by Jayne Castel
As Maric’s stared at the death mask of the man he had followed for the last decade, a group of men emerged from the tent. He recognized the men instantly: Oswiu, his son Alchfrith, and Paeda of Mercia. The fourth warrior was Aethelwald of Deira, Oswiu’s nephew. He had sided with Penda during his campaign north, only to desert him the night before battle.
“Treacherous maggot,” Osulf hissed from behind Maric, glaring at Paeda. “Give me a blade.”
Maric did not reply, although Osulf had voiced his own sentiments. The sight of Paeda, dressed in leather and fur, without a scratch upon him, filled him with a fury so cold that he started to shiver from it. Not only had Paeda betrayed his father, but he had not even joined the Northumbrians in battle. Instead, he had waited at the sidelines for the slaughter to be over.
The men stopped outside the tent. They looked on as the Northumbrian king strode over to Penda’s decapitated head. Oswiu pulled the sword out of the mud, before holding it aloft.
“How fitting,” his voice was triumphant. “Æthelfrith’s Bane – the sword that has slain so many of my people is now mine.”
Even coated in mud, the sword was magnificent. Maric had heard that Penda had claimed it many years earlier, at the Battle of Barrow Fields, where it had belonged to the co-ruler of the East Angles, Ecgric of Exning. This sword had not slain Oswiu’s father, Æthelfrith – for it had been King Raedwald of the East Angles who had done so – yet, it had shed a lake of Northumbrian blood over the years. Maric saw the greed upon the Northumbrian ruler’s face as he admired the blade; it was a worthy prize that would grace the wall of his hall at Bebbanburg.
Oswiu sheathed the sword and turned to Paeda, who stood a few feet away, silently regarding him, his face impassive.
“Not so fearsome now, is he?” Oswiu motioned to the severed head beside him. Paeda’s gaze shifted to his father’s face, where it stayed for several heartbeats. Looking on, Maric wondered what it must feel like to look upon your father’s dead face and know you helped bring about his end.
Around them, the rise and fall of men’s voices, the whimpering of the dying and the lonely whisper of the wind broke the heavy silence that always fell after a battle.
When Paeda finally replied, his voice was emotionless. “No, decapitation tends to render a man so.”
Oswiu’s gaze narrowed shrewdly. Watching the Northumbrian ruler, Maric noted that although he lacked Penda’s physical strength and presence, the King of Bernicia possessed a calculating intelligence – a sharpness – that made him just as dangerous.
“Do you regret changing sides then?”
Paeda raised a dark eyebrow. “Would I be standing here if I did?”
Oswiu’s mouth quirked into a half-smile before he turned his attention to the blond warrior standing beside Prince Alchfrith.
Aethelwald was a tall, heavy-set man with a thick beard and startling blue eyes. The warrior had an aura of arrogance, the kind of self-confidence that made a man a leader.
“Do you regret it, Aethelwald?” Oswiu asked.
Aethelwald cocked his head and met Oswiu’s eye calmly.
“No, uncle. Penda miscalculated.”
Oswiu regarded the younger man for a moment.
“You went against your own kin. How can I trust you?”
Maric watched uncertainty flicker across Aethelwald’s bluff face, a crack appearing in his confidence.
“I will swear an oath of allegiance, uncle, should you ask it.”
“Swear it then. Kneel before me, kiss my ring, and promise me you shall never again turn against your own people.”
Aethelwald appeared to hesitate, his gaze flicking to Oswiu’s son, Alchfrith, who stood silently beside him. The prince returned his look but did not speak. After a few long moments, Aethelwald crossed the space between him and Oswiu and knelt before the king. When he spoke, his voice was low and sincere.
“I swear allegiance to Oswiu, King of Bernicia and Deira, ruler of Northumbria. I will never again change loyalty.”
Then, he leaned forward and kissed the large garnet on Oswiu’s left hand. Silence stretched between them, before the king finally spoke.
“No, you will never again betray me... I will make sure of that.”
Moving with lightening swiftness, Oswiu grabbed Aethelwald by the hair with his left hand, using his right to draw the seax at his waist and slash his nephew across the throat. He struck so fast that Aethelwald had no time to defend himself.
