The Bone Thief

by V. M. Whitworth

  ‘Later then,’ the priest said. ‘Let’s get you to bed. I’ll come back for yon lad.’

  Wulfgar began to haul himself to his feet, muffling a yawn, looking at Gunnvor. He wanted to say goodbye, to thank her for her hospitality, to ask forgiveness on Ednoth’s behalf for the trouble they’d brought her.

  I can’t approve of her, he thought wearily, but she’s been very kind. He half-wished he were really interested in dealing in pottery, so that they could have that later conversation she’d promised him.

  But she wasn’t looking at him.

  He followed her gaze.

  The fox-haired man he’d noticed in the congregation at St Margaret’s was making his way towards them.

  ‘Orm Ormsson, as I live and breathe,’ he heard her saying. She sounded none too pleased.

  ‘Gunnvor Cat’s-Eyes.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and paused, looking at the smear of blood on the back and then the gash on her cheekbone. ‘Did you meet someone with sharper claws, little cat?’

  She ignored his question.

  ‘May I join you?’ His accent came from the same stable as Gunnvor’s but much stronger, a sing-song that sounded to Wulfgar as disarmingly comic as the man’s name.

  ‘Can I stop you?’

  He crowded in on the end of the bench, blocking Wulfgar in, reaching for the jug. His smell was sweet, musky, foreign. He rattled with more gold than Wulfgar had ever seen on a single human being: several rings in each ear, numerous chains and beads and pendants at his throat, chunky braids of solid silver at each wrist. A toy-like axe, its blade no longer than a handspan and inlaid with exotic gold curlicues, hung from his studded belt.

  ‘You’re a stranger in Leicester, these days,’ Gunnvor said, sitting down and snapping her fingers for another jug.

  Father Ronan caught Wulfgar’s eye: ‘Soon,’ he mouthed.

  Orm Ormsson grinned, toothy but no warmth.

  ‘The Miklagard run. Over-wintered there.’

  ‘Constantinople,’ Father Ronan muttered.

  Wulfgar nodded, impressed despite himself. He had thought Worcester to Bardney was a long journey. Another yawn overtook him. Whatever this Orm person wants, he thought, I hope it isn’t going to take too long. I can hear that pile of pallets in the corner of the presbytery calling my name.

  ‘Grikkland, is it?’ Gunnvor said. ‘Don’t I remember you bragging about some palace-quality silk you could get me? Something about a friendship with one of the imperial officials?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘He proved less friendly than I had hoped.’ He looked across the table at Father Ronan. ‘You might say a prayer for his soul – he was a Christian.’

  ‘Did I see you in church this afternoon?’ the priest asked.

  ‘You did. Surprised, were you?’ Another grin from Orm Ormsson, revealing small, sharp teeth.

  ‘Nothing much surprises me nowadays,’ Father Ronan said.

  ‘Well, I hoped I might learn something.’

  ‘And were your hopes fulfilled?’

  ‘Not by what I heard from you.’ Orm Ormsson frowned, leaning forward on his elbows, his foxy hair falling forward. ‘There’s a lot of things about the Christians I don’t understand.’

  ‘I know that feeling,’ Father Ronan said, unsmiling. ‘What were you after learning?’

  Orm Ormsson fingered the largest of the gold hoops through his right ear.

  ‘Saints. Shiny, shiny boxes, full of dead bones. What’s all that about?’

  Wulfgar froze, his cup halfway to his mouth. Orm Ormsson wasn’t sounding remotely comic now.

  Gunnvor took a long pull of her beer.

  Father Ronan looked thoughtful, his grizzled eyebrows furrowing.

  ‘Well, Orm, unlike you – and me – the saints are folk of heroic virtue. When they die, their souls go straight home to God—’

  Orm looked sceptical.

  ‘Já, já, if you say so. I’m not so bothered with their souls. What about their bones?’

  ‘I was coming to their bones,’ Father Ronan said mildly. ‘The soul is only half what makes a person. Soul and body come back together, transfigured, at the end of time. And so that power resides in saints’ bodies, as well.’

  Orm leaned back, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Hear me out,’ the priest said. ‘And anything which has been part of a saint, owned by a saint, even touched by a saint, can invoke that virtue. A relic is like a – a bell you can ring, to get the saint’s ear. And the saints plead for us to God, if they choose.’

