The Bone Thief

by V. M. Whitworth

  One little week, Wulfgar thought. We left here last Saturday, and now it’s Saturday again. Easter Saturday. How can it only be a week since we sat outside his hall in the sunshine, talking about pots, with his mother feeding us on those excellent crumpets? Look at me, I’m not the same person. I’ve got a murder on my conscience, and a baby in the crook of my arm, and one tiny toe-bone of St Oswald’s tucked away in a bag round my neck, with the Gospel of St John, and I’m at least a thousand years older.

  ‘We’ll ask Heremod if he’s heard anything,’ Ednoth said, interrupting his thoughts.

  ‘The trail’s cold.’ Ronan sounded glum. ‘You must have missed his tracks, where he went off the road.’

  ‘Not unless he really tried to hide his tracks, I didn’t. And why would he do that? He doesn’t know we’re after him. If it’s Garmund –’ Ednoth looked hard at Wulfgar ‘– or one of his men, he’ll be going to Winchester, won’t he? And this is the fastest road.’

  ‘We’ll ask for news,’ Gunnvor said, ‘but if there’s no news we won’t stop here.’

  Wulfgar found he was looking forward with relief to seeing Heremod again; his bluff, good-humoured face and easy hospitality were a pleasant prospect, but the thought of being back on land loyal to Mercia was even more attractive. At the thought of the Lady and her Lord, he heard again that distant little wolf-howl of failure, and hugged the sleeping child closer against his heart. How on earth was he going to tell them that he was coming home – not exactly empty-handed – but without the treasure for which he had been sent?

  And would it still be them?

  No, he thought, I have to assume the Lord’s still alive. Someone would have told us if there was any really big news; if he had died, or Edward had invaded, or some disloyal thane had staged a coup we would have heard something. He held onto that thought like a talisman.

  And there’s nothing I can do, he admitted. No more than I am doing, anyway.

  They were onto Heremod’s land now. Ploughmen and sowers in the fields, flocks of sheep in the meadows with gangs of rowdy lambs playing follow-my-leader and king-of-the-hill in the evening sunshine. Nothing seemed to have changed.

  Ednoth wound his horn at the gates of the stockade and Heremod’s reeve came out to usher them through.

  Wulfgar blinked in confusion. The courtyard, so peaceful when he had last seen it, was a turmoil of bustle and disorder. One flank of the byre was stacked with barrels of butter and mounds of fresh cheese; there were straw-packed baskets of eggs, sides of smoked bacon, tuns of ale in one corner, big jars of honeycomb in another. The reeve had to cut short his words of welcome to relieve a man of a bundle of tally sticks while shouting something about killing chickens to a harassed-looking slave-girl.

  He turned back to them.

  ‘Come out of the gateway, would you? There’s an ox-cart needing in.’

  Still mounted, they shuffled their horses to one side to allow the cart, groaning with cords of fire-wood, to come through.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ednoth hissed.

  ‘Is that who I think it is? My boys!’

  Heremod’s mother stood in the doorway of the hall. She nodded a greeting to Father Ronan and Gunnvor as, helped by her stick, she came picking her way through the mountains of provisions that stood between them. Ednoth slipped easily down from his saddle and held out his hands to her.

  ‘Are you well, Auntie?’

  ‘My lovely boy! You came back!’ Her dim eyes shifted from him to Wulfgar and back again. ‘Both of you! I wish I could offer you a better welcome.’

  ‘We’re looking for a man, Auntie,’ Ednoth said. ‘We think he’s on his own—’

  ‘Aye, and a man’s looking for you.’

  ‘Wulfgar!’

  They all turned then. Another ox-cart came jolting through the gates, with Heremod at the reins. He jumped down to them, handing the reins to his reeve. Wulfgar slid out of the saddle onto the unforgiving cobbles to clasp the extended hand in both of his.

  ‘Heremod! It’s good to see you. And to be back in Mercia!’

  Heremod beamed between those long yellow-grey moustaches.

  ‘Good to see you, too, boys.’ He saw Gunnvor then, and he made a deep bow. ‘Gunnvor Bolladottir! So, you found each other! Honoured to have you here. And you, Father. What a pleasure!’ He clapped his hands. ‘A drink for my friends!’

