I lean on my staff, holding it firmly while the sea below roils with high waves and misty rain swirls around me. The damp penetrates my clothing and pulses through my bones. I focus my eyes on the shore below, determined to see Oswy’s coffin loaded onto the wagon.
It’s impossible to believe a man so blustery, conniving, and vibrant died in his bed. In January, King Oswy and Bishop Wilfrid busily planned a visit to Rome in the spring. As if God personally disapproved, the king fell ill and died without warning.
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