5.
October 878
In distance, that cold foggy morning the island loomed, a darker fuzzy grey compared to the sea-sky's paler one. They had travelled for two months, Domhnall and Constantine's party, spreading the news of Ivarr the Boneless's slaughter, telling the Cymric they met how Eochaid had distinguished himself and fought bravely; when at Gaelish settlements, particularly more frequent the further west they travelled, the son of Ceinid mac Àlpin had done the bloody deed.
With both communities, the news of Ivarr's death was particularly welcome: few had not lost sons, fathers or brothers to the Norse axe; few had not had to flee while the Norse stole their land.
"A good, warm meal, men!" Domhnall declared, as the dark grey smudge came into focus. "That's what welcome awaits us at Iona!" Osthryth, who had been sleeping, curled up in sheepskins, shuddered as the boat reverberated from a change of current, the men cheering at the anticipated rest. Constantine, who was at the prow next to Domhnall noticed, her move, but did not turn round.
There had been words. They had been spoken loudly and abruptly. One night, after the party had camped on a sheltered hillside just south of Stirling, Domhnall had instructed Constantine to wash the pewter plated in the stream and then feed the feed the horses.
His cousin had sneered at the instruction and had made to wrap up in his wool blanket.
Domhnall had taken the blanket and thrown it into one of the overhanging ash trees before tipping Constantine's ale into the earth, pushing him to the ground and cursing his loiter sackness, demanding to know why he was a lubberwort, a quisby, not fit to call himself of the house Álpin.
Constantine was gathering the plates as Domhnall made to strike him again, putting his arm up as Osthryth made to pick up the task which was, ordinarily hers, telling her that she was never to do his work again. She watched as Constantine was ordered onto night guard duty, wrapping herself up near the fire as the stars decorated the sky, before getting to her feet.
"Just, go away," Constantine complained, as she made to talk to him. In the moonlight his face contorted, as if tortured by an internal fight. "Just - " Osthryth made to leave, then doubled back to around he other side of the horses.
"I think you're fit for the house Àlpin," she whispered, then pushed the pewter tankard towards him. Constantine grasped it, then looked down at her, his usual sneering before taking it firmly in his fist and draining it.
That had been nearly a month ago; Domhnall had been strict in his resove to train his cousin, giving him the worst jobs: catching and skinning the rabbits; digging out a privy; groom the horses of the mud they had encountered in on the banks of the mighty Clyde river.
"And beyond," Dohmnall pointed out, "In that green hollow, our kin, the house of Arthgal - that of our aunt - " he took Constantine and grabbed him exaltantly by the shoulders, "Is our shelter for the night."
King Eochaid was not at all surprised to find his cousins at his fortress gate that day, and gave the party on progress a hearty welcome.
"Won't they suspect something?" Osthryth asked Finnolai, as they stabled the horses.
"No more than we might suspect something," Finnolai replied. "We must behave as if nothing whatsoever concerns us with respect to any kind of uprising."
"We go to pray, at Iona," Domhnall had explained to Eochaid, at the feast laid on, clapping the backs of one another as a dusting of snow laid over the courtyard. "And they cannot lay hands on us there!"
"Yes, but the Norse can!" whipped back Feargus, the broad, red-headed warrior not much older than Constantine. Domhnall smiled.
"The monks deal with that," he replied. "Money works. And it has never been so well off compared to the devastation at Lindisfarne, with poor Saint Cuthbert taken out and on progress of its own."
Eochaid, Osthryth considered. Her family at Bebbanburg were good at two things - one was seige fortifications; the other was examining the rulers in the kingdoms north, to anticipate likey attacks. His mother was daughter of Ceinid mac Álpin - Domhnall and Constantine's fathers' sister and sister of Mael Muire.
This man had turned the tide on battle against the Norse; had Eochaid not charged, with blood-curdling cries far louder than that of the Norse and and they left, shaking hands with the king who had helped them so much on the battlefield. Was it true that there could be such a plot?
