The Bone Thief

by V. M. Whitworth

  ‘Why not? Don’t touch their kit. Don’t touch them, unless they try to run. It’s all to wait for him. That’s what he said.’

  So they waited.

  Prickly with nerves at first, moment by moment expecting disaster, it was clear by the time the sun had moved round to shine into the doorway that this was going to be a long wait. At first the three of them were kept standing, huddled together, but by midday their four guards had relaxed enough to allow them to sit and doze, backs against the wall; to eat a little dry bread; to be taken one at a time outside to relieve themselves. If they tried to talk, though, there was a rough command and the butt-end of a spear thrust menacingly in their direction. But no one tried with any conviction. Ronan slumped against the wall, eyes closed. Ednoth, white-faced, twisted the leather strap of his now useless sword-belt, back and forth, over and over. The sunlight inched across the floor as though the whole building were a giant mass-dial, waiting for the hour of Garmund’s return.

  Wulfgar had all the time he wanted, now, to look around the inside of the Spider’s hall. Smoke-darkened plaster, tiled floor. Chickens wandering in from the sunny courtyard. Woven hangings along the walls, telling alien tales, with unreadable figures in dull reds, blues and greens. Flies buzzing in the rafters. No fragment remaining of an altar, or a shrine, but scars in the tiles marked where they once had stood. Without those, would he have known it had ever been a church? He squinted at the space above the south door where he would once have expected to see the image of St Oswald.

  And he was there. Wulfgar had to cup his hands around his eyes to block out the light, but when he did so he could make out two faded, painted figures: a king to the left, a bishop to the right. The king was armed with sword and shield, and at first he thought the bishop too was carrying a shield. But, no, it was a great platter.

  And then Wulfgar remembered how Oswald had broken up the silver dish he was eating from and given it to the poor at his gate, and how Aidan of Lindisfarne had praised him for it, holding up the king’s right hand: May this arm never wither!

  And it never had. Even now (men said) that right arm – enshrined in silver at Bamburgh in the distant north – had never lost its freshness.

  He took a deep breath. My Lord and Saint, he thought. You were so valiant in life, fighting so hard to bring light in the darkness, to create holy spaces in which men might talk with God. And in death you were so foully treated, your body torn apart by pagans on the battlefield, and then your bones forced into hiding here at Bardney. And now – oh, my Lord, what have I done? Given you into the care of a couple of unbaptised women and sent you off …

  But you’re safe, he thought. And they’re safe. He heard again the thud of hooves in his memory, fading away as Gunnvor and Leoba, with her children and her precious bundle of bones, had galloped up the hill. Had anyone followed them? He hadn’t seen anyone go after them. Their captors had had no horses, after all.

  If they had been allowed to talk, he would have liked to share some of the stories of St Oswald with Ednoth and Ronan. And he still longed to hear that song about St Oswald and his raven, the one that Ronan had mentioned. But their guards were bad-tempered, and Ednoth, like Ronan, had nodded off now. Wulfgar himself had never felt so tired, and yet so far from sleep. He daydreamed instead, spinning visions of a Bardney reborn, clerics returning – maybe even monks, one day, if true monks ever came back to the English kingdoms – and himself masterminding a glorious ceremony of cleansing and reconsecration, bringing the light back to the dark places …

  It was a long, long dreary day.

  As the light through the door began to slope from the west towards the chancel, the Spider’s wife started coming back, snapping at her slaves, striding in for no apparent reason, as abruptly turning and going out again into the yard. By the time, at last, they heard the noise of men and horses in the yard, her feverish impatience was testing everyone’s nerves to breaking point. The doorway darkened.

  ‘I hear you’ve some good news for me?’

  Those smooth tones had to belong to Garmund, though the newcomer was no more than a bulky shape against the light in the doorway. Wulfgar sat up straighter.

  ‘These are what you want,’ the woman said. ‘My men brought them. Do you want them killed?’ She gestured at her men. ‘Get them on their feet.’

  Garmund took a step or two into the hall.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ He looked at Wulfgar, a disbelieving smile breaking across his strong, dark features. ‘Well, well, well.’ He turned back to the Spider’s wife. ‘I’d like to know what they can tell us, first. If they’ve not got what I want, they can tell us where they’ve stashed it.’

  ‘First, my money. Or you’re not going anywhere.’

