The sounds of the others crashing on through the woods faded quickly as the chant of the horn told that the fox was once again streaking out into open country. Gospatric could catch up: it would be easy to follow the trail left by so many.
The horse was not so content to be left behind. The animal was snorting and stamping, neighing anxiously. Irritated, Gospatric tugged at the reins, but upset and excited the horse tossed its head with a sudden jerk and simultaneously backed away. The leather reins broke with a snap and the horse was gone, whirling around in a flurry of legs, dead wood, beechmast and swirled leaves from the autumn fall. The Northumbrian man leapt quickly but was not fast enough. He stood, fuming, as the god-damned animal galloped away after his companions.
Sour-faced, Gospatric slithered down the bank and waded into the rain-heavy rush of stream water. No good chasing after the beast, he would never catch the damned thing. Better to head for home. Huh, more than a five-mile walk! The water came to mid-calf, fortunately no higher, but the opposite bank was steeper and mud-churned. By the time he had pulled himself up to solid ground, he was thoroughly wet and grimed, and in poor temper. He called out, hoping some servant or peasant might be near at hand. Nothing. No sound save the raucous cawing from a nearby rookery and the toss of branches clattering against each other as the wind grubbed through the bare tree canopy.
As he stumbled on, his temper increased. Twice he slipped on wet grass as the woods began to drop sharply down; added to that, his boots, new a few days since, were already rubbing. He vaguely remembered urging his horse upwards through these trees—aye, there was the trail. Holding on to a low branch he wondered whether it would be safer, on this steep slope, to sit on his backside and slither down. A long, ditch-like gully ran off to his left—aye, he remembered someone shouting “ware the hollow.” He turned left slightly, then stopped abruptly. A mounded shape lay in the bottom of the chasm, protruding from the gush of sluicing rain water. A horse, a dead horse.
Minding his footing, Gospatric tentatively made his way over to the dead animal. Its neck was broken, he could tell. He thought he recognised the dark chestnut—a wry grin of smug satisfaction tilted the corner of his mouth upwards. Tostig’s horse. He edged around the body and stopped, folded his arms and stood looking down, the smug grin etching deeper.
Always thought he knew it all. Always the clever one who would never take advice from anyone…that was Tostig, Earl of Northumbria. Tostig, who lay, eyes closed, groaning, among the blackened, mud-crusted leaves, his leg caught beneath the bulk of his dead horse.
Gospatric loathed Tostig. Would, without qualm, wish him dead. Tostig was not from the North, had no right to bully those, like Gospatric, who were descended from the ancient noble families of Northumbria. Did this jumped-up whoreson think they would forget the brutishness with which he meted out punishment on the poor and the innocent? The viciousness of his oppression of freeman, thegn and noble alike? The arrogance of his demand for respect that he had in no way earned. His greed, his avarice. The murder of those two men at York—men Gospatric had known and liked.
Aye, Gospatric, the last surviving son of Uhtred of Bamburgh, whose family had once ruled in their own right, had no shred of compassion for Tostig. They had all been warned to beware of the gully, had ridden carefully around it, but not Tostig it seemed. Gospatric looked to the far side, where the top of the bank was pocked and distorted. Aye, the braggart fool had attempted to jump his horse over—well the man deserved all he got.
Tostig pleaded for someone to help. The fingers of his hand clutched helplessly at the soft earth, sweat stood out on his forehead. His eyes flickered, attempting to focus on the vague, misted shape of a man who stood above him.
“Please, help me! My leg is trapped.”
Gospatric said nothing. He pushed himself away from the dead horse, scrambled up out of the gully and swung on downwards, emerging out of the wood on to the grass common land that ran towards the town of Gloucester.
All colour had drained from the landscape, the sun blotted out by the thickening winter cloud. The wind, blowing from the northeast, drove a drenching rain across the hills. Gospatric shrugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders; he would be sodden to the bone before he reached home—but rain or no rain, he had no intention of hurrying. How could they prove that he had found him? None of them could. None of them would know. Serve them right for not realising he was missing from the hunt!
