10. Winter 879
A/N: How are you liking this so far? Osthryth is heading to where Guthred was proclaimed king by St. Cuthbert, Uhtred met Gisela and was betrayed, then met Finan. Such a long time ago (Lords of the North book 3/Series 2 of The Last Kingdom, episodes 1-5). Please review, and tell me what you think, plus any predictions for when she does, finally, get to meet her brother? All reviews welcome.
Series 5 will be the last of TLK, I for one am devastated they didn't do 7, and making War Lord into a series of its own. If you have read the books - or if you haven't - what do you think about how series 5 will go?
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Osthryth did not know when she realised she loved that land of her mother.
Was it when she arrived, the river twisting from sea to estuary to narrow strait, whose landscape undulated over the flatter land taking them to the walled city of Caer Ligualid, as Domhnall mac Caustin's four trusted warriors chanced on reivers raiding a village outside the fortified city's walls?
Was it the wide Idunn valley, wombed by rounded mountains, contasting with the angular rocks at Dal Riada?
Was it when she had found her family, that of her mother, Gytha, in the monastary's scriptorium: noble Rheged bisected as now poor Mercia was, ruled by Northumbria and Strathclyde?
It could even be when she had discovered the secret, which had revealed exactly what each of their roles in Cumbraland really was, when the king, Guthred, had listened to her enthuse over his kingdom. Had that been it? It may certainly have been the turning point.
When she thought about it, Osthryth was almost certain that it was when she had fled, as snow fell around them while, as Caer Ligualid's monastery burned, she was held firmly onto a horse by a man who was her enemy.
But, of Griogair, Osthryth knew exactly when it was she suspected him of treachery, and that was the first moment he boarded the ship with them bound for Cumbraland.
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The little party of warriors sent by the King elect of Alba camped within sight of their craft on the coast of Strathclyde a fortnight after setting off from Griogair's stronghold.
From there, though the evening was drawing in fast, Osthryth could see the lower land on which Caer Ligualid sat, surrounded protectively by water and low hills, the Idunn river bisecting it north and south.
They had camped all along the Cymric peninsula, once Rheged, Taghd had told them, as their journey inched southwards and had not attracted much attention from the indigenous population. Apart from the second night when, beyond the monastery of Whithorn they had rested. Two young Strathclyde Cymric had chanced on them, and they'd chased the boys off, their traverse down the coast had been uneventful.
Now, a line of horse were riding quickly towards Caer Ligualid, and Osthryth followed them with her eyes as they took a path beside the river.
"Hurry with the coineanach!" Osthryth heard Feargus shout, and she turned away from the old city built by the Latins, her mother's birthplace, and strode quickly to where he and Taghd had coaxed a fire into life behind a derelict drystone wall.
"Reivers," Griogair said, who was looking in the same direction, as he took one from the brace of rabbits from Osthryth, lying it on its back and split it from throat to tail.
Beside him, Osthryth knelt did the same to the other with the short-blade knife Taghd had proffered. Inside a pot, Feargus was stirring a liquid probably containing onions and roots just waiting for the rabbit flesh to join it.
Osthryth glanced across to Griogair who was, very efficiently, jointing the animal under his hand. Since the night at the Caimbeulaich stronghold, he had not once touched her, spoken to her disrespectfully or spoken much to her at all. He was with them, Osthryth knew, as Domhnall's diplomat to King Guthred of Cumbraland, and she was there to spy. Perhaps he was contemplating the journey to the kingdom. Osthryth was contemplating it too: her mother Gytha, born of Urien's line, Urien, she knew, had been a king of the Rheged long ago, who had opposed the Angles -Ida - her ancestor, at Lindisfarne, but had been betrayed by the king of the Picts.
Gytha had been born and grew up in Caer Ligualid, her whispered half-stories to Osthryth, when she was a child and still Aedre, and being forbidden by Aelfric from communicating with her daughter, had flourished again in her mind like dormant plants in spring when she had read at Iona the poem his seanchai, Talorcan, his poet, had written. Y Goddydyn, it had been called, and without Urien - assassinated by the king of the Picts - the Cymric, drunk at Caetrich, their enemy before them, had been defeated.
Yet, the Cymric of Rheged still lived, as peasants, as landworkers, supporting the monastery and palace at Caer Ligualid. Like many old royal families, some branches had petered out to leave princes and princesses as lords and ladies, and then to minor nobility, then ceorls.
It was from such a family Gytha had come, marrying her father Uhtred of house Iding at Bebbanburg and then, when he had died at Eoferwic and her brother Uhtred taken, her uncle.
Gytha of the Rheged had then died in childbirth with Aelfric's son, whom he had also called Uhtred. Not only would she be spying for Domhnall, Osthryth considered, she would be spying for herself.
Osthryth, looked at the rabbit again, considering how to skin it, her mind drifting back to Dunadd. She had scorned Taghd, whom the sibh were as real as the sun and the moon, and she was sorry for it.
It was he who had warned Osthryth when she had told him she had felt the sibh, that there was danger and now, far away from the lofty mountains and plunging gleanns, she could still feel the Morrigan, queen of the sibh touching her mind. Was she warning her? Or scolding her?
Now they were away from Alba and in sight of Caer Ligualid, the spirits of the hills and valleys of Dal Riada seemed far from her yet the Morrigan remained. She could not help feel something for Constantine, for the pleasure he had given to her body in the obtaining of his own in the stables the night before they had left.
Yet, she could not be any more than a mistress to him, for he was to marry Mairi. Perhaps the Morrigan had been telling her something such as that, something she did not wish to acknowledge? Or to forget Constantine and look to another someone. Not Ceinid, Domhnall's general, though Osthryth had dreamed many happy thoughts with the head warrior's lean, pale face in her mind, but someone else.
Osthryth dived into the hip of the rabbit as Griogair had done, skinning it easily. She tried to joint it, but the tendons were tough, and she took Taghd's blade to it clumsily, only stopping when she had slipped it into her left palm.
"Here," Taghd said, sympathetically, taking the knife from her hand as she sucked on her wound, close to her long-ago arrow scar. "Let me show you."
And Osthryth watched as her hand-wed husband cut along the backbone, then the chest, making four segments from the flesh, before removing the steaks from the skin and the rest of the animal's internal organs.
"Best bury it," Feargus advised, leaning past Osthryth, "in case anyone is following us."
"Who would be following us?" Taghd shot back as Feargus scooped up the rabbit flesh into his hands before dropping it carefully into the boiling water but, as Griogair stirred their supper, Feargus began making a hole in the ground by his left knee.
Osthryth stood tall. The reivers were still there, a line on the eastern horison. But, someone was there Osthryth sensed, and carefully scanned the vista inch by inch, looking for trouble.
"There's no-one," Taghd said, his tone soothing by her ear. "Come and eat, Osthryth, and we can rest and move on at dawn."
The rabbit was tender. Feargus, a voracious eater was also a skilled cook and, as the winter sun inched towards Eire Osthryth, with stomach sated, felt her eyes heavy. She got up. She was, as every night, on first watch, to watch that the fire did not extinguish; to watch for any attackers. To stave off tiredness she began to walk about, drawing her wool cloak about her. Frost glittered in the air: it would be a cold night.
She looked across to Taghd. Usually first to begin to sing phrases of a melody before building it into song, he sat silently, whittling at an ash stick with the seax he had lent Osthryth to prepare the rabbit with.
Maybe he sensed what she sensed, Osthryth thought, as she frowned towards Caer Ligualid, and she paused, the wind licking around her neck as the setting sun picked out the undulating south east landscape.
The line of rievers had gone from view now, but evidence they had raided came as Osthryth spotted plumes of grey not far from the twinkling river signalling not Norse nor Dane attack but the age-old, rivalry of cattle- and barn raiding.
Griogair, who had been to the city before, had told them the Roman stone walls, now utilised by the descendants of the people the Romans had wished to exclude, were enough to keep them out, but the attackers, mutual land-pirates who roamed the border between Cumbraland and Strathclyde, harried the peasant villages without Caer Ligualid instead.
The air began to chill as the sun set. Osthryth threw some lighter wood onto the fire, which ate it as hungrily as she had the coney.
"They will not invade Caer Ligualid," Griogair mac Dungal said, repeating again the words of the previous two nights.
"You know this because...?" ventured Feargus, the same question he had put to Griogair for the previous two nights. Osthryth paused, for Griogair had, unusually, began to elaborate.
"I have had dealings with Guthred before. Be hates the Strathclydians." He threw the empty bone of the rabbit on which he had been gnawing past Osthryth and into the fire. "Eochaid held him as a slave for years."