  ‘This looks to be a busy time for your house, Heremod,’ Wulfgar said. ‘We won’t intrude—’

  ‘Intrude? Nothing of the sort. I insist you stay. Let me feed you, at the very least.’ His eyes flickered from face to face, and he turned suddenly to look behind him, out through the gates. ‘It’s an honour,’ he said again, swinging back again with his broad smile, ‘and I want to know everything about what you’ve been doing. Come in here, it’s warmer than the hall.’

  Relinquishing their horses into the care of his stables, they followed him into the small bower across the yard from the hall, and let him order bowls of warm water, and towels, and oatcakes, curd cheese and mead. His eyes went wide at the sight of the baby, but he said nothing, letting his mother summon a slave-girl with a cup of warm milk.

  ‘We need news, Heremod,’ Ronan said. ‘We’re hunting a man who’s travelling alone, with a horse and a mule. We think he’s heading south, in a hurry – probably too much of a hurry to stop more than he must. Have you had any word of a man like that, in the last day or two?’

  ‘Now …’ Heremod smoothed his moustaches with finger and thumb. ‘Not seen anyone like that, not myself, but it seems to ring a bell – I’ll ask, how’s that? Someone here must have mentioned something to me, and I’ll try and find out who.’ He sounded agitated. ‘You stay here, and my reeve will see to your needs. Make sure he takes some ale to your men, my lady.’ He had already taken a pace backwards, his hands spread wide as though to keep them where they were.

  ‘Tell them to be on their way, boy.’

  Wulfgar, startled by her words, saw that the old woman had a grim look on her face.

  ‘Now, Mother!’ Heremod’s tone took on a note of outrage. ‘I’ll allow we’re busy, but there’s no excuse for being inhospitable. You come with me, there’s a problem with the saltfish.’ He pushed her out before him.

  Wulfgar plunged his hands into the wooden bowl of warm water and reached for the linen towel he was being offered.

  ‘Ah, that’s better. My fingers go all tingly when I’ve been holding the reins for a while, and carrying the baby doesn’t make things any easier …’ He tailed off at the look on Gunnvor’s face.

  ‘I thought we weren’t stopping,’ she said.

  ‘Well, just while Heremod sees if he can track down the rumour—’

  ‘I don’t believe in that rumour. I don’t like this.’

  ‘But these are our friends,’ Ednoth said. ‘We helped Auntie on the way up here. Heremod’s looking after us.’ He grinned. ‘And I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.’

  ‘It’ll be dark soon,’ Wulfgar said. ‘Do we really want to head off into the night?’

  ‘We’ll stay to eat, at least,’ Father Ronan said. ‘Heremod may have news for us by then.’

  ‘Who put you in charge?’ Her voice was icy. ‘Do I need to remind you that you are still my thralls?’

  The slave-girl kneeling in front of Wulfgar dropped the wooden bowl of water she held. It rolled noisily away over the floorboards, a lake of water spreading around their feet. Gunnvor pulled her skirts away from the puddle with an impatient gesture.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ the girl gabbled, mopping with her small towel. They all backed away from the puddle as another slave hurried up with a broom.

  ‘In law, yes,’ Father Ronan said ‘but surely you won’t make a point of it?’

  ‘I will if I have to.’ She turned away to look towards the door.

  ‘Ah, Cat’s-Eyes, haven’t I done you a good turn now and then, over the years?’

  ‘And you’ll redeem them all now
, will you?’

  He reached out to take her hand. ‘If that’s the fee, Cat’s-Eyes.’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ She snatched her hand away as she whirled to face him, her other hand to her mouth as though she was surprising even herself by her vehemence. She breathed deeply through her nostrils, her head back, as she struggled to master her temper. At last she said, ‘Why is the old lady telling us to go? And Straddler so eager for us to stay?’

  Wulfgar had forgotten Heremod’s eke-name till Gunnvor reminded him.

  Ednoth shrugged. ‘Old people are funny sometimes.’

  ‘Cat’s-Eyes, face it,’ said Father Ronan, ‘we may never find this man. And Wuffa’s loss is greater than yours. We’ll hear what Heremod has to say, stay the night here, and we’ll make our farewells to Wuffa and Ednoth tomorrow, eh? Let them go south. And I’ll take you home.’

  Her breathing was still irregular, and her eyes were shining. Wulfgar realised to his astonishment that she was trying not to cry. It was all he could do not to reach out a hand to comfort her, but he was afraid of what she might say if he did.

