Moyra Caldecott (21 page)

Queen Eanfleda summoned Etheldreda back to Oswy’s chamber in the later afternoon. The king was dying.

Wilfrid and Etheldreda, on either side of him, prayed for his soul throughout the night as his hold on the physical world gradually loosened. Eanfleda stood stiff and straight, dry eyed at the foot of the bed, thinking back over the years they had been together. There were many times when she had hated him, but they had been through much together and she could say now that she had grown to accept him and appreciate him for those qualities that made him a strong and positive man. He was impulsive and had done many things that he had later regretted, but the same quality had made him do good things, and she thought of these now, knowing that she would miss him, knowing that she loved him after a fashion and that perhaps he had loved her too. He had not been able to master the rigorous moral code of Christ, but there had been times when he had done good on such a grand scale in the Lord’s name that she could not but hope it would help wipe away the guilt of the other deeds. He certainly would leave a rich and peaceful country, and his successor would have no cause to remember him with anything but gratitude.

Egfrid would now be king over the whole of Northumbria.

Egfrid? Eanfleda sighed. Where was he? It was typical of him that he was not to be found when he was needed. The night was almost through and he had not returned.

Wilfrid lent forward to answer a question the king had whispered. His gratitude for all those years when Oswy had treated him like a son showed in his face. A twinge of regret pulled at Eanfleda’s heart. If only Wilfrid had in fact been one of their own sons and the country could have been left to him, with Etheldreda as his queen. What a partnership that would have been!

The train of her thought was interrupted by a disturbance at the door. She turned to find Egfrid striding into the room, his hair and cloak covered with snow, cold and damp coming into the warm chamber with him. But he had arrived beside his father’s bed too late. Oswy was already dead.

The lamps that flickered on either side of him illuminated a scene that Egfrid would never forget. The king’s face pale and set but peaceful, his left hand clasping that of Etheldreda, his right hand Wilfrid’s.

Egfrid gave a shriek of pain that split the silent air of the chamber like cold iron a skull. He flung himself upon his father and sobbed. For a moment the three others in the room stood back amazed.

Egfrid had never shown great affection for his father, and indeed his father had shown very little for him, but there was no mistaking the genuine suffering in those sobs. All those years of frustration when his feelings had to be held back because they found no answering emotion in his father’s breast, found expression now. He was hysterical.

Etheldreda looked at the others and nodded to the door. Wilfrid understood at once and put his arm around Queen Eanfleda, leading her out of the chamber.

At the open door they found a woman about to enter, also in a cloak with snow upon it, her eyes upon Egfrid. She was Eormenburh, the wife of one of Oswy’s earls. Wilfrid took her arm at once and guided her out of the room beside Queen Eanfleda. She looked back as though she were contemplating breaking away from the bishop and rushing to Egfrid, but the sight she saw there made her change her mind. Etheldreda had gathered her weeping husband in her arms, and he had turned to her like a hurt child turns to its mother. His head was upon her breast and her kisses were falling upon his hair.

Chapter 19

Queen of Northumbria

In the oak church at Bamburgh Egfrid knelt to receive the crown of Northumbria. Beside him his queen bent her heart to her God and prayed that she would have the strength to support him in this new and difficult role.

Bishop Eata of Lindisfarne, one of Saint Aidan’s protégés, and Wilfrid, Bishop of York, were presiding, but Cuthbert, now Prior of Lindisfarne, knelt beside Etheldreda, his presence giving her a sense of comfort. She remembered that once when she had queried the arduous life he had led since his illness, noticing that he had to lean heavily on his stick and was frequently out of breath, he had said that nothing was ever required of him by God that he was not capable of giving. She must hold to this truth now, not only in the matter of the crown, but in the personal torment she was facing with regard to her feelings for Wilfrid. She was tempted, yes, but this did not mean that she would give in. She had strength to resist and she would do so. She forced herself to look at him now, the magnificent embroidered cope of Byzantine silk falling around him; his hand, long-fingered and fine, raised in the sign of the cross above her husband’s head; his face in profile as though chiselled by a great sculptor.

Outside the wooden church the early March winds howled, the snow hurled itself through small cracks in the shutters like smoke, but inside there was the warm glow of flickering candlelight on the golden sacramental vessels on the altar and the crown that ringed the head of Egfrid.

