‘But you were only a little boy.’
Not so little, he thought. Nine years old, and I loved you already. He realised he hadn’t once seen her bare-headed since her wedding, not until now. And there were indeed silver-grey hairs threading through the fair plaits. He felt disloyal even noticing them, to acknowledge even in his secret heart that she could be anything less than perfect. I was nine, he thought, and you were fifteen when the Boar of Mercia took you away.
You weren’t the lofty Lady of the Mercians then. I just called you Fleda, like everyone else. From the day I arrived in Winchester to be fostered by my uncle, you took me under your wing, you and – he glanced at the Atheling – Seiriol. The two of you always seemed to be together in those days. For two winters, you protected me from Edward and Garmund and their little gang of bullies when the adults turned a blind eye. I loved you both then with an adoration verging on idolatry. And then you went away.
The old Bishop’s gaze had been ranging around the room, as though looking for someone who wasn’t there. Now he said, ‘Listen to you gabble! West Saxons, every one of you. What do you care for Mercia, any of you? All my friends are dead.’ He paused. ‘Or dying.’
‘He’s not dying,’ the Lady said passionately.
The Atheling shifted restlessly.
‘Common enemies make unlikely bedfellows, Bishop, and have done these thirty years and more.’
The Lady turned to Wulfgar.
‘Close the shutters, please. And feed the braziers.’
Glad to have something to do, he hurried to obey, pulling the shutters closed and drawing the curtains across with a rattle of rings, stoking the charcoal in the braziers and lighting more of the small oil lamps. The light glittered and danced across the Lady and the Bishop, but the Atheling was almost as dully dressed as Wulfgar, and the shadows drew him in.
Wulfgar busied himself with the lamps.
‘Think of the great shrines of Mercia,’ the Bishop suggested. ‘Crowland, Ely, Bardney, Repton, Lichfield – what do they have in common?’
Lost, Wulfgar thought. Burned and ruined and looted and lost.
He must have spoken aloud, because the Bishop was nodding.
‘All of them, all of them, destroyed by the Danes. Whom do we have left?’ His hands were quiet now, but their knuckles were white, gripping his great cross and its tangle of gold chain. ‘Petty saints unknown outside their impoverished minsters. The landlocked rump of our kingdom. And this new treaty with your brother shows you can’t even be trusted with that.’
The Lady closed her eyes.
‘Oxford and London are Mercian and always will be. Ceding them to Wessex is inconceivable,’ the Bishop went on, remorseless.
The Lady lifted her chin.
‘My husband knows what he’s about. He knows my brother is our friend, just as my father was. Like it or not, Mercia needs the protection of Wessex.’ Her voice was tight. ‘And we need to keep the love of the Mercians who are still, somehow, loyal. Men like Ednoth of Sodbury.’ She gestured at the discarded will on the matting.
The Atheling roamed around the little room, fingering a hanging, lifting and replacing a cup. He turned.
‘If you have a point, Bishop, come to it. My cousin is tired.’
‘The point, young man, is this: I can smell fidelity shifting direction out there.’ He jerked his head at the white-plastered wall, the inner door and the hall beyond, through which the shuffle and rumble of the gathering court could be heard. ‘Mercia could be lost without a battle, this time. Every hour your Lord lies ill, another dozen thanes will leave him to take their allegiance south to Wessex – or north, to the Danes. We need to remind them that they are Mercians, and Christians, and proud of it. We need a new leader.’
A sudden intake of breath.
A faint hiss and crackle from the braziers.
‘What’s your game, Bishop?’ The lamp-flames glittered in the Atheling’s eyes.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘NO GAME, SEIRIOL. I want to bring one of our lost saints home.’
There was a sudden, convulsive movement from the Atheling. He turned away, seemingly fascinated of a sudden by the elaborate coiled birds in a woven hanging.
Wulfgar could see his fingers clenching, his shoulders rising and falling with the long, slow breaths he was forcing himself to take.
‘We have suffered enough,’ the Bishop said. ‘It’s time to act. I want a new soul for Mercia. A new shrine. Pilgrims from all Christendom coming to Worcester.’
‘Not Worcester,’ the Lady said. ‘Gloucester.’
‘Worcester.’