  ‘Home?’ she said eventually. ‘With Hakon dead? With Ketil master? Do you really think there’s a home for me in Leicester now? But I’ll do as you say, prestr. What choice do I have, really?’ Her lips pressed together, she started pulling off her gloves. ‘Bring me some more water. Make sure it’s properly hot. And don’t spill it this time.’ The girls scurried off to her do her bidding. She handed her gloves to Wulfgar. ‘Look after these for me.’

  The gloves were warm from her hands. He held them tight while she unfastened the massive silver ring-brooch that kept her cloak together now. Tendrils of thick black hair had come loose during the ride, and when she had repinned the cloak-brooch she began twisting them back into place, strong, shapely hands busy plaiting and pinning. The water arrived and she rinsed and dried her hands before summoning a cup of mead with a terse gesture. She pulled a face. ‘This can’t be his best.’ Her eyes met Wulfgar’s. ‘What are you staring at?’

  Colour flooded his face.

  Horns sounded outside.

  ‘What the—?’ Father Ronan swivelled to face the door of the bower.

  Wulfgar could see over the priest’s shoulder. Both the great gates into Heremod’s courtyard were being opened. A brace of outriders, still winding their horns, came first. Then a man with a banner, unfurling in the sunset breeze to show a grotesque mask surrounded with wild snake-like patterns. Then half a dozen armed men, hooves clattering on the cobblestones. They parted to draw up, three to a side, flanking the doorway, allowing two more horsemen to enter. These carried torches, and Wulfgar had to admire the ease with which they wielded the reins and kept the horses obedient while holding their flaming brands aloft. They wheeled and flanked in their turn, and the gateway stood empty.

  A long heartbeat.

  And then a final rider entered, on a magnificent black horse whose gilded harness glittered in sunset and torch-light. He was hooded and cloaked, his face in shadow. Wulfgar heard Gunnvor’s sharp intake of breath without understanding it.

  Heremod walked forward.

  ‘My Lord,’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Welcome to Wappenbury.’

  The hooded rider swung down from his saddle, staggering a little as he landed. He came two or three paces towards Heremod and stopped. Heremod, bowing deeply, went to meet him, and knelt at his feet. The rider extended one heavily ringed hand, and Wulfgar frowned. There was something nagging at his memory, but he would have sworn he had never seen this man before. Then Father Ronan growled something deep behind his beard, and Wulfgar watched, riveted in growing disbelief, as Heremod swore life and love and heart and hand to the service of Ketil Grimsson Scar.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘SO,’ RONAN SAID, ‘the wind’s from that quarter.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Wulfgar said. He looked from Ronan to Gunnvor, and then back out into the courtyard. ‘Heremod said he was loyal to the Lord and Lady of Mercia. He told me so himself—’

  ‘Shh!’ Gunnvor batted at him with the back of her hand as if he were a pestilent fly. Her face had taken on a pinched look, giving Wulfgar a sudden premonition of how she would look as an old woman. He turned back to the courtyard. Ketil took his hand from Heremod’s head, stepping back, extending his hands again to lift Heremod to his feet, embracing him and kissing him on each cheek.

  Wulfgar could feel a muscle jumping in his own cheek.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said again.

  Now Heremod stepped back, saying something, gesturing towards the bower. Wulfgar took a step backwards, stumbling against Ednoth. Ketil clapped Heremod on the shoulder, and ushered his host towards the door in the long side of his own hall, past the benches where Heremod had seated Wulfgar and Ednoth as his guests, a long week since. They went inside.

  ‘Now do you see why Heremod wanted us to stay?’ Gunnvor’s voice could have curdled milk.

  Ronan shook his head. ‘This is my fault. I should have insisted you boys go to greet Ketil before we left for Lincoln. I know you meant no insult, but he’s so damn touchy.’

  It was dark in the courtyard now, except for the flare of torches. More of Ketil’s entourage were coming in, carts and men on foot as well as more horses and mules. The reeve bustled about, shouting orders at all and sundry.

  ‘Can’t we slip away?’ Ednoth asked. ‘The gates are open. No one will notice, in all this racket.’