"And now he is king?" asked Osthryth. In the fast-growing darkness, Griogair looked at her, impassively.
"The blessed saint of your country, Cuthbert, appeared in a dream to Eoferwic's bishop, showing him the face of this man, son of the famous dane Harthacnut. Ha," he added, reaching for his spring-replenished water skin. Osthryth stopped pacing; Feargus and Taghd drew towards him, eyes on Domhnall's man.
"The bishop picked from the retinue an entirely different man, one who had, in fact, liberated Guthred son of Harthacnut from bondage. But, it was resolved. King Guthred is to be at Caer Ligualid this advent."
"And he is usually at Eoferwic?" Osthryth asked.
"Yes. He and his wife, the daughter of the late Saxon king of Eoferwic, reside in that city. But they rule all of Northumbria."
All of Northumbria? Osthryth's silent mind asked, doubtfully. They had been away a time from any news-busy monastery, yet she was certain she would know that her uncle was dead.
For dead he would have to be, for be would never willingly hand over Bebbanburg or its lands to a king in Eoferwic, Danish nor Saxon
.
Besides, Danes vied with Norse for land here - even at the time of her ancestor - Oswald - Northumbria was two kingdoms, Bernicia and Deria, and neither Oswald of Bernicia nor Edwin of Deria could claim they truly ruled their own kingdoms, either, as invasions came from Pictland, Nercia, Eadt Anglia and even Kent.
There was silence from Griogair after that, as darkness enclosed around them. At length, Osthryth recognised both Taghd's and Feargus's sleep-breathing. Griogair's eventually joined them. But Osthryth still felt uneasy.
Osthryth curled her hand around Buaidh's hilt as she stood, staring in the direction of their destination. The moon began to rise, gibbous, and it picked out the city, its river glimmering like a giant eel stretching languidly through it.
You are to spy, use your languages, Domhnall had told her. She paced around the fire, adding a branch from the meagre pile that they had gathered that evening, which provoked the fire to life. They would sail up that eel, they would stop at the monastery which, like Culdees, stood adjacent a major riverbank.
Osthryth shivered, glancing sorrowfully over her shoulder. To the north now, post the traditional season of warfare, Domhnall intended to attack Eochaid and force him from the Pictish throne. How she would be there, Osthryth thought, woefully...to fight beside her king, beside Constantine and Domnall; to fight for Domhnall, protect him, listen to the strategy as Ceinid stood before the soldiers, inspiring them with words of courage and honour, and -
A crack behind her made Osthryth turn on the balls of her feet. Buaidh was withdrawn and aloft as she listened. A breath near her shoulder caused her to thrust her blade towards it. But a hand caught her wrist as warm breath huffed words near her ear.
"Did you hear it too?" Osthruth pulled back roughly, refusing to remember how he had tried to seduce her, and she felt Griogair yield, letting her go and shifted next to her.
Osthryth took a step away, frowning into the darkness. It was not the first time she had raised her sword to Griogair mac Dungal; it had not been the first time he had crept about at night. Their job was to protect Griogair under banner of truce: it would defeat their reason of going to Caer Ligualid. It would be no good of she murdered him by mistake in the dark, even if he was creeping around trying not to be hearf.
"There," Osthryth whispered back, night-awareness overriding suspicion as they both stalked towards the "crunch".
Then, a shadow moved in the spinney of trees a little away from the camp. Osthryth looked behind her, then turned back suddenly, thrusting Buaidh into the body she knew would be there. A heavy body thumped to the ground by her feet and, to be sure, Osthryth thrust Buaidh into it.
A clash of steel behind her told Osthryth that Griogair had engaged another foe and she turned to help, aware now of the feet running towards them from the camp. Taghd was to her right and Feargus was circling behind Griogair. The gibbous moon illuminated the scene as Griogair fought the attacker, until finally bringing him to his knees, plunging his sword between the shoulder blades.
In the moonlight, Osthryth saw the last breath of the man as he huffed it, slowly, into the cold night air. All four of the warriors stood apart, alert, waiting to see if these were alone or part of a larger group. Osthryth could hear nothing, except her own heart beating and, now the exertion had drained her adrenaline, she felt an overwhelming tiredness.
As if sensing her dullness, Taghd spoke close to her ear, making her jump, and he put his hand on her wrist to stop her from instinctively thrusting her blade to him.
"Come, rest. We will keep watch now."
And, sleep she did, for when Osthryth opened her eyes it was to a vista of grey. The two bodies which they had overcome the night before lay where they had fallen, morning mist wrapping itself around the corpses as though their spirits were being taken from the lifeless bodies.
She looked harder, noting the leather straps up their legs, and long, braided red-brown hair. They were young, almost boys, and probably had seen their fire and thought they would chance on them. They did not consider that whoever had a fire out in winter by the coast might be hardier, stronger than them.
She sighed as she got to her feet, the tiredness of the night still with her and knowing she must overcome it for when they rowed down the Idunn that day.
"Two Strathclyde Cymric," Taghd said, as Osthryth flung her cloak around her shoulders, "Look like the two we scared away at Whithorn."
He proffering her the leather water skin and gesturing to the fire as Osthryth turned to look back at the dead warriors. Only boys...
Then she turned back and looked up to Taghd, who pushed the water towards her again, insistently. She took it and drank, gratefully, before crouching to the stone.
"You, Feargus?" Osthryth asked, as she gestured to the fire. Two herring were browning on a stone, most of one had been picked away, though some of the dorsal meat was still there. Feargus grinned his wide, generous smile and gestured to them. Osthryth scooped up some of the flakes and roasted skin, eating it hungrily. Feargus nodded. It was uncanny the young man's ability to locate food.
"Of that group we saw yesterday, no doubt," Griogair said, who had been staring at the dead men. "Rievers. Must have been let out to scout; came too close last night."
"Will we encounter more?" Osthryth asked, drinking the spring water, fresh, she noticed. Clearly Feargus, or Taghd had spent the morning provisioning.
"Unlikely," Griogair replied. "They prefer to attack overland. They could have tracked us since last time. Caer Ligualid is a rich target." He glanced at the two warriors. "They saw our fire and thought they'd chance us for valuables."
Taghd insist they bury the Cymric boys so, after brief prayers in Gaelish, and then Griogair's slow Cymric, all four warriors strode to where the boat, swinging impatiently against its rope, was moored and soon their craft was out on wide open sea heading to the narrowing channel which was the Idunn estuary.
Even with the sail, they had their work cut out. They were rowing against the the current, and they battled their way up to the river.
It took them most of the day and made little progress, camping out on the bank in sight of the city.
"We could walk," Feargus suggested as they tipped the boat up onto its side while Griogair began to build a fire.
"And carry the boat?" Taghd had laughed. Osthryth said nothing as Feargus pulled a salmon from the river, a miracle so late in the year.
Danes had carried their boats overland, Osthryth wanted to say. They had raised them up a cliff to invade Paris attacking the Merovignian king, in Frankia. It had been reported in a rather shrill letter from a Bishop living in Paris to one at ColmCille's monastery at Doire.
But she didn't, and they camped within view of the city, Taghd singing softly of a long ago battle. Osthryth took the first watch and, after being relieved of her watch as the moon grew high by Feargus, slept easily.
She awoke to fine, mizzling rain which soaked her cloak and made her shiver as they rowed up the snaking Idunn. It was cold and the mid-November morning had not yet broken as they left, but Osthryth warmed as she heaved mightily on the boat's oars against the current until finally they made it to Caer Ligualid as the sun began to fade, and to its monastery, situated on the north bank at a bend in the river.
Stone walls defended the monastery, which was raised at the centre, standimg high up, its wooden boards petered to where a cross was displayed at the point.
On its bank several men stood, churchmen, waiting and Osthryth felt nothing less than relief when they could tie up their little boat and declare their business.
Griogair alighted first, tying up the boat between larger fishing boats. One of the men, taller than the others, hair grey, eyes alert, spoke to him as Osthryth, Feargus and Taghd trod onto the damp mud quay. The setting sun sent shafts of light through the dense cloud, illuminating patches of green moss in amongst the damp earth.
Osthryth could not, at first, understand what the man - clearly a bishop from his richness of dress, so used that she was from to hearing and speaking Gaelish and Cymric and she strained to catch words she knew.
After trying again in what Osthryth understood to be Anglish, Griogair again addressed him, his tone slower and more staccatoed before turning to her, ushering her forward. Taghd and Feargus strode to a spot just behind her.
"You have business with the king?" the abbot asked in Anglish, peering down at her.
"You speak," Griogair instructed, clearly annoyed at not being understood and Osthryth stepped between the two men.
