The Apple of Discord set the Mercian alliance against itself, as each faction strove to possess it. King Penda, a figure of fear for decades, was beaten to his knees and decapitated right in front of me. As for me, I had faced a terrible foe in the Otherworld, one who had nearly beaten me; I escaped at the cost of shattered sanity. Before the disaster I had seen Oswy’s army approaching, and a second, secret force, working to outflank us. He had had supernatural help on that day, although I don’t know that he had been aware of it – not the force I battled, which was unimaginably evil and used human sacrifice as its source of Power. Whatever his faults, Oswy was not wedded to the Darkness. It was reported that had a vision of the Cross the night before the anticipated battle. He had promised that he would give a child to Christ and establish a dozen monasteries in his kingdom, if he won the day. After the collapse of Mercia – achieved without a blow being struck by the Northumbrian forces – he kept his promises. He treated the monks of Lindisfarne with respect and generosity, attended church most Saturdays, and he had even been known to pray, openly and in public.
Some of his court and followers retained his people’s old superstitions, however. Quite a few belt-purses held totems of Wodin and Nike, the goddess of victory, as well as other fetishes. Oswy was as committed a Christian as any of his nature could be, seeking victories and power from a God who had proved He could deliver, to a warrior’s satisfaction.
However, Oswy cursed the day when he had agreed that marriage to a Mercian princess, brought up in Kent, would cement the three kingdoms in alliance. His greatest love, more a wife than a concubine, had died in the late stages of pregnancy but not before she had delivered him two sons. She had been as lusty as he, delighting in the feats of arms that made him King and in the passion of their lovemaking. He missed her, all the more so now that he was landed with the cold fish from Canterbury who now stood before him. There would be no children from this union until he could, at the very least, get into the same bed at the same time as she.
“I thank you, my Lord, for your concern. I had an untroubled but tiring journey. I would rest and refresh myself, with your leave,” Eanfleda said, with eyes downcast.
“Are your quarters prepared already?” Oswy demanded.
“I sent ahead and asked my sister Hilda to prepare chambers for me in the convent.” Her husband bridled and a snarl started to distort his handsome face.
“In the nunnery!” he sneered quietly. “It would of course be too much to expect the Queen to bed down with the king, near the kingdom’s warriors, who protect and defend her, who provide her with the victories that give the lands she so willingly disposes of. And Romanus? Is he catered for?”
“He is.”
“And where are his quarters? Curled up at the foot of your bed like a lapdog?”
“I am sure the arrangements will be humble but suitable,” Eanfleda’s chaplain replied obsequiously.
“Romanus, I despise you. Don’t remind me how much by speaking without being spoken to.” Oswy stood and paced the width of his room. Normally it would accommodate a dozen monks but had been set aside for the King. It was temporary and already sealed against the weather, so he hadn’t bothered to adorn it with his wallhangings or fabrics. It presented a stark and businesslike air.
“May we have your leave, my Lord?” the Queen asked. Oswy paused and sighed. He stretched his back before replying.
“Oh, go on, you have my leave to do what you will. This matter will be resolved in the next few days and then, with any luck, we can try to be nice to each other.”
“As my Lord commands,” she replied, curtsied and then left swiftly with her women and chaplain in tow. She was almost running before she reached the door. He had toyed with the idea of keeping her longer as he rather liked the look of one of her companion ladies but she would only have made him cross and there was still work to do, even today, in this place.
His attention was drawn to a quiet disturbance at the door.
“What is it now?” he called out, irritably.
“A monk, my Lord. He says he has a message for you but he won’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Claims he’s under orders to deliver it to you personally.” He slouched down onto his chair and leaned on the table, propping his head on his fist.
“Let him in,” he said resignedly. The guards stood aside and allowed in a monk, one of the community from Lindisfarne, by the look of his threadbare habit with its incomplete set of buttons. They made almost an obsession of poverty and self-denial, he thought to himself. The monk was about his own age, quite tall for a Briton, with grey beginning to lighten the long dark hair that fell back off his head to his shoulders. He didn’t recognise him but noted that he came to a halt a respectful spear’s length away, bowed and stood straight, waiting to be addressed.
“I don’t know you: you’re not from Lindisfarne, are you?”
“No, my Lord. I have come from Iona.”
“And what is this message you have to deliver to me personally?” I considered the Northumbrian king, and those in the chamber. There were guards either side of the throne, a couple of thanes lounging at a trestle table to his left, an older man in everyday clothes to the right and two younger men either side of the throne but further back, and in shadow. Sufficient of their features and bearing could be made out to see that these last looked enough like Oswy to be his sons.
“My Lord, I was asked to deliver it to you in private, if at all possible.” I said. Oswy adjusted his position with a heavy sigh.
“Who is it from?”
“I passed through other kingdoms on my way here, sir,” I replied, and hoped that was enough. Oswy looked at me with more interest.
“Search him,” he ordered, and two guards did so. It took only a moment to ascertain that I had no weapon on me. Oswy stood up and turned towards a door set into the back wall. “Come on.” he said. As I followed my eyes were drawn to the younger of the two boys and
I saw a wolf imprisoned, a black wolf writhing and snarling, baring its fangs and snapping at the bars of its cage. Overlaid was the face and skin of the prince, but the true nature was the black wolf.
I staggered and almost fell. My eyes were on the near-grown boy and they pretty much started out of their sockets.
“What are you looking at?” he demanded angrily. Oswy turned.
“Your pardon,” I replied as I steadied myself. “Your pardon please my Lord. I have an affliction which takes me without warning. I hope I didn’t cause you distress?” The young man snorted and looked away, idly chewing a thumbnail.
“Is there a problem here? Are you unwell?” the King asked.
“No sir, it was nothing - a momentary spasm. I apologise. If I may just have a draft of my medicine, because these episodes are frequently accompanied by headache...” I rummaged through my bag and attracted the attention of more in the hall, some hands went to swords and then relaxed as I produced my bottle and took a small draught against the emergent pain. “All will be well. I’m fine, now.” We continued into the rear chamber.