‘Gloucester. Not the old minster, either. Our new church.’ There was a mulish look to her which Wulfgar remembered all too well.
So, it appeared, did the Atheling. Turning round, he shouted with harsh laughter. ‘You’ll not move her, Bishop.’ He took the Lady’s hand. ‘Any particular saint in mind?’ He echoed the question Wulfgar’s own lips had been silently forming.
The Bishop closed his eyes and bowed his head over his hands, still clutching his gold cross. Wulfgar wondered if he was making them wait on purpose.
When he lifted his head again, the Bishop said, ‘Oswald, King and Martyr.’
The Lady choked on her wine.
Wulfgar, even with no wine to choke on, found a lump in his throat. He stood very still, unwilling even to breathe in case he missed anything. The glory of the Bishop’s ambition dazzled him.
The Lady wiped her mouth and regained her composure.
After a moment, she said flatly, ‘You can’t. Bardney was sacked thirty years ago. St Oswald is only a name.’
‘Ah, but what greater name?’ The Bishop paused for a moment, as though still unsure how far he could trust this rabble of West Saxons. He came to a decision. ‘His bones still lie at Bardney. I had word in the winter.’
Wulfgar could feel his eyes widening almost to the point of pain. Was this what the Bishop had been hinting at earlier? Someone who can ride, he had said, and speak Danish …
‘A raiding party, then?’ The Atheling narrowed his eyes.
‘Out of the question. A raid might lead to open war, and we can’t risk that, not now. This must be secret. One man could do it, if he’s the right man.’
And another man, Wulfgar thought, to organise the welcome of the saint to Gloucester. His heart galloped. Surely he himself was the obvious candidate? They would need the very finest silk vestments, bronze thuribles for incense, embroidered banners, processional crosses, all at very short notice. What did the Bishop have stowed away in the Worcester sacristy? Would he be able to track down some Greek incense?
‘A trusted man,’ the Lady said.
‘A churchman,’ added the Bishop.
The Atheling sounded thoughtful.
‘Someone whom no one would suspect.’
Another prolonged silence.
Wulfgar’s fingers were itching to get his ideas down in wax before he could forget them. We could have singing boys outside the church, on a high scaffold. I wonder if I could borrow some proper choristers from Winchester …
‘Wulfgar?’
It was the Atheling’s voice.
Wulfgar came to his senses, blinking. Someone had spoken to him, but he had missed the import of what had been said.
The Atheling smiled at him.
‘I said, what about you?’
‘Me, my Lord?’ He smiled, buoyant with excitement. ‘It would be an honour. St Oswald! But surely I’m not worthy—’
‘Why not?’ The Atheling interrupted, looking pleased with himself. He counted off on his fingers: ‘Trusted, yes. A churchman, yes. And look at you. Who would suspect you of anything?’
They all looked.
Wulfgar squirmed under the onslaught of their eyes.
‘But surely we need someone who can fight?’ The Lady sounded doubtful.
The Bishop snorted.
‘No, Fleda. We need someone who can tell the bones of a saint from those of a pig.
But I’m not sure Wulfgar’s our man.’
Despite the warmth of the little room, Wulfgar felt a wintry shiver of realisation ripple through him. Fight? They weren’t talking about him arranging a magnificent adventus for the saint, were they?
‘My Lady,’ he said in sudden panic. ‘I can’t – I mean, I don’t—’
The Atheling interrupted him.
‘Wulfgar, a word outside?’
Wulfgar looked beseechingly at the Lady, hoping she would countermand this order masquerading as a request, but she only nodded, her face tense and wary.
Taking Wulfgar’s arm, the Atheling slid open the bolt of the little door into the courtyard. They stepped out and he drew the door closed behind them. It was still raining, a light needle-prickle of water on the skin of face and neck and hands. There seemed to be no one else in the darkness but the guards around the glow of their brazier at the distant gate.
The Atheling stepped close to Wulfgar and murmured, warm into his ear, ‘Believe me. I know. You are the man to do this’
He needed it spelled out.
‘You mean I should go to Bardney, don’t you, my Lord?’
The Atheling ignored his question.
‘Who holds your loyalty?’ He took hold of Wulfgar’s upper arm again. ‘Is it Edward, after all? You’re still a West Saxon.’