"Indeed, my lord," Osthryth said carefully, inclining her head, and went on to explain that Griogair mac Dungal was Domhnall mac Caustin's royal representative and that he understood that King Guthred was expecting them.
The abbot, whose name was Trew peered down at Osthryth, then addressed Griogair.
"Alba? Eochaid?" He asked. Griogair shook his head.
"My lord Griogair mac Dungal represents the true king of Alba, of the direct line of Ceinid mac Alpin, late crowned at Dunadd." Pride filled her as she added, "Domhnall mac Caustin."
"Indeed?" Abbot Trew looked across to Griogair, and Osthryth translated. Once he had given his reply, Osthryth relayed it to the abbot, as close a translation to which Grigoair spoke.
"Eochaid of Strathclyde, of Run Macarthurgail, does not like it that Northumbrians - and Danes - rule here, for he sees Cumbraland as the Hen Ogledd, and claims it accordingly," she added. It was only later that she realised why the previous abbot - Eadred had claimed Guthred as their king: they were seeking to retain their independence from Strathclyde.
As Abbot Trew listened, Osthryth's mind realised that as well as being distantly related to Constantine, she was, through her mother, distantly related to Eochaid Run.
"Then your lord Domhnall mac Caustin and King Guthred have a common enemy - " he addressed Griogair, breaking off suddenly and turning the corners of his mouth up in a smile before looking back at Osthryth. "Does your Lord Griogair know that Eochaid had king Guthred enslaved?" Osthryth didn't bother to translate this, for Griogair had told them this.
"Then," the abbot said, raising his arm in a warm gesture nedding no translation, "men of Domhnall mac Caustin, you are expected, and most welcome."
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The fire crackled in a large, central pit in the monastery's hall and Griogair was escorted into it. The three warriors followed behind and were shown to a long, thin table in a corner where junior monks were consuming bread and ale. They shuffled down to make room for them and Osthryth was glad she was near the end of the table for her clothes were beginning to dry out from the updraughts of hot aur from the fire.
But they were near enough to hear Griogair, and another priest, who clearly knew Cymric, for he was translating for Griogair and Abbot Trew.
"The king not here at present," she heard the man translate for the bishop, as two maids brought them food. "Slaves were freed in the coast, at Gyrrum - "
Gyrrum, Osthryth thought as she thought about the place. On the southern east coast of Bernicia.
" - an issue which concerned Alfred of the West Saxons enough to send men to intercept this particular slaver - "
Osthryth dropped her ale cup onto the table-board as her mind filled with a jumble of ideas at once. She fought to untangle them. Alfred of Wessex? From Winchester?
"Here!" laughed Taghd, "I'll have it, if you don't want it!" She smiled at him passed it over. Taghd smiled back, giving her the water skin. It was almost full and she drank, gratefully.
Winchester. She thought of her brother. That was where he had last been heard of. Monks' epistles to one another were invariably out of date, but still, the last time she had heard of him was at Iona, when they had returned from Doire, it meant he was there at least thay summer. He had never come back for her, though. Had he remained serving the Saxon king in Wessex all that time?
Yet...Alfred had business in Northumbria...what business could that have been? The slaver, obviously, but why? Slavers travelled every day around the coasts of the country; why travel all that way just for that particular one? With warriors...?
"C'mon Osthryth, eat yer bread; we need to know what these scunners are saying!"
"They say you smell and sing out of tune, Taghd of Doire!" she retorted, grinning, then asked the monk sitting next to Feargus.
"They ask, did we bring the northern monsters with us," she translated. Taghd grinned.
"Just ourselves," he replied. "What is that in Anglish?" Osthryth told him. It was strange to think, Osthryth considered, as the evening conversation continued, the junior monks conversing in a disjointed manner with Taghd and Feargus, with Osthryth translating, that even though Strathclyde lay just above the Solway, and Rheged had been a kingdom made of both Strathclyde and Cumbraland, that they were so different.
"Three," Taghd said, to a monk opposite. When he didn't reply, he nudged Osthryth.
"Three apples," she said, patiently translating, while casting a glance over to Griogair. What she really wanted to do was to listen to the equally disjointed conversation between Abbot Trew and Griogair, but she noticed the priest who had been translating had gone, and Griogair was eating alone, silently.
"Guthred," she heard one monk say, and jerked her head back at an answer to Feargus's one word question of, "King?"
"The blessed Saint Cuthbert appeared in a dream to the Abbot's predecessor in a dream," the monk continued, earnestly. He looked a little like Anndra - black haired, pointed face. And she forced her mind away from what they had done in the monastery scriptorium that one morning.
"Saint Cuthbert?" Osthryth wondered, aloud. Northumbria's most blessed of saints, whose body was on a mobile pilgrimage to prevent the relics being destroyed by the pagan Norse or Danes, had been to Caer Ligualid, and the king had been, the monk continued, humbled by his presence.
"The first saint of Northumbria after they left the church," Griogair added. Osthryth looked up to see Domhnall's man there, standing next to her at the end of the boards. "Before King Oswy of Bernicia turned to Augustine and away from ColmCille." Osthryth looked across to the monks then back to Griogair. "Tell them," he added, amd she did. Around the table, the monks nodded in agreement.
"The monks have taken it for safe keeping, now this place is holy," the monk added. "Haligwerfolkland, King Guthred calls it. "Holy people's land."
"And the king is in Eoferwic, or Gyrrum?" Osthryth asked, not caring that Griogair was beside her.
"Yes," the one resembling Anndra replied. He did indeed look like the ColmCille monk from Doire who had fondled her tits and whom she had masturbated to orgasm, who met an untimely death at the hand of a Norse warrior. "But he is coming here, for Advent."
And then the monks departed to prayers, bidding Osthryth, Taghd and Feargus goodbye in their newly-learned Gaelish.
"So, while we await the king," Griogair said, looking at Osthryth a little too long, "you are to be part of the household at the monastery.
And that included the monastery's scriptorium, Osthryth told herself, as they crossed the frost- hardened mud to the hayloft above the stables, to sleep, at last, under a roof and away, at last, from Griogair.
As she sank into the hay next to the already snoring Feargus, she considered the interception - and destruction - of a slaver ship that was important enough for both the king of the West Saxons and Cumbraland to take an interest. And, as her mind drifted to sleep, she thought of Ethne, and wondered whether it was her ship, and if she were now free.
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What delights there were in the scriptorium tower. Little had been kept of current correspondence, little gossip amongst monks, for Osthryth had spent her first days searching for snippets about Wessex, Beocca and her brother and, now of the Uí Néill, of Flann Sinna and Muire's court. Nothing of substance was contained within it and instead, read anything she found of interest.
Osthryth barely saw Abbot Trew, saw little of Griogair and no sign of the king of theirs. Even Taghd and Feargus were kept busy with tasks around the monastery and castle. Anyone would think they had simply swapped Dunnottar for Caer Ligualid.
She found Taghd cleaning the stables when she descended the monastery's steps five days after they'd arrived. Up at the very top, where the library was situated the air was cold and crisp and it made the scenery around them clear. Osthryth stared over to what was now Strathclyde Cymric territory, surveying the high, blue-grey land. Then she read the bound manuscripts again.
"What's the matter?" Taghd asked, when he encountered Osthryth's unusually flushed and animated face.
"Born on Saint Brendan's Day," Osthryth recited to him, in Gaelish, hoping it would do, "and will sail to Saint Brendan's Isle."
Taghd leaned his shovel against the wall of the stable. Warm air curled from the pile of used straw by the entrance.
"Who is Saint Brendan?" she asked him. For it had been a revelation to Osthryth that her ancestor Oswy, brother of Oswald and father to Osthryth, had married Rhieinmelth, of Urien of Rheged's line, and he had been born on St. Brendan's Day, centuries before. Did Oswy go to St. Brendan's Isle? She had found no evidence either way. Nor had she found much of anything that might constitute anything she supposed Domhnall might use.
Taghd told her a long story about a priest who had determined to sail west and find the land beyond Tir na nÒg, and the lands and people and creatures he found.
"Brendan the Navigator," he concluded, then asked where Osthryth had read it.
"I was just reading about a princess of here," Osthryth continued, who married a King of Bernicia. Northumbria, really."
"Is that so?" Taghd asked, smiling. "In fact, kings of Bernicia came all the way to Eireann, in exile, as their uncle took the whole land."
"Edwin," Osthryth said. "It must be the same kings. Oswald, and Oswy." Taghd nodded.
"It was a story my grandfather told me, he added, the afternoon light dipping behind a cloud.