  His smile widened. He spread his hands. ‘Of course. A moment.’

  He stepped back outside and could be heard giving orders. When he returned, he said, ‘Three of my men dead. One of yours. This is turning into an expensive game. But I’ll pay you what I promised, all the same.’

  A man came in then, carrying a sturdy leather bag in each hand and handed them to Garmund.

  ‘Thirty pounds.’ He hefted the bags, which gave forth a faint, inviting jingle. ‘Seven thousand, two hundred silver pennies. Fresh from the mint, with the king’s name on every one. I’ve tallied them. Do you want to?’

  ‘You promised me fifty.’

  Fifty pounds. It was a fortune, and not a small one. Wulfgar thought bitterly of the five pounds his own cheese-paring masters had offered to poor Thorvald.

  ‘And you’ll get the other twenty, lady. But I’ve not got them with me. You know I’m not authorised to hand over the rest till we’ve got the relics home and the bishop’s given them his seal of approval. Those were our terms. Don’t you trust me?’ He was still smiling, teeth white in his beard. He chinked the bags again. ‘You should know by now you can trust me.’

  Where have I heard that sort of intimate, coaxing tone before, lately? Wulfgar wondered. Oh yes, I know – the Atheling’s voice, a long week ago in Worcester. Bishops, even. There aren’t enough bishops in Mercia. I should never have let the Atheling beguile me, any more than the Spider’s wife should be putting her faith in Garmund now.

  But the Spider’s wife seemed cannier than Wulfgar, unwilling to take Garmund’s word for anything. She received the proffered bags warily, one at a time, weighing each one in her hands and frowning. ‘Bring me a blanket.’ She emptied the first one of its clinking contents and did a quick reckoning of the coins, biting a few, holding others up to the light for scrutiny, a disconcerting mixture of scruple and haste.

  ‘Aye, that’ll do, to be going on with,’ she allowed at last. ‘I’m guessing you’ll find your bones in their baggage. They’re muddy enough.’ She coughed again.

  ‘Haven’t you looked?’ Garmund’s voice cracked, showing impatience for the first time. ‘You’ve had all damn day.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know what to look for, you told me that. I’ve not touched them, or their gear. Just like you said.’

  Garmund, tight-lipped, looked first down at the pile of silver, and then over at the stacked saddle-bags, and finally at Wulfgar. Their eyes met, and locked.

  ‘You,’ he said. ‘Get me the relics. Come on, I’m in a hurry. You’ve either got them with you or you’ve hidden them somewhere.’

  Wulfgar felt a hard coal of slow-burning anger ignite in his belly. So that’s why we haven’t been killed, yet: Garmund thinks we might have had time to hide the relics somewhere, in the night, out in the marsh. He doesn’t want to kill us before he’s made absolutely sure of getting his filthy hands on them.

  ‘Relics?’ he said to Garmund.

  ‘St Oswald. I know you’ve got him. I saw that dirty great hole you left in the churchyard.’ He jerked his head at the bags. ‘I’m not grubbing through your stinking flea-ridden linen. You do it.’

  Ednoth made a strangled noise.

  Garmund shot him a glance.r />
  ‘I’ve seen you before,’ Garmund said, ‘and you didn’t impress me then, either.’

  ‘Why should I do what you say?’ Wulfgar asked. It was as though they were taking up their positions for an old, old dance. Who was going to be the first to crack, to go running to the grown-ups? Fleda, Garmund hit me …

  ‘Because I’ll kill you if you don’t.’

  ‘But you made out you were ettling to kill them anyway,’ the Spider’s wife said.

  Garmund smiled again.

  ‘I thought they might be more dangerous than this. But once we’ve got the relics we could let them go. What do you think? They look harmless enough to me.’ He flashed a contemptuous smile at Wulfgar.

  ‘Kill them,’ she said, stubborn as ever. ‘Tip them in the marsh. Who’s to know? I want them got rid of. I don’t want word getting back to my man.’

  Garmund turned to Wulfgar again.

  ‘Go on, Wuffa. I’m getting bored with this. Get me the relics.’

  The onslaught of so many eyes came as a physical shock.

  ‘Wuffa?’ Ronan said in disbelief.

  ‘You know this man?’ The Spider’s wife sounded equally taken aback, setting the empty money-bag back down. Her gaze flicked from Garmund to Wulfgar and back again, narrowing with sudden suspicion.