The crowd of warriors, who had gathered to watch the scene, grew still. Oswiu stepped back and looked on dispassionately. Aethelwald collapsed onto the muddy ground, where he lay choking and clutching the gaping wound at his throat.
“No one betrays me,” Oswiu told the dying man, his voice soft although laced with quiet menace. “Especially my own kin.”
The heavy silence returned, and Maric found his gaze shifting back to Paeda. To his credit, the Mercian prince showed no sign of fear. He stood, his gaze calmly upon Oswiu, waiting for the Northumbrian ruler to speak. A wise choice, for in Oswiu’s current mood, it would be foolish to interrupt him. The king watched, till his nephew finally lay still. Then, he motioned to the two warriors who had dragged Maric into the encampment.
“Take this filth away and burn it with the Mercian dead.”
The warriors did as bid, and it was only when Aethelwald’s corpse had been carted from sight, that Oswiu turned his attention back to Paeda.
“What say you, Paeda? Was I harsh?”
The Mercian’s gaze narrowed. Oswiu was clearly playing with him, and Paeda was, understandably, wary of saying something that would condemn him.
Paeda shook his head. “My father would have dealt with me in the same fashion. We must choose our allegiances carefully, for there is no going back on them.”
Oswiu nodded, satisfied by his response.
“So you are ready to pledge yourself to my family?”
“I am.”
“Very well. As agreed, you have rule over southern Mercia, where you will be my overlord. Send an escort of your men north with my army. They will accompany my daughter back to Tamworth.”
Paeda’s face grew serious. “I would prefer to collect Alchflaed myself.”
Oswiu favored Paeda with a look of disdain.
“Stop thinking with your cock, man. Have you forgotten that Mercia no longer has a leader? I cannot risk one of your brothers taking the Mercian throne once they discover your father is dead. You must return to Tamworth immediately. I will give you a company of my men for your return home.”
The Northumbrian king turned away from Paeda then, his gaze flicking over to the knot of bloodied Mercian warriors.
“Now you can take your pick from the Mercian survivors. Choose those you trust to escort my daughter – the rest of them can accompany you back to Tamworth.”
Two yards away, Maric’s gaze met Osulf’s, and they shared a look of mute shock. Maric’s gaze then shifted to Elfhere. His friend did not appear to have heard Oswiu, for he was barely conscious. His head lolled on Osulf’s shoulder; he was in need of urgent help from a healer.
Paeda did not look best pleased with Oswiu’s insistence that he return to Tamworth, yet he wisely did not quibble. Instead, he strode over to the group of Mercian survivors, his cool gaze surveying them. When he got to Maric, Osulf and Elfhere, his gaze paused.
“Woden,” he murmured, his eyebrows lifting. “My father’s personal guard. All three of you survived?”
Osulf said nothing, although his glare spoke volumes.
“Aye, we survived,” Maric replied, his voice sharp with pain. His head felt twice its usual size and pounded in time with his heartbeat. It made him ill tempered and reckless. “Although it was not by choice.”
Paeda’s mouth compressed, making him look astoundingly like his late father, and he fixed Maric in a hard stare.
“Maric, your wounds will heal quickly enough. You will lead the escort.”
Maric returned his stare, hi
s stomach twisting.
How dare this dog command me.
Of course, he should have known that Paeda would choose him; they had fought alongside each other in the past and Paeda had seen Maric lead men and follow his lord’s commands without question.
He knows I’m loyal.
Maric choked back his anger and looked away. Paeda moved on and had already begun to choose the men that would accompany Maric north. Exhaustion and despair pulled Maric down into its chill embrace. He looked across the clearing at where Penda’s gruesome visage glared at him, accusing.
He could have refused to obey Paeda. It had been on the tip of his tongue to do so, yet something had stopped him. It was not fear of execution, for Maric had long ceased fearing death. Instead, it was his sense of duty and honor. Try as he might, he could not cast it aside. He had ended up on the losing side of battle, and as such his life was the property of the victor.
Maric’s fate was not his own to decide.
