by H A CULLEY
‘Is he expecting you?’ asked an indifferent official to whom Wilfrid had been directed by a servant boy who had come to see what they wanted.
‘Yes, he invited me. Now go and tell him that I’m here,’ Wilfrid said with a touch of his old imperiousness.
The man turned to leave.
‘Wait! At least have the courtesy to show me to my lodgings first.’
‘Lodgings? The place is full to overflowing; even the tavern is sleeping three to a bed. You’d do best to pitch your tent down by the river. I’ll send someone to fetch you if and when the king wants to see you.’
A disgruntled Wilfrid climbed back into his cart and set off to find a space amongst the others camping alongside the headwaters of the River Hull, a tributary of the Humber.
After two days sitting doing nothing he clambered back into his cart and, accompanied by Eddius on foot and a servant leading the horse pulling the cart, he made his way back up to the hall. This was another timber building like the one at Eoforwīc and just as primitive, but at least it had the advantage that it was of recent construction so that it didn’t smell too badly of smoke inside and the roof was still watertight.
He’d heard nothing but he was fed up with waiting. With Eddius clearing a path for him through the throng, he slowly made his way to the far end where Aldfrith sat on one throne and Osred, now eight, sat on a smaller one by his side looking bored.
As the bishop tapped his way past people with his crook he heard a few who recognised him whisper his name. The whispers grew into a loud murmur and the king, who was now slightly deaf, turned to Osred.
‘What are they babbling about?’ he asked querulously.
‘The priest Wilfrid is here, father.’
‘Wilfrid? Ah good. I need to make my peace with him.’
‘Domine,’ Eddius began in Latin. ‘As you have requested, Bishop Wilfrid has come to see you.’
Wilfrid would have fallen to his knees but he wasn’t confident of being able to rise again in a dignified manner, even with help. Instead he bowed low.
‘Cyning, thank you for seeing me. I’m here to resolve the issues of my diocese and my monasteries at Ripon and Hexham.’
Aldfrith contemplated the man standing before him. Despite his diplomatic phrasing the king detected an underlying arrogance; an assumption that all three posts would now be restored to him. Well, he was in for a disappointment.
‘Wilfrid, you have ever been a thorn in my side, but now that we are both of an age when our entry into Heaven or Hell cannot be long delayed, I am ready to reach a compromise with you.’
At the mention of Hell Wilfrid’s eyes opened wide. He had never even considered the possibility that he was headed for anywhere except God’s kingdom. He had no doubts that the scholarly Aldfrith was similarly bound.
‘Compromise Cyning?’
‘Yes, I have no intention of removing Bosa from his bishopric and it would also be wrong to deprive John of Beverley of either his diocese or monastery of Hexham. However, I am prepared to offer you Ripon. The abbot had recently died and so your appointment there would cause no upset.’
‘I see, and are you therefore proposing to create a fourth diocese in Northumbria?’
‘What? No, of course not. You would become the abbot, nothing more.’
‘And if I don’t accept this compromise, as you call it, what then? After all, you will still be in conflict with His Holiness to the peril of your immortal soul.’
Aldfrith shifted uncomfortably on his throne but it was Osred who replied.
‘Have a care, priest. Remember to whom you speak.’
The high treble voice with which this was said didn’t detract from the authority radiating from the boy. Evidently Osred was mature beyond his years. Wilfrid quickly re-appraised his opinion of the young ætheling. Perhaps he would be worth cultivating after all. Any intention he might have had of supporting Eadwulf when Aldfrith died ceased at that moment.
‘I meant no disrespect but it is difficult to hide my disappointment. May I suggest another option?’
‘Go on,’ Aldfrith said, with a warning hand on his son’s arm for him to remain silent.
‘So as not to upset Bishop Bosa, may I have your oath that, when he dies and if I am still alive, I will be allowed to replace him.’
Aldfrith thought about this for a moment whilst Osred whispered in his ear.