  Orm had already started shaking his head while the priest was still speaking. ‘But what is so special about their bones? What do they look like, out of their boxes?’

  ‘I’ve told you.’

  ‘You trying to hide something from me?’ Orm asked, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘Why are you, of all people, worrying about the Christians’ little gods?’ Gunnvor asked.

  ‘She only does it to annoy us,’ Father Ronan muttered. ‘She knows perfectly well that the saints aren’t gods.’

  Wulfgar was concentrating so hard on Orm that he barely heard him.

  Now the trader was shrugging and rolling his eyes. ‘What do you think, Cat’s-Eyes? There’s money in it. You want to hear a riddle I heard in Lincoln?’

  ‘Go on,’ Father Ronan said.

  ‘When is a dead man a better bargain than a live one?’

  ‘And the answer?’ Wulfgar asked, his throat tight, not sure he wanted to hear it.

  Orm turned and looked at him for the first time.

  ‘Hello, Englishman,’ he said. ‘I saw you in church, too. Very pretty, all in red and gold. The answer, Englishman, is “when he’s a saint”. A dead saint is worth more than a live slave, they say. Than ten live slaves, even pretty ones, if it’s a good saint. Even a little tiny bit of him.’ He crooked his little finger and waggled it. ‘Even without his shiny box.’ He took another long swig of beer.

  Wulfgar felt sick. He forced himself to ask, ‘Do you mean there’s a market for relics among the Danes?’

  ‘Why does he call us Danes, this little Englis-mathr?’ Orm asked, addressing Gunnvor.

  She shrugged.

  ‘They all do, in England. Perhaps they’ve never heard of Norway.’

  Father Ronan was stroking his beard, looking thoughtful.

  ‘I suppose,’ he said, ‘that from your point of view, relics are the perfect article of trade. All their worth is in the eye of the beholder.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Orm rubbed his hands. ‘To me, nasty old bones – pick them up anywhere. To you, a saint. Play my counters right, flog bits of St Ásvald north of Tees and south of Watling Street. Sit back and tally my profit and watch the minsters squabble.’ He finished his drink and stood up, axe swinging, strings of pendants jingling.

  Ásvald, Wulfgar thought, frowning. It sounded familiar. Too familiar …

  ‘Orm …’ It was Gunnvor, her voice holding a note of genuine menace.

  ‘Já, Cat’s-Eyes. I know. The silk.’

  ‘Palace-quality?’

  ‘Palace-quality, but of course. For you, only the best. Straight from the emperor’s ergasteri and dyed with the purple.’

  Gunnvor snorted at his departing figure.

  ‘He better keep his word. He owes me so much money, I’m going to have to do something about it one of these days.’

  Father Ronan and Wulfgar were silent.

  She looked from face to face.

  ‘Nothing too nasty, you understand. Nothing that a few weeks’ bed rest won’t cure. He’s had it coming for a long time, and my boys are gentler than some.’

  But Wulfgar could barely hear her. Some dark angel had him in a stranglehold, one arm crushing his windpipe, the other gripping his ribs, great black wings blocking his eyes and thrashing his ears, breathing out cold. He had no power to resist. Only dimly did he become aware of the priest’s hand on his arm.

  ‘Wulfgar, are you all right?’

  He couldn’t find an answ
er.

  ‘What is it? Come on, man, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.’

  He still felt as though he were being choked. Somewhere the voice of reason was still urging caution, but something else – something stronger than reason – prompted him to tell the truth. He stuttered, ‘St Oswald.’

  The priest shook his arm gently.

  ‘What about St Oswald? Something Ormsson said? Come on, Wulfgar.’

  Slowly the dark angel was letting go. The red-tinged blackness began to fade from his eyes and he saw the fire-lit room again, the table, the priest’s concerned face. I’ve been wasting time, he thought desperately. Far too much time. He took a deep breath. If he had to trust someone, then why not this straightforward priest? He seemed an honest man enough, for all his crowd-pleasing bawdy. Closing his ears to the little voice of doubt still nagging at him, Wulfgar said softly, ‘Bardney. We’re going to Bardney. We’re looking for St Oswald.’

  It was Gunnvor who spoke first – Wulfgar had almost forgotten she was there and he looked at her in shock.

  ‘Eirik’s land?’ She sounded stunned. ‘Eirik the Spider? That Bardney? You’re crazy. Ronan, tell this little subdeacon of yours he’s crazy.’ She folded her arms.