Yet, as she went to the kitchens after serving at the feast, finding a comfortable nook in which to huddle for the night, the warriors were being introduced to a Pictish warrior, who had feasted with them.
She huddled down, but her weary eyes would not lock into the blissful rest of sleep. That man...there was something about him. In the darkness, Osthryth stared at the dimming ashes of the fire. Though Eichaid was the King of the Strathclyde, it was he who seemed to be dominating the conversation: calling for more wine and discussing politics with Domnhall.
The warmth of the fire and the fibres of the wool eventually conspired to lead Osthryth to slumber, but not before the mental image of the man, skin tight over his face, eyes deep set and looking, ever watchful.
A hand covered Osthryth's face causing her to wake after several hours sleep. It was still dark, snow was still falling, and the fingers were tight about her face.
"It's Finnolai!" the young warrior hissed. "Bring your blanket, your sword; get your shoes on - we go - " Osthryth heard him turn in tbe darkness, the leather on his boots scraping on the cold stone floor. A call was indistinct, but Finnolai clearly heard it and hissed, "Here!"
A side door was unlocked, which led from the kitchen to the courtyard. A dog huffed in its sleep, twitching in the moonlight, dreaming.
"Come on!" he urged, as boot leather scraped the layer of fresh fallen snow off the courtyard stones.
Osthryth rubbed her eyes. She was half in a daze of being woken up so suddenly, even more so at being woken still further by the tiny brushes of snowflakes. Finnolai was now inside the stables, arousing the warriors. Feargus appeared, nodded in acknowlegement to Finnolai, disappearing then reappearing with a dishevelled Constantine.
"You can't go back for it!" Feargus yelled, as Constantine looked for one of his boots, which he had dropped by the stable yard. Finnolai grabbed Osthryth's shoulder in the shoulder. He was right to, as Osthryth would have got it for him, so he could slip it on and not have to walk in the courtyard with the snow with one bare foot.
Eochaid's guards had chased them to the river where, it turned out, Domhnall had pre-organised boats to collect them, that slipped away in the black of the October night, horses abandoned but necks safe as Gaelish pilots swung them into the Clyde estuary, around Arran and north, to the place Osthryth had pretended to be heading, for safety, with the pilgrims.
A day and a night on the little boat in rough seas made all who were travelling long to be by a hearth again with food in his stomach and, as a monk with a painter rope stood in the rocky jetty that served Iona, Finnolai leapt into the shallow water to slip it around the prow of the party's little boat.
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A prayer to offer peace to the travelling warriors around a welcome hot and soprific fire. Fish was served to them as it was the lead up to All Saints' Day and the abbot of the monastery heard all of Domhnall's stories, about the battle and the celebration, and that they were here for blessing from the most holy saint Columba. Or at least, that's what Domhnall was keeping to. Monks gossipped; monasteries sent missives about the comings and goings of kings at least as often as they did about the holy, Osthryth knew. That had been a shrewd move on his part.
"We go in peace to the Uí Néill," Domhnall said, as they drank the island-brewed ale.
"No peace if the Norse come here," remarked Feargus, drinking deeply. "This is a monastery; to them it's easy wealth." The abbot appeared to consider this.
"The Norse come rarely. It's true, they often raid. But more common is that they want to trade. It is my opinion," the grey-tonsured holy man offered, "that they want to settle and share in our community. Several have come for baptism."
"For how long!" scoffed Domhnall. "To them, it's a day off raiding and, exchange for wetting they get new clothes."
"True, very true," accepted the abbot, his eyes amused. Then he asked that Domhnall take a very precious set of manuscripts of the gospels for safe-keeping. "Aed Findliath, the king of the northern Uì Nèill commissioned these. They are almost finished. But, through the raids you mention, I do fear their destruction. The monks at Tara or Kells have enough of the requisite skills to complete them."
They were shown to the stables, and to an overhanging, straw-covered attic platform.