  ‘No,’ Wulfgar said, ‘Father Ronan’s right. We should have spoken to Ketil before. And now he’ll know from Heremod that we’re here with Father Ronan and – and Gunnvor, and they’ve got to go back to Leicester and face him, no matter what we do …’ He swallowed.

  Gunnvor raised her eyebrows at Ednoth.

  ‘Ah, little one, I’m with you,’ she said, ‘but I think we’re too late.’

  The shadowy figure in the doorway jerked his head.

  ‘Is this a dinner invitation,’ Wulfgar asked, ‘or a warrant for our arrest?’

  Father Ronan shrugged.

  ‘There’s only one way to find out.’ He held up a hand, ‘Yes, yes, I’m taking off my sword.’ He began to unbuckle. ‘Do the same, lad. Don’t argue.’

  The four of them went out of the bower door.

  Wulfgar was aware of men moving in to escort them on either side. The hall door gaped like a mouth, ready to swallow. Inside it was crowded, a great fire blazing on the hearth. Hands gripped his shoulders and he was forced onto his knees. A quick sideways glance showed him that Ednoth was getting the same treatment. He couldn’t see Ronan, or Gunnvor.

  Ketil was seated in Heremod’s great carved chair, which had been moved to the side of the hearth. One side of his face and body was illuminated by the jumping orange light, the other half in deep purple shadow. He looked hard at each of them, and nodded. There was a long moment’s silence.

  Ketil Scar was well-named. At some point, a long time ago, someone had tried to take his face off, with a sword or maybe an axe. Not the kind of wound many men survive. The tissue had healed shiny in the firelight, puckered and warped, squeezing one eye to a slit, halving his nose and giving his mouth a permanent curl of contempt. His hood was pushed back now, revealing hair close-cropped as if to assert that he disdained to hide his mutilation. His beard grew thickly, but not over the fault-line of the scar. A face with which to frighten small children. It certainly frightened Wulfgar.

  Ketil took his time about acknowledging them, long enough for Wulfgar to take in the lustre of bullion at his ears, neck and shoulder, the beautifully cured wolfskin jerkin, even the thread count of his fine wadmal leggings. His knees were only a foot or two away from Wulfgar’s face.

  Ketil said something then, in Danish. Fast and guttural, and Wulfgar hadn’t understood a word. And this, too, came as a shock. He had started to think that all Danes could speak perfectly adequate English. And to preen himself, just a little, on having understood so much of the Danish that he had heard
on this journey.

  At last he dared look up at Ketil again, to find the Jarl staring back at him, the firelight sending shadows leaping diabolically across his twisted face. After an eternity, Ketil lifted his head and pointed at somebody standing behind them.

  ‘Thu. Prestr.’

  There was a quick, muttered exchange. ‘The Grimssons’ tame priest’, hadn’t Father Ronan once called himself? Before Wulfgar could think too much about this, he found Ketil staring at him again. This time he spoke very slowly, and very loudly, but whether through terror, or Wulfgar’s poor Danish, or the impediment caused by the thick scar tissue around Ketil’s mouth, Wulfgar found himself incapable of responding. He blinked and looked at Ronan in desperation.

  ‘I was hurt,’ Ronan translated smoothly, ‘to hear that two visitors from the Lord of Mercia’s court had passed through my capital without coming to pay me their respects. I am not a hasty man. I did not get where I am today by being hasty. But I would like an explanation for this breach of protocol. Such secrecy suggests underhand motives. Spies? Assassins? Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t have you executed out of hand.’

  Elaborate, formal, courteous language. Wulfgar had understood just enough of what Ketil said to know that Ronan was translating with scrupulous accuracy.

  I’ll have to reply in the same mode, he thought. I hope I can.

  ‘Please – please accept our heartfelt apologies, Jarl of Leicester. We were in a hurry on our way through. We had every intention of calling on you now, on our homeward journey.’ The conventions called for a gift, some rich token. But what?

  Ketil answered at length, and then leaned forward, scowling, hands on knees, eyes fixed on Wulfgar. Waiting.

  Ronan translated again: ‘So you consider it acceptable to commit acts of trespass, to disdain my hospitality, to arouse my suspicions, to come to me only when cornered like rats in a barn, and then to tell me to my face that you were going to come to me of your own free will? Is this kind of effrontery acceptable to the Lord of the Mercians? If so, manners must be cruder among the Mercians than they are with us.’