Wulfgar, shoulders stiffening against the unwanted contact, shook his head in vehement protest.
‘Mercia, then?’
He shook his head again.
‘No, my Lord. At least—’
‘Yes?’
‘The Lady,’ he admitted.
The Atheling lifted his chin and laughed softly.
‘Ah, the Lady. Of course. Our lovely Fleda.’
Wulfgar caught a glint of teeth.
‘God above, Wulfgar, does it make the Mercians happy, having us here?’
Wulfgar had to shake his head again.
‘And do you want to go home to Winchester?’ The Atheling didn’t wait for an answer. ‘No more than I do. I should be King in Wessex. And that little bastard Edward wouldn’t even give me Kent.’
We shouldn’t be having this conversation, Wulfgar thought nervously. Men have been exiled for less. But being invited into the Atheling’s confidence was stirring deep, unfamiliar ripples of excitement in his soul.
‘Would – would Kent have satisfied you, my Lord?’
He felt, rather than heard, the Atheling’s soft laughter.
‘Oh, no. But how I would have enjoyed throwing his offer in his face.’ Now he gripped both Wulfgar’s shoulders. ‘Tell her you’ll do it. Go to Bardney. Show her what you’re made of. Make Mercia strong. Bring St Oswald home.’ His voice was warming, softening. ‘Show us you’re more than that bookish little boy who used to believe there was a bear behind the need-house.’
Wulfgar found it hard to smile in return. That bear had been very real.
‘Come back in, then? Tell her you’ll go?’ Wulfgar realised the Atheling was still laughing. ‘What? Don’t tell me you’re afraid? Of the Danes?’
Wulfgar could feel his cheeks grow warm. He nodded, ashamed.
‘Aren’t you men of God supposed to go forth as lambs among wolves?’
Wulfgar bit his lip. It was no more than the truth. My Lord Seiriol’s right, he thought. Here I am, being offered the chance to do something of infinite value. I have to take it.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘That’s the spirit!’ The Atheling clapped Wulfgar on the shoulder. ‘Good man. In we go, then.’
Wulfgar, hot and cold with excitement and terror, found himself dazzled, eyes watering in the sudden brightness of the candles.
‘My Lady,’ he said quickly, ‘I’ll go to Bardney, if it pleases you to send me,’ half-hoping, half-fearing, that she was still opposed to the plan. ‘If you can hold the court without me … ?’
But she nodded at him, her face sombre and composed, and yet looking so soft and young without the severe frame of her veils. ‘You know I wouldn’t ask you if there was anyone else,’ she said gently.
He closed his eyes. What had he expected? Well done, good and faithful servant?
Behind him, he half-heard the Atheling saying, ‘Wulfgar’s loyal. He’ll do as he’s told.’
The Lady smiled right into his eyes.
‘More wine? Wulfgar, pour a cup for yourself.’
Any other time the invitation to join them would have surprised and delighted him, but now it barely registered among the flurry of his thoughts. If he succeeded, it would show those smug placemen at the cathedral he deserved his standing in the Lady’s favour. He would come home in triumph with the greatest king and saint the English had ever known, snug in his saddle bags. There would be new songs, stories, miracles. It would make his name for ever.
Miracles.
Mercia had never needed a miracle as badly as she did now.
The green glass cup turned round and round in his hands, the wine slopping close to the brim. He swallowed and felt the warmth of southern vineyards trickling through his veins.
‘Then we’ll have to find a Mercian to accompany him,’ the Bishop said. ‘I refuse to trust a West Saxon, not even this one. What if he finds St Oswald’s bones and takes them to Winchester, to Edward?’
Wulfgar’s mouth fell open in outrage.
The Lady looked up then. Her direct grey gaze met Wulfgar’s full on. And her smile was like the sun coming out.
‘He won’t,’ she said, with utter confidence. ‘Wulfgar’s loyalty is to me. We should go through to the hall,’ she said, reaching for her veils. ‘Wulfgar, pass me the pins.’
Wulfgar obeyed, his mind far elsewhere.
‘How far is it to Bardney, my Lady?’
It was the Atheling who answered.
