The Bone Thief

by V. M. Whitworth

  The frantic bleating of the sheep.

  And then another voice, right under his nose: ‘Shame!’

  Still cold with terror, he opened his eyes. Blinking against the sudden glare of the sun, he found the old lady, that fragile little bundle of skin and bone whom out of pity they were to carry home, pushing in front of him. She hobbled forward to grab Garmund’s bridle and brandish her blackthorn stick in his face.

  ‘Shame and scandal on you, and yours, and your lord, if any will own you!’

  The horse was startled, tossing its great head, but the old lady never flinched.

  Garmund had to grab his reins hastily, and he shot an uneasy look at his henchmen.

  ‘Shut up, you old bitch.’

  She had her hand on his bridle now, stretching as high as she could reach, and he had to pull the horse’s head up and away, leaving her stumbling.

  By no means silenced, however.

  ‘Old bitch? You hear that, everybody? To a woman who could be his grandmother, though what a blessing that I’m not!’ She drew a deep breath then, and let fly. ‘A black curse on you and all your kin, on the womb that bore you and the loins that got you! And may your own seed dry, and your children live to damn your name and leave you unburied when your own lord has hanged you for the ravens.’

  ‘I should cut you down where you stand, you worthless heap of bones, you—’

  Garmund’s own hand was at his sword-hilt now.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ she chirped. ‘I’ve lived long enough, my brave young hero. Look, everyone! In the very presence of the saint. Here’s a deed for the poets.’

  And Garmund’s hand hesitated, his sword half-drawn, and, palpable as the wind changing quarter, the mood in the crowd shifted.

  Another flicker of movement now, among the priests. The elderly abbot stepped forward.

  ‘Shame indeed! Shame and blasphemy!’

  He lacked the raucous force of Auntie, but in his festival vestments he made up for it in tremulous dignity.

  ‘To rob the saint, on this day of days!’ He gestured at the reliquary, still supported aloft by its quaking bearers.

  And another voice now, robust and bellowing. The woman who had been in the ox-cart with Auntie: ‘Shame, aye, and treason, to threaten the servants of Mercia’s Lord!’ Heads swivelled. She pushed forward to stand next to Wulfgar and Ednoth. ‘These men here answer to him and his Lady.’

  Garmund’s horse was still betraying the unsettled mood of its rider, sidling, laying its ears flat against its skull.

  Garmund laughed. ‘The Lord of the Mercians? Worm’s meat, or will be in a day or two. As for his rutting bitch of a wife—’

  Wulfgar tried to close his ears.

  Garmund was looking right at him now, his reins bundled in his left hand, twisting sideways to draw his sword. Blade in hand, his voice low, controlled, menacing, he said, ‘Crow while you can, Litter-runt. I wouldn’t serve your masters.’

  Somehow Wulfgar managed to stand his ground.

  He is planning to kill me, he thought. He really is. Me and my unlikely allies. A doddery old priest, a grandmother, and this well-meaning woman next to me who has her family waiting for her at home. And Ednoth, and his little shepherdess, and that red-headed subdeacon …

  He was almost choked by his sudden hot surge of anger. Easy meat, is that what Garmund – and Edward – were thinking of Mercia? Of the good folk of Offchurch? Of him? He was determined, suddenly, not to go down without a fight.

  ‘I love my masters. And I wouldn’t serve yours.’

  Garmund showed his teeth, white suddenly in his dark beard.

  ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Mercia’s a lost cause, you fool. You should have stayed in Winchester.’ His voice was cracking with anger. He looked away from Wulfgar now, raking his eyes across the faces of the hostile crowd.

  The world hung in the balance.

  And it tipped.

  Garmund’s raiders, well-armed though they were, were outnumbered twenty to one. Many of the feast-goers had good knives at their belts, and Wulfgar suspected some of the merchants might have better weapons stowed about their stalls.

  Garmund’s moment had been lost, and he clearly knew it.

  He spurred his massive, overfed horse straight at Wulfgar, who threw himself sideways, but not quite in time. Garmund lashed out with his booted foot and caught him a glancing blow on the temple.

  Wulfgar’s world exploded in black stars.

  A pounding shudder of hoof-beats, and they were gone.