"You told it at Tara," Osthryth remembered, the connection to herself strengthening as she remembered that balmy, summer night when Flann Sinna had been crowned, when all was happy and easy and alive. She smiled at Taghd.
"You said Oswy married the daughter of the Uí Néill king," she added. "Gormlaith, that was her name, was it not?"
"Fina," Taghd replied, noncomittally.
"No," Osthryth pressed slyly, "it is Taghd of Doire who wished to know Princess Gormlaith intimately..."
Taghd said nothing, but grinned at her, then continued to sweep the stable.
After just a few days she had found out such a lot; half her family were of Rheged, of the Hen Ogledd; the other half were of Bernicia.
But now, Rheged was split, half absorbed by into Strathclyde, the other, Northumbria. When rievers came, they were simply fighting their own ancestral countryfolk, fellow Cymry...
Osthryth crossed to one of the support beams where another rake stood.
"Feargus?"
"In the armoury, cleaning it." He continued to pile the dirty straw by the door as Osthryth began to sweep the fresh into place.
"Is that why the Norse and Danes fight to install under-kings," Osthryth mused, "to strip strength from the Saxon kingdoms so they can't fight back?"
"It is possible," Taghd replied, joining Osthryth to smooth out the straw evenly. "But they simply want land and wealth. When that goes, so will they. That's why Flann Sinna's starvation policy will work, in the end."
"So," concluded Osthryth as she thought it through. "Will Domhnall be king of Strathclyde also, and therefore be overlord of Haligwerfolkland?"
"Yes, I expect so, Taghd replied, opening the stable door and forking the fouled straw into a cart. "And if Guthred's Haligwerfolkland then, by implication, Cumbraland and Northumbria."
"That would be very worrying for those south of Strathclyde and Pictland," Osthryth mused. "A Gaelish king offering terms. Guthred would be would be a fool to try do anything other than form an alliance to secuee Cumbraland away from a Strathclyde takeover. Dyfnwal is Eochaid's heir, and only a child, so he could not effect an invasion. Domhnall wishes to regain Aed's throne and it would do him no harm to cause Eochaid some strife, especially Eochaid's former slave." Osthryth looked back to Taghd, questioningly, hoping for a response. Taghd leaned on the stable fork and loomed at Osthryth's face.
"Guthred would indeed be better allied to Domhnall and support his cause than any alliance with Eochaid. But, he's a king, Osthryth. They make decisions themselves and often for no logical reason."
"Indeed."
In the doorway, the tall, pale-haired abbot stood, critically analysing Taghd's work.
"Do you find the books suitable for your needs in the scriptorium - Osthryth, isn't it?"
"Yes, your grace." Abbot Trew curled his lips into a wry smile.
"Not a bishop - not yet. Abbot will suffice. And yes. It will do the king no harm allying with Alba just so long as the Scots decide to remain north of the wall."
"And along the Tuide," Osthryth added, picking out the historic boundary just north of Bebbanburg. Abbot Trew smiled again.
"You are incredibly well informed, girl. But kings are not infallible." The abbot looked out of the stable door as if King Guthred were approaching. "Take the slaver."
"What of the slaver?"
"Guthred had someone he wronged. It takes a lot for a king to admit an error."
"Then, he shows humility," Taghd interjected.
Trew's face darkened for a short second as if only just realising Taghd was there. Then, he added, "Indeed so." A thought suddenly ocvurred to Osthryth.
"Abbot Trew, may you tell me, if you should know, on this slaver, did a woman come ashore?"
"Many did, but - "
" - Ethne? Was one called Ethne?" Abbot Trew thought for a moment, but then shook his head.
"The name is not familiar; the slaves have formed a community of their own near Gyrrum. This often happens to freed slaves. Many change their names in the pursuit of a bew life." Abbot Trew shook his head. "It's a terrible thing to do to a person." Trew leaned his against the frame of the stable.
Then why is it done? Osthryth asked, silently. To humiliate? To punish? She thought of Finnolai...to dispose of people? To minimise costs if they did not gave to be paid, the lord had more money for things which did require wealth?
"I sought you in the scriptorium," Abbot Trew said to Osthryth. I would speak to you with regard to your research."
"Then speak," Osthryth said. Trew looked at Taghd with distaste, which was enough for the warrior to put down the fork he was using to gather the straw and tread towards the abbot, closing the stable door behind him.
"It seems you are finding our documents easy. Your king, Domhmall, conveyed his desire to discover more of our land."
"Indeed," Osthryth nodded. Not just for Domhnall.
"To that end, I consider it prudent that you have assistance." His brow wrinkled. "One of our monks will join you tomorrow. He is learned, and you may ask him anything you wish."
After the abbot strode across the courtyard, Taghd returned continuing with the mucking out. He said nothing to Osthryth, a strange look on his face. Then, he sunk onto the bottom step of the hayloft. Osthryth sat beside him.
"They make you feel you welcome, but can betray you like that!" Taghd said suddenly, addressing the horse trough in a quiet voice. "I am Domhnall's man and I always will be. But my father and my brothers were killed in Dunadd... hostages to Aed." He looked across to Osthryth, his usual buoyant gead sagging at the shoulders.
Osthryth was sp astonished she didn't know what to say. Eventually, she placed a hand on his forearm
"You are never angry about it?"
"Angry?" Taghd shook his head. "They keep the rest of my family safe;
Aed was like Constantine is: lacking in compassion." He sighed. "When Domhnall asked Aed for my services, it was for his elite guard, Aed didnt even remember who I was Domhnall remembers everyone; its why he inspires love from his men "
Yes, thought Osthryth, that was the love she felt. Loyalty, for loyalty was given. Yet, Domhnall was an Uí Àlpin. He had a huge ambitikn and needed to bend all the resources he had to fulfil it. So did all kings; this king of Cumbraland would be the same. When he eventually came to Caer Ligualid.
"Despite that," Taghd continued, his point being close to Osthryth's own thoughts, "it is in my interests to serve Domhnall for life so this arrangenent never stops."
Like the slave the abbot spoke about. Perpetually bonded to keep half his family safe. What sort of life was that?
"And Feargus?" Taghd turned his head and smiled at Osthryth, placing hid hand over hers on his arm.
"He's a straigtforward farmer's son who had a huge battle prowess. Come on," Taghd added, loosing Osthryth's hajd and getting to his feet. "Where are you from? You are no rankless girl - you fight too well."
"You are right, I am not. But - "
"Don't tell me, you're a queen - a queen of Northumbria, bit it's safer for you to go around as a servant."
Cold dread poured into her stomach. Did Taghd know? Or, was it a coincidental guess?
And then he laughed at his own joke, tbe Taghd she knew returning to her.
"Just look after yourself Osthryth, little warrior; don't get in too deep with them, have somewhere to go, then go if you need to. You needn't suffer like you did in Ireland for the house Àlpin.
And then Osthryth kissed him on the cheek. There was no heat in it, just gratitude, just happiness that she had a person who cared about her wellbeing. When she pulled back, Taghd drew her close looked at her.
"Promise me you will watch out for yourself? For they will use you for their ends, Osthryth.
"As long as you promise too," Osthryth whispered to his chest, the thump of his heart close to her ear. Perhaps it was then, Osthryth thought, at a future time, when something had changed.
Just then, though, a shout broke the spell. Feet thudded across the courtyard. And a shout went up: "Rievers!"
Taghd rushed to the door, Osthryth catching it and holding it open, hand on Buaidh. Before them, Feargus was running as members of the household guard rushed past him.
"Osthryth!" He exclaimed, looking at her, then Feargus looked across to Taghd.
"They need fighters; the rievers have broken through the outer wall!"
"It's wood," Osthryth said. "They won't be able to get past the stone wall." That was the inner wall. Before that, the rievers could cause damage. And, as they got beyond the monastery, they were doing it.
To be bereaved meant people...warriors, women, children...were slaughtered, and already, slaughter was happening as this particularly large force of poorly-dressed but well-armed raiders had looted the meagre pickings to be had from the villages that - had once - stood between the wooden and stone walls of Caer Ligualid.
The tribes of Rheged had fought for possessions and land since the Latins had been here, who built this place. But this time, the raiders - these rievers - seemed particularly savage. They almost seemed...
"Osthryth!" A voice called out of the battle, just in time to avoid an axe blow. She turned, lithely, sliding Buaidh into the man's stomach. She turned back, charging to where her eye had first heen drawn, to a man holding a baby. The mother was screaming at the man, holding the infant by its ankles, before swinging it against the stone of the city wall, bashing out its tiny brain. The child did not even have a chance to cry out.