‘Not much over a hundred miles north and east to Lincoln, and Bardney’s hard by.’ He sounded as though he rode it daily. ‘Set off at dawn, hey, Wulfgar?’ He smiled at the Lady. ‘Give him a week. If he rides the fastest road.’
‘A week?’ The Lady put her hand to her mouth. ‘What if my Lord doesn’t survive a week?’
‘The fastest road, my Lord?’ Wulfgar asked, his cold fingers fumbling for a pin.
I don’t know where I’m going, he thought, and I don’t even know how to get there.
‘Leicester,’ the Atheling said. ‘And on to Lincoln. Easy. There’s only one road.’
‘The Fosse Way,’ Wulfgar said slowly.
The road into the dark.
CHAPTER SIX
THE BISHOP WAS concluding the prayers. Wulfgar, up on the dais, standing discreetly to one side, looked over the row of the Lord’s armed hearth-retainers to the crowd. Two hundred men were packed in shoulder to shoulder like sheep in a penfold, cloaks giving off the stifling aroma of damp wool. The air was thick with the smoke from hearth and torches and clusters of candles on their iron stands. It was hard to breathe.
Enthroned, her little face framed in those thick-worked, shimmering veils, his Lady looked far more like an image of the Queen of Heaven than the flesh and blood woman the Bishop had called her. Her husband’s massive seat with its lion-headed armrests had swallowed her up, the hems of her skirts barely brushing the floor. Wulfgar realised he should have brought her a footstool; there must be one somewhere in the Bishop’s palace. He berated himself for his thoughtlessness. She cradled the will on her lap; he had picked it up for her after the Bishop had left the antechamber.
‘Amen,’ came booming from the floor, and Wulfgar realised the prayers were already over, and the Bishop was settling comfortably onto the purple-padded judgment-stool at the Lady’s side. Her face was grim, her little hands gripping the arms of the chair. Wulfgar could hear the mutters coming up from the crowd, angry that the Bishop should apparently be judging a case in which he was also the plaintiff. The Bishop had to hear the grumbles too, but he ignored them. Now the young defendant came up to the dais to put his case. His voice was loud, his indignant words tumbling one over ano
ther.
‘He told me I had to become a priest! We all thought he was making fun of us, at first. We’ll pay you rent instead, we said, but word came back he –’ a furious thumb was jerked at the Bishop ‘– wouldn’t accept. And we’ve fed our sheep on those meadows for some hundred years. It’s not fair!’ The young man pushed a lock of chestnut-brown hair out of his eyes and took a deep, preparatory breath, but a look from the Lady silenced him. He still looked sulky though. A cocky brat.
He’s doing himself no favours there, thought Wulfgar.
The Lady unfolded the old will now, the hall suddenly so quiet that the stiff vellum could be heard cracking. She kept them waiting, an unnecessary hand raised for silence, while her eyes flickered over the text. At long last she got down from the chair.
‘Ednoth.’ Her voice was so low that Wulfgar could hear the sparrows twittering sleepily on the roof beams ten feet above his head. He found it hard to breathe, overcome with a rush of anxious, possessive pride. She cleared her throat. ‘Ednoth of Sodbury, I find evidence here in your ancestor’s will that your kin did indeed undertake to provide Worcester with a priest in every generation, or the land at Sodbury would revert to the cathedral. You and Bishop Werferth here agree that your family has failed to do this, and so he wants the land back. Is that right, my Lord Bishop?’
The Bishop nodded.
‘But it’s not about the land.’ He swivelled back to Ednoth, stabbing at him with a bony finger. ‘It’s about souls. Your soul, boy. Your great-grandfather entered this pact in good faith, trusting you to pray for him. In refusing the priesthood, you betray your own blood and bone.’
Wulfgar could feel the hairs lift on the back of his neck. How could the boy resist?
‘But surely, my Lord, you wouldn’t want an unwilling priest?’ The Lady was turning away from the Bishop without waiting for his reply. ‘Wulfgar?’
Flustered, he stepped forward.
‘Take this, please.’ She held out the will. He could see her nervousness, the quick pink flicker of her tongue over her dry, pale lips. ‘And make a note of my judgment.’
He scrabbled for the wax tablets at his waist as she turned back to the young man.
The Bone Thief Page 4