  It had all happened so quickly. Wulfgar lay where Garmund’s kick had sent him, across the stack of hurdles, vomiting bile from his empty stomach. He was vaguely aware of the silence, and then the hubbub of the crowd. He put his fingers to his thumping temple but there was no blood. Giddy, he sat up, and was promptly swamped with nausea.

  The place was in an uproar. Ednoth was at the centre of a back-slapping throng. His little shepherdess was clinging to his arm, tears of shock and relief pouring down her cheeks. Wulfgar hauled himself to his feet, legs still shaky, vision blurred, mouth sour. He swallowed but the bile wouldn’t go away. At least his bladder hadn’t betrayed him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he walked unsteadily over to Ednoth and the girl.

  ‘The Danes haven’t raided here since I was a baby.’ Her voice trembled and her eyes were huge in her white face.

  They weren’t Danes. His head pounded. Hadn’t the stupid girl been listening? Didn’t she understand anything? Did anyone? From the agitated chatter breaking out around them most people were agreeing with the girl. Danes, Danes, Danes, was all he could hear.

  He seemed to be the only person in the crowd who had identified the raiders for what they were, and his first instinct was to blurt out the truth. To get them all to understand what life was going to be like, with Edward’s hand on the tiller of the West Saxon kingdom and Garmund his most faithful crewman. He had no doubt that this raid was with Edward’s blessing. Now, at last, the whole world might see the perils he had known since his childhood.

  But, in the time it took his vision to clear and the nausea to ebb a little, he changed his mind. He felt so weary, and so ashamed at the prospect of having to acknowledge Garmund as his father’s son. And Garmund and his bullies had gone. There was no point in getting mired down in explanations.

  Now, belatedly, the men of Offchurch were looking to their defences. Some were guarding the gates, others tallying such weapons as they had to hand. A sombre group gathered around the merchant who had been knocked down by a raider’s spear-butt; they had turned him over but he wasn’t moving and Wulfgar could see a lot of blood on his face. A shocked-looking priest hurried over to him.

  The panicky sheep were being corralled again.

  An older woman came flurrying across and scooped Ednoth’s shepherdess into her arms. She looked over the girl’s shoulder at Ednoth, then at Wulfgar.

  ‘Are you all right, my heart?’

  ‘Servants of the Lady? The abbot would like to thank you.’

  ‘We’re on urgent business,’ Wulfgar said hastily. ‘Please, pay him our respects. We have to go.’

  Go, back on the road. He felt nausea rise again at the thought. So many childhood journeys back to his dormitory from the palace school in Winchester had been similarly fraught with fear, not knowing where or when the ambush would come, only that it was inevitable.

  It was too late to escape the abbot, however; he came hard on the woman’s heels, pale as the little shepherdess, babbling about thanks, and honour, and privilege, the miracle of their salvation, the shock of such sacrilege in the very presence of their saint.

  What do I say in reply? Wulfgar wondered. He still thought the minster-men of Offchurch deserved a reprimand, celebrating their exuberant, inappropriate festivity on the most sombre day of all the Church’s year, but, somehow, putting the abbot straight didn’t seem so important now. Perhaps the raid had been a warning, but Wulfgar decided to let the elderly
man draw the moral himself.

  The other clerics were clustering around them now.

  Through his now blinding headache Wulfgar had to grip clammy hands, assure them of the Lady’s love, give them the worrying news of her husband’s collapse, promise to carry Offchurch’s protests of loyalty and their prayers for the Lord’s recovery.

  And there was still the old lady, patiently waiting for her ride. At least she gave them a sound excuse for getting on the road.

  At last, protesting that, no, they couldn’t stay the night, or even for the feast, that, yes, they really had to be on their way, they were allowed to walk back out through the gates to where they’d tethered the horses.

  Ednoth was adjusting the length of his stirrups, his back to Wulfgar.

  ‘Wulfgar?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Wulfgar answered nervously. For perhaps the first time he was grateful that he looked nothing like dark-bearded, broad-shouldered Garmund. He didn’t want to acknowledge Garmund, especially not to Ednoth. A black curse on you and all your kin … The old lady’s bitter words were still echoing in his aching skull.

  Ednoth’s thoughts were on a completely different track, however.

  ‘You stopped me from drawing my sword.’

  ‘Yes …’ Wulfgar said warily.