"Your warriors should be warm enough here," the abbot told them.
All climbed up, Osthryth glowing a little at being mistaken for warrior. She threw down her blanket into a corner near the slatted roof, stars beginning to twinkle.
Yet, Osthryth knew that her appearance was that of a warrior. In their steady, but watchful traverse from the east in Pictland to the west in Strathclyde, she had plaited her hair like them, Finnolai drawing her hair back in one long braid like a Gaelish warrior after a particularly stormy journey over the higher country near Scone; she had had time to try a horse, much to everyone's amusement. And she had fought them all.
For Domhnall explained, that not one if them could defend her if they were attacked, something Osthryth was pleased about, for she had grown to love fighting. Not for her the clumsy thrust of defence, but the art of it, making the most use of the least action; to conserve strength. To spend leisure time ensuring that skills were honed and tactics learned until they were part of the muscle itself.
Not everyone; not Constantine. He had not initiated a duel, once on their journey and nor had Osthryth. He wad still angered by her anA monk with a painter rope stood in the rocky jetty that served Iona: Finnolai leapt into the shallow water to slip it around the prow of the party's little boat.
Just as Osthryth was about to settle down for the night, she felt a dampness on her legs. Cursing to herself, she picked her way around the already sleeping Constantine and Feargus, climbing down the ladder and out into the monastery's courtyard. The horse's drinking trough would have clean enough, before she packed herself with the moss that she always made sure she carried.
The horses were settled for the night. Hay had made them as contented as the fish and ale had for the warriors. The stood still, their hooves unmoving on the hard earth of their stalls.
One quick, practised movement and she was clean and secure. Osthryth was just pulling up her breeches and drawing them in when she saw them. Crouching low, she watched, not daring to move, wondering whether she should see. She closed her eyes tight, and leaned back down by the legs of the horses.
After a time, the rhythmical noise slowed, and then stopped. Osthyrth opened her eyes. Two feet passed by the end of the first horse stall, mis-stepped a little, then Finnolai's boots strode past her.
Osthyrth peered further forward, around the wood between the horses. Whoever the other was needed to go too?
But the man was not in the corner, where once he had been. Instead, he was behind her. He pulled Osthryth to her feet, then hit fer in the face, making her fall to the floor. Osthryth, pain radiating from the impact, lunged low for his legs.
"Osthryth!" Domhnall exclaimed, the fight going out of him. "Osthryth!"
Osthryth stopped too, and cleared out from Domhnall's legs, getting to her feet and brushing the straw from his hair. She made to stride past him.
"You saw." Osthryth turned. A steely look on the warrior's face was held with effort.
"I saw. Or rather, I heard." Domhnall stepped towards her, yet not blocking her path. She could go.
"What were you doing here? Looking for Constantine?"
"He's in the hay loft." Osthryth nodded. "I needed to...wash."
Ordinarily, the king-in-waiting for the Pictish throne would not have troubled himself with her business; she was nothing more than a moderately good fighter who his petulant cousin had insisted travel with them. She would not have explained. And yet, she had witnessed...
"You cannot say what you saw," Domhnall pressed. "It is a grave sin for which I should burn, for which I should suffer. For which I have put to men death. Worse my reputation, and that of the house Àlpin would be destroyed."
Yes, thought Osthryth. Reputation was all. Family was all. A fleeting cloud of a memory, of her brother, of Beocca, passed over the landscape of her mind."
"I had my eyes closed," she replied, searching his face. "You...both seemed...happy...doing it...?"
"It is sinful; we are mere mortals following the word of God. Yet, did he not bring down his vengeance on Sodom and Gomorrah?"
"Yes," Osthryth agreed. Yet, she considered, the holy scriptures used had been put together by Romans, not angels. Did they not have their own interests behind which instructive books wete to be included? The Lindisfarne monks knew that; they were still Saint John Christian adherants at heart, even though Augustine christianity was the official church structure now, thanks to her ancestor Oswy, at Whitby. As were the Pictish and Gaelish churches. One God; many fragments of the whole, like a mirror shattered, with a view from each individual slightly different.