Osthryth stopped for a moment as the man, who had taken up yet a second infant, was roaring at the woman, who was being held back by the arms by another delighted riever. Then, within a second, she was on him, tackling his legs, before stabbing him in the throat with the short knife given to her by Mael Muire. The second baby rolled, unharmed to the floor as Osthryth leaped on the man holding the mother, impaling the blade between his ribs.
"Bel! Lugus!" The woman shrieked. Were they the children's names, Osthryth wondered, and glanced where the woman was staring, at the grotesque end to one of her twins. Were they her childrens' names? Or was the woman a heathen, and she was invoking her gods? Or grieving to them?
With a backwards glance, Osthryth dashed on, though the fight was now more of a skirmish and the rievers were leaving, over the Idunn to waiting horses on the northern bank of the river.
But they were not at liberty yet. Warriors from the household guard had already crossed the river and were harrying the raiders, several stragglers meeting their end at the and chased towards their horses.
"Rievers!" Exclaimed one of the citadel's guards, and spat, as many of the rest headed back inside its walls.
"Come on," Taghd called, and she looked up to see him striding back towards the city gates. Feargus was further away, and he too was retreating.
It was then, just as Osthryth was about to step behind the wooden palisade towards the walls, she glanced at the bereaved mother and saw...who and from where, she could not place and who was gone within seconds. Osthryth saw...someone she knew.
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They spent several cold, crisp days training and eating with the monks as a cold wind blew in from the west. Snow had settled on the broad, high mountains in the south, but it was warmer there, Caer Ligualid was nestled in a valley protected on three sides by higher ground.
Waiting was patience-trying and while they kept up with their sword skill with the palace guards, Taghd and Feargus would spend cold afternoons repairing the monastery, assisting the armourers and generally killing time until the king returned, or the rievers, Osthryth in the scriptorium.
Osthryth had indeed been met by a monk, who introduced himself as Brother Cavan and who showed up the scriptorium tower stairs to a floor above where she had been reading. This room was densely packed with artefacts and from its larger windows had a superb view.
The man was young, keen, and seemed to be wearing his tonsure in a horse-shoe shape at the back of his head, like the Ionan monks. He had sandy-coloured hair, was Osthryth's height and a prominent overbite caused his mouth to be constantly in a half-grin. When Brother Cavan showed her into the room, he smiled, gesturing to the opening in the wall of the tower that effectively acted as a window.
"Look," he said in Anglish with a marked Cymric accent. "All tgat can be seen from here. It's marvellous, is it not?"
As the young monk pointed out the landmarks, Osthryth could see from where they had travelled, from the higher land, once Rheged, now Strathclyde, into the estuary, with the silvery eel of a river snaking through of the low-lying countryside. Looking down, she could see where hovels of the heathen once stood, many areas merely black, charred remains. She wondered where the mother, whose one child she had managed to save, was now.
"Over there, that is the kingdom of the Strathclyde Cymric," Brother Cavan told her in a joyous and hasty tone. Indeed, he had talked non-stop since she strode over the courtyard to the oak door at the bottom of the tower. A little older than Osthryth, he had been at the monastery since he was ten, and spoke Latin, Anglish as well as his own native Cymric.
"But not Gaelish," he added, the words falling from his mouth as if desperate to escape. "Though they say it's similar to Cymric - not that similar, I find. And over there," he continued, with no opportunity for Osthryth to reply, "if you can see the solid line, that is where the Latins began their wall, which separated them from the land of the Picts." Osthryth leaned forward, and could indeed see wall, attributed to the Emperor Hadrian.
"You know of the Emperor Hadrian?" Brother Cavan had asked, excitedly, at her words, this time allowing opportunity for Osthryth to answer.
"From Dunnottar's manuscripts," Osthryth allowed, and at that moment, as the orange evening sun darkened to a red, she suddenly missed her time the fortress, where she was just merely a kitchen servant trying to avoid Constantine, where she slept in the back kitchen alcove, an underground stream keeping her company as it quietly tinkled over pebbles.
Was her silver still there, Seobhright's silver, stolen, no doubt, which she had discovered when she fled from the sea gate from Bebbanburg? She had moved the granite block and buried it beneath the stream. No, it would he long gone by now.
Osthryth's silence, with her own thoughts in her mind, had not seemed to have deterred the young monk, who was busily picking out the landscape features, irrespective of her contribution.
"And just there," he pointed out, "can you see the square?" Osthryth squinted in the evening light and leaned towards the window. "That is the first fortress the Latins built from here to the east coast - Oswald's Bird fort, it's called, for Saint Oswald stayed there, after he had collected men from Rheged to fight Cadwallon and reclaim his father's throne."
"Oswald?" But of course! Her ancestor had, as she had, spent time in Ulster with the Dal Riatans.
"Yes, the blessed king of the Bernicians. And Derians, of course. Made a surprise attack on Cadwallon - completely destroyed his army, though, of course, Cadwallon had done the same to Northumbria, and killed Edwin, and Eadfrith too." He paused, looking at Osthryth's face.
"But, of course, you knew this, being Anglish," he said, conceding the point. "I do apologise, I rarely have many people to speak to." He gestured towards the shelves with rolls of parchment.
Papers seemed to be bundled up in amongst volumes of books, and as Brother Cavan showed her, pointing to, "A copy of the Irish Annals," and, "A transcript of the Lindisfarne Gospels," Osthryth marvelled at the lack of sequence to them all.
"Oh, I can help you find anything you're looking for!" Cavan exclaimed, when Osthryth pointed that out. "I do take a deal of interest in the history of our lands. What do you need?"
"I am looking for Pictland," Osthryth said, vaguely. The truth was she had come to spy, not to research for Culdees, as Griogair had put to the Abbot Trew. "And Rheged too, and Bernicia." She looked at the young man's honest, eager face. "The things you are interested in, I suppose."
"Great!" Cavan replied, a big grin on his face. "We can start in the morning, with Pictland!"
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"And," concluded Cavan, pointing out the words to Osthryth, "the Rheged nobility honoured their promise to supply men to Oswald when he came, and they formalised Rhieinmelth's betrothal to Oswy, Oswald's younger brother. But you knew this," Cavan added, a little crestfallen.
They had spent much of the day going through manuscripts, starting early in the morning when the young monk had called up to her in the hay loft on his way back from matins in the monastery hall and barely avoided a brick being hurled down from the monastery window by a grumpy and now very much awake Feargus.
Osthryth had followed Cavan up the stairs to the manuscripts, the chill of the morning making her shiver and she hoped the sun would be out and the room would warm, if they were to be there all day.
She decided on the strategy of opportunity, letting the young monk show her what he thought she wanted to know. Anything that sounded unusual or contradictory she could remember to tell Domhnall.
But, by the time afternoon prayers had made an cautious Cavan say, "Come across to the door, tomorrow morning, won't you?" and dismiss himself in a hurry, Osthryth was feeling that the history of Pictland, Northumbria, Rheged, Gododdyn, and even Dal Riata, Eireann, East Anglia, Kent and Wessex was one that was very inter-tangled.
She needed to be specific. But how? As the afternoon wore on, and the end of prayer bells rang, Osthryth made her way to the kitchens, hungry and in need of a drink.
The cook, a huge man who spoke only Cymric, ignored Osthryth as she found tbe spring water at the back of tbe kitchen, and she scooped cool, chilled water into her mouth.
"You're one of the warriors from Alba," he said, suddenly, noticing her. From his tone, Osthryth felt her right hand go to Buaidh. "You are expected in the hall - all warriors eat in the hall," he added. He followed her gaze, which took in fish and meat, bread and fruit and laughed, heartily.
"You like the look of it?" Osthryth nodded.
"Haf!" He called. A young girl, about Osthryth's age, appeared at the door. "Put on a platter anything this young man desires. And for pity's sake, show him the hall - the last warrior boy we had in here fell into the spring and drowned." He saw Osthryth's doubtful expression. "It's deceiving...very deep...takes you all the way down to Arawn, it do, and you'll soon be feasting with Bel and Lugus."
"Instead of the rievers," Osthryth said, as she followed Haf across the courtyard, the girl balancing tbe platter on one hand. She was a pretty girl, her fair, golden hair picked out in the failing light.
But the cook had mentioned the two gods of the heathen she did know, and the image of the woman with one dead, one live twin in her arms was still in the recesses of her mind
"They do come," Haf admitted, as Osthryth opened the door of the monastery's hall. "But we are safe in here. Our warriors raid their villages too. They came last week - "
- and I fought, though Osthryth. Haf examined Osthryth's features.
"It's how it is," she shrugged.
"Your father mentioned the gods...not God...and I've heard them before."
