Better than Gold (11 page)

But Cynewise refused. ‘Wyn can go. Where is Wyn?' she asked. ‘I stay here to see my husband's death rites. My fate is in the three dark spinners' hands.'

Sigurd looked at Egfrid. ‘The boy is your hostage,' he cried. ‘And though I love him, by rights he should be killed. Lady, they have cut off your husband's head!'

Wyn cried out, emerging from the queen's tent.

Egfrid gasped in shock at Sigurd's words, but he hauled together every scrap of courage he could muster. ‘I am willing to die,' he said. ‘My father has killed your
husband,
lady, and by the rules of blood-feud it is just. I'm no faint-heart.'

They stared at him. Vomit suddenly rose in his throat, and he staggered away from them a few steps to be sick.

Chad strode to his side. ‘If you must die, so shall I,' he said quietly. ‘The boy will not die alone.'

But Cynewise shook her head. ‘There will be no more killing,' she said firmly. ‘This boy saved my life, using those very warrior skills that you yourself taught him. No, Sigurd. Take my horse and ride fast to Wulfhere. I order you to do it as captain of my guard—you are my man still. Take my mare and ride away with Wyn. You must both serve my son now.'

At last Sigurd bent to kiss the queen's hand, while Chad threw a saddle over the queen's mare and led her forward. Wyn scrambled up behind Sigurd and they rode southwards, back towards the high ridge of hills.

The queen, the monk and the boy, stood together in silence, as the dreadful sounds of dying men reached them from the far riverbank.

‘What will we do?' Egfrid asked at last.

‘We cannot do anything till the waters go down,'
Cynewise
said. ‘We wait for now. I will see you safely back to your father and in return I shall beg that he allow my husband Woden's rites.'

Egfrid knew the importance she placed on this, but he doubted that his father would be generous. Oswald Whiteblade's body had been hacked to pieces and staked out for a raven-feast.

They gazed across the river at a scene of utter devastation. Bodies floated downstream, though many of them were caught in reeds and rushes at the water's edge. On the far hillside, Bernician warriors walked from corpse to corpse, stripping weapons and cloaks from dead or dying Mercians. Here and there it seemed the water ran red with blood.

‘Did our Christian God want this?' Egfrid asked.

Chad shook his head and the boy saw traces of tears on the monk's cheeks.

Darkness fell and the three of them kept watch all night, sitting close together wrapped in furs. The rain ceased, but the night was cold and none of them could sleep or eat. Dapple curled close to Egfrid, sharing warmth, while the queen wept quietly for her husband and her warrior band.

‘You could still ride away,' Egfrid told her, as he
stroked
the hound's silky ears. ‘Take Golden-mane. I will not stop you, nor will Chad. I doubt my father knows that we are here. I'll even give you Dapple, if you want him.'

But she shook her head. ‘My son is safer if I'm not with him,' she said. ‘And if I hand you back, at least I'll feel that I have done the honourable thing.'

Chad offered words of Christian comfort to the queen.

‘Hush,' she told him. ‘Woden is my god and Freya my goddess, like Penda. My loyalty stays with them.'

As light came, they saw that the Bernicians were wading into the water to drag bodies back onto land. Cynewise vanished into her tent to emerge a short while later, looking very much the queen again. She'd combed her hair and dressed herself in a clean gown and cloak, and she'd set a fine gold fillet at her brow.

‘Come,' she said. ‘We cannot sit up here for ever.'

So they wandered down towards the crossing, leading two horses, Dapple trotting at their side. Some Bernicians watering their mounts near the ford looked up at their approach, and stared as though they'd seen ghosts.

Egfrid
strode forward. ‘Get my father!' he shouted. ‘Tell Oswy Iding his son is here.'

They looked confused. ‘Oswy's son?' they murmured. ‘But he was taken hostage. Surely he cannot still live!'

Someone was sent running and at last Oswy himself came striding down to the river, blade in hand, his face pale and gaunt, a long gash on his cheek. Ribbons of leather hung down from a makeshift sword hilt, the fine blade of the weapon still intact.

He stopped, looking astonished. ‘Egfrid?' He closed his eyes. ‘God be praised,' he said, still sounding dazed. ‘My son is alive.'

Egfrid helped Cynewise mount Golden-mane. Chad mounted his horse and hauled Egfrid up behind him. They approached the ford, which was still deep and running fast, but managed to get across.

The queen dismounted and waited for Egfrid to slip down from the saddle. She took him by the hand then and led him to his father with great formality.

‘I, Cynewise, foster-mother to Egfrid of Bernicia, do give your son back to you. I kept him safe as I promised to do. And your holy man too.'

Oswy and his companions stared, speechless and astonished.

Then
Cynewise threw herself down onto her knees, careless of the mire. ‘Allow my husband Woden's rites. That it is all I ask of you.'

Oswy's eyes blazed and his face turned paler still. ‘What of my brother's Christian rites?' he asked.

She made no reply.

Egfrid hated to see the queen kneeling there in the stinking, bloodstained mud. ‘Cynewise is a woman of honour and she is my foster-mother. Give her the boon she begs!' he cried.

Oswy stared at his son, utterly surprised. ‘Where is my gold?' he asked. ‘And where is the boy Wulfhere? Do you think I can let him live?'

Cynewise moaned gently.

‘Father, your gold is buried. Given to the ground by a man who will die rather than reveal its whereabouts. That same loyal man hides Wulfhere too.'

There was a moment of tense silence. Oswy raked his fingers through his dirty hair as though he was tired and puzzled by it all.

‘My son went away a boy, but it seems he returns a man,' he murmured. Suddenly he smiled and it was as if a watery sun had broken through dark clouds. ‘You shall have your pagan rites, lady,' he said. ‘And so shall
all
the Mercian dead. Despite my many sins, it seems the Christian God has blessed me.'

He dropped his sword, held out his arms and hugged Egfrid tightly.

‘My son has come back to me,' Oswy said. ‘And that is better by far than gold.'

AUTHOR'S
NOTE

T
he exciting discovery of the Staffordshire Hoard, made by metal detectorist Terry Herbert, provided the inspiration for my story. My intention is to give an idea of life in the 7th century, and the sort of story that might lie behind the hoard. Rival kings fought fiercely over territory—and yet sometimes they sent their sons and daughters to marry their bitterest enemies in an attempt to make peace. The Venerable Bede refers to a payment of gold in settlement of a dispute:

At this period King Oswy was subjected to savage and intolerable attacks by Penda, King of the Mercians who had slain his brother. At length dire need compelled him to offer Penda an incalculable quantity of regalia and presents as the price of peace, on condition that he return home and cease his ruinous devastation of his kingdom.

Bede
also mentions Egfrid: ‘Oswy's son Egfrid was at the time held hostage at the court of Queen Cynewise in the province of the Mercians.' Egfrid was about ten or eleven years old when Penda was killed. How he became a hostage is not known—so my story explores the more exciting possibility of his capture, rather than his father handing him over to the Mercians. Bede records a raid on Bamburgh, when Penda attempted to burn the fortress, but was foiled when the wind changed direction and blew the flames back onto the attackers. Egfrid survived to become king of Northumbria on his father's death in the year AD 670.

Anglo-Saxons often called their children by names very similar to their own, which makes telling a story from that time quite difficult. Penda's oldest son was called Peada, but I felt that would be too confusing, so in the story I have given him a nickname: Beorn, meaning bear.

The Staffordshire Hoard is on permanent display around the UK. Find out more and see pictures at
www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk
.

Theresa Tomlinson
Whitby, June 2014
www.theresatomlinson.com