"Because, it could be viewed, should it be necessary, that Finnolai had offended you so gravely that you chose a forceful lesson to be given, in order to correct."
Domhnall looked at her for what seemed like a long time, then laughed sporadically, as he considered her words. He sank to the straw, his black hair gleaming with perspiration. Osthryth noticed for the first time that he was breathing heavily.
"Constantine is learning," Domhnall sighed, catching his breath again, looking exhausted, down at the straw. "What you and Ceinid conspired...that was shameful, and he knew it."
"Then there is no real reason for me to be here," Osthryth propmted. "I am at Iona, where I wanted to be. But without my family." And, from here, she could offer to work for the monks. She may get access to correspondence. She may discover where Beocca was; she may hear of Uhtred.
"Is that what you want?" Domhnall asked, suddenly turning his head. "To serve in a monastery."
"I want to be a warrior." Osthryth hadn't meant to say it aloud, but here, with this Gaelish prince at his most vulnerable, his most intimate, it didn't seem foolish to say it.
And, to be with Uhtred. But unless she could make some wealth, or return to Dunnottar, where her own treasure hoard was, under the rocks under the trickling stream, there was little chance even if she did know where he was.
Ultimately, Osthryth had come to realise, little by little, in her unconscious mind, that being a warrior was security, was comradeship and, on occasions, meant wealth.
"Can a woman be a warrior?"
"You are," Domhnall replied, chuckling faintly. "Women have; women do. Norse and Danish women regularly are. Many fought against us in the Great Battle." He looked up to Osthryth, and looked intently at her. "But to be a warrior and a Christian you cannot be like a Norse woman - you must be chaste. Do you...know what I mean?"
"Not to...lie with a man?" Osthryth felt the weight of conflict on her mind. She never wanted to he humped; she'd sworn she would fight any man who tried. Yet, she had not fought Constantine. She had permitted his lying with her by not resisting.
Domhnall got to his feet, and began to pace as he talked and emphasising his speech by waving his arms, in the way she would come to recognise in Constantine.
"Warriors do not carry the consequences of being...unchaste...when they lie with a woman; if you want to be a warrior, and you could: you are strong; you are swift; you behave as Gael would: you dive straight into battke without hesitation." He paused, looking at Osthryth, at her fair, warm hair, her blue eyes. She was about as far from a Gael in features as would be possible to get.
"You can anticipate and use strategy...you are cool-headed and do not flinch at combat. For this, you cannot be with child. As well as the drain on your body, no Lord would take your oath, for it would always conflict with the safety of the child and pose a weakness in his defences." He looked at her inanimate face, as she thought this over. "Do you understand?"
Osthryth nodded, the cold night air swirling at the stable entrance. That made sense. A warrior or a mother. Be humped or be chaste. It was clear to her, like the sun on a cloudless day: humping was something she could forego; the man seemed content after the act - as Domhnall had, having humped Finnolai.
What benefit was there for a woman, then, other than the risk of pregnancy and the risk of death in childbirth? Except for the need to increase a family, men lying with men was a practise that should be encouraged, for it could benefit everyone.
"Then it is chastity," Osthryth concluded, now sinking down next to Domhnall, feeling a glow of pride as she realised how this Gaelish prince of the Picts had praised her warriorness. Yet, she had never heard the word "strategy", and told him so.
"Strategy is thinking ahead," Domhnall explained. "Predicting the actions of your enemies, and not only your enemies but your friends, who may well become your enemies." Osthryth frowned.
"In what way?"
"What did you notice about Eochaid's fortress, in the green hollow by the Clyde?" Domhnall asked, patiently.
"It's October," Osthryth considered, clenching her damaged hand to relieve the cold from it. "It's the end of the fighting season. It's almost Samhain. Most of his warriors should be resting and the servants working hard." Osthryth ran through her memories of two days ago in her mind. "Yet, for there were few servants; most of the warriors were not resting. The horses were on their rich hay food, needed for long distances. These are not people lying fallow."
