‘And you think the Mercians will just … roll over for you?’
‘They love you,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘They’ve done what you’ve told them for nearly twenty years.’
‘Not me, Edward. My husband. And he’s the grandson of Mercian kings.’ She pulled away.
A slave brought in wine for the high table and, under cover of the ceremony on the dais, Garmund sidled close enough to hiss to Wulfgar, ‘Is it true, Litter-runt, what you said about the relics? The bones I brought are the wrong ones?’ His eyes flickered to King Edward.
‘Of course it’s true. I don’t lie on oath, unlike some people.’
Garmund’s eyes contracted and darkened.
‘If it’s true, I’m going to kill you.’
Wulfgar found he was rolling his own eyes to Heaven.
‘I’ve heard that before.’ Astounded and delighted, he realised that Garmund’s words didn’t frighten him. He smiled at his half-brother. ‘You should be thanking me, for not mentioning Offchurch.’
Garmund had clenched his fist before remembering where he was, and in whose presence. Lowering his hand again, he said, ‘You little – I will kill you.’
‘On Edward’s say-so, was it, the Offchurch raid? A foretaste of his policy towards Mercia? Does the Lady know?’ Wulfgar broke off at the sound of a knock at the great doors, turning on his heel in sudden, wild hope.
The reliquary had arrived from St Oswald’s church.
But there was still no sign of Kenelm.
CHAPTER FORTY
ST OSWALD’S RELIQUARY HAD been smuggled up to Kingsholm disguised in a bundle of sacking and hidden in a rush basket. The whole ungainly parcel was placed on the table by the indignant sacristan of the new church. Werferth of Worcester quelled his brother prelate with one ferocious look.
‘Give me the keys, and then you may withdraw,’ he said to the sacristan, who had been hovering like a broody hen.
Outraged, the man opened his mouth, but one more glare from his Bishop had him backing out, bowing all the way to the doors.
‘Have you looked inside before, godfather?’ the Lady asked.
He shook his head without looking at her, intent on removing a second wooden box of new, golden oak, much smaller but still large enough to need both hands. He turned the second key. The slight click sounded loud in the silent hall.
As Bishop Werferth raised the lid of the inner box, he gave a bark of laughter. Wulfgar saw Denewulf of Winchester flinch. Bishop Werferth reached in with both hands and lifted out the skull.
‘Come up here, boy.’
Wulfgar looked at the Lady. She nodded, and he made his way up onto the dais. What a difference it made to his morale, looking down at Garmund.
Quiet, conversational, the Bishop said, ‘“The Death of St Oswald”, Wulfgar, how does it go?’
Wulfgar gaped.
‘Sing? Now?’
The Bishop nodded.
‘Just the account of the martyrdom, please.’
Wulfgar, baffled, groped after his singing voice but that seemed to have betrayed him too. It came out as a stammering croak.
‘Merciless Mercians
martyred the king,
Hacked off his head
and his noble hands,
Set them on high
as a horrible sign …’
His voice sounded very small in that great, echoing space.
Thankfully, the Bishop cut him off with an abrupt gesture.
‘So they do teach the classics at Winchester? I did wonder. Bishop Denewulf doesn’t appear to know the story.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Thirty years a bishop and you can’t do better than this? You ignorant fool.’
Denewulf held up his hands, shying away from Edward rather than his fellow-prelate.
‘I knew full well there shouldn’t be a skull among the Bardney relics! The other bones – the fragments of the coffin – I never said all the bones were those of the saint!’
‘The fragments of the coffin. Yes.’ Werferth’s voice had changed, softened, gentler than Wulfgar had ever heard him. ‘These I do remember …’ He closed his eye. ‘The last time I ever went to Bardney, only a few years before the Danes –’ he crossed himself ‘– I had just been ordained priest, and I went as a pilgrim to give thanks to St Oswald. The good brothers made me so welcome. This man –’ he rested a hand on the smooth brow of the skull ‘– this very man must have been among them.’ He shivered suddenly and groped at the table for support. Wulfgar peered into the Bishop’s time-ravaged face, trying to make out the lineaments of a fit and vigorous man of thirty, full of pride in his new ordination. ‘The brothers opened the reliquary for me, and inside was an ancient wooden box.’ The Bishop put his other hand to his own forehead. ‘Our Lord and His Blessed Mother on the lid. Prayers incised around the rim in runes. Angels. And this is it. Wulfgar, my stool.’ He sank onto it. ‘Hand me one of those pieces.’