  Wulfgar looked over at the priest, who sat very still. Eventually he stirred, like a man waking from sleep.

  ‘Is it indeed that Bardney you mean? Eirik’s Bardney?’

  Wulfgar nodded, feeling miserable. It was too late to keep silent now.

  ‘We had word that the bones are still there. The Lady – she needs the relics for her new church in Gloucester.’ He swallowed, still trying to pick up the threads of his thoughts. ‘The Lord – as you’ve heard – he’s desperately ill. We all need a miracle. A sign that God’s not turned his back on Mercia for the last time.’

  Father Ronan cleared his throat and breathed in deeply through his nose. Then he said, ‘Eirik’s a dangerous man, so he is.’

  ‘We’ve got the name of someone who knows where the bones are buried.’ Orm’s words came back to him with terrible clarity. ‘It was supposed to be a secret. The Bishop of Worcester didn’t think anyone else was party to it.’ He put his head in his hands. ‘And now I come here and find St Oswald is ale-house gossip.’ Their reaction to the name of Bardney was only slowly sinking in. ‘Is it really so dangerous?’

  Gunnvor and the priest exchanged glances. She shrugged.

  ‘Have you always lived in Winchester?’ Father Ronan asked.

  Wulfgar nodded, puzzled, and said, ‘I was born on my father’s estates in Meon – we’re less than a day’s ride from Winchester. And then I was sent to Winchester, to my uncle at the cathedral, when I was very—’

  But the priest was riding over him, thinking along some tangent of his own. His eyes had gone very dark.

  ‘Wulfgar, my friend – can I call you my friend?’

  Wulfgar nodded.

  ‘With all due respect, you’re not taking this seriously enough.’ He snorted. ‘Men like Ketil, Hakon, what they love is wealth. They’ll do almost anything for it.’

  Gunnvor was nodding her agreement.

  ‘Listen to the man,’ she said. ‘It could be my own father he’s talking about. Never missed an opportunity to turn a profit.’

  ‘Are you talking about him, or yourself, lass?’ Father Ronan chuckled dryly. ‘Your father wasn’t as greedy as some, rest his soul.’

  She looked thoughtful. ‘Not as ruthless, maybe. But every bit as greedy.’

  Father Ronan shrugged. ‘Aye, and that’s why they call you the richest woman in the Five Boroughs.’ He turned back to Wulfgar. ‘But even Ketil has standards. Men like him, they don’t want to lose face. Eirik – Eirik is another matter. There’s no appealing to his sense of honour.’

  Gunnvor was shaking her head in agreement. ‘And you’re thinking of walking into the Spider’s web and taking something precious from him?’ She drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I don’t know him well but I know him well enough. Gore-crow – comes in after a fight to strip the bones. Took Bardney in payment of a debt.’ She bared her teeth then, an odd glint in her eye. ‘He’s had it these ten years, although I’ve heard his wife runs it. You’ll be a popular man if you rob Eirik, but I doubt you’ll be a long-lived one.’

  Wulfgar felt a chill run up his backbone.

  ‘He’s a slave-dealer, the Bishop told me.’

  ‘Já,’ she said, nodding, ‘and on the grand scale. He trades in Dublin as well as Lincoln, and somewhere in the Northern Isles – Hoy, maybe? Hrossey?’ She shrugged at Wulfgar’s blank face. ‘He sits in Lincoln most of the winter. He’s little Toli Silkbeard’s man now old Hrafn’s dead.’

  ‘And Orm?’ Wulfgar was finding it hard to voice his thoughts. ‘Does he – I mean, should I –’ he glanced across the room at Ednoth ‘– should we worry about him? Should I take him seriously?’

  Gunnvor and Father Ronan exchanged another glance.

  Father Ronan nodded. ‘If Orm’s on the scent, yes. Worry. He doesn’t let much stand between him and a bargain.’

  Gunnvor snorted. ‘Nothing less than an imperial official in Miklagard, anyway.’

  Wulfgar put his head in his hands.

  ‘I knew we should be hurrying. We didn’t think … we’ve been four days on the road already.’

  ‘Four – from Worcester? Oh, Wulfgar, Wulfgar.’ Father Ronan shook his head. Then, ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said. He laughed, deep in his beard, but Wulfgar didn’t think he was amused. ‘Don’t look so shocked, lad. You, nesh as you are, and that gawmless boy, doing this on your own?’

