions and was waiting for him to attack. He licked his lips; eight men, however good they were at fighting, were no match for forty well-armed warriors. He was puzzled about the other eight that his scout had seen but he wanted to get this over, with so he gave the order to attack.

  His first wave of twenty men, five across and four deep, were two thirds the way across when it became apparent that the carts weren’t there just to block the exit from the water. Four archers stood up in each cart, took aim, and released an arrow at high trajectory at the hapl
ess Mercians. Most had the common sense to raise their shields to protect them from the arrows that rained down on them but the archers sent another arrow seconds later at their exposed bodies.

  Most wore a chainmail byrnie or a leather jerkin but at close range they couldn’t stop the arrows and five men fell. The archers repeated their tactic of firing at high then low trajectory, catching another three men out. Twenty per cent of the first wave were now dead or badly wounded. The archers’ tactics maddened the enemy warriors and they tried to move faster towards Oswald’s shield wall, however the waist-deep water forced them to continue at a snail’s pace. Another two volleys hit them before the ragged remains of the front rank reached the single row of warriors standing in front of the carts.

  Oswald watched as the man directly in front of him emerged from the river and grabbed the top of his shield, trying to pull it down so that he could thrust his sword into the king’s neck. Oswald angled his own sword so that he could thrust it over the top of his shield into his opponent’s eyes but the man moved his shield up at the last moment. Then the man yelled in pain and slashed down at something on the ground. The momentary distraction was all Oswald needed and he thrust the point of his sword into his opponent’s neck. The man fell back into the water and Oswald glanced down to see a grinning Sigbert lying between his feet with a bloody seax in his hand. Evidently the boy had thrust it up into the man’s thigh.

  ‘Well done, lad. Now crawl back and next time go for his groin.’

  Sigbert didn’t have long to wait. Less than a second later a spearman thrust at Oswald but he deflected the point easily with his shield. The next time the man shoved his spear at him, Oswald used his sword to chop off the point. The man threw the useless haft away and drew a seax. Once more the king deflected his attack, but this time the man was close enough for Sigbert to extend his arm upwards under the man’s byrnie and into his groin. The Mercian screamed in agony and doubled over, dropping his seax. It took less than a second for Oswald to lop off his head.

  By now the Mercians had had enough. They had lost twelve of their original twenty and some of the other eight had flesh wounds. One man lost his sense of direction in his panic to flee and left the ford. He was swept away to be drowned as the weight of his chainmail pulled him under.