Wulfgar crossed himself, and lifted out an intricately carved piece of wood, the length of his foot and the width of his hand, damp, rotten and crumbling.
The Bishop pressed it to his lips.
‘Forgive an old man,’ he said under his breath.
There was a sudden crash as Edward banged his fist on the table, rocking it on its trestles. Wulfgar leapt to save the skull from falling off the edge.
‘But this proves nothing!’ the King shouted. ‘Wulfgar duped Garmund with false bones. So? He was always a slick little sycophant. Garmund was a fool to trust him, I’ll grant you that. Let’s have a judgement here.’
From the floor, Garmund called, ‘My Lord! If I may venture to speak?’ His tone was humble and ingratiating. ‘I admit it, I was a fool to trust Wulfgar, you’re right, my Lord. But he is my own brother, and a man of the Church. I never thought he would lie about these sacred matters.’
A shiver of disgust went through Wulfgar as he gently laid the skull back with the other bones. Slick little sycophant, was he? The King of Wessex could look to his own follower for the truth of that statement. He had a sudden onrush of memory: rough bark against his back, Garmund roping his arms, and Edward taunting him that they were going to re-enact the martyrdom of St Edmund … And the Lady – ah, but she was only Fleda then – rushing in from nowhere, plaits flying, bashing the big boys about the heads with her embroidery frame … How could she possibly think he would ever betray her?
But she was nodding now, her face pinched thin and pale with sorrow.
‘Wulfgar, you have no proof. I accept that these bones cannot be the bones of St Oswald. But that only makes matters worse. Garmund would never have believed these to be the real bones if you hadn’t put them together with the true fragments of wooden reliquary and sold the whole package to him. Your brother trusted you, just as I did.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Implicitly. To find the saint. And there is no saint.’
‘But, my Lady—’ It was hopeless, though. She had turned away. He didn’t understand how she could credit any of Garmund’s lies.
‘Never mind the saint, where’s the silver?’ Edward leaned across, moving into the gap the Lady had left. ‘Thirty pounds of silver. My silver. Where have you hidden it?’
‘Thief!’ Garmund shouted from the floor.
Bishop Denewulf shook his fleecy white head.
‘Wulfgar, I never knew you properly, did I? Your uncle’s heart will be broken.’ He pursed his lips, heavy pink jowls quivering. ‘Where did we go wrong?’
‘We should wait for my nephew,’ the Bishop of Worcester said.
Wulfgar turned to this unlikely saviour with his heart racing, but, ‘No,’ the Lady was already saying. ‘It is time for judgment. Prisoner, please return to the floor of the hall.’ She looked at him. Her eyes were winter-grey again. ‘Will you get down? Or do I have to ask the guards to help you?’
Numb and exhausted, he shook his head, and climbed back down to the floor and his place on the square of rush matting.
‘Wulfgar of Winchester,’ the Lady said, �
�you have not been able to produce a single oath-swearer. Garmund has twelve. I have no choice but to find you guilty on the following charges. You have yourself confessed to killing one of Garmund’s men, and I find you guilty of manslaughter.’
‘Murder!’ Garmund shouted. ‘My man was stabbed in the back, in the dark! He had no chance.’
‘Silence!’ The thunder in the Lady’s voice was eerily reminiscent of her husband in his prime. ‘We will establish the status of the dead man and you will pay the appropriate fine to King Edward and to the man’s family. Next, that you stole and sold holy relics, in defiance of canon law. This is a Church matter, and I will ask the Bishops to come up with a suitable penance. I hope it will be a heavy one.’
She swallowed and glanced down at her hands, folded in front of her, white even against the white linen.
