The Sword of Wayland
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The Sword of Wayland
Gavin Chappell
Copyright Gavin Chappell 2011
1 INTO THE GREENWOOD
The gallows tree stood alone at the edge of the river meadow. Like overripe fruit, the cadavers of criminals hung limply from its limbs, while crows and ravens circled ever overhead. Here and there, the grey, decaying figure of a wolf hung beside a man’s corpse. Thieves and outlaws, roamers of the greenwood, all succumbed to the same fate under the iron rule of Offa, King of Mercia.
Thane Oswald withdrew his attention from the gallows, and looked towards the River Tame and the ramparts of Tamworth beyond it. His face was troubled. By now, his lord the king should have reached the place of execution to oversee the proceedings - and look! the crowd was murmuring as the warriors began to lead the bound thief across the causeway on horseback.
As the rogue passed through the crowd on the riverbank in a hail of filth, Oswald spared him a cursory glance. He was an ill-favoured little man with a fringe of black beard, dressed in filthy, poorly-spun woollen clothes. This was Edwin the Lawless, a runaway thrall and one-time leader of the most savage robber gang to terrorise the kingdom of Mercia since Offa seized the throne. Most of the footpad’s men had fallen in a skirmish on the edge of the Forest of Arden; Offa’s thanes had captured the man himself in the fight and brought him to face the king’s justice. Behind him rode a minstrel, chanting a lay describing the rogue’s wild exploits.
But where was the king? Oswald asked himself, dismissing the villain and returning his attention to the town. A voice jerked him from his thoughts.
‘Oswald, dear!’
He turned to see a familiar beloved figure approaching through the crowd, chaperoned only by two thralls.
‘Godiva!’ Oswald said, smiling in pleasure at the lovely young maiden. She was the daughter of Elmund, the king’s chamberlain and an old friend of Oswald’s late father. But more importantly, she was his betrothed. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here,’ he added, scanning her face. Her happy expression was tinged by something else. ‘I know you prefer to stay away from such occasions.’
Godiva shuddered.
‘A man’s death - even that of a thief - isn’t something I revel in,’ she replied. ‘But I knew you’d be here, and since I haven’t seen you since you rode back from the wars…’
‘I was going to ride up to your father’s manor house tomorrow,’ Oswald replied. ‘Since we returned from beating the Welsh, I’ve been busy with my duties, and I didn’t know you were in town. Do you know what’s keeping the king?’
‘I’ve seen nothing of him,’ the girl replied. ‘My father and I only came into town this morning…’ She broke off. ‘Oh no, I can’t bear to watch!’ She put her hand over her mouth and stared at the ground. The roar of the crowd increased.
Oswald turned. Edwin the Lawless had reached the shadow of the gallows tree. An empty noose hung from a nearby branch, just long enough to reach a man on horseback. Oswald watched as the hooded hangman looped it over the robber’s head. Once the priest had spoken the last rites, the hangman’s assistants would whip up the outlaw’s horse, and it would ride off, leaving Edwin to dance his final jig.
‘They say he once robbed the king’s mint in London,’ Oswald remarked in an offhand manner. He had no more love for executions than Godiva, but he was man enough to know it was his duty to set an example to the commoners.
He hoped that when it was his time to leave this world, it would be a clean death, such as that he had narrowly missed on the Welsh spears during that spring’s campaign over the border. A long drawn-out demise, lingering at the end of a halter, was the death of a churl.
‘I don’t care what he did,’ Godiva said through clenched teeth. ‘Hanging is a death for no man. There are other punishments.’
Oswald smiled fondly at her. A woman’s opinion, he thought privately - or a priest’s. He touched her cheek.
‘Would you want a man like that as a thrall?’ he asked. She gazed up at him, her melting blue eyes soft. ‘Or if they cropped his ear - would that deter him?’
She seemed about to reply when a harsh voice split the murmur of the crowd and the priest’s distant chanting.
‘Get your filthy hands off my daughter!’
Oswald and Godiva whirled round to see a red-faced rider forcing his horse through the crowd; it was Elmund, Godiva’s father, the king’s chamberlain. Behind him, other riders were galloping across the causeway. The king himself was among them, Oswald noted - here at last! But what had got into Elmund?
Godiva’s father reined his horse in front of the couple.
‘Come away from that man, daughter!’ he bellowed down at the girl. Godiva looked at him in utter confusion. Oswald couldn’t blame her. Elmund was normally such a mild man.
‘But… but father, it’s Oswald!’ she called. ‘You know Oswald! Son of your old friend - my betrothed! Father, have you been drinking?’ she added sternly. After his wife’s death in giving birth to Godiva’s younger sister Ediva, Elmund had gone through a bad spell of drunkenness. But that was long past.
Elmund purpled.
‘No I have not been drinking!’ he roared. ‘Now get away from that man!’
‘My lord chamberlain, I think you have made some kind of mistake,’ Oswald said formally, his calm voice concealing a seething heart. What had got into the man? What had possessed him?
The crowd parted again suddenly, as the royal cavalcade rode up. Oswald turned towards them to see King Offa himself glaring down at him, long white beard bristling with fury. Beside him came Archbishop Higbert, Egfrid the king-in-waiting and several of the king’s thanes and earls. Thrusting her darkly beautiful face from a palanquin behind them was Cynethryth, the king’s Frankish wife. Oswald’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of her.
‘My lord king,’ Oswald said, his clear voice carrying across the growing rumble of the crowd. ‘Something seems to be troubling the chamberlain. I can get no sense from him.’
Elmund leapt down from his horse and tried to drag his unwilling daughter away from Oswald’s side. Oswald couldn’t understand it. The last time he’d seen the man, Elmund had been as keen as ever on a match between his house and Oswald’s - he’d known Oswald’s father in King Ethelbald’s day, and they’d fought together against the Northumbrians.
‘My lord king!’ Oswald repeated, his voice less clear. At his words, Offa caught him full on with his glower. Ignoring Oswald’s words, the king turned to his queen. She had stepped out of her palanquin and was standing by his horse, her face enigmatic.
‘Cynethryth,’ he said hoarsely. ‘You swear that this is the man?’
Oswald frowned, remembering with sudden clarity his last meeting with Cynethryth, outside the palace the previous evening. He saw tears streaking her cheeks - false, if he was any judge of character. But none of this prepared him for the shock when she raised her face to look across the watching throng.
‘Yes, my lord king and husband,’ she said in a quiet, deliberate voice that still carried to the corners of the field. ‘That is the man who raped me.’