"Oh, yes," Haf said, quietly, leaning her head close to Osthryth's. "We are Christians, but we remember our gods too. Most of the working servants are the same." She looked around the hall. "Before the Latins built this city, it was called Lugubalia, after the warrior god of the sun. When it sets in the west, Lugh is sending out all his battle strength for the morning."
Not knowing what else to do, Osthryth nodded.
"Are you a heathen?" Haf continued. "You have been visited by a god, I can tell. My mother had the gift I have."
"Do you know the Morrigan?" Haf nodded, eyes widened. "I made a kind of promise to her," Osthruth continued, not looking round to see if Taghd was in the hall, "though I didn't know I had. She came to me, reminding me of it." Haf still stared at her, open mouthed.
"What?" Osthryth asked, as the girl goggled at her. Osthryth looked back at her, waiting.
"The Morrigan warns of death," Haf said, eventually, her eyes still wide. With wonder? Terror? Osthryth did not know. "Come to me, to the kitchen when Ærra Geola begins and the Christians begin to fast for Advent. You need to eat! Every day!" And the girl looked so earnest that Osthryth nodded. A shout went up from a table-board just behind her.
Osthryth turned, but the table of warriors were not Taghd or Feargus - they were warriors whom Osthryth had never seen before. One of them shouted over to Haf in a dialect of Cymric that Osthryth didn't quite understand.
"I must go," Haf said, gesturing to the plate the cook had prepared for her. Osthryth sat down, withdrawing the small knife. It still had blood on it, and she wiped it hastily on her breeches. Haf put her hand out to Osthryth's wrist.
"Come back, anytime, to the kitchen, my father will feed you," she said to Osthryth, ignoring the shouts and whistles from the unknown warriors at the further table.
"The warriors?"
"The king's men."
That was right, thought Osthryth. Cavan had told her that, families of Urien's line, men of Rheged, still lived here and formed the military. They had been the ones who had torn past her when the rievers attacked.
It would only be later she would search the mens' faces from the image in her mind...they were the warriors of Rheged, she realised, later...they must be kin of her mother.
"But now they are King Guthred's men. Some are Danes."
"And the king is...?" Haf removed her hand, guiltily, as a tall, broad warrior trod towards them. Haf looked apprehensive. Osthryth tried to work out why, as a face not dissimilar to Gert, the honest-face Frisian fisherman who had come to Dunnottar, came close to them.
"In Eoferwic."
Haf inhaled sharply, gripping Osthryth's hand again. Osthryth took it instinctively, looking now as more warriors ranged over the tables. And, next to them, were Feargus and Taghd. The Danish warrior frowned at Osthryth, hand closing around the hilt of her sword.
"Stop chatting up the servants, Osthryth!" Taghd called, beckoning her over. Haf dropped Osthryth's hand hurriedly and Osthryth got up and strode over to them, grinning.
The Danish warrior stepped towards Haf now and Osthryth saw the girl scuttle off, her face flushed red.
"Where were you today?" Taghd asked, eyeing her plate of food, which was much fuller than either of theirs. Osthryth offered it to him and Feargus - there was far too much for her to eat by herself. Feargus needed no second invitation amd speared a piece of meat onto his knife.
"In the scriptorium," she replied. "Doing as Domhnall asked."
"With that idiot who woke us up before cock crow," scorned Feargus.
"I thought you would train today," Taghd went on, his voice almost plaintive. He too speared some meat from Osthryth's plate.
"I saw you," Osthryth conceded. "I was going to." She had. When Cavan went off to afternoon prayers, she had looked down into the courtyard and saw all the warriors training, Feargus's orange-red hair; Taghd's pale head, the whiteness of his hair enhanced by the coldness of the day.
And, she had to confess, she did more than look at Taghd, she looked over his body, long and gainly, muscular and swift, sinewy and lithe. It had been his body she was noticing more these days, since she had kissed his cheek and he had held her body...as he moved, as he talked, as he sang. As he slept. Though they were hand-wed, they were not really married. She was his comrade, nothing more. And Osthryth was beginning to yearn that it was more.
When Cavan had gone to prayers that morning, knowing he woild be at least an hour, Osthryth had looked at Taghd for a while, training with the king's guards, her pulse increasing, before suddenly backing into the corner of the manuscript room, hands down her leather trousers to find her bump, enfolded in her flesh.
As Osthryth had grown older, the minuscule bump was more responsive to her touch, and she had ground it with her fingers as she had done when she had, with much-rewarded effort, borne down as she rode Constantine at Dunadd, discovering with the prince that night that both humping and pleasure were integrally connected.
It was already a well-practised action and made Osthryth feel relaxed when she came, worries fading to nothing as the waves of pleasure overcame her.
The first time Osthryth had found out about it was when she had been at Bebbanburh. Osthryth had seen an older boy warrior from her uncle's guard, kneeling with the rest of the guard in the fortress's chapel, Beocca blessing them for their next attack.
In her pre-pubescent waking dreams Osthryth thought of him and, as she watched him practise with his sword, she had found a corner of the chapel's attic to huddle. Her skirts had tangled between her legs and she had found a pleasure and had then spent the rest of that afternoon writhing and rubbing with her clothes, experimenting, the boy's face in her mind as her body got worked up. And the boy, whose name she didn't know, never did come back.
Subsequent days had followed with her new discovery, many happy hours spent refining the technique, finding the best resulted from pulling the cloth up and further up, between her lips until the fabric could go no futher, and crossing her legs around it, bearing down, then moving her folded legs up and down so the material frictioned her flesh, pulling it around to get the right pressure until she found a satisfying rhythm.
Or, as had been the faster technique, placing her feet flat on the floor, knees bent, and using the thumb knuckle of her hand to push upwards, then round in circles, occasionally accelerating the process by screwing her tiny, underdeveloped nubs on her chest with her fingers to hasten her to the end, pulling them, pinching them, scratching and flicking with her nails.
At Bebbanburg, she had not really known what she was doing, only that it felt good as she thought of him, fair haired, blue eyed warrior. Not unlike the warrior beside her now, eating the apple pieces that she'd ignored.
Osthryth knew how to she could come quickly, and had done so that morning, her long fingers opening her damp folds, twisting them slowly, then quickly, around the collection of sensitive nerve endings, as her other grasped the window ledge until, in Osthryth's mind, it was Taghd's hand getting her off.
"Griogair says we are to be here longer than they thought," Taghd went on, interrupting her memory and a flush spread over Osthryth's neck.
"Mh," Osthryth replied, as she recalled that exquisite release of tension that he had invoked in her body, knowing nothing could ever be for them.
When had she begun to desire him? At Dunnottar? Doire, where she had stayed, hidden, to watch him slide his hand up and down his cock, much larger and seemingly easier to entice to spill forth its seed, watching until he came, having chanced on him one night while looking for Domhnall? At Tara, when he was pushing his suit to Gormlaith and had found a servant of the Ulaid instead?
No, Osthryth cautioned herself, sharply. They were warriors, together only for fighting.
Yet, another, quieter, voice told Osthryth, what was drawing her to him? Was it, indeed, the Morrigan?
"So we must train with the king's men," Taghd added, turning, as Osthryth had turned, to look at the warriors. "If ever we get to understand them."
"You can help," Feargus added, looking up from his food. "Osthryth?"
Because she had turned to look at anything rather than Taghd's face just now. She nodded to Feargus, but then swung back as another face appeared, hooded as all the brothers were. The one she knew.
"Did you see - " Osthryth began, as the rest of the brothers walked slowly into the hall. The brother turned again, but was gone.
"What...?" Taghd asked. Feargus shrugged.
"I thought I saw..." She looked at Taghd, doubts overwhelming memory. "Nothing. So, about the king's guard?" She took up more meat from her plate, suddenly feeling hungry. "They're Danes?"
"Some of them," Feargus replied. "Cumbraland Cymru, Angles, Saxons, Britons. All keeping their swords sharp by practising against the Strathclyde rievers."
"Why?
"King Eochaid, of course. Domhnall's enemy...King Guthred's enemy..."
"Eochaid?" The Dane who had glowered at her when Haf had been standing next to her leaned over from his table.
"I don't speak Danish," Osthryth said, in English, then added, "Cymric?"
"Who are you?" The Dane asked, in Anglish.
"One of King Domhnall's warriors," she corrected.
"And why are you here?"
"We are to task the king, King Guthred, with an alliance against Eochaid, and -"
"No," boomed the Dane, "here!" And quickly, he drew his sword, holding it to her throat. Or, at least where Osthryth's throat would have been had she not whipped back from the bench, withdrawing Buaidh.
A low murmur was growing around them. Beside her, Taghd and Feargus had their swords out too.