Christ’s truth, Gospatric thought, if a favourite’s presence cannot be missed, God help those Edward may dislike!
He walked on, keeping an eye to the approaching rain. Below, a big dog-fox, the colour of dead bracken, flowed along the line of a ploughed furrow, three fields ahead of the hunt. The cunning animal was doubling back on his tracks. The pack was closing, heads down, firm on the rank scent. Gospatric watched, fascinated, as the fox, out on common land now, swerved several times through a flock of panicked sheep then, leaping a stone-built wall, trotted direct through the centre of a farmyard, into the pigpen, disturbing the old sow, and out again on to the midden heap, where he took the opportunity to roll. Gospatric laughed. Hounds would never trail his scent through those rich odours.
3
Gloucester
Queen Edith’s fear for Tostig had been near-hysterical. Thank all the gods that he was not seriously hurt beyond a bruised and torn ankle and calf! Jesu Christ, he could have been killed in that fall this morning! Or died unfound, completely alone, beneath the weight of that horse, soaked by the rain, chilled by the wind…
Edith was supposedly listening to Wilton’s Abbess giving a report on the progress of the rebuilding of the nunnery. Too late, she realised she had not heard a word, but had no heart to ask for repetition. All she wanted was to go to her brother, see how he fared. She had not noticed that Tostig was not with them on the hunt, had assumed that he was up at the front with the King. She had been too preoccupied with that beastly mare—wretched creature had pulled at her arm sockets, blistering her hands. And Edward—huh, Edward who professed to being so fond of Tostig but had not realised that his favourite was not beside him? How could her husband not have noticed, for heaven’s sake!
“There are several caskets of relics here, madam, for you to choose from, though I am not certain ’tis right that we ought take from one holy shrine to place in another…”
Edith’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at the Abbess, her attention drawn back to the matter in hand.
All important holy places were enhanced by the possession of relics, the remains of saints. A finger, a lock of hair, a fragile collection of bones. Occasionally something of greater value: a sliver of wood from the true cross or a few worn threads from the Blessed Virgin’s mantle. To Edith, it was inconceivable that lesser shrines should parade their sacred possessions while she had nothing for the glory of Wilton. As Queen, she had no chance to make a pilgrimage to Rome or the Holy Land to acquire something for herself and equally, as Queen, saw no reason why those who already had such things should not offer their treasured artefacts for her use.
That the abbots attending this Christmas Council took exception to the Queen’s view had not been missed by Wilton’s good Abbess, but had been steadfastly ignored by Edith. Evesham in particular was grumbling. Saint Egwin, Bishop of Worcester and founder of Evesham, was its principal patron; the loss of his relics, should the Queen decide to take them for herself, would be a severe blow to the credibility of the abbey…and so a compromise had been quietly agreed between the monks. The Abbot took to Gloucester, instead, the lesser-valued relics of Saint Odulf, The Queen could have them and gladly. Few bothered with Saint Odulf when they had the holy Saint Egwin to pray to.
“Yes, yes.” Edith rose to her feet, waving the Abbess aside and beckoning for the boy, Edgar, to join her, Edward was weeping in his chamber, bewailing the fate of his dear friend Tostig. You would think her brother had died, the fuss he was making. When the
y had been unable to find the scent beyond that mud hole of a farmyard it had been agreed to end the day’s sport and ride for home—and then it had become apparent that no one had seen Tostig since the start of that last uphill gallop more than two miles back. Several were certain he had entered the beech woods; retracing their trail they had found him, about an hour later, as the rain had cascaded down in a torrent. Tostig had rambled something about seeing a man standing over him as they had heaved the carcass from him. Said that he thought it was Death come for him. No, Death had left him to live, but would come to the one who had abandoned her brother there. Oh, most assuredly it would!
