Authors: Etheldreda
‘What now?’ thought Etheldreda.
A man moved up beside Ethelhere and, bowing low to him, presented him with something wrapped in a blood-soaked cloth. Ethelhere whipped off the cloth and held the object high above his head for everyone to see.
There was a gasp. It was a man’s right arm clutching a sword. Anna’s sword.
Someone screamed, but on the whole the crowd remained silent, staring.
‘This is my brother’s right arm. His sword arm. He died as you see, still clutching his sword in your defence. This is all we have found of him, but this is all we need for burial. His strong right arm will guard us in death as it did in life.’
The shaman took the grisly object from Ethelhere and laid it carefully with the other objects. The new king led the chanting as the slaves began to throw in the first sods of earth.
Etheldreda knew that that object was not her father’s arm, but she said nothing. Some poor soldier must have been prevailed upon to grip the sword and then been killed, so that in death, his hand could be buried for the king’s. She despised her uncle more than she could say, for not only had he turned against Christ, but he was mocking the old gods he purported to honour.
Near the end of the ceremony, when Ethelhere, pleased by his success, had relaxed a little, she managed to slip away. The crowd began to surge forward, creating such a confusion that it was easy to elude the watchful eyes of Ethelhere’s men. She found Tondbert and he took her in his arms. But still she did not weep. Heregyth joined them and together they sought out Ovin. He had horses ready for them, and news that King Anna’s body had been taken by friends to Blythburgh where they would wait for Etheldreda’s arrival to give it a Christian burial. It was decided that Tondbert and Edgils were to remain behind and organise the orderly retreat of Tondbert’s men, for they could see that there was no hope of overthrowing Ethelhere with so many Mercian troops still in the land. Etheldreda, Heregyth and Ovin were to make their way as quickly and discreetly as possible to Blythburgh, going by sea for it would be quicker and less under the surveillance of Ethelhere’s men. A fisherman agreed to take them and they cast off as the sun sank – the western sky blazing in gold and purple, while the east faded to a cool mother-of-pearl.
Etheldreda and Heregyth huddled close together, feeling the chill salt wind as the sky darkened, shivering with apprehension about the future.
When they disembarked at Dunwich the following day they found the town and the monastery crawling with Ethelhere’s men.
The princess led them through the back streets as inconspicuously as possible, to the house of someone she had known when she was a student. They knocked and called a long time before the door was opened a crack and then it was only for the young boy inside to say with nervous hostility that he was letting no strangers in while his parents were away. He shut the door immediately after delivering the message, and they heard him bolting it.
Ruefully they looked at each other. The only comfort was that Etheldreda in her travel-dusty cloak and with her pale, tired face, had not been recognised. But weary as they were they knew their safest course was to leave the town as quickly as possible.
On the outskirts Ovin left the two young women sitting at the roadside in the dust, eating some dry bread the fisherman had given them, and went in search of horses.
He returned at last with a dilapidated cart pulled by one tired-looking mule, and helped the princess into it. The wooden wheels were by no means as round as they should have been. Their journey on the rough track to Blythburgh was extremely uncomfortable, but they were too tired to walk and Ovin had not been able to find any horses for them.
Half way between Dunwich and Blythburgh they were stopped while Ethelhere’s men searched the hay and vegetables the cart contained.
They were just thinking that they would be free to return to the cart and continue on their journey, when one of the soldiers took Etheldreda by the chin and turned her face to his. When she lowered her eyes he tipped her head back further, his hard fingers bruising her skin.
Ovin instantly sprang forward but was seized.
Cornered, Etheldreda looked up boldly into her tormentor’s eyes, her own, cornflower-blue, unafraid.
The soldier laughed and with his other hand ripped at the front of her dress.
Ovin struggled desperately to free himself from the two men who held him but a third punched him in the face and kicked him in the groin. As he doubled up with pain the others set upon him. His last sight as he fell to the ground and darkness closed in around him was of his beautiful princess standing half naked surrounded by rough and leering men.
Heregyth screamed and tried to rush to her mistress’s aid, but they held her back, laughing.