"Strategy." Domhnall concluded. "It suggests the rumours of a conspiracy to overthrow Aed are true."
"That man!" Osthryth said, suddenly. Those eyes, ever watchful, like a hawk, choosing its prey. Laying his eyes on Osthryth's face, as if deciding, "Shall I eat you? Or are there tastier morsels?" She looked at Domhnall and narrowed her eyes.
"Is that why we ran?" But Domhnall had got to his feet and was making for the stable door.
"Wait!" Domhnall mac Àlpin turned slowly, his body taut. But then his face softened, the scent if sweat and salt wafting from his hot body.
"You are not my warrior! You are...nothing!" He bore down on Osthryth angrily, knocking into a bay, which awoke with a shrill whinny. "Nothing but Northumbrian scum!"
Osthryth had her hand in Fadersword now. Dohmnall narrowed his eyes.
"What do you think you'll do with that?!"
"Be your ancillary!" Osthryth spat out, while it was on her tongue. "Like the Britons for the Romans! I am not Gaelish, nor Pictish. But, I can still offer...fealty! After all, you sheltered me, fed me, gave me easy work. You might have turned me away even after helping Constantine!" She pulled her sword out to the tip. "Of course I would aspire to be your warrior!"
And to their surprise, Osthryth's most of all, she sank to her knees. Domhnall mac Àlpin looked down at her. Then, he knelt too, kneeling opposite her, taking her sword wrist, and held it firmly, pushing her sword back into its scabbard.
"No," the prince said, shaking his head. "But I thank you. One day, you will be a credit to a lord. Ha!" he laughed. "You may even be a lord yourself!"
Then, drawing her back into the stall, away from the horse settling down to sleep again, he told Osthryth all he supposed.
"Giric is a member of the northern Cenél Loairn, of Moray, towards Fortiru," Domhnall explained, then dipped his head close to Osthryth's face. "He has the ear of Eochaid; he has land in the central and north of the country, which is constantly pressed by the Norse. Giric wants the Pictish throne - he wants the southern land for his own, but he knows few people will support him for he is not royal. But, by manipulating our young cousin, he can make his connivings legitimite." Domhnall sighed. "It's all becoming very clear, very clear."
"Then, we left just in time," Osthryth murmured.
"God-given," Domhnall concluded, but his voice sounded bitter, regretful. He walked towards the stables, and held open the slatted door. "Now go, Osthryth of Northumbria," the prince commanded. "Go, sleep. Take your rest, save your strength, for we must travel tomorrow, though it is Samhain. We must not offend the sibh."
As Osthryth stepped into a swirl of snow, she stopped and made to ask what he meant: what was "Savin"? Who were the "shee?" But Domhnall had sunk onto a hay bale, sword resting on his lap.
As she climbed into the hay loft, stepping across a silently huffing Feargus, and an equally still Finnolai, Osthryth was aware of a rustle of straw by the opposite wall. In the gloom she recognised Constantine's leather jerkin, turning back with its owner to the wooden sloping roof of the loft, thinking well on what his cousin had asked him to consider.
Stealthy snowflakes sneaked through careless gaps to leave lumpy deposits on his blanket.
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They had overnighted on the night known as Samhain, the day before the church day of remembrance for all of its saints. Rathlin Island had been quiet - almost too quiet, its huge cliffs rising out of the grey water as if the sea itself had solidifed into the the granite outcrops that loomed over the coracles that had transported them over the sea from Iona.
Feargus and Finnolai were subdued; their meal had been taken wuth the monks, who clearly had no truck with their will to eat supper in silence. Constantine had been put on watch of tbe boats, as Domhnall trod a lonely vigil around the cliffs, as if enduring the night's bitter cold and wind would cleanse his soul of his sin.