  ‘I meant to challenge them. I thought, if I led the way, others would follow me. I was being – I was being foolish, wasn’t I?’

  Wulfgar turned to look at him, impressed despite himself by the lad’s honesty.

  ‘Yes. Brave, but also foolish.’

  Ednoth appeared to be giving his full attention to Starlight’s girth. His ears were red.

  ‘No, just foolish.’ Then, ‘I’m sorry I called you Mousegar.’

  Wulfgar nodded. The apology was balm to his soul.

  ‘My friends call me Wuffa,’ he confided, half against his better judgement, thinking that if Ednoth were to say anything unkind about ‘an unlikely wolf-cub’ the boy would be going in search of St Oswald on his own.

  Ednoth had hunkered down, running an appraising hand over Starlight’s legs. He straightened up then, turned, held out his hand.

  ‘I’ll do that then. Wuffa. We’re shoulder-to-shoulder men now.’

  Wulfgar looked at the friendly hand reaching out to him. Still more than a little wary, he hesitated. Shoulder-to-shoulder men, was it? Was he supposed to trust Ednoth now? If the boy had done what he’d intended, Wulfgar thought bitterly, if he’d pulled his sword, they could have all been killed.

  But Ednoth grinned at him, waiting, and at last Wulfgar reached out to grasp the offered hand.

  ‘Who was he, anyway, this Polecat?’ Ednoth asked. ‘Had you come across him before?’

  Wulfgar pulled away.

  ‘He’s got the right eke-name, hasn’t he? Vicious animals, polecats.’

  He was painfully aware that he was dodging a proper answer, but the moment in which he could have confessed the Polecat as his kin, if it had ever come, had gone again. ‘Let’s just hope we don’t run into him on the road.’

  Ednoth appeared to be thinking.

  Wulfgar waited, uneasy.

  Eventually, the boy said, ‘I’ve a friend called Edwin at home. We call him Dribbler.’

  ‘And does he?’

  ‘Dribble? Not now. When he was little. But you know how eke-names stick?’

  Only too well. Litter-runt. Blame Edward and Garmund for that one. They’d tried others. Cheese-mite. Flea-bite. Sparrow’s turd. But Litter-runt had stuck for some reason. He supposed it could have been worse.

  As if he were reading Wulfgar’s mind, Ednoth said, ‘My dad bought some sheep off a man called Sigebert Fart once.’

  Wulfgar had to smile.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A FEW MILES’ steady ride along the mossy stones of the Fosse and they turned west once more to walk the horses down into a pleasant little valley, fringed with oaks just coming into their first bronze leaf. A heavy-winged heron flapped low over their heads as the old lady directed them through the stands of trees to a sturdy huddle of solid wooden buildings, set within rings and banks of massive tree-grown earthworks, topped with timber defences. The wooden palisades were golden and barely weathered, but the ditches they fronted must have been raised against far older enemies than the Danes.

  Ednoth wound his horn and a door-ward emerged from a postern. The word of their arrival was shouted back, and suspicion soon turned into welcome as the old lady’s son realised whom Ednoth had up on his saddle bow.

  ‘Many thanks,’ he said by way of greeting. ‘She’s a terrible worry to me, gadding about the way she does.’

  The old woman swiped at his legs with her stick and he fended her off with one huge hand, both mother and son grinning.

  ‘And you’ll stay the night, lads? You’ll not get a lot further today, not with this weather coming in.’ His round red face creased in a smile, framed by long yellow-grey moustaches.

  Wulfgar, surprised by the comment, looked at the sky, but Ednoth nodded his agreement.

  The Bishop had told them to hurry, however.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Wulfgar said, ‘but we have to be on our way.’

  ‘Where else would you stay tonight, that you’d turn down a place by our hearth, and weather closing in? There’s no coldharbour left within a day’s ride. Better a good hearth here than a chilly camp under a bush ten miles up the Way.’

  It was very tempting. The Bishop hadn’t known about Garmund, Wulfgar told himself. Touched, and more grateful that he dared admit, he gave way.

  Heremod – their host – ordered his slaves to take the horses round to the stables and bring water for the travellers to wash, and he sat them down on benches outside the west side of his hall, catching the late afternoon sun and out of the wind.