‘Then we come to the matter of deceiving Garmund with the false relics. A very rare crime, and not one which is mentioned in the dooms of Mercia. However, it appears to come under market law.’ She cleared her throat. ‘It seems to me to be comparable with a moneyer who mints false coin, and for that crime the penalty is to have the offending hand struck off at the wrist-joint and nailed above the mint.’ She blinked furiously. ‘The right hand.’
‘Where shall we nail Wulfgar’s hand?’ Edward was tight-lipped and bright-eyed.
‘I – I don’t know yet. Finally –’ she paused for a moment ‘– finally, you disobeyed your orders. You are my man, oath-sworn by head and hand. The Bishop of Worcester and I told you to find the relics and come back to us here in Gloucester. Instead, failing to find the relics, you stole those bones –’ she gestured at the piled skeleton in front of her ‘– you sold them under false pretences, and then you came to Gloucester and told us this web of lies. For the crime of oath-breaking, the only penalty the law allows me to impose is confiscation and exile. If you are ever seen within the borders of Mercia again, your life is forfeit without further trial.’
‘And Wessex,’ Edward said, cracking his knuckles. ‘And Wessex. What can I say, Fleda? I was going to ask you to give him back to me for judgment, but I couldn’t have done better myself.’
Wulfgar’s ears were ringing. He shook his head to clear them. Hard to breathe. No, there was no fault in her judgment, or her knowledge of the law. Only, he thought bitterly, in her haste, and her ignorance of the hearts of men. He clasped his hands together, the fingers of his left hand stroking his right. Warm. Pulse in the wrist. Calloused fingertips. Stubborn ink-stains which even now left their grey ghosts.
His pen-hand, he thought.
His harp-string hand.
He pressed it against his breast.
‘Do you have anything to say?’ She sounded wooden.
He couldn’t meet her gaze. Lips cold and numb, staring at her chin and veiled throat, he stammered, ‘My Lady, if all this were true, if I had thirty pounds of stolen silver hidden somewhere, why in the world would I ever have come back to Gloucester?’
Her eyes were wet.
‘Only you know the answer to that.’ Her lips tightened. ‘Open the doors. We need to make the judgment public.’
Wulfgar heard steps retreating away over the resounding floorboards, noted the change in the light as the doors far behind him opened, letting daylight into the gloom of the hall. He heard voices from outside, raised in argument. His shoulders tensed. Would they cut off his hand at once? In the courtyard? Using a kitchen knife? A butcher’s axe? Summary justice was the custom, after all. Done, and seen to be done.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
‘MY LADY.’ THE respectful voice came from somewhere over Wulfgar’s left shoulder.
‘Is this important?’ The King sounded impatient.
The Lady held up a hand.
‘Wait, Edward.’ She nodded. ‘Continue.’
It was the steward who had spoken.
‘My Lady, there are some men outside who claim to carry news with a bearing on the case.’ He cleared his throat, diffident. ‘I know you have already given your judgment, my Lady, but one of them is the deacon, Kenelm.’ He bowed in the direction of Bishop Werferth. ‘The Bishop’s nephew, whom I was commanded to find.’ He bowed again to the Lady. ‘And one of them is your cousin, the Atheling of Wessex.’
Wulfgar tightened his grip, hand clutching cold hand till they blotched a numb white and red.
Don’t open the door to hope, he told himself. Judgment has been passed. Nothing can change that.
‘Too late.’ Edward thumped a fist on the table, satisfaction in his voice. ‘As your man says, judgment has been given.’
The Lady had gone even paler.
‘In an ordinary case, yes,’ said Bishop Werferth, leaning forward, ‘it would be too late. But, Fleda, this is not an ordinary case. The saint himself is on trial here.’
Denewulf of Winchester nodded. He opened his mouth as though to speak but glanced at Edward, swallowed, and reconsidered.
And now Edward is going to sulk, thought Wulfgar.
Sure enough, the King was pushing himself back in his chair and folding his splendidly embroidered arms across his chest.
‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘Bring them in if you must. I can’t imagine anything they say will make a difference.’
The Lady nodded.
‘Let them in.’
Wulfgar concentrated on his stance. Feet evenly planted on the mat. Deep slow breathing. His hands were still clinging to each other: he managed to unclench them to hang at his sides. Head up. Eyes open. He stared unseeing at the high table. He was determined not to turn round. The back of his neck prickled.
