Chapter 44, Anglo-Saxon Fyrd, Luneberg Heath, Saxony, 10thDecember 965 AD
‘I tell you sirrah that the spring will not cut it! What in God’s name do I pay you for man! Get out of my sight!’ the Prince shouted angrily as the flap to his pavilion opened and a chastened fleet captain hurried out, face reddening after such a royal dressing down. As he exited he almost ran into the king himself.
‘My lord King-apologies!’ He managed to stammer out before bowing low. Osweald who was only accompanied by two of his Huscarls acknowledged his subject before setting his face grimly and proceeding within- his guards took up station alongside the Prince’s in the frigid German air without.
Eorcenberht did not look up from the maps he was intently perusing at the long desk that stood at the centre of his roomy abode. ‘If you are come to beg me be more reasonable, my lord Earl, then you waste your time,’ he growled.
Osweald went to stand next to his son and put a proprietary hand on the young man’s shoulder. Startled, the prince leapt upright, then, on seeing his loving father rather than Earl Ælfnoth, relaxed and softened. He went to give a bow but was stopped by the king.
‘You are wroth much these days my son…’
‘Forgive me father. Those men of the sea try my patience. Always: “it cannot be done my lord” or, when it can, only after much delay – may they rot in hell!’
Osweald held up a hand ‘peace lad, peace. Come let us sit.’ He motioned for the over-wrought prince to join him on a camp stool by the table. Braziers had been lit, for the weather was bitter and deep snow lay all around. It was a shock to the
Fyrd who had never campaigned in such conditions. So far, though, they had held up well.
The king summoned a valet and ordered some warming spiced ale, all the while keeping a watchful eye on the young man who would take his place on the throne. They waited, in silence, until the drinks had been brought and they moved closer to one of the braziers to keep warm. Idly watching their breath misting in the morning air, eventually Osweald broke the silence: ‘mayhap now is the time for you to return home my boy-our fight here is won.’
The prince stared silently ahead then muttered ‘and to what might I return papa? A manor silent and grey, echoing with the memories of
her…’
‘You have your eldest son boy-he will surely have need of his father.’
‘Little Os is the new Earl of Hamburg, father-should
he not be coming to join us here?’ This said with heavy sarcasm.
‘He has seen only six summers, Eorcenberht-he will be counting the loss of his mother very heavy indeed’ the king tried.
Eorcenberht snorted at that ‘the boy is spoilt papa! He has five siblings and an army of nursemaids and attendants to look after him-does not need me of that I can assure you!’
Osweald looked down. It had been like this since the dread news had reached them in February, that the Duchess of Cornwall had passed whilst about her chamber business; some sort of bursting of her innards-ill tidings indeed – she had only seen twenty-six summers. None who were there might erase the memory of the stricken prince, his blood curdling howl on reading the grievous missive and how he had to be helped from the king’s pavilion by his closest adherents. None could doubt, either, that he was one of those blessed to have found, in marriage, a true love match, and how that blessing had turned to the worst of curses.
But far from immediately returning to Cornwall the young Duke had thrown himself even more wholeheartedly into his duties as Lord Marshall and commander of the van of the army. No amount of cajoling by his father, or admonishments by fellow commander, Earl Ælfnoth, or any of the prince’s friends, could persuade him to depart. Indeed, his martial valour shone even more brightly in the one battle they had fought against the errant Count of Hamburg, Tobe, with many a German sent to the maker by the prince’s fury – the blood spattered snow, eloquent testimony to his grief-maddened battle rage. That was at Luneberg back in April and subsequent sieges of the remaining holdings of Hamburg had brought the war to an end by December.
The Prince (in purple cloak with gold embossed helm) fights at the head of his battle-what a fine figure of a lad 
Mine!
And still the prince remained…
After an interminable silence Eorcenberht asked quietly ‘papa, did you love mama?’
Osweald looked intently at his handsome young son: ‘in truth son? Your mother and I had an affection for each other but I cannot say it was love. For certes not what I witnessed you had for Affraìc…even my love for Hungifu does not burn as bright as what you had.’
The Prince looked away so his father would not see the tears that started to his eye. ‘I thank you for your honesty papa…’
Osweald pressed on, ‘and yet I was much saddened by Bourguigne’s death from Typhus, son – she had only seen twenty-one summers at that time - so I can only imagine the pain you feel.’ The king pressed a loving hand on his son’s arm, ‘It is no shame to let out such you know? I am your father…’
Head down, the silent shaking of the prince’s shoulders was signal that whatever sadness had been lurking in his heart was finally being set free. For Osweald it was as if they were back in those times when Eorcenberht had been a child, before he was sent away to be Duke of Cornwall, when he might have shinned a knee playing, or some fright had taken hold. Then it was as much king and father who had taken the distraught child in loving parental embrace, as his mother, the gentle Frankish noblewoman, too short for the world.