The next morning, as they sailed south west, following Ulster's north coastto find the channel that would lead them to the Foyle estuary, Osthryth asked the pilot of their coracle what "Savin" was.
"A night for the fairy folk - and the dead," was all he would share. So, Osthryth wrapped herself up in her blanket, staring down at the sea.
Where Northumbria faced east, with the land crowded behind the sea, here in the rich seas of Ulster the land spread out, dark green and lush, large horizons where the sea, if not always in view, suggested its presence, and could be taken in at a glance.
They were heading to the monastery at Doire ColmCille , on the west bank of the Foyle. ColmCille had lived there, before launching for Rathlin, and then to Iona, the monks at Rathlin had told them. Fog settled as they entered the Foyle estuary, making Osthryth's hair wet.
As the coracle pilots skimmed their oars up the river, Osthryth noticed people on the banks, watching them pass. They were walking towards a large wooden building which loomed around a bend. The monastery, she supposed. And, it was the Day of All Saints'. Many services would be read.
They drew close to the bank of the river, directly outside the monastery. The procession of people were indeed entering the monastery. They joined them, crowding in, their swords and bringing a chattering attention as they shouldered their way through.
The weak sun was high in the sky as they left, Feargus handing Osthryth a skin which contained a a little ale, which he hurried off her as a monk passed their row.
"Come," Domhnall said, his voice flat and serious, waving them over. On the bank where they had landed a group of men stood. Between them a woman, hair black, parted in two and plaited, one plait down each side of her head, a white cloth pinned to her head. On her left was a man. Osthryth stared, and could not take her eyes from him.
The man's shoulders began where the warriors' heads finished. His hair, red as the evening sun, flowed over his shoulders as a dark golden waterfall, a moustache on each side of his nostril of the same orange hair, drooped down to where his chin might have been if a beard did not cascade to his chest. He was twice as broad as the woman, and Aed Findliath's voice boomed around as he welcomed Domhnall and Constantine to their home.
"We have stopped Norse expansion on the coast," Aed Findliath boasted, as they feasted that night in their fortress adjacent the monastery, surrounded by oak trees on three sides. "Those we baptise, those who blend their lives with ours we pay to keep more Norse from invading. Then, they have as much of an interest in keeping more Norse from the land as we do."
Osthryth ate a piece of roasted fish in silence as she listened to the voices around her. Six months learning Gaelic at Dunnottar and the voices here were indecipherable. How was it Constantine and Domhnall could understand his kin? Was it, to them, slight changes in speech, like when the East Angles would visit, or the West Saxons or the Centish traders? Enough of a difference, but not too much?
Domhnall's troubles had, if not left him, been put aside, as he conversed easily with the men of Aed Findliath's court, accepting meat, sharing wine.
She watched as Domhnall passed over the books entrusted to him to Aed Findliath, who laughed in pleasure at the pages. The woman, who turned out to be Mael Muire, Constantine and Domhnall's aunt, murmured, pleased.
"He says that while he was the lord proclaimed as Lord of Tara at the Festival of the Uì Nèill when his father died," Feargus explained, passing Osthryth more fish, "Tara is in Flann Sinne's territory, of the southern Uì Nèill. He is the strongest of Aed's allies, yet Aed is the High King of Ireland."
Osthryth thought this over, then wrinkled her eyes as she considered it again. To think she had once thought Angle and Saxon politics was complicated, and then Welsh. Then, she had gone to Pictland and met its Gaelish king. But, Irish kingship? She may never understand it!
"And now Domhnall is telling the king about the king, the Pictish king Aed's opinion as to where the Norse go - to Dal Riada's isles or highlands; to Strathclyde's inlets; to Pictland's fertile coastlines." Osthryth looked at Feargus, frowning.
"Not the best start in diplomacy to the family who have just begun to shelter you," she mutterd, grinning. The warrior laughed.