  Wulfgar was glad beyond words to be off a horse, and to have the prospect of a comfortable night. Their host was right: the fickle April weather was turning against them. Dark-browed clouds were building up to the north east, and for all the sunlight the breeze had a sharp edge to it.

  The old lady insisted on serving them herself, bringing out warm crumpets, new curd cheese, smoked fish, rose-hip pickle and garlic relish, shamelessly picking out the choicest morsels for Ednoth – ‘My lovely boy,’ she cooed – though she cosseted Wulfgar, too, with a cold camomile poultice for his brutally aching temple.

  To his surprise he found his appetite returning and, Ednoth was quite right, he told himself: canon law did say that if they were travelling they were exempt from fasting. It wouldn’t help their mission if he fainted from lack of food, and the meal was far better than he would have expected from this comparatively modest household. They feasted and drank sweet mead, and Ednoth, shameless as their hostess, fell fast asleep with his back against the sun-warmed timber and his mouth falling open.

  Heremod looked at Ednoth and rolled his eyes upwards.

  ‘Ah, youth! Have you eaten enough?’

  Wulfgar nodded carefully, one hand on his poultice.

  ‘Tell me more about these raiders, then.’ Their host shook his head. ‘Things have been quiet across the borders of late. No real trouble for six, seven, years.’ He sighed. ‘Too good to last. So, men of Leicester, were they, Wulfgar?’

  ‘Those misbegotten louts?’ It was the old lady. ‘They were no Danes.’ She reached over his shoulder for an empty dish.

  Heremod swivelled round. ‘Not Danes?’

  ‘Think I can’t tell a Danish voice by now, son? Or, if they were Danes, they had a renegade West Saxon leading them.’ She cackled with pleasure. ‘Ah, that’s made you sit up!’

  ‘Wulfgar, is my mother right?’ Heremod’s voice had taken on a peculiar urgency.

  Wulfgar wondered what to say in reply. He looked into the cup of mead cradled in his hands, swirling the sticky liquid, absently noting the fine quality of the earthenware and the rich greeny-yellow depths of its sun-tinted glaze.

  ‘No.’ He closed his eyes, trying to banish the ache behind
them. ‘I mean, yes. Your mother’s quite right. They were men of Wessex.’

  ‘Definitely not Leicester?’ There was no mistaking the note of relief. ‘Lordless men, then.’

  Wulfgar shook his head carefully.

  ‘Well-dressed, well-armed, well-spoken, well-disciplined.’ He gave his fears voice. ‘I think they must have been the King’s men.’

  Heremod hissed through his teeth.

  ‘That doesn’t bode well. War between Wessex and Mercia, then? With the Danes biding their moment to pick our bones? We’ve been there before.’ He thumped a heavy fist on his table, rattling the dishes and rocking the trestles with the sudden gust of his anger. ‘All I want is to be left alone. We trade now with the Danes, you know. Better for us than fighting them ever was. And this is where Mercia ends. Right here. Me.’ He banged himself on the chest.

  His mother, clearing more dirty dishes, coughed and spat on the grass.

  ‘You, indeed,’ she said.

  ‘Now, mother …’ Heremod’s voice had a warning note.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Mercia ends with me, boy,’ she told him.

  Heremod turned back to Wulfgar, rolling his eyes, inviting sympathy.

  Wulfgar noted he didn’t correct her, though.

  ‘I could show you a Dane called Thorleikr,’ Heremod said in a low voice, ‘straight off the boat, who’s bought land not five miles east from here, hard by Dunchurch. Oh yes,’ in response to Wulfgar’s curious look, ‘bought it. From a Mercian. No land-grab there. Well over on the English side of Watling Street. But Thorleikr looks across the line to Leicester for lordship. Leicester’s a damn sight closer than you might think, and it’s getting closer all the time.’

  Heremod’s eyes flickered along the length of the hall and Wulfgar shifted to follow his gaze. While his host’s thatch was new enough still to be yellow, the massive earth-fast timbers, the mainstays of the wall, were singed black, even charred in places. ‘You see what I mean?’ his host asked.

  Wulfgar nodded soberly.

  ‘We’ve built it up again,’ Heremod said. ‘Once the carrion crows find your flock they’ll never quite give up.’ He sighed. ‘But I must admit there’s law in Leicester now. Good law.’