‘Not so impatient,’ they said, ‘your turn will come!’
Etheldreda felt herself strangely detached from the whole scene. She felt the man’s hands on her and she expected to feel sick and afraid. But instead she had a strange feeling, as though what was happening to her body had nothing to do with her. Her eyes rested a little above the man’s head apparently on something he could not see. She looked quite calm.
He paused.
He had pulled off the cloth that held her hair in place and it had fallen down in golden splendour over her shoulders. Her body was pale and very beautiful, but cold as snow. Uneasily he turned his head to see what she was looking at, but could see nothing. He looked back at her, and then at his companions. They too looked uncomfortable, and were standing silent, embarrassed and awkward.
Calmly, regally, she drew her cloak around her.
‘Come, Heregyth,’ she said, ‘help me put Ovin into the cart.’
The soldiers did not move, but stood and watched as the two young women struggled with Ovin’s weight.
Suddenly one of the soldiers, no more than a boy, rushed forward and helped them lift him into the cart.
Unhurriedly, with great dignity, Etheldreda climbed up and took the reins.
Unhurriedly they moved off.
As though under a spell the men stood clustered together at the roadside staring after them.
At the village of Blythburgh, on a hill overlooking the river’s mouth, King Anna was given Christian burial, his daughter Princess Etheldreda leading the prayers, her maid Heregyth playing the music on a borrowed lyre, and her Celtic freedman Ovin, covered in cuts and bruises, standing watch.
At the end of the simple ceremony his grave was smoothed over and marked with the sign of the Fish. Bracken and brushwood was brought to cover the ground so that no one would disturb him.
Etheldreda, Heregyth and Ovin were grateful to rest that night in a village house, but the following morning before first light they awoke and started on their long and hazardous journey back to the shelter of Tondbert’s marshlands.
Death of Penda
‘My lady, the dawn is not far off. Will you not sleep?’
The anxious voice of her maid cut across Queen Eanfleda’s thoughts as she knelt at the altar of the shrine she had built on the site of King Oswin’s murder. Normally monks prayed where she now was, day and night unceasingly, for the souls of Oswin and his murderer, her husband. Outside an icy wind rattled the bare branches of the trees and drove flurries of dead leaves against the door.
The floor was hard and cold and she was stiff in every limb from her long vigil. She suffered herself to be helped to her feet by two of her women. She was shivering in spite of her heavy fur cloak.
‘My lady, you are pale! Come to bed!’
‘Is someone ready to take my place?’ she whispered. ‘There must be no break in prayer.’
A young monk called Cuthbert, the same who had seen the vision of Bishop Aidan’s soul being taken to heaven, emerged at once from the shadows and took Eanfleda’s place before the altar. She looked at him with tears in her eyes. He had a rough peasant look, but his eyes had seen angels.
‘Pray well, my friend, your sovereign’s life and the safety of your countrymen depend on you.’
‘I will pray for God’s will to be done, my lady. There is no sense to a prayer that does not do that.’
She looked alarmed.
‘But it is for forgiveness you must pray, forgiveness for the king. He goes into battle soon and with Oswin’s murder on his soul the Lord will surely let his enemies triumph.’
Cuthbert bowed his head slightly, turning from her to the altar. Whether he had understood or not she could not tell.
Her women pulled her gently away.
‘Come, my lady, the king’s soul will be prayed for. Have no fear. But if you do not rest you will fall ill.’
The queen left the chapel, the wind swirling around her, the night shadows like so many wolves, circling her menacingly.
This was a terrible place where a terrible deed had been done. Fear and cold were in her heart. What chance had her husband against Penda without the help of God!
He had tried everything to avert war. He had suffered the continual ravages of Mercian raiders without retaliation, knowing that Penda was too strong to challenge. He had offered Penda bribes to stop the raids. Treasure that would have bought a kingdom was taken by the Mercian king, yet still the raids continued. But now he had come to the point where he could afford to bear no more. East Anglia was now virtually a vassal of the Mercians and his own country would be next if he did not make a stand.