She looked across to the table at which Constantine sat. In the candlelight, he looked older, somehow, as Aed Findliach addressed him: no trace of a scowl or sullenness, only a dignified smile and polite conversation. He did not look at her. Beside him, Osthryth noticed, a place was set and food served to an empty chair. It was how, Osthryth knew, it was meant to be.
"May you tell me of the Shee, and the festival of Savin?"
So, as Feargus unpacked the whole gamut of Gaelic superstition, of feasting, and the fire, brought in a pot to the very centre of the hall; of the foods offered to the fire fresh, harvested wheat and grain. Of the dancing which would, no doubt, begin once the food was cleared. And, no doubt, she - Osthryth - would be helping with that.
"What are you to do here, in the land of the Irish?" she asked herself.
Feargus soon finished discussing the spirits passing between world and the feast of the dead and now a seanchaías had begun a story. But Osthryth was not listening, for the answer came flying back to her: you gave your answer, Osthryth of Northumbria, to Domhnall mac Àlpin.
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31st October 899
A long time ago, Constantine's father, Aed mac Álpin, had said that it was the choices one made, personal, quiet choices that made the difference.
Uhtred called life's choices fate, or the norns, laughing as they wove destruction into men's lives.
To Osthryth, it was, and could only be God, moving in a way no man could strategise.
Aed was telling the court, in the year Osthryth had come, around a fire at the beginning of harvest, about Saint Patrick of Cumbraland, and the choice he made to leave his master to whom he had been sold as a slave. He had walked two hundred miles back to the coast, asked for passage with non-Christians. When they refused, for he had no money, he immediately prayed to God for guidance. The heathen had then turned and offered Patrick passage. The heathen expected a gesture from Patrick to mark his generosity, a heathen practise. But, Patrick said that his faith could not allow this, and he refused.
"What do you suppose the heathens did when Patrick snubbed their tradition?"
The children were eager to answer, raising hands and shouting, "Killed him!" and, "Drowned him!"
"But, of course, we know that Patrick returned to Cumbraland, to his family, and them felt God telling him to go back to Ireland, to reveal God's grace to the heathen."
They had taken him anyway, King Aed had continued, to the disappointment of some of the children, and his teaching had caused a stone to be plunged into the souls of the Irish believers and its ripples radiated out far and wide, to Iona, to Culdees, to Lindisfarne and to Durham. To Whitby and Lincoln and Lichfield. One big circle of faith from one small stone of a man.
Yes, Osthryth had thought at the time, and a few centuries later, another man had made a decision, a choice. King Oswy, her ancestor, adhered to the Irish church; his wife, a Roman church adherant. Whike Oswy celebrated Easter, and feasted and required marital relations with his wife, Eanflæd still fasted.
She remembered this story as child and had asked Father Beocca why He had not made humans less wilful, if what he wanted was for men to follow His word. Beocca had laughed, and said he had no answer to this. Maybe, the sruggle to find Him was part of faith.
Yet, the Roman church, far from melding with the heathen beliefs as the Irish had done, merely imposed rules and forbiddances. And heathen practises suvived.
On the night she had arrived back to Dunnottar, Ealasaid had shown Osthryth her room, not the little poky one shared by many servants off the kitchens, but the one near Constantine. The nurseries and royal childrens' rooms were not far, and that was where Aedre would go. But not that night, for there was no time to find a wet nurse.
So Osthryth nursed the little flame-kissed baby through the night, awoken by her littke mewlings, and screams, like cows lowing, around the courtyard. The wind, her sensible mind forced her to think as Aedre let go the remains of of the previous meal, leaving Osthryth to call for linens.
"She is beautiful," Constantine had fussed, so unlike himself, as he oversaw the baby emptied from Osthryth's arms and into the arms of the now very elderly Ealasaid. The wet nurse who tended the royal infants, MaelColm, Domhmall's son, and Indulf, Constantine's.
"Where is the king?" Osthryth asked Constantine. And she was taken, as the household began to prepare for the night's feast, with fire and food and dancing. Ceinid led her across the courtyard as the food for the feast was being arranged.