Edgar had found them, the boot marks in the soft earth beyond the dead horse. Someone had been there, had gazed down upon Tostig, Some bastard had deliberately walked away from him—an earl of the realm, the Queen’s brother, left him there to…and that was the fear that trembled in her heart. Without Tostig, what chance had she of achieving her hopes for her future? She would not be made regent on her own; without Tostig she would be forgotten as all those other queens of the past had been as soon as the crown was placed on the next head.
Edith steered Edgar down the steps from the dais to where several caskets were arrayed on a trestle table. Well, she would not be unremembered! She and Tostig would rule—for Edgar—when the time came and she would be made a saint along with her husband. Saint Edith: it had a good ring. For this, she was rebuilding Wilton, had commissioned a Life to be written, ostensibly of Edward, but centred on herself, and she was to bestow relics of holy value that would be forever associated with her name. Saint Edith.
To Edgar she said, “Let us inspect these reliquaries together, my dear. You will help me choose. I suggest we seek something modest but significant for my nunnery.” Of the nearest abbot Edith asked, “Are there any women’s relics among the collection, do you know? The bones of a female saint would be most suitable.”
The Abbot shook his head. “With regret, madam, I think not.”
The Queen tossed a scathing look at him. Why had the fools not thought to bring something more connected to a nunnery? She commanded her goldsmith to break open the seal of the first casket, standing close behind him, her head tilted so she might see clearer inside as each successive lid was lifted.
By the third one Edgar was rapidly losing interest. He was not sure what he had expected, certainly not a shrivelled piece of something that they said was skin, that for all its holy worth looked and smelt disgusting, A broken toe bone and some faded and frayed ragged old cloth. He would rather be with the other boys, playing knuckle bones or teasing the girls—there was a wager on that no one dare sneak close enough to proud-nose Margaret, his pious sister, and tweak her braid.
At Edith’s nod the goldsmith lifted the next casket. Evesham’s contribution: the relics of Saint Odulf. He took his chisel, with care, to the wax-sealed lock. The casket itself was a beautiful thing, a box three hand-spans high, five long, one wide, exquisitely carved from walrus ivory, inlaid with bronze and gold. Eagerly Edith craned forward; this, she felt, was the one. Something that would enhance the prestige of Wilton. Something that encapsulated profound holiness and would enhance the memory of her own name.
She glanced up at the Abbess, intending to smile, but caught the woman’s unguarded expression of worry. The Abbess, Edith remembered, was not enthralled by this idea. That the deliberate removal of an article of value from one holy place for the benefit of another might not be acceptable in God’s eyes had not occurred to Edith. Below Edward’s new Westminster, Wilton was to be the next most prestigious abbey. To achieve that status, it must house relics of worth, wherever they might come from.
Behind the Abbess she caught a glimpse of more faces, all those who were crowded into the King’s Hall waiting for the serving of supper. Her eye lingered on Gospatric. Something would have to be done about that man. She neither liked nor trusted him. He had registered surprise and concern when he had eventually reached the palace and heard of Tostig’s accident, an hour or so after they had returned. Protested that if only he had known he would not have made his way back on foot across country, but would have remained to assist in the search. Liar! What cared he for Tostig? It was well known they detested each other, that Gospatric took every opportunity to undermine Tostig’s authority. Aye, a troublemaker, a friend with those others who whispered of defiance and insurrection.
As the goldsmith put his hand to the lid, Edith turned her mind from the foul man and leant further forward. It lifted…and a cloud of dust billowed from inside the casket, puffing upwards into the air.
Gasps, a few hastily muffled screams as everyone took a rapid step backward, fearing the devil himself might be released among them. The emanating stench was putrid. The goldsmith ducked aside, instinctively closing his eyes and raising an arm to shield his head, but Edith was not so astute. The particles wafted into her face, grit entering her mouth, settling on her lashes, in her eyes. She reeled, putting her fingers to the burn of daggers seemingly piercing at her sight.