The choir was good, but not as good as the one trained by Wilfrid at York. She must remember to ask him to spend some time at Bamburgh to train the choir. Even as she thought this tears came to her eyes. Was she so far gone in this secret sin that even on her knees she shamelessly thought of ways to see him?

Eanfleda saw the tears and misinterpreted them. She had been opposed to Etheldreda’s marriage to her own son, but was now reconciled to it. She remembered her own feelings when she became Oswy’s queen and how she had dreaded the long years of responsibility. She looked at her son wearing Edwin’s crown. She remembered that day of horrors years before when, as a child, she had looked up to the walls of York and in the flickering light of torches seen the ghastly severed head of her father on a stake. Edwin had been a great man, now acclaimed a saint. Miracles occurred when people touched his bones or called upon his name. Oswy had worn his crown. He had been no saint, but he was a strong man and a courageous one. It did not seem right for Egfrid to be wearing it now. She could not imagine Egfrid a king of the same calibre as his predecessors. But there was no one else. Alfrid was dead. Alfwin was younger and had been made sub-king of Deira. Her other children were all daughters. Osryth would be Queen of Mercia when Wulfhere was dead, for she was married to his only remaining brother, Ethelred. Alfleda was a bitter widow, venting her guilt for her part in her husband’s murder on all round her. Elffleda, her youngest daughter, now sixteen, was at Whitby, a novice under Hilda’s protection. Thank God for Etheldreda, who had all the strength and the intelligence that was needed for the ruler of such a great kingdom.

Queen Eanfleda shut her eyes. She was tired. She would not live as her own mother lived at the Kentish court, a forgotten queen, a shadow doing homage to another generation. She would retire to Whitby and await her death and burial there, at least to spend her last years with the daughter who had been taken so early and so cruelly from her side.

As Queen of Northumbria, Etheldreda found her days crowded with people to be entertained and decisions to be made. Her court was a sinecure for travellers from France and Italy and beyond, her counsel sought by churchmen and laymen alike, by rich and by poor. Egfrid left the burden of government almost entirely to her, spending his time exclusively on his new interest – confident that he had at last found a field in which he could outshine her. He began to build up the army Oswy had left. Edwin had had a fleet. He would have one too. His early training in Mercia, his admiration for the war-like Penda and his son Wulfhere, gave him the inspiration and the skill. His new occupation took the place of the long years of aimlessness that had been his as powerless prince and sub-king of Deira. Riding a stallion bred from Wulfhere’s with his armed companions around him, he felt important and invincible.

He scarcely saw Etheldreda, for at night when he returned to the castle he took Eormenburh to bed.

Although her days were full, Etheldreda found herself often lonely. Heregyth had chosen to stay at York. Since Edgil’s death in the plague she had married one of Alfwin’s thegns, a young man called Imma. Ovin stayed at Bamburgh for a while and then one day came to her and asked if he could be released to go to the monastery at Lastingham where Chad was now living.

‘You may go, of course, my friend,’ Etheldreda had said, ‘but for what reason do you desert me?’

‘I think you do not need me now, my lady,’ Ovin said sadly, ‘and besides…’

He looked so uncomfortable and unhappy Etheldreda was quite alarmed.

‘Besides… what, my friend?’

‘I find life at such a grand court not to my taste, my lady,’ he said hesitatingly. ‘I find it difficult to keep close to God here.’ He didn’t add that he had watched her gradually slip away from the standards that she had brought from Ely, and that it made him sad.

Her eyes shadowed.

‘Go, my friend, pray for me. I too find that my life here is not always to my taste, but there are things I have to do.’ She looked at him and he could see that she understood what he had been trying to say. His heart ached for her. He had watched her for so long caught between two worlds, trying to let neither down. How could he leave her? He stared at his feet, struggling to find words to express what he was feeling, what he was thinking. She waited patiently for him to speak, but he said nothing.

‘Go, Ovin,’ she said at last, ‘with my blessing. Come back to me when I am worthy of you.’

He looked up at this, words rushing to his lips, words to tell her that it was he who would never be worthy of
her
,words to tell her that he would not go away but serve her, under whatever circumstances, for the rest of his life. But she had already turned away from him, and was greeting with a cool regality one of her husband’s thegns who had arrived to ask a favour.