It came as a shock to Osthryth as she pushed open the oak door of the king's bedchamber, as the moanings and cries of the night before became obvious and apparent.
"He does not know who he is any longer," Ceinid murmured gently, as Osthryth looked on the face of a man she held in the very highest regard and esteem.
Old and frail, his once thick, black hair fell upon his pillow, tangled, with clumps missing, his once proud and firm face which had seen off countless of Norse and, at a turn, comforted his petulant cousin was now sunken in, a mass of lines and lumps. His eyes were closed.
Osthryth sat beside him, as softly as she could, amd he did not seem to notice, nor even when she had moved her own hand and put it across his, which were clasped together, as if in prayer. Osthryth felt her heart lurch. What had happened to this once noble and able man?
"Madness," Ceinid said, putting his hand to her shoulder. "After his son was born; after Mairi died."
Osthryth knew as much. Constantine said his cousin had gone mad and had not been able to rule for a year or more. On the night of his wife's death he had been found wandering around the castle wearing nothing before screaming into the stables. After MaelColm's birth and Mairi's death, his decline had been swift.
Domhnall had told once told her that she fought like a Gaelish warrior, no thought occurred to her ever to flee, but to run headling into a fight.
But he had been wrong. Osthryth had fled, ten years ago, refusing to trust Domhnall when asked her to, as words swirled Dunnottar of Aedre Uhtredsdottir being found.
She had fled many times in battle and, three nights before, she had fled Wessex, a motherless child in her arms. Yet, it was true she had fled here, to Dunnottar, a place she had could call her home. A place where she had become a warrior, more or less, with the consent of a king.
Osthryth had been about to get up, to leave the king when she found that he was holding her hands, one in each, his eyes open, bright and sharp.
"Osthryth," he managed, through parched lips. "Tha mi...curaidh...agam..." His words tailed off.
Osthryth felt her heart hammer in her chest. She knew what he had said, even now, even though mad. Curaidhean...that was what he called his warriors.
"Your sword," King Domhnall had demanded of her. She looked into his eyes, her heart crushed by this Gaelish warrior, who had fought beside her on the battlefield, now brought so low.
"Mi rì, chan eil mi e agam tuilleadh...I don't have it any more."
The king pulled himself, with difficulty up the bed, and leaned towards her, his eyes, full knowing of where he was, and who Osthryth was.
"Then, warrior, you must fetch it back."
Choices had brought Domhnall so low, Osthryth knew. Aed had made a choice, to take her into the royal house and life - God - had brought her to that moment.
Domhnall had made the choice to be loyal to his line of the house Àlpin, and produce heirs instead of remaining unmarried. Want of pleasing God had caused Domhnall to believe he was lacking in his faith, for humping men. Yet his choice had brought the Pictish and Gaelish crowns together. As far away as Wessex, he was named Domnhall King of Alba.
Yet, the beliefs of long ago still lingered, and that night, as Osthryth went to hold Aedre, and fuss over the girl, the castle was barred so no-one, not even a guard, not even a cat could get out. Not even a sibh could get in.
On the morning of the Day of All Saints Leodhais, one of the young household guards, had found King Domhnall, naked, sword in hand, face down in the courtyard. Osthryth had seen him rush over as she had got up early to wash and she, too, had knelt beside her lord.
He had been locked in, Osthruth knew. The maids and the butler had been fiercely interrogated. Yet, from a locked room and a barred castle the King of the Picts and the Gaels had stumbled down the stairs, waved his sword and fell down, a blow to his temple from the stones in the courtyard ending his life. Now, the world seemed like a much darker place.
"Mo thighearna rì," she had whispered, as another guard, Conagh, had come to help. But he ears would never convey her filial love for him to his brain. So she prayed to God, silently, as Ceinid led her away, and in the still of the morning, when all the sibh had gone, Osthryth did the most un-Osthryth-like thing, something she had only ever done once before: she cried.