‘If Bosa does indeed die first I would want John of Beverley to replace him. That would leave Hexham free for you, in addition to Ripon. Does that satisfy you?’
Wilfrid realised that, even if he hadn’t got all that he wanted, it was as good a deal as he was likely to get.
‘Thank you Cyning. I accept.’
~~~
Swefred woke up feeling extremely ill. The previous evening he’d celebrated his sixteenth birthday and the end of his training. Now he could consider himself a warrior. He had only the haziest recollection of the previous night when he’d drunk far too much mead and ale – a lethal combination - before falling into a stupor. He wondered who had put him to bed. Then all other thoughts fled as he reached for the piss bucket and was violently sick.
After he’d washed his mouth out and jumped into the River Aln to bathe he felt a little better. Once dressed in thick woollen trousers, tunic and cloak to ward off the biting December wind, he went in search of his friend Cenred to see if he could throw any light on what he’d got up to.
Cenred was a year older than him and was now a member of Eochaid’s gesith, but the two had liked each other when they had first met two years previously. By then Cenred was already an accomplished swordsman and he’d volunteered to teach Swefred. The difference in their status didn’t seem to matter; Cenred was a thegn, although he seemed content to let his reeve run his vill, whereas Swefred was a landless younger son.
Swefred found his friend busy packing.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked in surprise.
‘My reeve has died leaving my nine year old brother in charge.’
‘Are you worried that he’ll try and usurp your position as the elder?’
‘No,’ Cenred laughed. ‘He wouldn’t dare, but he’s too young to manage the vill on his own. To tell you the truth, I should have returned when I finished my training but the life of a carefree warrior in Eochaid’s gesith was more attractive than dealing with the petty concerns and problems of my vill.’
‘I’ll be sorry to see you go. You’ve been a good friend to me.’
‘Yes, I’ll miss you and the camaraderie here. My little brother and the old men who form my little warband won’t be the same. Perhaps I’ll return after I’ve found a new reeve?’
‘I hope so. Well, good luck.’
Once Cenred and his servant had left Swefred went to find Eochaid. As he walked towards the ealdorman’s hall he felt something wet land on his cheek. Lost in thought he hadn’t realised that it had started snowing. He shivered, despite his thick cloak and hurried into the warmth of the hall.
‘Ah, Swefred,’ Eochaid called out as he brushed the snow off his shoulders on the threshold. ‘Come in and shut that bloody door. How are you feeling after last night?’
Swefred grinned. ‘I’ve felt better, lord.’
‘Ha, you’ll have to learn to pace yourself my boy. And stick to either ale or mead, don’t mix them. Now come and sit beside me. You and I need to talk.’
Swefred did so and waved away the proffered leather tankard of ale.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said to the boy standing at his elbow. ‘Do you want me to puke all over your lord? Go and fetch me a goblet of milk if you want to do something useful.’
As the servant rushed away to do as he was bid Eochaid gave the young man an appraising glance.
‘What do you propose to do now that your training is over?’
‘Well, I had hoped that I might fill the vacancy left by Cenred’s departure.’
‘News travels fast, it seems. I might have expected you of all people to k
now that he’s gone. You always were as thick as thieves. If I didn’t know Cenred’s sexual tastes better I might have thought that you were bedfellows.’
Swefred bristled at what he perceived to be a slur on his manhood.
‘Don’t worry. I know that’s not true, but you need to be careful. There’s others around here who have been whispering about you two.’
‘Who’s been insulting me? I’ll tear out his guts and wear them as a torc.’
‘Calm down. I don’t allow fighting amongst my men. I know neither of you is a virgin. There’s scarcely a girl under twenty in Alnwic that Cenred hasn’t tried to bed, and you’re not much better. Just take what I’ve said as a warning not to get too close to one man to the exclusion of the others. Leadership is all about uniting a disparate group of men to act together for the good of all.’
When the time came, Swefred would remember Eochaid’s advice and make it his guiding principle.
‘Now, about your future. I can’t take you into my gesith; there are others with a prior claim to that favour. However, I can offer you a place in my mounted warband.’