  Garmund, smiling, said, ‘What’s the matter, Wuffa? Embarrassed?’

  This is my chance, Wulfgar thought. Yes, you great bully, I am embarrassed. But not for the reasons you think. Not because your mother was one of my father’s field-slaves. But because you’re a cruel, power-hungry, self-seeking sycophant. He opened his mouth to say as much, but he was too late.

  ‘I’ll tell you, then,’ Garmund said, ‘since he’s too mealy mouthed. I’m his brother.’

  ‘Brother?’ Ronan mouthed at Wulfgar.

  ‘You might have told me, at Offchurch.’ Ednoth’s tone was savage, as if he had encountered betrayal.

  ‘Yes, what were you doing at Offchurch, Wuffa?’ Garmund asked. ‘Other than spoiling my fun? I thought you’d grown out of that, Litter-runt, but you’re still at it. Get the relics, and I’ll let you go.’

  ‘Do it yourself, why don’t you?’ But he muttered it below his breath, and he knew the answer: Garmund doesn’t want to go on his knees like a slave, rummaging through our bags in the sight of his men. If he can force me to do it, why, so much the better. And let’s give him a little credit – he might not want to risk touching the relics with those corrupted hands of his. We went to the same school, after all; he knows those cautionary tales of men struck down by saints they’ve insulted, in the midst of their strutting and bragging, just as well as I do.

  He took a deep breath.

  What on earth do I do now? St Oswald, come to our aid … But the formal phrases appropriate to prayer were driven out of his head at the sight of Garmund’s knowing smirk. St Oswald, he thought wildly, please help me. Or he’ll kill me. And the others. He really will, this time. No one will ever know what he did, or what happened to us.

  St Oswald, I’ve seen you into safety. Now it’s your turn.

  And he knew what to do, then, as though the saint had breathed in his ear.

  Lifting the bulkier of the rolls of sacking with as much reverence as he could muster, he got to his feet, his soul welling over with a profound gratitude to the saint. Now all hung on how thoroughly Garmund had been briefed, what he expected to see …

  He reached in, half-pulled out a femur, and said, ‘Here.’

  ‘What?’

  Louder: ‘Here you are!’

  ‘Give them to me.’

  ‘Bones?’ the Spider’s wife said in disbelief. ‘All this for bones?’

  Wulfgar tried to hand Garmund the sack but he flinched away.

  ‘You show me.’

  Wulfgar held it out to him, and he looked inside.

  ‘More bones,’ Garmund said then. ‘All right. They look old, right enough. But where’s your proof?’

  ‘Proof?’ Wulfgar poured outrage into his voice. ‘You’re looking for the bones of a saint. I give you the bones we were taking from his grave. What more could you possibly want?’ Wulfgar took a step towards him.

  Garmund held up a warning hand.

  ‘Watch it,’ he said. ‘King Edward wants proof, I’m going to bring him proof.’

  ‘For the sake of God, Garmund, I’m not armed. Look at me. I’m trying to help you. I’ll give you everything we’ve got.’

  Garmund narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you dare hold out on me.’

  Putting the sack down gently, Wulfgar got down on the tiles and brought out the tenderly wrapped fragments of wood.

  ‘Look at these. These were found with the bones.’

  Garmund stood over him, watching him lift out the incised scraps of coffin. ‘Read them to me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re the scholar, aren’t you?’ Garmund loaded the word with contempt. ‘Of course you can.’

  Wulfgar sighed. Wuffa, do my Latin for me or I’ll break your arm …

  ‘No, I can’t, not just like that. Look how damaged the wood is. I can’t read them, not without a lot of work. But the Bishop of Winchester’s scholars will be able to. Ask my uncle.’

  ‘Your uncle?’ Garmund spat.

  ‘I know he never approved of you being taught at the King’s school.’ Wulfgar sighed profoundly. ‘But he’d be glad to help with something as marvellous as this.’ Still kneeling, he closed his eyes. ‘Proof doesn’t get better. From here, you’ll have to fall back on faith. Just as we’ve had to. These are the bones we were planning to take to Gloucester. But I suppose St Oswald would rather be in Winchester, for some reason best known to him and God.’ The bitterness in his voice sounded convincing even to himself. ‘What’s Edward going to do with him? Put him in the big new church he’s said to be planning?’