He decided to go to Chad and do what she had asked, pray for her.

In need of a friend she turned to Wilfrid more and more. He rode between York and Bamburgh frequently, acting as confidant and advising her on many matters that should have been dealt with by Egfrid. They never spoke of their feelings for each other and they never touched, but there were some at court who did not believe this.

In late summer of her first year as queen she gave Wilfrid all her lands at Hexham as a gift, all royal dues from it were to go to him. She wrote the document for this herself, enjoying the chance to use her skills as scribe again. It was witnessed and sealed with a curse on all those who might dispute the gift, as was customary.

When Egfrid heard of this he hit his fist against the wall and looked so angry Etheldreda was startled.

‘My lord,’ she enquired in alarm, ‘what have I done wrong? The land was mine to give, I have no need of your permission.’

‘The land was yours to give, my lady,’ he said bitterly, ‘because it was my wedding gift to you.’

‘But surely… for the Lord’s work…’ Her voice trailed away as she realised how it would seem to Egfrid. She had thought of nothing but pleasing Wilfrid.

‘I cannot speak as well as your fine bishop, lady, but that does not mean that I have not eyes to see!’

‘What do you mean by that, sir?’ she demanded haughtily, though her heart was beating very fast and painfully.

‘You know what I mean, lady. I am no fool.’

She bit her lip. She would have liked to have argued, to prove him wrong. He was wrong in the substance of his suspicions, but not in the spirit. Although they had done nothing about their love, it was there and she could not deny it.

She turned away from him and strode out of the room.

Wilfrid must go away. She would insist that he accept the invitation of her nephew, King Egbert of Kent, that he had thought to turn down. Theodore himself had on several occasions tried to entice him away to help with Church organisation in the southern kingdoms. More often than not Wilfrid had refused, but now he must go. His work was suffering because of her, and she, because of him.

After Wilfrid had left she tried to spend more time with Egfrid, arranging for him the nights of feasting and entertaining that he so enjoyed. A young poet called Ceric visited the court at this time with a version of the story of Beowulf, a heroic poem from the early days of the migrations that both Egfrid and Etheldreda had heard as children, but never so well sung or so beautifully worded. It was at Etheldreda’s request that the poem was written down and given a twist that made of a heathen story of physical prowess, a Christian allegory of spiritual trial.

Whether Egfrid noticed the spiritual symbolism in it or not, it was his favourite poem, and he requested it almost every night, sitting in his chair with his foot drawn up under him and his chin resting on his knee, his eyes seeing nothing of the smoky hall but everything of ‘the cold storm on the cauldron of waters… the lowering night…’ and ‘the northern wind’ that fell on the intrepid band of adventurers ‘in warspite’.

He longed for those days when the strength of a man’s arm was all that was necessary to make him a hero.

‘It was then that he saw the size of this water-hag,
damned thing of the deep. He dashed out his weapon,
Not stinting the stroke, and with such strength and violence
that the circled sword screamed on her head
a strident battle-song. But the stranger saw
his battle-flame refuse to bite
or hurt her at all; the edge failed
its lord in his need. It had lived through many
hand-to-hand conflicts, and carved through the helmets
of fated men. This was the first time
that this rare treasure had betrayed its name.
Determined still, intent on fame,
the nephew of Hyelac renewed his courage.
Furious, the warrior flung it to the ground,
spiral-patterned, precious in its clasps,
stiff and steel-edged; his own strength would suffice him,
the might of his hands. A man must act so
when he means in a fight to frame himself
a long-lasting glory; it is not life he thinks of.’
[17]

To Etheldreda the fact that the man’s sword failed him and he had to rely on his own inner courage and strength to reach the ‘long-lasting glory’ of the Kingdom of Heaven was explicit in this passage. The ‘mere-wolf’ he had to kill to do this was the evil lurking in his own heart. To Egfrid it was confirmation that he was the heir of Beowulf,
he
had a sword handed down through the generations, ‘precious in its clasps’.
He
had immense strength in his arms. He gave gifts of gold and precious stones, of weapons and horses and land to his companions just as these ancient heroes did. He would ride out with his twelve companions and seek adventure!