“I cannot see!” she screamed, terrified, her arms flailing. “I cannot see! I am blinded!”
Among the immediate flurry of alarmed movement, the monks of Evesham exchanged brief, knowing glances. Most within the Hall automatically crossed themselves, one or two even sinking to their knees in prayer. Wilton’s Abbess rushed to comfort the distraught Edith, ordering the Queen’s physician to be summoned.
Only Evesham’s Abbot remained still and calm. “It is a sign from God,” he announced with solemnity. “A sign that you are not to remove any relics of His saints from a place where He has commanded they rest. God, my Lady Queen, is showing you His displeasure by removing your sight.”
Pitiably, Edith sank to her knees, her eyes closed tightly from the agony, tears slithering from beneath the tight-shut lids. She ordered the goldsmith immediately to cease his work, to reseal each casket.
“I vow that never again shall I violate the resting place of a saint, of any holy shrine—oh, if only my sight will be restored. By blessed Saint Odulf, I do so swear it!”
The Abbot rested his hand upon her forehead, gave her his blessing. Wilton’s Abbess, who had hastily beckoned for a servant to bring a bowl of water, began bathing the Queen’s red, sore eyes.
The tears streamed, the cold water felt refreshing and cool. The intense pain started to ease. Hesitantly Edith opened her eyes. Blurred, watery, she blinked rapidly…she could see. Oh, God’s blessed grace, her sight was restored!
With joy, she raised her hands to heaven and praised God. Wilton, she decided, would have to manage without relics.
4
Gloucester
Edward was not attending council this 28th day of December. His head ached, his chest was tight with a cold. Caught in all that rain yesterday. And the anxiety of Tostig’s accident had tired him. Edward had retired to his bed and now refused to leave it. Edith, therefore, was presiding over this final day’s meeting of the Christmas Council.
Men now looked to her with respect for her wisdom as much as her position but how long had it taken her to earn that veneration! All these years of patient waiting! At Council, in court of law, when interviewing petitioners or messengers, whatever duty the King had been required to attend Edith had been there with him, occasionally seated beside him on her throne, more often charmingly arrayed on a stool at his feet. He would hold her hand or fondle her hair, worn loose beneath her veil as was her right as Queen. With each passing Council he had sought more of her opinion—did this man deserve leniency, this one punishment? Was this official speaking the truth or was he fawning for favour? While surprised and flattered at first, she had soon realised that, in fact, Edward was merely taking an easy option for himself.
Edward had never liked governmental duties, finding concentration tedious and decision-making difficult. How much easier to rely on his wife’s discreet nod of confirmation or make a slight shake to
her head in disagreement? He would sit as if rapt while some haggard old crone rambled on about the injustice of her land being taken from her because her husband had been careless enough to die intestate. Had become adept at giving the impression that he was avidly listening, while all the while he mused over some parable from the Bible or an uplifting poem or song he had heard the previous night.
From her view, she had little care as to why Edward began to trust and rely on her. It was the results that mattered. Edith had worked hard to gain experience and respect; she had learnt to recognise the catch in a voice that was attempting to conceal half truths, to recognise the subtle body signs of outright lies. A furtive look, partially downcast eyes, nervous licking of lips or fidgeting hands and feet. Sweat beading a brow.
Gospatric had displayed nearly all of these a few minutes past when Tostig had accused him of leaving his liege lord to die beneath a dead horse in a rain-swept beech wood.
Council had gasped at the accusation. Gospatric had angrily protested his innocence. Another sign. How vigorously men bluster when they know themselves to be in the wrong!
“It is but circumstantial,” Gospatric cried, his neck and face suffused with red. “I was thrown from my horse and trudged home through that damned rain—head down. How was I to know you too had suffered a fall? What, do I possess a witch’s second sight?”
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