So it was now and for a long time they sat embracing, the sobs from the young man pitiable and wracking, as if his very soul was aflame in grief.
In the end, spent, the prince, gathered himself together and cuffed the last tears from his eyes. He stood unsteadily and crossed the room to where the pot of spiced ale had been left on a small fire. If he could busy himself in action, mayhap it would lessen the pain he thought, but yet it lurked deep below.
Osweald broke the awkward silence, ‘what mean you to do son?’
Eorcenberht returned with the drinks and said weakly, ‘I cannot return there yet papa. Please do not force me. I could not stand to be in that place where we have loved so…’
‘I would force you nothing lad – I assure you. If you feel your place is here with us, your brothers in arms and your loving father, then so be it.’
The relief that washed over the younger man’s face almost brought tears to Osweald’s own eyes.
‘Thank you, father. When we are done in Hispania then I promise I will return and do what I must.’
Osweald paused then offered, ‘there is a way in which we might strike two birds with the one stone my boy…’
An enquiring look from Eorcenberht.
‘We will need to victual and refresh our stores and supplies over yuletide here in Saxony. I have been assured ample provisioning and succour by those who rule here.’
Osweald sipped his flagon carefully, being careful not to scald himself, ‘mean you Mayor Magnus of Altona and the Bishop of Hamburg, my son’s vassals?’
‘You have it my boy! The very ones! They may name us foreign invaders but, by God, they make the right noises now we are their overlords.’
‘I see. You said we can kill the two birds?’
Osweald looked deeply into his son’s eyes: ‘let us bring your boy over here for the Mass of Christ. That way we can also invest him as Earl and these two songbirds, Magnus and the bishop, can swear fealty to him so also…’
Eorcenberht, for his part, turned away from his father’s gaze and into the flames of the brazier, lost in faraway thoughts for a while. At last he turned back to his father and said, simply, ‘it is a good plan sire. Let Os come and join us – just as soon as the seas are calm, for a sea voyage at this time of year can be perilous…’
Osweald clapped his son on the back ‘well done lad! Well done. I will have the arrangements made – Eadwine has sent us some gold to aid in our war efforts-we can use that to pay for the investiture so as not to burden or annoy the lords of Saxony. Do not worry – if the seas are not calm then he will not come – I will not endanger the child.’
Well every little counts...I think
‘The Regent is kind’ was the prince’s acknowledgement of such, ‘I will write to thank him.’
The prince felt lighter indeed now and turned to other strategic matters of import for discussion such as where England should look to next in matters of potential conquest or influence. These were items that he was much more comfortable talking on, for those of the heart were women’s ways and still a mystery to him in large part.
‘Osweald rose and returned to the table motioning for his son to join him. ‘See this map of Europa?’ He gestured towards Britannia, ‘Hibernia is ruled in the west by my half sister’s husband, Chieftain of Mumu, but also by the Scots in the north – see?’
‘I do father. And also, any number of independent warlords in the east. It is a fractured Isle ripe for the picking do you not think?’
‘True my boy but I would fain rather leave that unruly, ungovernable place to the Gaels – let them fight over it!’
A nod of assent indicated Eorcenberht was of like mind and had already considered the matter. ‘And what of Caledonia father? We have an Earl who holds two of their richest counties in England’s name...’
Osweald grunted, ‘Ælfnoth of Durham – now also Carrick and Clydesdale – is one of Duchess Æthelræda’s creatures so whilst I am glad those shires are now part of England I will not see us nibbling off parts of the land of the Scot. I have nothing against our Pictish cousins.’
Eorcenberht looked askance at such seeming kindness from his king but continued: ‘Wales then is out, seeing as all that we do not hold is our tributary. Whither then?’
Eyes gleaming brightly Osweald took his dagger from its scabbard and plunged it into the part of the map in which they currently resided saying with ardent fervour: ‘we are
here son! The lands from which we issued forth to Britannia so many hundred years past, shall be the lands that we will look to nurture and further expand into!’
Eorcenberht looked on, doubt etched all over his handsome features.
Osweald was having none of it: ‘come lad! Once we have assisted our by-law, Aquitaine in his wars against the infidel in Hispania, I want you to return here and continue what I started all those years ago, for I would wish a new power base for our realm and one that is at the heart of Europa, a new Anglo-Saxon Saxony if you will. What say you?’
A dynastic match to make my heart sing
The prince could not resist his father’s enthusiasm and though he doubted could only smile and take his hand: ‘if you do so wish it sire, then so shall it be.’
And so they talked on and even if the son did wonder, sometimes, at the aforethought of his father’s strategic planning yet were they, in the end, at one: this king and prince, lord of England and Saxony and heir of all besides…
