“But it was a monk that brought the message, so it’s not insurmountable, surely? We’ve made converts by force of arms before and if Owain is as intelligent as he seems then he’ll probably see the advantage in realignment.”
“Maybe. Yes, it may not be such a big problem: maybe he’s right for conversion. Think of it!” he continued. “We could bring a whole kingdom to Christ without spilling a drop of blood! Think what honour that would bring us, when we march full-armoured into the presence of the God of Victories in His halls of judgement! How heavily would those thousands and thousands of souls weigh on our side of the balance! Surely a place of honour would be ours if we could achieve it!”
“Your name would be honoured and revered above as here on Earth. They would raise churches and shrines in your memory. But,” Godwin raised a point that steadied the heady images, “do we know that Owain is truly ready to convert? Or is this just a tactic?”
“Right,” Oswy nodded, “it must be sorted out before we march together. Anyway, we won’t decide today: let’s think about it for a night or so. Let the idea settle in and either we send back agreement or nothing doing. Until we’ve decided, we say nothing to anyone.”
“And your sons, what of them?” Oswy paused before answering.
“Aldfrid is something of a chatterer, especially when he’s in his cups. His woman is worse and he hasn't learned to keep anything from her. Ecgfrid is too hot-headed. Time may cool his blood but he’s not ready yet. You saw how the monk reacted when he first set eyes on him?” Godwin nodded. “They can be fey, these outlanders, and there’s something in the boy that worried him - frightened him in fact, and I get the impression he can handle himself if need be. He held my gaze longer than most and cast his eyes down because he had decided to out of respect, not because he had to out of fear.
“No, we’ll leave the lads out of it for the moment. We’ll explain everything to them if it becomes necessary. And we’ll say nothing to the monk until we’ve decided. Agreed?” Again, Godwin assented. The relationship between them was becoming clear. He was officially the King’s counsellor but most of the time he was a sounding-board for Oswy’s thoughts, and quite content with that role. His King took his own decisions, which meant that his head was safer than most in his position. As they returned to the main chamber Oswy quietly asked Godwin why the Irishman had a Frankish name. Godwin shrugged. He hadn’t given it any thought.
Owain’s offer was being seriously considered. That was all I needed for the moment
18
The Sisters
Hilda waited in her audience chamber for her sister, who had sent word that she wished to speak to her alone. The room was a little larger than most in the convent but not by much. She preferred to hold audience in the open air; her mind was clearer without walls to confuse and restrict her thoughts but she had been specifically asked for a private - for which read secret - meeting.
“Come in,” she said in answer to the respectful knock at the door. A nun entered.
“Queen Eanfleda asks for you, Abbess,” she said.
“Show her in, and then leave us. Go outside the outer office and make sure no-one comes nearer than the far door.” The nun nodded and stood aside for the royal visitor. Then she made the briefest of bows and departed. Hilda waited until she heard the further door close before speaking. The Queen of the most powerful kingdom in Britain, whose husband’s name alone engendered fear from the northern seas to the Kentish coast, stood before her as a trembling girl at the end of her tether.
“Sit down, Fleda,” she indicated a chair, “and tell me all about it.” As if I have to ask, she thought to herself, but her tone was gentle.
The younger woman was dressed in dark and heavy clothes, despite the warm spring sunshine. Her veil was of thick dark wool and was held tightly at her temples by a fine gold circlet. It was also pinned and gripped to her hair - not one strand of which had managed to escape - and her brown dress. Over her dress was a full apron of sombre green and her linen rose all the way to her chin, gathered and tied stiffly, with several safety knots more than was necessary. She looked more like a nun than Hilda herself but even a full suit of armour, complete with closed visor, wouldn’t give her the protection she craved. The laughing young girl who had played happily in the warm southern sun, who had squealed with delight when her older sister had swung her around and around in the meadows outside the castle, was locked away deep within the unhappy woman who sat before her, who now put her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably for several minutes. Hilda passed a linen kerchief to soak up the tears. Many in her flock would have been surprised to see their stern Abbess display such compassion, but several also knew how kind she could be to those in real need of comfort.
Eanfleda blew her nose at an unregal volume and tried to begin.
“Oh, Hilda,” she started and then broke into sobs again. They lasted less time and a few deep breaths enabled her to continue, so long as she didn’t look at her sister’s face. “It’s all so horrible. He wants me to...and I can’t...I’ve been able to refuse him because of his Irish worship...but after the Synod we’ll be in one church...then he says...” her voice died out, she could only mouth the words “I can’t. I can’t.” She looked into her sister’s eyes and saw such kindness, such compassion and such care that she burst into tears again.
Hilda waited for as long as it took.
“You can’t imagine - his breath on my cheek, the smell! He smells of bogs and horses - his dirty hands and that - that - thing - between his legs. You can see it from across a field. He shows it off, wants everyone to see it. Every time I see him, he looks at my body, not at my face. His eyes are like leeches, I can feel them, they run down every inch - my flesh crawls, it crawls. He revolts me! I can’t stand it!” She blew her nose again. “Oh, you wouldn’t understand, you can’t understand. You don’t need to think about men and their disgusting urges.” She stopped and gazed at the wall. A shudder ran through her.
“I seem to recall that you thought you would have the best of it when I entered the convent: I would have to wear grey all my life and you would be a queen, dressed in pretty silks and bright colours, with your ladies skipping after you, servants to do your bidding, and a fine king you could wave off to war. Am I mistaken, or was that what you said?”
“Please, Hilda, don’t be cruel. Not today.”
“When have I ever been cruel?” Eanfleda remained silent. “Certainly not so cruel as to tease a young woman, uncertain about where she was going, by waving her goodbye with a grey kerchief and then running off giggling to the meadows with her friends.” The Queen of Northumbria looked up at her sister, the Abbess of Whitby.