‘Thank you, lord. I accept, of course. For now,’ he added.
‘For now?’
‘Yes, if anything happens to my brother then I wish to be free to return to claim my birth right as Ealdorman of Bebbanburg.’
‘Hmmm, very well. It seems unlikely to me, but naturally I would release you from your oath to me if you inherited Bebbanburg.’
~~~
The onset of the winter weather persuaded all those camping in leather tents outside Driffield to seek the warmth and shelter of their own halls, even though the Christmas season was about to start. In the middle of December Osred celebrated his ninth birthday but the feast was cut short as his father was taken ill halfway through the meal.
The next day he recovered sufficiently to send for Bosa and Edmond, Ealdorman of Eoforwīc. However, Bosa himself was unwell and so his prior accompanied the ealdorman, arriving the day before Christmas. His sixty year old half-sister, Ælfflæd, Abbess of Whitby, also struggled through the snow to be with the king in what everyone thought might be his last days.
He rallied sufficiently to take mass on Christmas Day but then he had a relapse and fell into a coma from which he never awoke, dying on the first day of the new year, 705 AD.
‘What do we do?’ Edmond paced up and down the small room off the king’s hall, wringing his hands in agitation whilst the servants prepared the body for burial.
‘Don’t be so pathetic,’ Ælfflæd said briskly. ‘The gravediggers will need to start work now; the ground is rock hard and it will take them time to dig a deep enough hole.’
‘What here? At Driffield? Not Eoforwīc?’
‘Yes, here. It is my brother’s wish. You need to send messengers to all members of the Witan to meet at Eoforwīc as soon as possible. It will take time for everybody to assemble in this weather; let’s say in three weeks’ time.’
‘But who will succeed? Osred’s too young and you are the only adult member of the House of Æthelfrith who is still alive.’
‘Who says I’m too young?’
Osred had entered the room whilst they were talking and, barely giving his father’s corpse a glance, he strode belligerently towards Edmond.
‘Everyone will. Kings have to be trained warriors.’
‘The Witan has considered younger candidates in their time.’
‘Perhaps, and no doubt they will formally consider you and your brothers, but they won’t elect you.’
Ælfflæd could see that an argument was likely to develop and stepped in before things were said that couldn’t be retracted.
‘Stop it both of you. Show my brother some respect. The Witan will decide, not either of you.’
‘Very well, aunt, but I’m the only legitimate choice. Who else is there?’
‘Cenred for a start.’
‘Cenred? What, you mean the thegn?’
‘Yes, the Witan will have to consider all descendants of King Ida now.’
That gave Osred pause of thought. He’d forgotten about the other branches of the Idings – those who could trace their descent back to Ida.
‘I think that would be unwise. If we go outside the House of Æthelfrith there will be hundreds of claimants. After all, Æthelfrith was the first King of Northumbria. Ida was only King of Bernicia and he had so many sons, both legitimate and illegitimate, no-one is quite sure how many there were. You mentioned Cenred, for example; he’s descended from one of Ida’s bastards. How many more are there?’
‘Hundreds is something of an exaggeration, Edmond. A dozen perhaps. Those who consider themselves to be æthelings can present their case so everyone can see that the election is fair and can then unite behind the Witan’s choice. Otherwise we’ll have nothing but dissention and strife.’
~~~
Eochaid was puzzled.
‘I’ve received summonses to attend the Witan from two different people,’ he told Heartbehrt, who was now the captain of his gesith and leader of his warband.
‘Really? Who has the right to summon the Witan?’
‘Normally it would be the person appointed to do so by the king but that person was Bishop Bosa, who is ill and apparently likely to die. One summons has come from the Ealdorman of Eoforwīc for the nobles and senior churchmen to meet there on the fifteenth of February and one from Behrtfrith, the senior ealdorman of Lothian, for us to meet at Yeavering on the last day of January.’
‘Yeavering? In the middle of the Cheviot Hills? It seems a strange place to meet in winter. I thought it was the old summer palace of the kings of Bernicia.’