"I do not know what you - " began Osthryth, whipping back as the Dane took a lunge at her, sword slamming, blade first, onto the table, making her plate bounce and the ale jugs skitter to the floor.
Beside them, the king's guards began to rise, gathering round the Dane.
"What has he done, Galmor?"
"Taken my woman!" the Dane snarled, lunging at Osthryth again. Behind him, the guard had unsheathed their swords. Osthryth held tight to Buaidh.
"What does he mean, Osthryth?" Taghd asked.
"No idea!" She shouted back, as this time Galmor's blade buried itself into the oak. When he couldn't pull it free, he roared, fixing Osthryth with a glare.
"My woman!" Behind them, a girl screamed, and Osthryth saw Haf, water running onto the floor as she looked on in horror.
"Her?"
"She like you!" He accused, leaping over the table. Osthryth stopped still, trying to raise Buaidh, but she had little room to wield it. Ducking just in time Osthryth just missed being jabbed in the eye.
"And I like her," Osthryth shot back, diving out of the way. "Is toil leam i," she translated, for Taghd and Feargus's benefit.
"I don't think that's what he's trying to say, Osthryth," Taghd replied over the clash of steel behind her, his blade blocking a certainly lethal blow to her back.
And then, suddenly, a voice rang out behind the royal guard.
"Get back, d'yer hear? She is under the protection of King Guthred!"
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And so, Abbot Trew, with Griogair's agreement, made changes to Osthryth's lifrle at Caer Ligualid. For she was under King Guthred's protection. As they explained what that meant, Osthryth couldn't help wondering how a king that they hadn't seen for nearly six weeks could actually protect her.
No matter what King Domhnall and King Aed had allowed her to do, it was unsuitable for her to remain sleeping next to Taghd and Feargus in the hayloft; she was to reside, alone, in the scriptorium for the Gaels' duration at Caer Ligualid.
She had stood before the abbot as he restricted where she could and could not go, but Osthryth put her foot down at being prevented from training, or having her weapons taken: she had fought, and fought well, against Danes and Norse - Taghd and Feargus had vouched for this. And she had fought against the rievers, though "fought" was hardly praise here: a child with a stck might have bettered some of the rowdy Strathclyde Cymru raiders. She was not prevented from eating with the warriors, however.
As she turned to go, Abbot Trew called put one last question.
"And you are...how old?"
"Fifteen," Osthryth answered, as Trew and Griogair exchanged a look.
"And you truly fight?" Osthryth could see that though Trew genuinely looked impressed, he tried not to show it.
"He knows you couldn't have taken his woman," Cavan said, the next morning, after she had spent a strange night alone in the scriptorium. "Not now, though. The abbot spoke to him."
It could have just been an amusing misunderstanding, Osthryth thought, but she had been taken from her comrades, and the royal guard had spited her by taking her plate the following night. Haf made to replenish it, but Osthryth had got to her feet and excused herself, still hungry, thinking how the girl would inflame the situation like that.
In the end, Taghd thrown up a rope to Osthryth to the scriptorium room and had her pull on it. She had been rewarded with bread and meat, all wrapped up neatly in a cloth, with a stone jar of water.
Her heart soared that her friends had remembered and, as the week went on, resigned herself to remaining in the scriptorium while the dust settled.
And, being up in the tower was little hardship. From the bed in a tiny alcove, locked at night and opened at dawn, she could see the stars, and tbe clouds, and tiny pinpricks of light in the distance of minute settlements in Strathclyde. She laughed that the little heathen-Christian girl had mistaken her for a boy, and hoped she and the Dane made one another happy.
And Osthryth also realised that she was developing feelings for Taghd. His voice had never caused her stomach to lurch as it did one morning as they practised fighting, nor his hand the tingling sensation when it had brushed hers one evening reaching for the ale. That night, all her energy was put into humping herself; beads of sweat formed on her brow as her thighs crushed the nub of highly sensitive nerves between her legs with her breeches, thinking they might be about to tear as she rode the fabric until she came, and then forced her body to elicit more release with sheer force of will until her cunt ached, her hips felt weak and her legs shook as she made to stand, the sunrise taking on her blush as guilty thoughts imagined it were Taghd's hands pleasuring her.
But, she would be shoulder to shoulder as a warrior, first, Osthryth knew, rather than a lover and determined never to tell him her feelings, nor yet act on them, only by herself.
Cavan brought her more artefacts and she learned that in the year 597, when ColmCille, the founder of the Lindisfarne monastery under Oswald, the Augustine mission began at Thanet.
"Crimthain, he was called," enthused Cavan, pointing to ColmCille's nickname. "It is Gaelish. Irish. Do you know its meaning?"
"Wolf," Osthryth replied, tracing the words with her finger.
"Ah, it's as I suspected," mused Cavan, wryly. And went on to tell her his hypothesis: that ColmCille arrived at Iona not by accident but by arrangement. Ceinid mac Alpin did not conquer the Picts alone; his ancestor through ColmCille had, first of all, converted to Christianity the Cymru of Pictland and Strathclyde. Gaelicisation."
Osthryth nodded. It made sense. It was why her ancestor, Oswald, had brought the Irish church to Northumbria: power, and why his brother Oswy, had turned to the Augustine church: more power through the Merovingian royals in Frankia and wealth and influence.
"Which is why the Domhnall has resisted the Augustine church, and why there is so much conflict between Alba and Northumbria," she added. Cavan gave her a toothy smile.
"You are very perceptive," he agreed. "It allowed him to break from Fina, to marry Rheienmelth, bring Cumbraland, once Rheged, into Augustine christisanity. Acha, his sister, had turned down a marriage offer from a Gaelish warrior. The Gaels were getting too strong. Oswy changed this despite having been cared for by the Gaels, as Oswald. They had been Gaelish warriors, despite being Anglish princes.
"I am a Gaelish warrior," Osthryth declared. "I am here for King Domhnall."
"But you are not Gaelish," replied Cavan. "I can tell by the way you speak Anglish and Cymric."
"I am a skilled Gaelish warrior who has had the fortune to be educated and allowed access to your scriptorium."
"And are you an Anglish prince, too?" Cavan chuckled. "I did see you how you fought the rievers."
"Tha mi nam ghaisgeach Gàidhlig. Gàidhlig y dwy," she added, in Cymric.
"I meant no offence, boy," the monk said, folding the scroll they had just been reading.
"Girl," Osthryth conceded. "An Anglish orphan girl who happened to kill a Dane who was threatening Constantine, and defending him."
"Did you really?" Cavan looked at Osthryth, impressed. "You are with the Lord Griogair?" Cavan shook is head. And, it wasn't until much later, under much different circumstances, that Osthryth would understand Cavan's next words, ones whivh made no sense to her then. "Funny," he said, how Giric was once loyal to Eochaid." And then he turned to another script, showing Osthryth that, in exile when Oswald was king, Edwin had a fleet at Caer Ligualid and had turned Domhnall Brecc's alleigance to him, conquering both Anglesey and Man, both of which now were in Norse hands.
"It is the way of now," Cavan explained. "Those with the most strength prevail. Guthred is king because Eadred, the previous abbot, had dreamed his face. But, he was probably just dreaming about power. Harthaknut, Guthred's father, was a brave warrior, who died fighting Eochaid in a border dispute. It was hoped that Guthred would be as successful."
Osthryth did not mistake the monk's words.
"Hoped?"
"He has made some mistakes, one which resulted in the death of Abbot Eadred as he tried to wed Guthred's sister to Aelfric of Bebbanburg and lost him his alleigance and the alliance of two Norse brothers who have since been a bane to the people of Cumbraland...he lost his sister to the slave he should not have sold. In fact, it is just because he is a Christian, and Alfred of Winchester favours a Christian on the throne of Eoferwic - and therefore Northumbria - that Guthred is not dead. And," Cavan added, brightly, smiling at Osthryth, everyone deserved a second chance now, do they not?"
He is certainly getting one through Domhnall, Osthryth thought. A chance to kill his former master? An enemy's enemy is a strong ally. And she had heard of the two Norse brothers - they had raided Strathclyde, Pictland, with Harald Finehair until the Mormaers of Pictland had defeated him, and they had also raided into Dal Riadan territory. It made sense. If she had been Domhnall, Osthryth would have done the same.
"The Cymric fight back. Just look at the Pictish throne now, two Cymru share ownership. Giric, they say, murdered King Aed mac Ceinid Àlpin to take the throne, which cleared the way for Eochaid. ColmCille's unity under Christianity only went so far." He handed her an illuminated page. But, Osthryth stared at him.
"Giric...who is on the Pictish throne now, with Eochaid...murdered Aed?"