  ‘That’s none of your business, Litter-runt.’ Garmund showed his teeth. ‘Well, if this is the best you can do …’ He nodded to one of his men, who picked up the two sacks gingerly and took them out into the bright courtyard.

  ‘Be careful!’

  ‘Oh, we will be, runt. My career depends on those bags.’

  I’ve done it, Wulfgar thought. He looked round at the others. Ednoth gaped at him, truculent and outraged. Ronan was shaking his head sadly and staring at the floor. Wulfgar wished there was some way of explaining what he had done straight away. He knew that Ronan and Ednoth thought he had given the saint to Garmund, but there was no help for it: they would have to go on thinking it for some time to come.

  ‘You’ve got what you want.’ The Spider’s wife sounded agitated. ‘Go now. Get out. You’re right, I’ll find a use for these.’ She gestured at her prisoners.

  Wulfgar looked up at her, still on his knees.

  ‘He promised he’d let us go.’

  Garmund raised his hands, smiling, placatory. ‘As you say, my part is done. Kill them if you like, what do I care?’ He turned and bellowed through the open door, ‘Get the horses ready!’ Then, ‘I take my leave of you, dearest lady.’ The rest of his men had gone out before him. He bowed mockingly. ‘Goodbye, Wuffa.’

  There was the welcome clatter of many hooves on cobbles from outside. Just let Garmund get clear, Wulfgar thought. Once he was away from Bardney they could bribe their way out, or blag, or fight. If they could get weapons. They could give the Spider’s wife the Bishop’s silver. Thorvald’s silver. She seemed to like silver. Just let him go away, Wulfgar prayed. Bear with me, St Oswald.

  Garmund had left the doorway. A jingling of harness and the creak of saddles. The sound of horsemen riding out.

  A long, long silence in their wake.

  Wulfgar looked up again at the painted image of St Oswald in the semi-circular space above the door.

  My Lord and King, he prayed. Thank you. We’re working on this together, we’re getting there at last, he thought.

  If the saint could see Leoba saf
e to Leicester, Wulfgar could meet him there and they could both get home. He started to rise to his feet.

  The Spider’s wife frowned at him.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going anywhere.’

  ‘But Garmund said—’ Wulfgar began.

  ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? And he’s not master round here. I am.’

  ‘If it’s Dublin you’re thinking of,’ Ronan said, ‘I can tell you this much: you won’t recoup the cost of shipping my sorry carcass.’

  ‘Not you, old man, no. But him –’ she jerked her chin at Ednoth ‘– he’d be worth it. I’m not holding my breath to see the rest of my money. I’m guessing I’ve been bilked by that smooth-talking southron. I’ll have to make it up somehow.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  WULFGAR GLANCED AT Ednoth and saw how pale he was, his freckles standing out, his jaw tense and the muscles in his neck strained. He’s terrified, Wulfgar thought suddenly. For the first time on this whole sorry jaunt he’s realised the danger we’ve walked into.

  And he’s killed someone for the first time, too.

  It’s not just me.

  Their eyes met, and Wulfgar smiled, trying to put all the sympathy he felt into his face.

  Ednoth lunged to his feet.

  ‘You – you bastard!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Traitor. You and that – yes, I can believe he’s your brother. You and smelly-arse Polecat. What a pair.’

  ‘Steady, boys,’ Father Ronan said.

  The Spider’s wife was still talking, ignoring their confrontation.

  ‘You’re in league, aren’t you, you and him?’ Ednoth shouted. ‘Never trust a West Saxon, I should have known. I should have known.’

  Mouth closed, Wulfgar shook his head violently, trying to catch the lad’s eye again.

  What can I say, he wondered, while the Spider’s wife can overhear us?

  But the boy wasn’t prepared to listen to anything he might have to say.

  ‘And you, too, Father! How could you let him give away our saint?’ He swung back to Wulfgar. ‘It was all a plot – a plot to get the bones to Winchester – wasn’t it? After all that we’ve done?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Thorvald – did you really try to save him? Or kill him? And I’ve lost my sword. And God only knows what’s going to happen to us now—’ Ednoth fell silent at last as a grim-faced man swung a spear-butt at him. It missed, but he slumped back in his corner, levelling one last look of hatred and misery at Wulfgar before folding his arms on his knees and resting his head on them.