Chapter Four
Return to Bebbanburg
Bebbanburg, the Kingdom of Northumbria,
Britannia
Ten days later...
Alchflaed placed the last handful of walnuts into her wicker basket and straightened up. Pushing aside a lock of auburn hair, which had come free of its long braid, she glanced up at the pale sky.
It was a damp, sunless afternoon and cold enough to numb fingers and toes. There will be a frost tonight, she thought, drawing her woolen shawl about her shoulders. Blod monath was nearly over, and soon Yule, and the winter snow, would be upon them.
The time had passed so fast since her father’s departure from Bebbanburg, nearly a moon’s cycle earlier. He had marched off to war against a fyrd nearly three times the size of his own king’s army. Alchflaed worried for him.
Deep in thought, she left the walnut trees behind and began the climb back up the steep causeway toward Bebbanburg’s low gate. She had plenty of walnuts for the cake she planned to bake that evening. Ahead, two guards flanked the entrance to the fort, spears at the ready. Alchflaed had almost reached them, when she saw one of the men stiffen, his gaze fastening on something behind her.
“Horses!” he shouted.
Alchflaed whipped around, her own gaze shifting across the patchwork of arable land that stretched around the base of Bebbanburg. There, to the south, she saw a dark patch moving slowly toward them. Dust boiled up around the army as it moved, making it appear like a great beast coming to devour them all.
She froze, her breathing momentarily stilling.
The Mercians… they’ve come for us.
Yet, as she watched, the army drew closer, and standards bearing the familiar red and black of Northumbria became visible. The horsemen held the standards high, a clear sign of victory.
Alchflaed exhaled, lightheaded with relief. Grinning, she turned to the guards.
“My father returns! Mercia has been defeated!”
Alchflaed picked up her skirts with her left hand, still clutching her basket of walnuts with her right, and sprinted through the gates. She crossed the outer enclosure, and ran along the wide dirt road that led to the high gate. To the right of the way, was another road that led north along the length of the ‘Dragon’s Back’ – so named, for the rock on which Bebbanburg perched resembled a sleeping lizard.
Low-slung wattle and daub structures with thatched roofs spread out across the wide expanse; the dwellings of ceorls – free men – who resided here. A large byre – which housed Bebbanburg’s livestock – an ironmonger, armorer, and a goldsmith all lined the way to the inner palisade. The clang of iron and its metallic stench, mingled with the bleating of goats and the odor of animals.
The spiked wooden ramparts of the inner palisade rose before Alchflaed, and the Great Tower cast a long shadow despite the dull day. She sprinted through the high gate, past the gawking guards, shouting as she ran.
“The king returns!”
Beyond the gate, she streaked across the stable yard toward a wide, grassy area, dotted with apple and plum trees. Ahead, she glimpsed the red, pitted stone of her father’s hall. Alchflaed bolted across the grass and up the steps leading into the tower. She flung aside the door – only to collide with someone who was in the process of exiting the hall.
Walnuts flew in all directions. Alchflaed pitched forward and fell onto the rushes. Hands stinging, she sat up to find herself face-to-face with her steopmōdor.
“Senseless wench!” Eanflaed snarled, her round face reddening. “Watch where you’re going!”
For once, Alchflaed chose to ignore her stepmother’s sharp tongue.
“Father returns!”
The anger on the queen’s face dissolved and her lips parted. Alchflaed saw joy flare in her eyes, before they brimmed with tears.
“They won?” she asked, her voice quavering.
“The army carries its standards high,” Alchflaed replied, grinning.
Eanflaed whirled away from Alchflaed, her trying stepdaughter forgotten, and hurried back across the rushes toward the high seat. Her shrill voice carried across the hall.
“Northumbria has defeated Mercia. Bring me my children. They must greet their victorious father!”
Alchflaed crossed the rush-strewn floor, avoiding servants, children and dogs as she went. The hall was in chaos, and Eanflaed’s piercing commands were beginning to put her nerves on edge. A young male slave, who was not moving quickly enough for the queen’s liking had just received a tongue-lashing.
“Lack-wit! Don’t just stand there gawking. Clear the floor! Move the tables – quickly. Now!”