"Why, yes of course! That is what your king is avenging, is it not? The assassination of his predecessor? Not without considerable tribute to Guthred, of course, which he badly needs."
But Osthryth was still reeling. It was true that monks really were gossips, but she would never have known that if Cavan hadn't told her, amongst many other things.
Did Domhnall really know of Aed's assassination? Surely he must do...and Giric, that small, wily eyed man who had little to say but plenty to learn when Domhnall amd Constantine were in reteat and they had gone to Eochaid's palace at Glaschu.
Could that be why they had had to flee, because Domhnall had discovered it?
It was such thoughts that were still of Osthryth's mind as she watched, from the back of the kitchens the next morning, two weeks into advent, Brother Cavan pounding up the steps of the scriptorium.
She was trying to warm up as the spring was very cold that morning and she had kicked a small stone into it to check its depth, as Haf's father's wprds had stuck with her and, sure enough, as the cook had said, though she strained to hear, Osthryth could not hear the stone "plink" to the bottom.
"Osthryth!" The monk called and, dressing quickly, waved a hand.
"You're up," he said, hurrying across the courtyard, yet another array of facts to tell her.
It was not to be. Osthryth, who had seen the small, rotund frame of Cavan raised a hand as guards rushed past them.
"Rievers!" One of them called and, shortly afterwards, Taghd and Feargus were by her.
"Britons I'll be bound," called Cavan, cheerfully. "They attack at dawn - mark - my - words!" he called after the next guard who shouted the word, "rievers".
Osthryth, Taghd and Feargus hurried after the king's guard, but not too fast: they had managed to repel the border rievers last time easily, so they walked fast, in the wake of the guard, knowing their attack would be slovenley and dishevelled. Most of the guard would have got there first and would have repelled the majority.
"Rieving keeps their hand practised," Taghd said, as they approached the main city gates. "Then if Norse or Danes do attack, they at least stand a chance. Hey, are either of you - "
Then he heard what Osthryth and Feargus had heard, the ear-splitting crash of the wooden palisade falling to the ground. Air-splitting screams rent the dawn. Osthyrth ran towards the gate.
It wasn't there. Both wooden oak barriers were in splinters and around them, fleeing, were what remained of the poor of Caer Ligualid as their homes burned.
What Osthryth was staring at, however, was none of that, but the foe. On the narrow strip of land taking up all of the available land wererows and rows of shields. In the centre, at the very front, two warriors, dressed in fine white bearskin. Their hair, blonde and shimmering in the winter morning light, was braided and it fell to their shoulders.
Osthryth could guess who they were before even the shout of, "Norse" arose from the top of the stone walls. These were the two Thurgilson brothers, and they were this absent king's enemy.
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It was clear from the start things were not going well. Some of the guards, with no experience of a shield war had run out, only to he despatched efficiently by the front row.
"They don't know how to fight!" Feargus yelled, as more men fell to the sword. Osthryth looked across the shields, trying to estimate how many men the brothers had. It didn't seem a lot, and she hurtled past Taghd as she climbed the steps to the upper parapet as the guards up there raced in the opposite direction.
No, there were no more hidden in dips in the land. Just before daybreak, then, the Norse must have ferried across the Idunn from the north. But, what they had in the small aperture between the river's southern bank and the destroyed gate - a hundred, perhaps? - would certainly be enough if the king's guard and warriors threw themselves to their deaths on the Norsemens' swords while they had to do nothing.
Over the wall, Osthryth could see Taghd, organising some of the warriors who were coming down the other steps of the parapet. Feargus, too, was pointing, showing men to tbe other end of the line.
Below her, other men were gathering, but they could not see what to do; their leader was not there, or was killed, and neither was their king.
Racing down, she established that most of the men were of the family class - the noble families of Rheged, and she explained in Cymric that the men should line facing the Norse, and the second should fill in the gaps between the swords and shields of the first, the third filling in the gaps of the second row, and so on.
"They do not look like a full army," Osthryth gasped, the words spitting from her mouth in her desperation to say them. There are none hiding, as far as I could see."
"Yes," one of the nobles said. "Many were killed in the interior of Alba; perhaps the brothers thought to chance their luck."
Osthryth watched the man do as she had instructed, as she pulled Buaidh from her scabbard. Chance it they had, for the army at Caer Ligualid had grown complacent and did not know even how to face a shield wall, let alone defeat one. At least now they might stand a chance.
As she made to join the chaos, Osthryth felt a hand on her shoulder, pulling her jerkin so she was held against the inner city wall.
Expecting it to be Abbot Trew, or Griogair, she had her reasons ready, to insist on fighting; to battle their enemy. For, after all, King Guthred was her king's ally, and -
But it was neither the abbot or Domhmall's man. Instead, her wits were enough to move as the Dane Galmor thrust a fist at her face. It hit the wall with a crunch which must have shattered bones.
Osthryth dashed past him but, despite his roar of pain, the Dane caught her jerkin with the other hand, tearing at her shirt. She hit him round the head, but Galmor found what he sought, spying her breasts under her ragged shirt.
He laughed, whether at the sight of her non-maleness, or the realisation that Haf's interst in Osthryth was meaningless. He reached his injured hand out like a claw to touch one, but Osthryth, angry, brought her knee up into his already hardening parts.
"We fight the Norse!" Osthryth suggested adjusting her jerkin until she had managed to cover her tits, but did not wait for him, tearing out onto the battlefield, and assessing the scene.
The Caer Ligualid army were bettering the Norse. They had managed the line of the shield wall away from the gates, some had even driven a handful to the waterline of the river, hacking at them until they fell.
Osthryth saw part of the line that needed help, at the other end, where some of the central rows had pushed right and were causing the king's guard real trouble.
"Stand fast!" Osthryth roared, then continued to roar as she threw her battle anger behind two cutting strokes which solved the problem for one man who was losing ground.
Both Norse fell with a thump, and Osthryth called them on. "Kill them, and forward!" She instructed, stepping over one of the Norse. Some of the men who must have been used to shield wall fighting pushed on, which encouraged most of the others.
And they, after a time, had pushed tbe Norse to the edge of the river; some of the Norse preferring to try and reach their boats by swimming to them, which was futile as their armour, weighing them down, caused then to sink, and when they realised this, it was too late and they drowned.
Osthryth turned. They had concentrated the Norse attack in the centre, and whoever was managing the Caer Ligualid army on the right had concentrated on it, herding the Norse that were not already dead into a small area.
And, from the parapet, Griogair was co-ordinating archers. Those Norse able to fled under the hail of arrows, many, but not all, meeting the remaining shields. The two men Osthryth supposed were the Thurgilson brothers were still ordering their demoralised men on from the front.
Then, a horn sounded. It came from the boats. Evidently, some Norse had reached them and one was sounding a retreat. Amongst the Norse, a clatter of shields being lowered filled the air as the king's guard manoeuvred round to face them.
Osthryth hurried round behind the guard. Something wasn't right. The Norse had raised their shields again and were levelling their swords. They hadn't given up!
And, one of the Norse in the centre seemed to be bearing down on one warrior in particular. She hurried around the rest of the king's guard, who were also heading that way.
And, she flung herself in front of the warrior, who was on his knees, trying to protect himself with only a shield
Buaidh met the Norseman's sword, throwing it out of his hand. Whatever was going on, the warrior on his knees was on his knees, and the Norseman had not accepted his surrender but had been seconds away from killing him.
But, now he was on the back foot. Osthryth fought him with all her force, blades dashing either side of her with the king's guard matching them, stroke by stroke, as the Norseman thrust his blade towards her.
Behind them, the horn sounded again, the blast lasting far longer. This time, the Norse lowered their weapons and shields. As did the warrior she was fighting.
It was over. Caer Ligualid had defeated a Norse attack. Osthryth exhaled, breathing heavily as the Norseman was joined by another, darker haired, taller as the first man lowered his blonde head.
"You...win, lord king," the second man spoke. Then, he put his hand to the other man's back.
"My brother has something to say to you, King Guthred." Osthryth turned in astonishment. The man on his knees had been the king of Cumbraland?
And now it was the Norseman, one of the brothers, who had fought him to his knees who fell to his.
"I, Eirik Thurgilson offer myself as a hostage, lord king, to vouchsafe the peace you have won."
"Accepted," King Guthred, pale gold haired, pale eyed Guthred said, in Anglish, so his men could hear. And, as he stood to his full height, he eyed Osthryth, who dipped her head in deference, said something in Danish.
Osthryth saw Eirik the Norseman, one of the notorious brothers, led by King Guthred inside the walls of Caer Ligualid.