He called on his nephew, Oswald’s son, who had taken murdered Oswin’s place in Deira, to support him, but spies brought him news that the Deiran king had betrayed his plans to Penda and would fight against him in the battle.
He was alone.
Penda’s heathen hordes were gathering like a vast wave to break upon his frontiers. The winter was coming on, the cattle that would not survive without winter feed already being slaughtered. The outlook was very sombre.
He rallied his men, making a public vow to God, that if he was granted victory he would give his infant daughter, Elffleda, to be consecrated as a virgin in His perpetual service, and he would arrange for twelve of his estates to be turned into monasteries.
Penda, hearing of his challenge, laughed.
He called together all his vassal kings, including Ethelhere of the East Angles, and the temple of Thunor rang with the sound of metal against stone, as the thegns filed in in their thousands to dedicate their swords to Penda’s favourite god. Sacrificial fires made the night almost as bright as the day and feasting and carousing was continuous as the men gathered from all over the kingdom.
Prince Wulfhere and Cynewise, who had grown fond of the Bernician hostage, Egfrid, advised him to lie low and keep out of Penda’s sight. If Penda found him he would certainly be killed for his father’s treachery. The queen even sent her most trusted slave to conduct him to a hiding place.
Egfrid, who trusted nobody, appeared to accept the help, and then when the queen’s slave had left, he mounted up again and rode off into the night.
Penda and Oswy met on the banks of the River Winwaed on a wild and blustery day.
Penda was confident the whole of Northumbria would soon be his. His troops outnumbered Oswy’s by the thousand, his god rode with him in the fierce black storm clouds that were moving across the sky so swiftly and so ominously.
Ethelhere, leading the small East Anglian army that he had been able to spare from peace-keeping at home, was one of the first leaders Penda sent into the battle. Some said later Penda had deliberately sent him to his death because he despised a man who betrayed his people and betrayed his own god. The wind against him, his arrows and his spears went wide while Oswy’s drove home.
Ethelhere was one of the first to die.
Penda sent another of his vassal kings.
Again Oswy prevailed.
Then Penda shook his battleaxe at the sky and cried in a loud voice to his god.
Thunor answered.
The black clouds were riven by a jagged sword of light and Penda led his horsemen confidently into the river, while his archers shot over their heads to harry the Bernicians and prevent them attacking Penda’s picked men while they were at a disadvantage. The Mercian horsemen were the terror of all the neighbouring kingdoms. No one could ride like them and many a villager had woken in the night to their dread hoofbeats, knowing that that would be the last sound he would ever hear.
Oswy’s heart sank as he saw their number. He wiped his right hand as the sweat began to make it slippery, and then he gripped his sword hilt tight again.
The arrows were coming in thick and fast and many of his men were going down, but not as many as would have fallen had the wind not been against Penda.
‘The Lord is on my side!’ Oswy whispered, seeing this, and felt his courage rising.
‘Charge to meet them!’ he shouted. ‘Do not let them set foot on our land!’
His men moved forward and the river ran red with the blood of those who were hacked to pieces in its turbulent waters.
Penda himself reached the far shore, his eyes blazing with the frenzy of battle, his formidable axe slashing left and right, his men close about him, wreaking havoc.
The far hills had disappeared under a deluge of rain. The thunder roared and rumbled.
Suddenly lightning struck a tall tree on the river bank. Instantly a column of yellow smoke rose from it, the crack of thunder that accompanied the awesome sight deafening many, causing others to drop their weapons and run screaming from the place, convinced that the supernatural was taking too personal an interest in the battle.
With all his force one of Oswy’s thegns threw his spear a second before the lightning struck the tree, and – before the sound of the thunder had stopped reverberating – Penda toppled from his horse.
With a scream of triumph Oswy was upon him, his sword slicing through his neck while his left hand ripped off the helmet and held the grisly object aloft by its peppery white bush of hair.
‘Penda’s dead!’ The roar went up. ‘Penda’s dead!’
Shocked, the Mercians hesitated. For as long as they could remember Penda had been the conqueror, the scourge and terror of the Seven Kingdoms. How could he be dead with Thunor roaring his support through the huge and echoing caverns of the sky?