Better than Gold by Theresa Tomlinson Page B

herself in a clean gown and cloak, and she’d set a fine gold fillet at her brow.
    â€˜Come,’ she said. ‘We cannot sit up here for ever.’
    So they wandered down towards the crossing, leading two horses, Dapple trotting at their side. Some Bernicians watering their mounts near the ford looked up at their approach, and stared as though they’d seen ghosts.
    Egfrid strode forward. ‘Get my father!’ he shouted. ‘Tell Oswy Iding his son is here.’
    They looked confused. ‘Oswy’s son?’ they murmured. ‘But he was taken hostage. Surely he cannot still live!’
    Someone was sent running and at last Oswy himself came striding down to the river, blade in hand, his face pale and gaunt, a long gash on his cheek. Ribbons of leather hung down from a makeshift sword hilt, the fine blade of the weapon still intact.
    He stopped, looking astonished. ‘Egfrid?’ He closed his eyes. ‘God be praised,’ he said, still sounding dazed. ‘My son is alive.’
    Egfrid helped Cynewise mount Golden-mane. Chad mounted his horse and hauled Egfrid up behind him. They approached the ford, which was still deep and running fast, but managed to get across.
    The queen dismounted and waited for Egfrid to slip down from the saddle. She took him by the hand then and led him to his father with great formality.
    â€˜I, Cynewise, foster-mother to Egfrid of Bernicia, do give your son back to you. I kept him safe as I promised to do. And your holy man too.’
    Oswy and his companions stared, speechless and astonished.
    Then Cynewise threw herself down onto her knees, careless of the mire. ‘Allow my husband Woden’s rites. That it is all I ask of you.’
    Oswy’s eyes blazed and his face turned paler still. ‘What of my brother’s Christian rites?’ he asked.
    She made no reply.
    Egfrid hated to see the queen kneeling there in the stinking, bloodstained mud. ‘Cynewise is a woman of honour and she is my foster-mother. Give her the boon she begs!’ he cried.
    Oswy stared at his son, utterly surprised. ‘Where is my gold?’ he asked. ‘And where is the boy Wulfhere? Do you think I can let him live?’
    Cynewise moaned gently.
    â€˜Father, your gold is buried. Given to the ground by a man who will die rather than reveal its whereabouts. That same loyal man hides Wulfhere too.’
    There was a moment of tense silence. Oswy raked his fingers through his dirty hair as though he was tired and puzzled by it all.
    â€˜My son went away a boy, but it seems he returns a man,’ he murmured. Suddenly he smiled and it was as if a watery sun had broken through dark clouds. ‘You shall have your pagan rites, lady,’ he said. ‘And so shall all the Mercian dead. Despite my many sins, it seems the Christian God has blessed me.’
    He dropped his sword, held out his arms and hugged Egfrid tightly.
    â€˜My son has come back to me,’ Oswy said. ‘And that is better by far than gold.’

AUTHOR’S NOTE
    T he exciting discovery of the Staffordshire Hoard, made by metal detectorist Terry Herbert, provided the inspiration for my story. My intention is to give an idea of life in the 7th century, and the sort of story that might lie behind the hoard. Rival kings fought fiercely over territory—and yet sometimes they sent their sons and daughters to marry their bitterest enemies in an attempt to make peace. The Venerable Bede refers to a payment of gold in settlement of a dispute:
    At this period King Oswy was subjected to savage and intolerable attacks by Penda, King of the Mercians who had slain his brother. At length dire need compelled him to offer Penda an incalculable quantity of regalia and presents as the price of peace, on condition that he return home and cease his ruinous devastation of his kingdom.
    Bede also mentions Egfrid: ‘Oswy’s son Egfrid was at the time held hostage at the court of