  Wulfgar felt an uprush of indignation. I might admit privately to myself that I’m a lost lamb here in the Danelands, he thought, but is it really so obvious to other people, too?

  The priest looked over at Ednoth, knocking back drink for drink with his new friends, and shook his head, smiling.

  ‘What was he thinking, yon Bishop? No, I’ll come with you. Now Easter’s over, no one will fret if I’m away for a day or two.’ He cracked his knuckles. ‘Faith, it’ll be a penance for me, scrub a few grease-spots off my soul. I’ve an old horse and an older sword to put at St Oswald’s service.’

  A priest with a sword?

  ‘Father, we can’t ask that of you—’

  The priest looked amused.

  ‘Oh, I think you can. Don’t forget, my lad, I’m a Mercian, too. St Oswald’s one of mine. And Eirik and I go a long way back’

  ‘I never knew that,’ Gunnvor said, her head on one side.

  Father Ronan shook his head at her.

  ‘There’s a lot you still don’t know about me, girl. Me and the Spider, we crossed blades in Dublin, a lifetime ago. And I’ve still a score or two to settle.’ He stood up, shouldering his harp bag. ‘Come on. The more I think about what Ormsson said, the more worried I get.’

  Wulfgar, still weighed down by doubt and anxiety, was trying to chew the indigestible lumps of information that had been tossed his way. He didn’t like any of what he had been hearing.

  ‘You don’t think St Oswald was just the first saint that came to mind? Orm never mentioned Bardney, after all—’

  Gunnvor snorted. ‘Come to mind? What mind? Ormsson doesn’t have a mind. And he knows less than I do about saints.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘Maybe I’ll come with you, too. I could check no one’s been pilfering from my Lincoln warehouse while I’m about it. I’ve not been there all winter. And,’ her voice hardened, ‘I don’t fancy keeping company with Ketil, not in his present mood.’

  Wulfgar’s eyes darted to the cut on her cheekbone. He took her point, but nonetheless he found himself blurting, ‘Come with us? Is that a good idea?’ Quailing at the sardonic look she gave him, he ploughed on, ‘I mean – I only meant – it’s supposed to be a secret. The more we are, the harder it’ll be …’ He subsided into silence. Now that his indignation was waning, he could admit to himself how truly grateful he was for Father Ronan’s offer. A priest, and a Mercian
, too – he understood what was at stake, and his help would be invaluable. But this woman – this Gunnvor Cat’s-Eyes – coming as well? A Dane, he thought, and no daughter of the Church. My enemy.

  Father Ronan frowned. ‘St Oswald’s remembered in Leicester, of course, but I’ve certainly never talked to Orm about him. And I can’t think where else he might have picked up the name, unless there are rumours coming out of Bardney. Unless, maybe, someone’s been singing him that old song?’

  Wulfgar looked up, briefly distracted.

  ‘Song?’

  ‘“St Oswald’s Tree”?’

  Wulfgar shook his head.

  ‘The raven – his tame raven – gathering the fragments of his body, after the battle?’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Ach, Wulfgar, I can’t believe you don’t know it! I’ll teach it to you, sometime.’ Father Ronan jerked his head towards the door. ‘But this – Orm, I mean – is bad news. Never mind paying your respects to Ketil. We’ll leave at first light.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Easter Monday

  IT WAS LONG before first light, though, when Wulfgar felt Father Ronan’s hand shaking his shoulder. He sat up and tried to make sense of what the priest was saying.

  ‘Do you want to walk down to the cathedral with me? I can’t let you leave Leicester thinking my poor little St Margaret’s is the only kirk we have.’ He reached out a hand and pulled Wulfgar to his feet. ‘I’ve got to take your borrowed glory back before the world wakes, or my name will be mud. Besides, it’s all the Easter horse-racing and football today, and if we leave things too late we’ll never get away.’

  Wulfgar struggled into his tunic and carefully bundled up the fragile red silk vestment, and the two clerics went quietly through the tangled lanes of the Danish settlement, and under the great gate in the walls, to where the cathedral sat at the heart of the city.

  The cold air worked its little miracle on Wulfgar’s aching skull as they walked through the streets of the English town, where people were just beginning to stir.

  ‘Where does Ketil have his hall?’ he asked, trying to sound as though he didn’t care. ‘Will we be going anywhere near?’

  Father Ronan shook his head.