Alchflaed quickened her stride, wishing she was still outside and free of her stepmother’s panic and scolding. Eanflaed worshipped her husband, and strove to please him in all things. When Oswiu was present, the queen was simpering and sweet; however, she became controlling and critical in his absence.
Alchflaed had just stepped up onto the high seat when hunting horns echoed across the hall. They were shortly followed by the raucous cheering of men.
Her skin prickled.
They’re here.
She took her seat next to her sister by marriage, Cyneburh. The princess sat, composed and demure as usual, as she awaited the king’s return – and that of her husband. Alchflaed caught her eye, and smiled encouragingly.
“You must be looking forward to seeing Alchfrith?”
“Aye,” Cyneburh smiled, although her manner was reserved, as always. “It has been a long wait.”
Alchfrith studied Cyneburh’s face, wondering at what she really thought. Even after nearly six years at Bebbanburg, the Mercian princess maintained a distance from those she lived with. Despite that they had spoken on many occasions, and worked at their distaffs together on many an afternoon by the fire pit, Alchflaed barely knew Cyneburh. She had no idea how she felt about her life at Bebbanburg. It appeared that Cyneburh and Alchfrith’s union was a happy one. Although, after years of marriage, they had still not produced a child – something that Queen Eanflaed never failed to remind Cyneburh of.
Horns boomed through the hall once more, signaling the king’s arrival. Alchflaed’s gaze swiveled away from Cyneburh, across the sea of expectant faces to where King Oswiu entered the Great Hall.
Tall and spare, but with a strength that belied his gauntness, her father strode across the floor, the crowd parting before him. He looked daunting in his victory. His fine cloak, made of the pelt of a great grey wolf he had slain on a hunting trip a decade earlier, billowed behind him – his battle cloak. His face was serious, although his eyes gleamed. Two steps behind him walked Alchfrith. Her brother had never looked so proud; he walked tall, his long auburn hair tied back in a thong at the nape of his neck, his bare arms gleaming with golden, silver and bronze arm rings. However, his gaze was riveted upon his wife, who sat, unmoving, upon the high seat.
Alchflaed stole a glance at Cyneburh and saw that her breathing had stilled, her smooth cheeks flushing pink. Alchflaed’s gaze returned to
her brother. He was smiling at his wife.
At the front of the high seat, Eanflaed had risen to her feet, her round face flushed with joy, her eyes glittering with tears.
“Welcome home, My Lord Oswiu!” she cried. Throwing ceremony aside, the queen stepped down from the high seat, flew across the floor and launched herself into her husband’s arms.
Chapter Five
A Daughter’s Duty
The roar inside the Great Hall of Bebbanburg was so loud it numbed the senses. A group of musicians, playing a bone flute, a lyre and a drum, belted out a jaunty tune that was only just audible above the roar of the excited voices that echoed high in the rafters.
Cider, mead and ale flowed, and an impromptu feast had been laid on to celebrate the king’s safe and victorious return home. The queen had emptied out the stores. The long tables where ealdormen, thegns and their kin sat, groaned under the weight of cured and smoked eel, fish and fowl, huge wheels of cheese, roast parsnips, onions and carrots, and fresh bread. As lavish as this feast appeared, Queen Eanflaed had already started preparing for the real victory feast in three days time – a celebration that would put the spread this eve to shame.
Grinning with excitement, Alchflaed took a sip of cider. She enjoyed the warmth and tang of fermented apple and the way it warmed her belly. Then, she glanced over at where her brother had just fed his wife a morsel of cheese. After the initial excitement of seeing her husband’s safe return, Cyneburh had retreated behind a mask of stoic self-possession; one that did not even slip when she learned that her father was dead. She had merely nodded, before bowing her head for a moment. No one had asked her how she felt; no one had offered her their condolences.
Alchflaed had never really understood Cyneburh; they were as different as the sun and the moon. Her gaze searched her sister by marriage’s face now, for any sign of grief. But, the shock of learning that the mighty Penda of Mercia had fallen had now passed. She gave her husband a demure smile and allowed him to feed her another piece of cheese.