‘Seiriol!’ The Lady sprang to her feet, her face alive with sudden delight.
The three men seated at the table had all gone very still.
Wulfgar heard the light, confident step coming up the length of the hall. It stopped at his side. A hand rested on his shoulder.
‘My Lord … King. My Lady. Bishops.’ But the greeting was only courtesy. He had nothing to say to them, not just then. ‘Wuffa? You seem to have got yourself into a little difficulty.’
Wulfgar found he couldn’t turn to look at the Atheling. Staring ahead, he muttered, ‘My Lord.’
‘I found some friends of yours down in the town. They told me they have something for you.’ The hand squeezed his shoulder and let go.
‘Why are you interrupting the court?’ Edward’s voice was harsh with barely suppressed rage. ‘Sentence has been passed on the traitor.’
And the Atheling actually laughed.
‘Oh, Eddi. This is Wulfgar we’re talking about. Traitor, indeed.’
‘He’s one and you’re another.’ Edward shoved his chair back. ‘You’re trying to undermine Fleda, now, aren’t you? You and your damned meddling – get out of here, do you hear?’ His voice rose as he unleashed his anger. ‘Get out!’
The Atheling shook his head.
‘You’re not in charge here, Eddi. We’re not in Winchester now.’ He turned to Fleda. ‘What do you say, cousin?’
The Lady was still standing, her cheeks pink but her voice dignified and steady.
‘Seiriol, it would give me great pleasure if you would join us.’ She indicated a place beside the Bishop of Worcester. ‘Steward, a chair. You are a neutral voice in this case, cousin: your opinion would be highly valued.’
‘Neutral!’
The Atheling vaulted up onto the dais.
‘King for half a year, Eddi, and you still can’t control your temper?’ He waved at the steward. ‘Never mind a chair. Let my witnesses in.’
Wulfgar’s heart fluttered as wildly as a bird caged in the fowler’s hands, for all his slow, careful breathing. He turned his palms outwards. Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, ask your Son to have mercy on me, a sinner …
More footsteps. Several pairs of feet. Not just Kenelm, then.
He heard the Lady’s voice, asking a question.
And then a voice he’d never really thought to hear again: ‘Father Ronan, priest
of the kirk of St Margaret, in Leicester.’
He turned, mouth gaping.
‘Ronan!’
The steward thumped the ferrule of his staff on the floorboards.
‘Will the prisoner be silent?’
And next to Father Ronan, Ednoth. And next to Ednoth, Kenelm, holding out to him a bulky and familiar parcel. He reached for it, hands shaking.
The next minutes passed in a blur. He was only vaguely aware of the formalities of the court: of Father Ronan and then Ednoth being sworn in and asked to summarise their adventures; of Kenelm taking his oath that this was indeed the bundle with which Wulfgar had entrusted him.
‘Wulfgar of Winchester.’ The Lady’s voice brought him back to his senses. There was a softness in it now, but it didn’t move him as it would have once. He would have taken her word against Edward and Garmund and all the world beside, but she hadn’t trusted him. ‘Would you please open that bag?’
He didn’t think to climb up to the dais. He knelt on his rush mat and carefully unfolded out the sack-cloth before taking the bones out of the pile and arranging them in some kind of meaningful pattern.
Clavicles and scapulae.
The long line of strange, three-flanged vertebrae.
The smooth sickle-curves of the ribs.
Angel-wing pelvic bones.
The long scaffolding of femur and tibia.
Foot-bones like something children might use in a game, like cherry-stones for counting: Merchant, Ploughman, Shipman, Bowman … How did it go on? Rich man, Poor man, Beggar-man, Thief …
Soldier, Scholar, King, Saint …
Fragments of a man who had blazed so brightly for a few years and then been treated so cruelly. Wulfgar weighed a weightless rib in his hands, thought about it flexing and relaxing in life and breath and prayer and song, forming part of the cage of that mighty heart.
A heap of brittle kindling.
No, Wulfgar. He raised his head, listening. I am more than that. I am here. I am with you now.
The Bone Thief Page 35