‘It is. I can only think that it was chosen to make it difficult for the Deiran members to get there in time.’
‘This stinks like rotten fish. What will you do?’
Eochaid shrugged. ‘Go to both I suppose. But you had better prepare the gesith and the mounted warband to accompany us.’
‘By the way, have you heard about Ethelred?’
‘The King of Mercia? No, why?’
‘He had abdicated, or been forced to, and has left England to travel to Rome.’
‘Really? Who is king now? His son Coelred?’
‘No, his nephew, Coenred, Wulfhere’s son.’
‘What? The one who has a reputation of acting like a pagan, even though he professes to be a Christian?’
Heartbehrt nodded. ‘Yes, I can’t imagine what possessed the Mercian Witan to elect him. He’s as unpredictable as he is dissolute.’
‘All we need is for him to decide that now is a good time to invade Northumbria whilst we are without a leader.’
‘Hopefully he will be too busy consolidating his own position. There are plenty of Mercians who’d have preferred Coelred, even if he is only sixteen.’
A fortnight later the weather had improved considerably. The snow had given way to rain, but for the last few days it had been dry and the roads were at least passable. Despite this it was still January and the ground was covered in frost each morning and the east wind was bitterly cold.
When Eochaid and his men approached Yeavering along the valley of the River Glen he saw from the few banners fluttering in the light breeze that they were only the seventh contingent to arrive. Five belonged to the four Lothian shires and that of Bebbanburg and the sixth to the Bishop of Hexham, John of Beverley.
As he got closer he was surprised by the number of armed men present. The place was more like the camp of an army on campaign than a peaceful gathering of the Witan. He had a nasty feeling about this assembly and he was glad that he had brought his sixty mounted warriors with him.
They camped beside the stream that ran down from the valley to the east of the hill called Yeavering Bell, well away from the main camp by the river. When he rode up to the king’s hall accompanied by Heartbehrt and three of his men, Eadwulf and Behrtfrith came out to meet him.
‘Welcome Eochaid. You are one of the first to arrive. I’m surprised t
hat more aren’t here already.’
‘The notice was short and it is the middle of winter; and the place is almost inaccessible. Why choose a summer residence to meet?’
Both men ignored the question and the implied criticism.
‘Well, if they don’t arrive tomorrow we’ll start the day after without them,’ Eadwulf said, almost with glee.
‘I suggest we give them a little longer. What does the bishop say?’
‘Oh, he’d wait until doomsday. However, we need to get on with it. The kingdom is vulnerable until we have a strong leader on the throne.’
‘But surely you’ll wait for Osred? After all he is Aldfrith’s heir.’
‘Why he’s a boy. As I said we need a strong leader.’
With that Eadwulf turned away and Behrtfrith followed him back into the hall.
~~~
‘All those who claim to be æthelings of Northumbria should stand,’ John of Beverley, who was presiding, said after he’d managed to establish some sort of silence in the hall.
Only Eadwulf got to his feet.
‘What are you doing, cousin? You are no more an ætheling than I am,’ Eochaid called out in shock.
‘You can also claim Benoc of Jarrow as your grandfather, so you too are an ætheling.’
‘But that’s through our respective mothers. I thought æthelings had to be descended through the male line.’
‘These are unusual times, Eochaid. Now do you wish to stand or not?’
‘No, but I wish to nominate Osred, son of Aldfrith, and I will stand proxy for him.’
‘This is most unusual,’ Bishop John said, obviously unhappy at the way things were going.
‘If I may help, bishop,’ Eadfrith of Lindisfarne said as he got to his feet.
‘The Witan, once properly convened, may elect anyone they deem suitable to be the king. It is only convention that restricts contenders to æthelings. The clue is in the title – ætheling means throne worthy. The only true æthelings of the line of Æthelfrith are Osred, Otta and Osric. In view of their youth the Witan may decide that another, not of the direct royal line, is more suitable.’
